It was upstream of the traffic-clogged King Fahd Bridge and alongside one of these craft that Jason ordered the driver to stop. The four passengers quickly transferred the contents of the minibus into the slender craft, declining help from any of the native longshoremen. When they finished, they climbed aboard and the ship backed into the eddies of the current and headed north.
40
Moussa was probably the richest twelve-year-old in Sikoro-Sourakabougou. This morning, he had left the single-room mud hut he shared with his mother, grandmother, and three siblings to beg, take odd jobs, steal, or do whatever he could for a few West African CFA francs. Like all the others in the slum, the house had no running water, sanitary facilities, electricity, or garbage removal. In fact, there was no reliable source of water within a mile or so, only a well that gave out during the dry season and carried evil vapors during the wet, vapors that caused over half the children to never reach half Moussa’s age.
Had there been a school, he certainly would have attended. But there was none, so Moussa spent his days on the streets of Bamako.
That was where he had met the Arab.
Arabs were relatively rare here, and even more rare were Arabs that spoke Bambara, Mali’s largest dialect. Those that did venture this far south usually prowled the streets for young boys. Moussa had had an experience with such an Arab, a very painful one, even if it had actually put the equivalent of five euros in his pocket. But the shame was worse than the pain, a shame only slightly mollified by his mother’s joy at such a princely sum of cash.
She did not ask where he got it.
But this Arab was not looking for young boys, at least not in the sense Moussa feared. Instead he was offering untold riches in exchange for a simple task: Stand on the King Fahd Bridge and watch the river for four men. One black, two white, and one dark-skinned. They would be together and would load objects into some sort of rivercraft, most likely a pinasse. Moussa was to watch them and then call a number on the cell phone the Arab gave him.
Then he could keep the phone plus the hundred West African CFA francs the Arab shoved into his hand.
That was all. No pain, no humiliation.
Allah was indeed great.
41
The two men sat at a low table in a small garden enclosed by a high wall. One entrance was from the restaurant itself, the other through a wrought iron gate through which the Flamme de la Paix could be seen. It was early afternoon and the heat of the day was waning as shadows of two towering date palms lengthened. Both men were Arabs, not uncommon in Timbuktu, but not part of the majority, either, although the city’s ancient past as a center of learning and commerce was largely attributable to Arab culture. Both were dressed in the traditional Bedouin garb: Loose-fitting robe or thobe reaching the ankles with large, triangular sleeves that could, and frequently did, conceal weapons. Over these were a striped sort of vest. Each wore a kaffiyeh on his head held by an agal, a strip of hair or fur. Each man had small cup of coffee in front of him.
“The nozzle is fixed.” asked the younger of the two, Abu Bakr ibn Ahmad Bian.
“Alhamdulillah.”
“Alhamdulillah,” echoed the older, larger man.
“All is in readiness, then?”
“Almost all.”
Abu Bakr’s coffee cup stopped somewhere between the tabletop and his lips. “Almost?”
“Our friends in Paris tell us the infidel and three companions departed there last night for Bamako. A survey of rivercraft tells us it is most likely one of the pinasses has been chartered for a trip here by four men from the National Geographic Society.”
“Which you believe to be the infidel Peters.”
A single nod.
“But it takes four days to reach here from Bamako by river. By that time, we will have finished our mission, In shā’ Allāh.”
The older man smiled, though there was little warmth in it. “That is why he is not planning on making the trip by water. That is why I have asked our Tuareg brothers for help, to operate a little south of their usual territory.”
Abu Bakr asked, “They will intercept the infidel?”
“In shā’ Allāh.”
42
Mali is shaped roughly like an hourglass, tipped forty-five degrees to the right. The bottom half is largely the Niger Valley, fertile and by far the more populous of the two halves. Where the borders narrow, the river becomes shallow, navigable only a few months of the year. By the time one reaches the upper half, the land is largely barren, bordering on the desert. There the mighty Niger is but a trickle except in the winter months.
Approximately 900 kilometers lie between Bamako and Timbuktu, at least half of which traverse arid, inhospitable terrain, which is why most travelers take the four-day river route.
But Jason and his crew did not have four days for a leisurely cruise. Two hours after departing Bamako, the pinasse moved to the right bank of the river, making a detour around a herd of frolicking hippos. Any adult of the ill-tempered animals was more than large enough to do serious damage should it take offense at the ship’s presence. The shallow draft boat slipped into a mangrove swamp. The captain, the sole crew member, jumped overboard into knee-deep water to take a bowline Jason tossed to him.
“Didn’t I see crocodiles sunning on the bank a few miles back?” asked Andrews.
Jason was too busy playing out line to take his eyes off the man in the water. “Yep.”
“Then that guy is either crazy or has the biggest balls I’ve seen lately.”
“Or knows the current is too swift here for crocs.”
The conversation ended with the squeak of the ship’s keel on river-bottom sand. Jason and the other three went overboard, splashing in the shallow water. Although it was less than ten meters away on relatively dry land, the Toyota Series 70 Land Cruiser would have been invisible had the sun not reflected from its windshield. Jason ran a hand under the right front fender until he found the magnetized box with the key in it. Climbing into the cab, he sighed his relief as the engine turned over in response to the ignition. The gauge showed the tank was full. From the window behind his head, he could see three fifty-liter jerry cans strapped to the truck’s bed. A fourth was marked in chalk “H2O.” Two spare tires completed the trucks initial load.
Viktor’s head appeared beside the driver’s window. “If nothing else, American, you have organization,” he commented admiringly. “Perhaps whoever delivered this splendid vehicle left a bottle of vodka, yes?”
Jason was climbing down from the cab. “Whoever delivered this splendid vehicle left a bottle of vodka, no. Now, give us a hand unloading the boat.”
The Russian looked back at the ship, only its bow visible in the thicket of green leaves. “It is a pity to have to load and unload again, no?”