The First Casualty

49

Emphani stood outside a heavy wooden door set into a wall from which regular rows of timbers extended, serving as a foundation for the mud brick beneath the adobe facade. He was reminded of a porcupine. To his left, men splashed water from a trough on face, hand, and feet, a ritual ablution preparatory to entering preparatory to Dhur, still several hours away.

Festooned with three cameras with varying sizes of lenses, he walked the sandy street along the outside wall to an arched opening. Inside was a courtyard surrounded by arcaded galleries. It was here, he thought, the great madrassah, Islamic university, had flourished in the fourteenth century. The city had been a crossroads of trade then: salt from the Arabic north, slaves and gold from the black African south. All that remained of the epicenter of culture and learning were a pair of anemic date palms with dusty fronds and the ever-shifting sands from the desert.

From the corner of his eye, that part of the human eye that best detects movement, Emphani saw something move in the shadows of the arcade to his left. Slowly, as though simply scratching, his fingers reached to touch the Glock in the small of his back.

Two figures emerged into the near blinding sunlight, both of whom wore Bedouin clothes.

“As-salām ’alaykum,” one said, hand over his heart. A typical Sunni greeting.

Emphani had spent enough time in North Africa for his ears to pick up a mispronunciation like an orchestra conductor a false note.

But he replied, “Wa ’alayakum as salām,” the appropriate response.

Emphani kept a little more than two arms lengths’ distance, avoiding the handshake that would customarily follow. There was no profit in having his gun hand otherwise employed should he need it. Particularly as he could see neither man had the angular facial features or the dark desert-tanned skin of a Bedouin.

“You are a Moslem brother,” the one who had spoken before said.

It was not a question but Emphani answered anyway. “Yes,” he said also in Arabic.

For the first time, the other man spoke. “You are a visitor in Timbuktu.”

Another statement.

“Yes. I am with a crew from the American magazine National Geographic. Perhaps you know of it?”

The reply, more grunt than words, had equal chances of being negative or affirmative.

“You live in the United States?” the first man wanted to know.

“No. I live in France among other Moslems.”

The two exchanged glances before the first one said, “I hear of great oppression of our brothers and sisters there. The women are humiliated by being prohibited the wearing of the veil.”

Emphani had to bite his tongue not to smile at the thought of his daughter, Margot, being told she had to wear a veil. Either open-mouthed disbelief or, more likely, unrestrained guffaws.

“The infidel oppresses the believers,” he said simply.

“But you are employed by the infidel,” the second man observed.

Emphani shook his head, holding up one of the cameras slung around his neck. “I am a photographer who takes work where he can find it. I am not in a position to refuse pay from a wealthy American magazine.”

The answer seemed to satisfy whatever doubts the men had. The first one nodded in appreciation of financial realities. “You are a stranger here. Perhaps you might honor us by letting us guide you through both this holy mosque and the city so that you will have identified and photographed the important places. In shā’ Allāh.”

To refuse would only arouse suspicion if these men did not already know his real mission. “Bāraka Allāhu,” may God bless you, the traditional response to a gift or gratuitous kindness.

Like so many mosques, parts of the Sankore had been used for secular purposes. Some, like this one, included schools. Others had and did encompass hospitals, tombs, libraries, gymnasiums, and civic centers. But when entering the masjid, the part that, once so designated, would remain holy ground until the last day, certain rituals had to be observed by all. Emphani sat on the sand-strewn floor, removing his boots. He placed them on one of several shelves beside the sandals of his companions and perhaps a dozen more of worshipers already inside.

Emphani stepped back, his camera raised. “Perhaps you would do me and the magazine the honor of letting readers see how the faithful remove their shoes?”

Smiling, the two reenacted the sandal removal before the three proceeded through Moorish-style archways to the musallā, or prayer room. By far the largest chamber in the mosque, it was two stories high, apparently the maximum height for mud-brick structures without supporting wood beams. Around the walls about ten feet above the floor, Islamic calligraphy spelled out verses of the Koran in faded gilt. The religion strictly forbade portrayal of any of Allah’s creations, so there was no other art. To Emphani’s right, the qibla wall ran perpendicular to a line directly to Mecca so that those before it would be facing the holy city. Several worshipers, on knees with foreheads touching prayer rugs — or, in this impoverished section of the world, reed mats — were already attending to their immortal souls well ahead of Dhur.

Emphani raised a camera only to feel a hand on his arm. The second man was scowling, shaking his head. No pictures during prayer. Emphani nodded his acknowledgment.

Passing out of the musallā, the three came to the base of one of the mosque’s two minarets. An open entrance showed steps leading upward, but only a few before an iron gate blocked access.

“I would very much like to take pictures from the top,” Emphani said, noting another pair of “Bedouins” had suddenly appeared.

“I fear that is not possible,” the first of his escorts said. “The minaret is old and in poor repair, unsafe. With the adhān, call to prayer, prerecorded, there is no need for anyone to risk going up there.”

Perhaps, but Emphani noticed that the lock securing the gate was new, shiny brass. And there were footprints in the sand that coated the steps, prints the dry breeze would have obliterated in less than an hour.