1

Bamako, Mali, 2009

It was a beautiful morning. It must have been about ten o’clock, but it felt like daybreak. She was waiting for me at the top of the outside stairs. I didn’t notice her at first. I was too focused on getting up the crumbling concrete steps. I hadn’t had a bout of malaria in several weeks, but I still needed to hold onto the rusty handrail like a shriveled old man. Reckless—perhaps suicidal—geckos were dashing between my feet. When I looked up, she was there, standing on the walkway in the intense June sunshine. She was wearing a white dress as light as the first breezes of the Harmattan, the dry wind that sweeps over West Africa in the fall and winter. Her eyes were full of both seriousness and hope. I wiped the thin layer of sweat from my brow and stepped past her, pretending not to take notice. Beautiful women do nothing but cause me trouble, and judging by her looks, this girl would be World War III. I pulled a key from my pocket and approached the door, with its gold plaque trumpeting “Camara Investigations.” She moved aside to let me pass.

“Are you Souleymane Camara?” she asked from behind me as I slid the key in the lock.

I opened the door.

“That depends.” I turned around to look her in the face.

She was tall—almost my height—and elegant. She was most likely a native of a Maghreb country. I’d have bet Morocco. I could see the outline of her muscled thighs under her gauzy dress. Her leg was just inches from my hand, and it was all I could do to keep myself from reaching out and touching it. Her jet-black hair was pulled back in a tight bun, with a few wisps around her ears. The style wasn’t at all unflattering. It highlighted her perfect oval-shaped face and intense dark eyes, which probed me mercilessly. It had been a late night for me, and based on the look of disapproval in her eyes, the excessive activities I had recently been engaging in were blatantly clear. Strangely, it bothered me that she would judge me so harshly.

“That depends on what?” she said.

“That depends on why you’re here and whether I owe you money or have caused harm to you or someone close to you.”

“And what if that’s the case?”

“Take a number and get in line.”

“Are there that many people?”

“More than I can count.”

“I’ve come to ask for your help, although I’m starting to question whether it’s a good idea.”

Her tone was cold and revealed a certain level of education. Underneath, there was a melodious Mediterranean singsong in her voice.

I opened the door all the way and motioned her into the office. “Go ahead.”

She paused before entering. I pointed to one of the two chairs in front of my desk, the one without the frayed padding and loose frame. I had left my window open, and the hot midmorning heat was already seeping into the room. I glanced at the traffic outside. The street was congested, and the cop at the intersection was trying desperately to maintain order. On the sidewalk, merchants were hassling the passersby, and the beggars were pleading for handouts from drivers stopped at the light.

I closed the window, and the chaos of Bamako subsided. Using my remote, I turned on the AC. The cool air rushed into the room, drying my sweaty back. With a sigh of satisfaction, I sat down in my made-in-China executive chair. I propped my feet on the desk—also from China—and, with a stone face, stared at my female visitor. It was a technique the older cops had taught me when I was still on the force. Always put the other person in an uncomfortable position. Confronted with silence, they’d want to alleviate the tension, fill the time, and perhaps let slip a few helpful insights—things they would have kept to themselves under different circumstances.

But now my efforts were yielding nothing in return. She maintained a polite silence. Finally, I spoke. I cleared my throat and asked, “Well then, what can I do for you, Mrs.…?”

“Ms. Tebessi. Farah Tebessi.”

She had insisted on the “Ms.,” as if it were of great importance to her. That amused me.

“I’m a lawyer, a member of the Paris bar. Perhaps my name rings a bell for you?”

Indeed, the name struck a vague chord in my brain, which was still foggy from too much alcohol. Something I had read in a paper, something that was mentioned on ORTM radio. I rummaged through the mayhem on my desk and extracted an issue of Le Républicain. “Suspected drug trafficker arrested before flight to Paris,” a headline blared. And just below that, a readout: “Police say female passenger had 13 kilos of cocaine hidden in luggage.”

The article described the impressive effectiveness of the Bamako drug squad bloodhounds. They had neutralized the “dangerous drug-trafficker” just before she boarded her plane. Accompanying the article was a photo: a woman, who appeared to be in her twenties. Distraught and fatigued, she was handcuffed and posed in front of a table with the seized cocaine.

“That’s my sister,” Farah said. “My little sister, Bahia.”

I threw the paper in the wastebasket. The police had been finding coke all over Bamako—by the kilo and by the line.

“I don’t see how I can be of help to you. Your sister’s fate is sealed.”

Farah Tebessi leaned forward with a pained smile on her face, the kind a teacher uses on a kid who’s acting too cocky.

“Look, Mr. Camara…”

“Solo… Call me Solo.”

“Solo, Bahia is…” Farah hesitated, then continued. “Bahia is your average girl next door. She’s in her second year of law school and works part time at an industrial bakery in Val-d’Oise. She’s got a young daughter, but the father’s gone. She’s just getting by, and I assume that makes her the perfect prey for traffickers. There’s no way I’m abandoning her. My niece is waiting for her mother. I want to bring her back to France.”

“What you want doesn’t matter here.”

Farah leaned back and sighed. “I’m sure you realize that I didn’t set out on this journey without educating myself beforehand. I’m not naïve. I know the local customs. There’s always something that can be done.”

“I’m curious to hear what that may be.”

“I would like you to contact the examining magistrate responsible for this case and offer him something in exchange for my sister’s freedom.”

I looked at her skeptically while playing nervously with the tagelmust draped around my neck.

“Are you asking me to buy off a judge?”

She let out a scornful little laugh.

“I thought I made myself clear. Don’t act all high and mighty. According to what I’ve heard, buying off people is the national pastime in Mali.”

“Who gave you my name?”

She smoothed her dress and locked eyes with me.

“Thanks to my work as a lawyer, I’m in regular contact with the police. I’ve even become friends with a few. Commander Lefèvre suggested that I speak with you.”

Lefèvre—the head of my old drug squad. Pensively, I rubbed the scars on my left hand.

“He told me not to trust my first impressions, that you were a commendable cop back in the day,” Farah Tebessi continued. “He said if someone could help me in this country, it would be you. That’s why I haven’t given up yet.”

“Did he tell you how I’m a disaster waiting to happen and that partnering with me can lead to a whole world of trouble?”

She gave me an irritated look. That was clearly a talent of hers.

“Yes, he told me. But I’m not scared—I mean, by what you did.”

My throat was feeling as dry as the Sahel. I looked over at the minibar, where my bottle of Scotch was waiting for me. But it was too early. I had to hold out a little longer—until noon, at least.

“I have a saying: in Mali everything’s possible and nothing’s certain,” I replied.

“Okay then, do everything that’s possible. I’ve already said good-bye to certainties.”

“How much?” I asked.

“Fifteen thousand euros for the judge, and three thousand for you,” she said. That’s about ten million in CFA francs for the judge and two million for you, give or take.”

“Divide that in half, and it’ll be enough. No need to whet any appetites.”

She kept staring at me. “For you too?”

“Yes. For me too.”

Farah told me she was staying at the Laïco Hotel, just across from the French embassy. We agreed to meet at the same time the following day. She planned to exchange her euros for the African currency at a Malian bank and hand it over to me at our appointment. A branch of the Mali Development Bank was conveniently located near her hotel. I suggested that she have a guard from the bank accompany her to the hotel. She could leave the money in the hotel safe until our meeting. We shook hands, and she left. I remained seated for a moment, looking back at the minibar. A hint of jasmine wafted in the air.