The First Casualty

52

Jason believed the closer the equator, the briefer the dusk and sunrise. This evening had done nothing to disabuse him of that tenet. The bloodred African sun had seemed to visibly slide down that point at which sky met earth. Darkness followed sunset by minutes, heralded by pinpoints of bright stars in the pale blue between horizon and total nightfall.

The four men sat in Jason’s room, two on the bed, one on the floor, and Jason in the sole chair. Emphani was speaking.

“… Many, perhaps a dozen, men around the mosque in Bedouin dress though not Bedouins. The minaret with the western opening is closed off because it is said to be unsafe. But I saw tracks in the sand. Someone had been there within an hour.”

“Guess those were the same Bedouins who kept me company,” Andrews drawled from the bed. “Persistent as bedbugs. Didn’t make a hostile move but didn’t let me out of sight, either.”

“Same,” Viktor said. “Men in robes watch but do nothing.”

“Sounds like we were right, it is the Sankore Mosque,” Jason said.

“Now what?” Andrews asked.

“We do a little nighttime recon, maybe right after Isha, the last prayer of the day. That would be when, Emphani?”

“The last prayer before bed. Last night, the call to prayer was around nine p.m.”

“OK, guys,” Jason said. “Here’s the plan.”