Mike Maden - River of Gods

Tolo shook his massive head. “We both know you are making promises you can’t keep. But what do I care for such things? Eggs must be broken in order to be eaten. Still, if you were to bring jobs to the Kidal, this would be a good thing for you.”

“But we can’t bring jobs until operations begin, and we can’t begin operations until the Tuareg problem is settled.” Zhao stabbed out the butt of his cigar in a crystal ashtray. “How do you plan on doing that?”

Tolo glanced at his empty glass. Zhao unstoppered the bottle and refilled it.

“The Tuareg problem now is simple. Always these ‘godforsaken’ have been restless and rebellious, but the desert grows hotter and they grow fewer. They are divided by clans and tribes, often fighting among themselves, at least until now.”

Zhao emptied the last of the Martel into the snifter. Tolo nodded his thanks. “ Merci .”

“De rien,” Zhao said. “What is different now?”

“The whole of the Tuareg nation now looks to one man. He is called ‘The Blue Warrior’ by his people. His name is Mossa Ag Alla.”

“‘The Blue Warrior’?” Zhao sat back and let the image of a blue-turbaned desert warrior roll around in his mind for a moment, admiring its mythical possibilities. “Yes, that makes perfect sense. The Kel Tamasheq men are famous for wearing the indigo blue headdress and veil.”

Zhao had done his homework. Unlike other Middle Eastern cultures, it was the Tuareg men who wore veils, not the women. Often living as fugitives, the Tuareg tagelmust was the way the Tuareg fighters hid their identities as well as protected them from the violent sun and heat of the desert. The long garment that was used to wrap their heads and hide everything but their eyes was also considered a protection against the djinn of the desert, and when they sweated, the indigo dye bled onto their unbathed skin. The ultimate symbol of the Tuareg warrior was his blue tagelmust.

Tolo shrugged his sloping shoulders. “He is but a man, and the Tuaregs a plague. We’ll kill him, and that will be the end of the affair.”

“But how will you find him?” Zhao asked. The Tuareg were virtual ghosts when hiding in the desert.

“We don’t have to,” Tolo said. “He will come to us, like a fish to the net.”

“Why would he do that?”

“We will smash the Tuareg villages, one by one. And he shall hear of it, and he will come out of his lair and strike, and then we will spear him!” Tolo laughed. His people had fished the Niger River for five hundred years.

Zhao began to say something but held his tongue. The Malian’s confidence was evident. Perhaps it was best to give him a chance to handle this problem. There was a gentle knock on the door.

Zhao smiled. “I believe my token of appreciation has arrived for you, General.”

Tolo chuckled, and set down his snifter and cigar. He turned heavily in his chair toward the door.

“Come,” Zhao said in a language Tolo didn’t recognize.

The heavy door swung open. Three Thai girls with tall drinks and short silk dresses entered, giggling.

Tolo turned back toward Zhao, white teeth grinning. “You are a good man, Zhao!”

“I knew you were a confident man, General.” He winked, and pointed at the three women. “Let’s see how far that confidence goes.”

“Trust me, Zhao. I won’t disappoint them—or you.” He laughed again. So did Zhao. If the fat man failed, Zhao would be the one still laughing when he put a bullet between those bulging white eyes. But that would be little consolation. It would be his neck on the chopping block if this mission failed.

“If you’ll excuse me, General. I have some business to attend to.” Zhao excused himself with a wink and headed for his secure communications room to contact Dr. Weng. He’d give the general a chance to complete the mission, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t call in reinforcements, just in case.

The village of Anou

Kidal Region, Northeastern Mali

3 May

Captain Naddah rode in the old Baptist missionary bus with the new recruits, still in civilian clothes. He worried they might lose heart as they neared the village. Two weeks’ training was just enough to teach them to use their rifles and follow basic orders. But this was their first mission. In Allah’s sense of humor, he had chosen the right bus for them after all. The Toyotas carried his most trusted militia fighters, men with blood on their hands, like his.

Naddah was a captain in name only. He didn’t belong to the Mali army, though they supplied his militia with weapons, food, and an abandoned camp for training. When the foreign jihadists and Tuareg separatists rose up to seize cities in the north, Naddah quit his job in the repair shop and joined Ganda Koy, and when the Tuareg jihadists Ansar Dine declared sharia law in Gao and began destroying his people’s sacred shrines, Naddah volunteered to fight them.

It surprised Naddah how much he enjoyed killing the whites and the foreigners and how much skill he had in doing it, at first with only a machete and then a gun after he had taken one from a man he had killed.

They gave him this mission because he had proven himself loyal to Mali and his people, but also because he could follow orders and even read a little.

The faded letters of the akafar Christians on the side of the bus were blacked out and Ganda Koy —“Masters of the Land”—painted over them. The Songhai Empire was the greatest of all African empires five hundred years ago, but invasions by foreigners had robbed his people of their land, wealth, and dignity for centuries. Black Africans like the Songhai were reclaiming their rightful place under the sun, and Ganda Koy was the tip of the spear in Mali.

The windows were up but fine dust and sand somehow still creeped into the bus, and the overhead fans only blew the hot air and dust around. The recruits didn’t seem to mind. They had sung a few patriotic songs earlier and now sang Songhai folk songs, shouting over the roaring bus engine. His number two was his morale officer, a short, powerful woman from Gao like himself, though he never knew her until now. She had recruited seven women for this mission, three of them her nieces. All had been raped by Tuaregs in the past and all wanted bloody revenge. Number Two and her recruits would lead the rape gang, house to house, after first killing whatever men or boys they found.

Naddah checked his watch, then stood. Number Two stopped singing and the recruits quieted down. Their earnest faces dripped with sweat, black skin glistening in the heat.

“We are only ten minutes away. Squad leaders, do you remember your orders?”

“Yes, sir!”

“And the rest of you? Are you ready to cleanse our land of the Tuareg filth that has covered it?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Do you hate the arrogant Tuaregs as much as I do?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Their white skin?”

“YES, SIR!” Now their faces broke into smiles. Some of them stood, shouting and throwing their fists.

Number Two shouted, “Mali for Africans! Mali for Songhai!” The bus rocked violently.

“Mali for Africans! Mali for Songhai!” they echoed. Naddah pumped his fists in the air and shouted with them.

Number Two shouted louder, “MALI FOR AFRICANS! MALI FOR SONGHAI!”

“GANDA KOY! GANDA KOY! GANDA KOY! GANDA KOY!”

The boy drank the ice-cold Coke greedily, sweat still pouring down his small, handsome face. Ibrahim loved that small face. It reminded him so much of his daughter, long since dead.