The First Casualty

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?”

Jason was back in the water, sloshing toward the pinasse. “All the more pity if we don’t. Must have been a thousand or more people saw us leave Bamako. You think any one of them would have qualms about selling that information?”

“Sell?”

“To bandits, to anyone who might be suspicious as to who we really are, curious enough to wait upriver for a better look.”

Viktor was splashing right behind him. “In Russia we say, ‘If you are afraid of wolves, stay out of the forest.’ ”

“Yeah, well in the United States we say, ‘Better safe than sorry.’ I’d just as soon avoid the wolves altogether.”

Once the slender craft was unloaded, Jason peeled off bills from a roll of dollars and handed them to the smiling captain. He would sail the rest of the trip to Kabara, the port closest to Timbuktu, in case curious eyes were monitoring the vessel’s progress. By that time, Jason would have either completed his mission or failed.

Either way, he would be long gone.

Or dead.

Before shifting the pinasse’s cargo to the truck’s bed, each man rummaged through several packages, removing personal arms. Three men waited patiently for the few minutes it took Emphani to complete his afternoon prayers, roll his prayer rug, and join in the task. Pistols and knives went under sweat-soaked shirts. Unidentifiable packages and cases were placed in the truck’s bed before Jason climbed into the driver’s seat with Emphani beside him. Andrews and Viktor chose to ride in the open truck bed, a decision dictated by the vehicle’s lack of front-seat space and air-conditioning. Having two men in the open was not a bad defensive measure, either, should it become necessary.

The Toyota slogged its way through mud that reached the middle of the wheels before reaching what Jason assumed was the road. Parallel tire tracks faded into a surface resembling a washboard more than a highway. As the truck jounced along, conversation was possible only through clinched teeth. Sixty kilometers per hour seemed to be the maximum speed at which the Toyota could proceed without vibrating apart or leaving the undercarriage in the road.

In the truck’s bed, Andrews and Viktor were forced to hold on to the sides or risk being bounced onto the ground below. Using one hand, Andrews dumped a bag, from which came a hose-like apparatus that ended in what, to the Russian, looked like a gas pump’s nozzle complete with trigger.

Viktor raised his voice above the rattle as the truck tried to shake itself apart. “We will not need that. We will pour petrol directly from the cans.”

“We may not need it,” Andrews replied, “but if we do, I want make sure it works. It’s not your average gas pump hose.”

By now, the sun was little more than a golden memory in the west. To the north, Sirius, the sky’s brightest star and central to the mythology of the Dogon people of Mali, was clearly visible. Waves of shadows had become a tide of darkness, obliterating the road. There was barely enough light to limn the trees against a deepening purple backdrop: the fullness of a baobab, the slender kapok, the massive mahogany. The Toyota’s headlights were two converging scars across the breast of the fading twilight. From all directions and no direction at all came the howls, barks, and grunts of the local fauna, enough to make each man silently thankful for the steel between him and the African night.

The truck came to such an abrupt stop Viktor and Andrews nearly flipped over the cab. Andrews got to his knees to peer over the cab’s roof. Squarely across the road were a pair of battered small Mitsubishi trucks. Behind them a half dozen men stared into the truck’s headlights. Though black, they were dressed not in the colorful native garb, but like Bedouins. And though the dress had not changed for centuries, there was nothing traditional about the AK-47s each man held.