Mike Maden - River of Gods

“I leave tomorrow. You?”

“Same.”

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their martinis, watching the sailboats in their docks, bobbing in the gentle current of the Tagus River, flowing into the great Atlantic. They were both lost in memories of each other, though neither would admit it. Their glasses drained. The waiter appeared, as if on cue.

“Another round?” he asked.

Pearce looked at Cella. There was nothing holding her here, was there?

“Sure.”

“Very good, sir.” He left.

Cella’s eyes teared up. “I thought you were dead.”

“Why?”

“Because I never heard from you. No letters. No calls. I used to dream that you would come and visit me, at least.”

Pearce was confused. “I thought you made it pretty clear that you never wanted to see me again.”

Cella jerked, as if shocked by an electrical current. “Why would you say that?”

“Oh, I dunno. Telling me to go to hell seemed like a pretty good clue.” He softened his sarcasm with a smile.

She laughed. “You don’t know women, do you? Or maybe it’s just Italian women you don’t know. I was scared, that was all. Scared for you. Scared for me. What we had…”

She laid her hand on the table. Pearce laid his hand on hers.

“I guess I’m an idiot.”

“There’s no guessing about it.”

Pearce felt the heat on his face.

So did she.

The waiter returned five minutes later with the drinks. There was a hundred-euro note tucked under one of the empty glasses. The American and his woman were gone.

Pearce’s suite overlooked the Targus. The modernist design featured black woods, white marble, and gleaming fixtures. From the king-sized bed he watched a sailboat tack into the early-morning wind. Cella did, too, as Troy ran his fingers through her thick, lustrous hair. They were both naked beneath the white linens. Happy, exhausted.

They had picked up where they left off six years earlier. Incredibly, it was more intense. Years of nurtured memories had created an insatiable longing. Now they found each other again. And then there was the ticking clock. Only one night to be together. They hardly slept, stealing brief moments of rest until one of them revived, and starting all over again.

And again.

And again.

“What time is your flight?” he asked. The digital clock flashed 5:22 a.m.

“Not until ten. You?”

“Eleven thirty. We have time for coffee. I’ll order room service.”

Cella shook her head. “Not yet,” she said as she crawled on top and pulled him inside of her again.

They lounged in reclining chairs on the south-facing balcony in sumptuous bathrobes, finishing off a pot of strong black Brazilian coffee and a tray of chocolate biscotti and fresh fruit. They both stared at the river, mesmerized by the morning sunlight dappling the water.

“Don’t leave,” Troy said.

She laughed. “You can’t be serious. Even you must be exhausted by now.”

“No. I mean, stay with me.”

“I can’t. I have work to do. A life to go back to. So do you.”

Pearce crossed over to her chair and sat in it. He took her by the hands. “What do you want me to say? I screwed up. Maybe I should’ve stayed with you before, but I didn’t. I thought about finding you later—like, a million times I thought about it. But the way you ended it—”

“The way I ended it? No, my love. I offered you everything. You turned me down. You ended it.”

“But you know why I had to leave.”

“Yes, I remember well. You said you had a duty. Well, now, so do I.” She sat up and kissed him on the cheek. “This time together was a wonderful gift, but it ends here. You made your choice years ago, and then I made mine.” She stood.

“Do you love someone else?”

She looked at him, puzzled, as if he’d asked her a question in Urdu. “I loved you from the moment I set eyes on you. I know I sound like a silly schoolgirl, but it’s true.”

“Then why not stay with me?”

“Life is more than love, Troy. You taught me that. You made your commitments then, now I’ve made mine. I’m sorry.”

She bent over and kissed him again. They held each other’s face in their hands, kissing gently, without lust.

Gently, good-bye.

The village of Anou

Kidal Region, Northwest Mali

7 May

Pearce’s truck skidded to a halt by the well. Mossa knelt in the dirt, his men circled around him, the other Toyotas parked nearby. Early climbed down from the truck bed as Pearce and Cella opened their doors.

Mossa stood. “Mr. Pearce? Why aren’t you on the plane?”

“Heard you were shorthanded. Mind if I hang around?”

“It’s your life. Spend it as you will.”

“What’s the plan?” Pearce stepped closer to the group.

Mossa kneeled back down. He’d drawn a crude sketch of the village. Pearce had caught a glimpse of it from the air before they landed earlier. Anou was roughly a square, a ragged three hundred yards on each side, bordered by a low sand-brick wall. A one-lane hard-packed road led into the town from the southwest, linking it to Gao. The land on either side of the road was mostly loose sand and scrub juniper. Vehicles would have to stay on that road if they needed sure footing. On the western and northern sides of the wall there were clumps of jagged rock thrusting up through the harder-packed sand and loose rock, and even a few trees, twisted and barren. There were also remnants of older houses that had long since been broken down by years of wind and neglect. Soldiers on foot could easily traverse the area, but wheeled vehicles would have a harder time of it.

“There is an old Soviet BTR-60 armored personnel carrier at the head of a convoy of five trucks,” Mossa said. He drew a road in the dust with a long finger. “As you can see, there is only one road coming into the village. They will advance as far as the wall but no further, then dismount, the BTR leading the way. The commander will be in the BTR. We have an RPG that can take out the BTR, then—”

“Permission to speak?” Pearce asked.

Mossa glanced at Early, asking an unspoken question.

“I heard you once say that a piece of salt doesn’t call itself salty. Troy here is the best warfighter I know.”

“Speak, then, Mr. Pearce.”

“You need fuel if you want to get out of here. That BTR carries at least seventy, eighty gallons of diesel. You need to capture it, not blow it up.”

“What do you propose?”

“Depends. What else do you have in your inventory?”

Mossa gave him the rundown. It wasn’t much, but it had possibilities.

Pearce had a few toys, too. They made a plan.

“You think like an Imohar , ” Mossa said. “You may not live long, but at least you will die well.” Cella translated. The other Tuaregs chuckled in agreement.

The eight-wheeled BTR slowed to a crawl one hundred meters out from the entrance to the village. The front and side hatches were shut against gunfire, but the top ones were left open because the heat was unbearable even at this early hour in the morning. It rolled along for another thirty meters, but still there was no firing from the village. The commander signaled a halt to the convoy and the BTR braked. The five trucks a hundred meters behind him did the same.