17

Intent on finding a burner, I ended my meeting with Pierre. I quickly spotted a shop, which was little more than a shanty: loose boards and rusty sheet metal. Inside I found exactly what I was looking for: Chinese phones—poor imitations of designer brands. I purchased a cell and a chip for a ridiculously low sum and headed for the French Cultural Center on Independence Avenue. It was an ocher-colored building surrounded by a thick wall and topped with a multicolored tiara of bougainvillea vines with sharp thorns. At the entrance, officers from the mobile security group were killing time in their plastic chairs. In the past few weeks, all of Bamako had been buzzing with rumors of an attack. Al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb was constantly threatening French interests, which were considered an obstacle to the Salafi movement in West Africa. A suicide bomber had just blown himself up in front of a French Cultural Center in Mauritania.

I went through security without any trouble. Everyone knew me here. I had chosen the center for what I wanted to do because I doubted that anyone would try to kill me so close to half a dozen armed officers, albeit sluggish ones. I sat down at one of the tables in the central court that served as a café and ordered a coffee. Several young Westerners and Africans in dreadlocks were sitting nearby, drinking sodas and beers. They were talking loudly and cracking jokes. Most were wearing T-shirts inspired by Che and Bob Marley, exhibiting them like a brand names, more for status than real interest.

I lit a cigarillo, took out the cell, and slipped the SIM card into its compartment. I pressed the “on” button—written in English—and, to my huge relief, the phone lit up with its welcome message. There was just enough battery power for what I had to do. I took out the last page from the phone records and dialed the number Bahia had called the day she was killed. Someone picked up on the fourth ring.

“Yes?”

It was an African man’s voice. I was sure of it. He sounded hesitant, or maybe worried.

“We have to talk,” I said in an authoritative voice.

There was a long silence. Then: “Who are you and what do you want to talk about?”

I took a drag of my cigarillo.

“Bahia Tebessi and her murder.”

Silence again.

I’d have to bluff. “I know who you are and where you live. If you don’t want me telling the police and the press what I know, I’d advise you meet me right now at the French Cultural Center.”

“You’re crazy! I don’t know anything about—”

“You’ll recognize me easily. I’m mixed race. I’m wearing a white linen shirt, brown khaki pants, and a blue chèche.”

I hung up.