Blue Warrior (29 page)

Mossa ignored her. “Libya was good to me. But it all came at a very high price. A price I was willing to pay for too long.”

“What was the price?”

“To forget my people, my fathers, my tribe, my chief, in order to serve Libya and the Pan-Arab movement. But Gaddafi forgot that Tuaregs are not Arabs. We are Berbers, and we were here in the Sahara before the Arabs. And,
inshallah
, we shall be here long after they are gone.”

Mossa drew a big circle in the sand with his finger, then split the circle into parts and named them. “Libya here, Niger here, Mali here, Algeria here, Burkina Faso here. Do you see what these nations all have in common?”

“Sand,” Early said. He never missed the obvious.

Mossa laughed. “No. Not even that.” Mossa wiped the borders away with his hand. “They are merely
lines
in the sand. Meaningless. The Sahara is the Sahara, and the Imohar are its masters, without borders.”

Mossa turned to Pearce. “I was miserable when I came home. I thought it was because I was a warrior without a war. But in truth, I had become a
ronin
, like you. It wasn’t until I took up the rifle on behalf of my people that I became human again.” He slipped his
takouba
into its leather sheath. “If you don’t mind my saying, you are like a sword without a sheath. You, too, Early. Do you understand my meaning?”

“No,” Early said.

“The best sword remains in its sheath so that it is ready when it is needed. A sword outside of its place will rust and break and become worthless, only to be tossed into the fire.”

Cella shook her head. “You men and your talk of war and borders and killing. If you made life inside of you instead of taking the lives of others around you, you would hear how foolish you sound.”

Mossa laughed. “You should talk, daughter! You are the fiercest warrior of us all. You fight for those you love, too. Only not with bullets.”

The camel driver called out, lifting the great round wheel of bread out of the hot sand.

“You see? All your talk of war, and you should have been making tea!” Cella stood up and headed over to the camel driver to help.

“She is worse than two generals,” Mossa said. “But she has a good heart.” The Tuareg glanced at Pearce. “But you already know this.”

“She saved many lives in Afghanistan, including mine, I think.”

“And yesterday you came here. Perhaps she is the one I should thank for our lives.” Mossa stood. “But first I shall make the tea.”

Pearce scanned the wide horizon. If the Malian army decided to come after them here, nothing could save them. He was all out of tricks now and there was nowhere to hide.

47

Maersk Oil Pumping Station
Tamanghasset Province, Southern Algeria

11 May

L
ieutenant Beaujolais kneeled down to get a better photo on his cell phone. The Danish woman was beautiful. Such a waste. He pressed the button. The cell phone camera flashed. The woman’s face appeared on the small screen. Blond hair, brown eyes, a mouth twisted in a rictus of terror.

He pressed SEND. The message was addressed to the French Foreign Legion command. He stood. The rubber soles of his boots made a crackling sound as he moved. The floor was sticky with blood. He took a photo of the Danish woman’s twisted body, three feet away from her head.

“Lieutenant!” The shout came from outside.

The lieutenant pulled his pistol and dashed outside. The corporal’s voice came from around back.

“Lieutenant! Here!”

Beaujolais ran to the far side of the building. The corporal, a wiry Haitian, pointed in the distance. A man stumbled around in the distance on a low dune, like a drunk.

“You! Stop!” the lieutenant called. But the man stumbled on.

Beaujolais fired his pistol in the air. “STOP!” But the drunk plodded on.

The lieutenant and the corporal ran the distance, their boots marching a straight line through his wobbly footprints. They were both in fantastic shape, but sprinting uphill a hundred meters in the hot sand left them both exhausted, thighs and calves throbbing.

The lieutenant’s eyes stung with sweat. He wiped it away with his free hand, afraid he was seeing things.

Mon Dieu.

The wide-eyed Haitian corporal saw the same thing.

The two soldiers raced the last few meters, shouting for the man to stop in French, English, and Arabic. He didn’t.

The Haitian dropped his rifle and tackled the man from behind. He didn’t resist. They rolled him over. The drunken man held up his two arms, raising blackened stumps to heaven, crying out,
I am no thief!
in Arabic, blood and tears streaming down his lidless eyes. He wasn’t drunk.

He was out of his mind.

No question. This was the man on the AQS video beheading the Danish woman in the pump house posted just hours before.

The Haitian opened his canteen and tried to give the man water, but he spit it out. The corporal dumped it on his face to cool him and relieve his sun-scorched eyes.

The lieutenant shot a cell phone picture of the man’s blistered face for confirmation from HQ, but he was certain it was him, the killer in the video. But this wretch wasn’t AQ Sahara. They wouldn’t do this to their own kind. Besides, he had no beard, no weapon, and they left him behind—unlike the other two masked butchers in the video holding the girl. Maybe they forced this man to behead her?

“Who did this to you?” the lieutenant asked in Arabic.

The man wept and burbled.

“I can’t understand you.”

“Al Rus,” the man finally muttered.

The lieutenant cursed. They had just missed him. But at least they knew he was in the area. Maybe headquarters could do something with that.

The Oval Office, the White House
Washington, D.C.

Diele poured himself another scotch. Without asking.

Again.

President Greyhill was coming to regret his arranged marriage with the esteemed former senator from Nevada. Diele had helped broker the deal that got Myers to resign her office in exchange for blanket pardons for Pearce and his friends. The broker’s fee Diele charged was the vice presidency. The exchange gave Greyhill the big desk in the Oval Office, but he could never shake the feeling that Diele had one hand on the doorknob, ready to shove him back out.

But Diele had his uses. He was a formidable ally to have in his corner—the kind of bare-knuckled street fighter who would gleefully kick an unsuspecting opponent in the balls before the fight even began. The kind of fighter that would rather kick an opponent in the head when he was down on the ground clutching his scrotum than actually get in a ring and prance around for ten rounds. That made Diele extremely valuable to Greyhill.

But the vice president was a pain in the ass, too. Didn’t know his place. Stomped around the Oval Office like he owned it. Drank up Greyhill’s best liquor. Didn’t even have the courtesy to ask Greyhill if he wanted one of his own, which he did.

“Quit pissing your pantaloons. It’s a nonstarter,” Diele said over the top of his glass. “Fiero can’t touch us.”

Greyhill shifted in his chair behind the famous desk. The pronoun “us” grated on him. “You’ve seen the headlines today, haven’t you? Seems Fiero is awfully prescient.”

Today’s below-the-fold front-page article in the
New York Times
featured a map of Africa and the spreading influence of the Chinese. A
Washington Post
op-ed had picked up on the Fiero Sunday-morning interview, too, and echoed her concerns.

“Slow news day at the fish wrapper, that’s all. And who watches
those tired old news shows anyway?” Diele fell onto the couch, put his feet up on the heirloom coffee table. Greyhill clenched his jaw. Diele was a primitive.

“But what about her point? China and REEs and all of that? And, of course, the terrorist connection.”

“What terrorist connection? She didn’t offer any proof. Just some damn hearsay speculation. Don’t you see? She’s throwing everything out on the stoop, see what the dog’ll lick up. Or in this case, the reporters. You can smell her desperation. Don’t you think if any of this was legit, it would’ve popped up on the PDB?” Diele was referring to the Presidential Daily Brief, a document provided each morning by the director of national intelligence. Greyhill preferred an oral presentation by someone from the DNI’s office with just bullet points. He seldom read the actual documents. Diele pored over them.

“Our national intelligence community hasn’t always batted a thousand. Remember Benghazi? A dead ambassador and three brave Americans murdered by our ‘allies.’ Just because something isn’t in the PDB doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.”

Diele drained the last of his drink. The ice rattled in the glass. “Worst-case scenario? The terror threat turns out to be real. Then we send in the drones. But don’t even think about getting sucked up in that quicksand over there. It’s all a damn mess. The first Marine boot you put on the ground over there will be marching on your political grave.”

Greyhill frowned. Diele might be right. His instincts usually were. But Greyhill had taken note of the vice president’s grammatical shift. Suddenly, it was “your” political grave. Another irritating pronoun. He took the change as both a warning and a threat.

48

Karem Air Force Base
Niamey, Niger

11 May

T
he raccoon rings beneath Captain Sotero’s eyes spoke volumes to Judy. Clearly, the woman hadn’t slept in days. No doubt because of her and Pearce’s arrival four nights before.

The captain sat at the small table in Judy’s dining/living room in the spartan visiting BOQ trailer where she’d been largely confined by AF Security Forces guards since her return from Mali.

“You have everything you need here, Ms. Hopper? Any personal items you need sent over?”

“No, everything’s fine. Just a little cramped, that’s all. But I’m used to that.” Judy had grown up in even more austere environments as a missionary kid in Africa. “Wouldn’t mind being able to stretch my legs every now and then.”

“Sure, no problem. Just help me clear up a few things, will you?”

Judy smiled. “If I can. I mean, I’ve told you everything I know already.”

“You see, that’s what I’m not so sure about. I think there’s a lot more to you and this humanitarian mission you’re supposedly on. For starters, where is the American you were supposed to be evacuating?”

“Like I said before, he decided not to come.”

“And you said his name was?”

“I didn’t say.” Judy didn’t know if Mike Early was in trouble or not for being there. Her dad had raised her with the maxim “Better to keep your mouth shut and appear the fool than open your mouth and confirm it.”

Sotero’s weary eyes narrowed. “His name is Mike Early. Your friend Mr. Holliday just confirmed that for me.”

“Okay.”

“But your friend”—Sotero checked her notes on a tablet—“Pearce, he decided to stay?”

“Something like that.”

“In Mali?”

“Yes.”

“You see, that’s what’s confusing to me. Do you remember Sergeant Wolfit? The man who was with me the night we first met?”

“Vaguely.”

“Square-jawed? Broad across the chest?” She mimed his torso with her hands. “Always looks pissed off?”

“What’s your point?”

Sotero pulled up a map on her tablet, turned it around. Pointed at a winking dot. “See that? That’s an RFID chip. The one that was attached to Sergeant Wolfit’s weapon. The weapon he believes your friend Pearce stole from him that night, an M4 carbine.”

“Do you always plant RFID chips in your guns?”

“We inventory everything, especially weapons. It’s easier to chip and scan them than do the paperwork. The Air Force is pretty good at technology these days.”

“Makes sense.”

“So you know anything about that? I mean, Pearce stealing his weapon?”

“You’d have to ask Troy when you see him.”

“If you’ll look closely at the map, you’ll see the chip is now located in Algeria. What’s Pearce doing in Algeria?”

Judy shrugged. “Maybe it’s just the gun that’s in Algeria.”

“Why would the weapon be in Algeria without Pearce?”

“You’d have to ask Troy when you see him.”

“So you’re saying Pearce is not in Algeria right now?”

“I have no idea where he is exactly.”

“But he’s probably still in Mali?”

“Like I said, I have no idea.”

Sotero spun her tablet back around. “Is Pearce really on a humanitarian mission?”

“He went in to get Mike Early, yes.”

“That’s kind of strange, too. We checked with the State Department as well as with the Mali government. We have no record of Mike Early entering the country of Mali, at least not legally. What is Mike Early doing in Mali?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Mike when you see him.”

“Is this Early guy still in Mali? Or is he with Pearce in Algeria?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be difficult. I really don’t know.”

“Okay, let’s try another tack. Do you have any idea why my base commander has been detained in Frankfurt?”

“No.”

“Funny thing is, he was dispatched to Bonn–Bad Godesberg for what was apparently a bogus meeting the same day you arrived here, and when the meeting didn’t occur, he was flagged by the NSA as a possible terror suspect on the way back. He’s still in custody.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“You don’t understand. Colonel Kavanagh is the most squared-away officer I ever knew, and a real straight arrow. He’s a ring knocker—academy grad, third-generation Air Force. No way he’s AQ-affiliated. I think someone’s messed with his data profile. You have any idea who that might be?”

“No.”

“Or why they would want him detained while you and your friends are operating out of this base?”

“No.”

“Of course you don’t.” Sotero took a deep breath. “Let me ask you something else. Do you know who Mossa Ag Alla is?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Never heard of him?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“He’s an AQ affiliate. A real bad-ass. Just got bumped up to number one dickhead on our extensive list of dickheads.”

“I believe you.”

Sotero sighed with frustration. “Okay, one last try. When you flew out of here on the tenth, your IFF signal stopped broadcasting when you crossed into Mali airspace, and then you dropped off the radar. What was that all about?”

Judy wasn’t a missionary anymore, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie about anything. It just wasn’t in her nature. “Security precautions.”

“Failure to broadcast an IFF signal is highly irregular and dangerous, which is why it’s also illegal.”

“Illegal in Mali, technically, since that’s where the violation occurred. I don’t suppose you have jurisdiction over there, do you?”

“And did you make any unauthorized or unscheduled stops on the return flight?”

Judy had to think about that. Technically, her flight to the Niamey civilian airfield was both authorized and scheduled, just not with the United States Air Force. “No.”

“Look, Ms. Hopper, I’m not trying to disrupt or interfere with your CIA op or whatever it is you guys are actually trying to do, but all I have to stand on is an extremely thin paper trail—basically, a one-paragraph order from this mysterious Colonel Sanders whom I still can’t reach—and nothing else to show for it. You were supposed to bop in and out and then bounce out of here in twenty-four hours with your man Early. Instead, there are now two Americans missing, presumably at least one of them is in Algeria, and he’s carrying a weapon stolen from a very pissed-off SF sergeant who’s about to be busted to corporal if that rifle doesn’t show up in the next twenty-four hours.” Sotero caught herself rambling. She rubbed her face to help her focus.

“So this is all about a missing rifle?”

“No, it’s not about a missing rifle. It’s about you people clearly lying about what your real mission is, and about me not being able to get independent verification that authorizes your fake humanitarian mission. I need to be very, very sure that I haven’t let a couple of bad guys onto my base. If I have, there’s a cell in Leavenworth with my name on it.”

“I promise, Captain, you haven’t.”

“This Pearce guy, he’s a friend of yours?”

Judy wanted to call him a first-class jerk for the way he’d been acting lately, but now was not the time for a Dr. Phil moment. “Yes, he’s a friend. A very good friend. A decorated veteran, too.”

“I’m glad to hear that. So you’d vouch for him?”

“Of course.”

“And you wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to him, right?”

“Not at all.”

“Straight up?”

“Word of honor.”

“Well, since you’re being perfectly honest with me, let me be perfectly honest with you. I just got word that a strike mission has been set for that dickhead I was telling you about, that Mossa character? Reaper, missile, you get the picture. If your friend Pearce is with Mossa, your friend Pearce is going to die.”

“Oh my word. When?”

“You tell me where Pearce is, I’ll tell you when the strike is.”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“Do you know somebody who does? Because if you do, you’d better give me his name.”

Judy knew somebody, all right. Ian could still locate the tracker in Troy’s body. She also knew Ian had just eavesdropped on their entire conversation. She just prayed that he could do something about it.

He couldn’t.

CIOS Corporate Offices
Rockville, Maryland

Jasmine Bath listened in on the entire interrogation, too. She already knew Mike Early was a former close associate of Margaret Myers. When Sotero had initiated a query on Early and his status in Mali earlier, two of Bath’s algorithms tripped and he was flagged. She traced back the query to Sotero’s tablet and immediately hacked it.

Bath had always admired Pearce, if for no other reason than she had been able to acquire so little information about him. Either he or someone working for him was very good at keeping him out of all of the known databases and obliterating his digital shadow. There were thousands of “Pearce-shaped holes” everywhere she looked, as if someone was going in after Pearce whenever he popped up anywhere and erased any data relative to him and his company, Pearce Systems—one of the few organizations in the world she’d never been able to hack. This all just confirmed what she learned earlier from her hacked phone call between Zhao and Anthony Fiero.

Today’s interrogation now also confirmed for Bath that Pearce and Early were both in Mali at the same time as Mossa, and Myers had initiated Pearce’s mission into Mali, presumably to rescue Early. And yet Early was never rescued, nor did Pearce return. In fact, thanks to the RFID chip tracking on Captain Sotero’s hacked tablet and its ridiculously childish security system, Bath now knew where both Pearce and Mossa were located in Algeria.

That was all information that Fiero would desperately want in light of the concerns raised by Zhao. Information that Bath passed on immediately to Fiero before she herself succumbed to the pressure to torpedo it. Bath hated the idea of Pearce getting killed before she could meet him and figure out how he had managed to remain such a mystery to her. But Fiero was still paying the bills. Her curiosity about Pearce would have to remain unsatisfied.

No matter. Bath knew she would find greater satisfaction in her newfound knowledge that connected Zhao Yi, the Fieros, Pearce, and Mali. Knowledge she could use to finally untangle herself from the violent web she had been spinning all these years.

Bath decided it was time to make her move. She couldn’t afford to wait seven more months to retire, despite her plans. She’d been riding the tiger too long. Staying on would prove fatal. But if she wasn’t careful, so would the dismount.