16

The sun was already high up in the sky when I awoke at my place with my sweaty sheets sticking to my skin and my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. I got up like an old man and stumbled toward the kitchen. I stretched with difficulty. My back cracked like old floorboards. I prepared a strong espresso, and with my cup in hand, I went to the patio and sat down in one of the wicker chairs facing the river. The somber ripples on the water mirrored my mood. I savored my caffeine, keeping my ears open for the slightest noise. But there were no familiar sounds. No cooking noises in the kitchen, no happy whistling in the garden. Cars were piling up on Martyrs Bridge. I picked up my phone and called Kansaye.

“Hello, Commissioner,” I said when he answered.

“Good morning, Warakalan.”

“I decided not to follow the path of reason.”

Silence on the other end.

“I need to know if I can count on your help.” I picked up a cigarillo and lit it while I waited for a response.

“What do you want?”

“The phone records of Bahia Tebessi’s last conversations.”

I held my breath.

“Go see Pierre Diawara. He’ll tell you what he’s got. I’ll make sure he does it.”

He ended the call.

I got up with a grunt and headed toward the bathroom. After a quick shower, I shaved. My hand was shaky, but I managed to avoid cutting myself. I put on some clean clothes and wrapped my tagelmust around my neck. To finish up, I examined my reflection in the mirror. Aside from my bloodshot eyes and ashy complexion, I looked almost human.

I went to the garage and got out the small pickax that Drissa used for gardening. Armed, I headed for the traveler’s palm growing next to the house. Behind the tree, I started digging. The tool quickly hit metal. I continued digging by hand, fished out a large steel box equipped with a combination padlock, and swept away the coat of sticky dirt. I placed the box on the ground and leaned against the house. A huge bird, a kind of blue magpie with a long tail, came down next to me and started hopping around in the grass. I sighed and bent forward to get a closer look, but the bird chirped and flew off. I turned my attention back to the box and dialed the numbers 0-7-10. Alexander’s birthday. Inside a plastic bag was a small black briefcase. I opened it.

There it was, held captive in a foam cushion.

I ran my fingers over the cold steel of the barrel and shivered.

I spent part of the morning oiling and cleaning my weapon. After checking to make sure it was in functioning condition, I loaded the two magazines with 9mm cartridges. It felt strange to be going through this once-familiar routine again. I threaded a clip inside the grip, brought the breech back with a swift tug, testing a cartridge, and slid the Glock in the small of my back behind my belt.

I was ready for the rest of the day. I hailed a taxi, fetched my SUV, and an hour later presented myself to a disheveled-looking guard at the police criminal investigations unit, commonly called the BIJ for brigade d’investigations judiciaires. Mali was once the French Sudan, and even though it has been an independent nation for a half century, vestiges of French rule still remain. For example, Mali loved its technocracy and overly complicated acronyms that stood for simple concepts. The guard, who appeared to be doubling as a secretary, informed me that Chief Diawara was expecting me, but he was busy at the moment. I went in without knocking, interrupting an old man who was blabbering about something. Pierre was politely listening with half-shut eyes. His face brightened when he saw me, and he cut short the old man’s speech, taking him by the elbow and escorting him to the door while offering reassurance that he would come through for him. After closing the door behind him, Pierre Diawara slumped into his chair.

“The old man was pleading a case for his grandson, who’s charged with armed robbery. Despite statements from the victims and the fact that some of the stolen goods were found in the kid’s home, the man insists on trying to convince me that he wasn’t involved.”

“Meanwhile, you’re forced to entertain him.”

Pierre smiled and looked at his watch. I did the same. Eleven thirty. He reached into one of his desk drawers and opened the small fridge behind him. Then he poured us tall glasses of bourbon mixed with a little soda.

“It’s tradition. What can I say…”

We clinked our glasses and drank in silence. Pierre was from a Christian family. This had hurt his career, because the best positions always went to Muslims. His pals from the police academy had been promoted ages ago, but he remained on the sidelines. He didn’t harbor any resentment, though. For Pierre, the glass was unfailingly half full.

“Kansaye asked me to give you the details on the Tebessi case. But to be honest, we don’t have much.”

The media frenzy had certainly died down, and the case would soon be of no interest to anyone. Farah was right. No one cared about an insignificant drug mule. Still, I was a bit skeptical about Pierre’s claim.

“I imagine you’ve investigated Bahia’s phone,” I said, placing my glass on his desk.

Pierre took out a sheaf of documents bearing the Orange Mali phone company logo and handed it over to me.

“You can have these,” he said. “They’re photocopies.”

I took the papers, put on my reading glasses, and quickly scanned them. They were, indeed, the young woman’s cell phone records.

“Can you identify this one?” I asked, pointing to the last number Bahia Tebessi had called.

The listing indicated 5:38 p.m. Tuesday. The conversation had lasted two and a half minutes.

“No problem.” Pierre scribbled the number on a piece of paper.

There was a knock at the door. A young guy about twenty years old stuck his head in.

“Hello, Grandfather. I’ve brought what I owe you.”

In Mali, calling someone grandfather regardless of familial relationship was a sign of respect.

Pierre waved the young man into his office. The latter gave me a nod and took out a wad of crumpled bills.

“Here you are.”

Pierre took the money without counting it and slipped it into one of his pockets.

“Solo, this is Yacouba, one of my drivers.”

I knew that Pierre had a fleet of a dozen taxis that he rented out weekly. Thanks to the money he earned from the cabs, he didn’t have to engage in any shady activities to feed his family. In Mali, a police chief could not live on his salary alone. It was worse for lower-ranking cops.

I shook the driver’s hand.

“Tell me, Yacouba, would you be interested in earning a little money?”

It was like asking a blind man if he wanted to see.

The driver nodded enthusiastically.

“You bet, sir. Who couldn’t use some extra cash?”

“I’d like you to put me in contact with the taxi driver who picked up the young French woman from the narcotics unit.”

“The girl who was murdered?”

I nodded.

He shook his head. “That could be complicated and also—”

“Don’t worry. No one will know you’re working for me,” I said as I pulled out a ten-thousand-franc bill from my wallet.

I handed him the money, which he took after a pause of several seconds.

“Two more like this one if you find the guy. It was last Tuesday, late afternoon.”

Yacouba nodded. “I’ll call you as soon as I get any information,” he said.

We exchanged phone numbers. The taxi driver said good-bye to Pierre and left.