The First Casualty

45

The Toyota was coughing as though suffering terminal tuberculosis instead of terminal sand ingestion. The twin ruts that passed as the north-south highway had demonstrated why extra tires had been part of the equipment included with the little truck. Twice, jagged shale had forced the four to stop and change them by flashlight. Hours later, the sharp rock that seemed to line every foot of the road was replaced by sand — bottomless, shifting sand. Sand that made eyes sore with grit, clogged noses, and abraded throats as it bogged the truck down to the axles requiring nearly an hour to dig it out. Sand that sucked at the Toyota’s wheels like water. Sand that quickly found its way into the carburetor, necessitating stopping to remove and clean the overwhelmed air filter.

Despite the ache the weight put on his wounded leg, Jason insisted on doing his share of the digging.

“I can see why most people take the boat,” Andrews had grumbled after his third effort at wielding a shovel. “I’d take hippos and crocs over this any day.”

Next to him, Emphani paused long enough to wipe sandy sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “The pinasse was, how do you say, never a bateau mouche anyway.”

“Say what?”

“C’mon, guys,” Jason had intervened. “We can stay here all night gabbing like a woman’s bridge club, or we can get this job done and go home.”

Daylight made visible the change in terrain the four could only guess at in the dark. The lush foliage of the Niger River valley now looked more like Death Valley. Scrubby trees, bushes really, sustained an existence distant from one another. This might have been south of the Sahara, but it certainly looked like the great desert. Instead of the animals of the day before, lizards scurried for protection both from the merciless sun and the intruders in the Toyota. The only other living creatures were occasional herds of sheep or goats, their shepherds eyeing the men in the truck with undisguised suspicion.

Viktor watched a small group of these animals from the open bed as the truck stood still, waiting for them to amble across the road.

“Sheep or goat. Sound the same, look the same, smell the same. How do you know… the… er… different?”

Andrews was carefully measuring out a drink from one of the five-liter jugs of water. “In this climate, sheep have no wool. They look like goats.” He pointed to the animals as they moved away. “But at this angle, you can see the critters have their tails up. Goats. Sheep have tails down.”

Viktor nodded slowly, absorbing this bit of bucolic wisdom. “Tail up, goat. Tail down, sheep.”

So it had gone, monotonous hour after monotonous hour. As shadows awakened and began to stretch, traffic on the road increased: Camels, donkeys, and Japanese trucks, their paint scabrous from sand blasting. The air was not noticeably cooler; but the road, still no more than a trace, firmer. Cresting a slight rise, the yellow mud-brick walls of the city of Timbuktu had come into view, shimmering in the near-desert heat as though viewed through water.

It would have made an impressive painting. Though even if Jason had brought his supplies, there would be scant time or opportunity for artistic endeavors. Even so, Jason was thinking of how to render the chiaroscuro of afternoon shadows on mud brick.

Jason let go of the steering wheel long enough to stretch as the truck stuttered through low city gates. “This city has been here since the 1300s,” he announced.

Then he noted Emphani, his only company in the truck’s cab, was snoring gently.

So much for historical background.

The streets were narrow, lined by one- and two-story mud-brick houses, each with a window over the centered front door from which owl-eyed children stared in wonder. As he began to climb a slight rise, Jason could see roofs consisted of dirt poured over palm matting. He supposed the arrangement was not entirely waterproof; but, here adjacent to the desert, it didn’t need to be.

He had been driving along the edge of a fairly steep ridge. Its conical shape suggested it might have been an ancient volcano. Something he would have to ask Maria about.

Maria.

Only a couple of brief texts since Saint Barts and no mention of her work.

Some relationship! But a normal family-type life as he had shared with Laurin was hardly possible, not until Moustaph was counting his virgins, a pursuit in which Jason intended to render every possible assistance. What would it be like, he wondered dreamily, having a real home again, a place where there was no need for motion detectors, weight sensors, and a personal arsenal? No apprehension he might have to leave on a moment’s notice. A place where a knock on the door was more likely to be a neighbor dropping by unexpectedly than an assassin.

Sure, the irrepressible voice from inside said. With a white picket fence and climbing roses around the door. Maybe even a couple of rug rats crawling around if Maria stood still long enough.

So, what’s wrong with that? Jason demanded.

Life-size vision of you holding a projectile-vomiting, screaming heir in one arm while you try to replace shitty diapers with the other. Enough domestic tranquility to have you in alcohol rehab in no time.

I had a life like that with Laurin, Jason rebutted, regretting he couldn’t sound huffy in mental communications.

That was then, this is now, the voice replied with infuriating logic. That was pre-Momma. No, old buddy, you are warrior class now, samurai, as it were. Adventure and excitement are as much a part of you as the Italian Baroque composers and acrylic land and seascapes. It’s in your DNA, man. You couldn’t quit if you really wanted to and you don’t.

Don’t tell me what I want. Once Moustaph is dead, I…

Face it: There will be another Moustaph and another after that.

The potential truth of the observation had haunted the corners of Jason’s mind from time to time: becoming an assassin’s version of Hendrik van der Decken, captain of the ship Flying Dutchman, of legend and Wagnerian fame, doomed not to sail the Cape of Good Hope for eternity, but to pursue Islamic terrorists in perpetuity, never to have a life of domesticity.

No! Once Moustaph is done…

“Jason, who are you talking to?” Emphani had waked up.

Jason hadn’t realized he had become so agitated he was speaking out loud. He thought he heard a distant snicker.

The Hotel la Colombe was an unremarkable two-story building surrounded by a low hedge that was fighting a losing battle with the sand and heat. The facade presented the traditional Islamic architecture of curved windows on the second floor. The air-conditioning was a pleasant surprise as the four men’s steps echoed from the stone floor. The desk clerk in Western jacket and tie treated them to a dazzling smile.

“You are the gentlemen from the magazine?” he asked in Oxfordian English. “Perhaps you need assistance with your luggage?”

“We can handle most of it,” Jason replied, holding up a camera on a tripod.

“Very well.” The clerk studied the register in front of him. “I note you have four rooms on the southern, or outside, wall of the hotel. Whoever made your reservations did not understand the more desirable accommodations are on the other side, those that overlook the pool and patio. That side also receives much less sunlight and is therefore cooler and quieter than those on the street.”

“Thanks,” Jason said, “but we’ll endure the heat and noise. We want the view of the town. That’s what National Geographic sent us here for.”

What Jason did not say was that southern exposure gave them an unobstructed view downward across the two courtyards of the Sankore Mosque and the pyramidal minaret on the structure’s southern edge.

“Very well, sir. I will ask the dining room to remain open.”

The prospect of a meal of something other MREs, the military’s bags of self-heating cuisine, brought smiles to four sand-encrusted, unshaven faces.

Thirty minutes later, Jason, Andrews, and Emphani, bathed, in clean clothes, and smelling of herbal soap, were making their way down the stairs.

“The Russian,” Emphani asked, “where is he?”

“If the hotel has a bar, that would be the first place I’d look,” Andrews offered.

“If is the operative word,” Jason observed. “Mali being a Moslem country, booze might not be available.”

Viktor appeared at the foot of the stairs, swaying slightly and holding aloft an earthenware cup. “Zdorovie!”

“I’ll not ruin my health drinking to yours,” Andrews said good-naturedly.

“Perhaps there is wine wherever you got what may be in that cup?” Emphani asked hopefully. “Man was not made to drink only water.”

“You guzzled your share,” Jason reminded him.

“Man drinks water for thirst, wine for pleasure.”

Viktor gave him a pat on the back and pointed to a small room where three or four tables were grouped in front of bottles on mostly empty shelves. “Is bar! If wine is as bad as vodka, is shit. Shit vodka better than no vodka.”

“Old Russian proverb, no doubt,” Jason noted dryly.

“First toast always to health,” Viktor said with a grin. “Second to family. In army, third to fallen comrades. Fourth is to hope never to be in third toast.”

Jason joined in the levity. “As you Russians say, ‘Only a problem drinker drinks without a toast.’ ”

“Is true!” Viktor beamed before draping an arm around Emphani’s shoulder. “Come, drink many toasts!”

After several vodkas for Viktor, one glass of wine for Emphani, who swore it had no relationship to the French vineyard on the bottle’s label, and two room-temperature Budweisers for Andrews and Jason, which miraculously tasted like the Anheuser-Busch product, Jason put his empty bottle on the table.

“Gentlemen, dinner is waiting.”

“Roast goat or sheep, take your choice,” Andrews mumbled.

The sole entrée was alabadjia, according to the desk clerk, now maître d’. Goat, cooked separate from its juices, pounded tender, seasoned with ghee, the local butter, and then marinated with the juices served over rice. Both tasty and filling.

Jason declined the small cup of viscous after-dinner coffee that followed a meal in this part of the world, standing. “Not for me. Long day tomorrow, guys, deciding whether the town is worth a full shoot. I’m headed to bed.”

A murmur of agreement went around the table until it reached Viktor who held up a hand, thumb, and forefinger inches apart. “A small, what you say… hat on the night?”

Jason stood. “Nightcap.”

Viktor was the only person he knew who could literally drink himself sober. But then, he knew few, if any, other Russians. Viktor would be fine in the in the morning while any normal person would suffer the mother of all hangovers.

Upstairs, Jason paused outside his door to check the telltale, the hair he had pasted with saliva between door and jam. It was gone. Someone had opened the door.

Jason checked the hallway. Empty other than the shadows of low-wattage bulbs. Ear to the door, he heard nothing as he drew the killing knife. One breath, two.

He slammed the door open with a crash loud enough to at least momentarily distract the intruder.

Had there been one.

The room was quite empty, as was the small bath. In the simply furnished room, there was nowhere else to hide.

Jason turned slowly, befuddled, until he noted the sheets of the bunk-type bed had been neatly folded over. He had not expected maid service.

He sighed as he pulled his shirt over his head. Reaching into a pants pocket, he retrieved his iPhone and entered Maria’s number. What time was it in Indonesia?

“ ’Lo?” a sleepy voice answered. “Jason? Do you know it’s five a.m. here? Where are you?”

“Timbuktu.”

The voice came fully awake. “Timbuk… Oh, ha, ha, very funny. You wake me up in the middle of the night and don’t want to tell me where you are.” Pause. The tone became tender. “But it’s good to hear from you.”

“Mine isn’t the only iPhone that makes outgoing calls, y’know.”

“Don’t be cross.” Maria was saying. “I text you when I can. Remember, Indonesia doesn’t exactly have complete satellite coverage.”

Jason was grimacing at his reflection in the small mirror over the sink. The small vanity probably saved his life.

The mirror showed something behind Jason move. At least, he thought so. He listened to Maria’s voice but his attention was on… what?

Nothing.

His imagination?

Unlikely. Delta Force trainees didn’t imagine things.

“Jason, are you listening to me? Jason?”

There it was, something moved under the bed covers. Not much but just enough to be perceptible. Jason held his breath, listening, watching.

“Jason, you called me, remember? Now say something or I’m hanging up!”

“Good night, Maria. Love you, but I gotta go.”

There it was again: the slightest of movement. Did he really hear the rustle of starched sheets?