36

When Rafael and Rodrigo exited the jail in the late morning, I was waiting patiently, straddling Modibo’s Chinese moped. There’s no better way to blend in. Thousands of the two-wheelers vroom through the streets of Bamako. For the occasion, I was wearing a pair of torn jeans and an old T-shirt. My helmet bore the insignia of an AIDS NGO. An enormous pair of shades covered half my face. I was unrecognizable, to say the least. A small door in the enormous metal gate opened, and the two Hispanic men emerged. Blinded by the sun, they shielded their eyes while scanning the area. I turned away instinctively, even though they couldn’t recognize me. Rodrigo, who was still bandaged, gave the jailer a hearty handshake while Rafael waved to the Pajero parked in the shade on the small square across from the jail. Coulibaly was behind the wheel. He started the car and pulled up in front of his new bosses. I couldn’t blame him—he did have a family to feed. Rafael and Rodrigo got in the SUV, and it began heading in the direction of the river. I followed suit, sidling into the heavy pre-lunch-hour traffic. We hadn’t driven that far—about half a mile—when the Pajero stopped in front of the Apaloosa, a Tex-Mex restaurant famous for its Ukrainian hostesses and waiters in ridiculous cowboy hats.

After surviving on a jail diet, my drug traffickers needed an appetizing lunch. Coulibaly dropped off his passengers and got back on the road. I parked my bike a short distance from the restaurant, next to a cigarette stand in the shade of a mango tree. The vendor and I made casual conversation about the situation in the North and the Tuareg separatists who were in the news after attacking a police station in Kidal. The vendor offered me some tea. Even though we were under the tree, the sun was beating down on us. It was the worst time of day, when you feel like a melting stick of butter, when you drown in your own sweat. I imagined my Hispanics living it up in the cool breeze of the Apaloosa’s AC. I waited three hours, and soon the cigarette seller and I had run out of things to say. We stood there like that, the silence interrupted only by customers seeking counterfeits of well-known American cigarettes.

I was relieved to see the Pajero pull up around three o’clock. It wasn’t long before Rafael and Rodrigo came out of the Apaloosa and slid into the car. I said good-bye to the cigarette vendor and took off after the SUV. It stopped in front of a big villa in the ACI-2000 neighborhood, which I assumed was their crash pad. After spending several hours in the villa, they emerged in the early evening, showered, shaved, and sporting clean clothes. My tailgating then led me down Avenue Kassé Keïta, near the train station. The Pajero parked in a lot in front of the French oil company Total. I did the same, slipping on the kind of face mask motorcyclists often wear to protect themselves from exhaust fumes. I got off the Jakarta and pulled a manila envelope I had prepared out of the satchel. I watched as Rafael and his crew emerged from the Pajero and headed toward an old security guard in an impeccable brown uniform who was manning the entrance. I followed them.

“We have a meeting with Mr. Ibrahim Soumano,” Rafael announced while Rodrigo scanned the area. He turned around and saw me.

I started to sweat, but I didn’t look away. I grabbed a ballpoint pen in my pocket and scribbled on the envelope as Rodrigo stared at me indifferently.

“Second floor, fourth door on the right,” the guard told the men.

They walked off and began climbing the stairs to the second floor. Now it was my turn. I removed my mask and approached the guard. “I have a delivery for Mr. Ibrahim Soumano,” I told him, showing him the envelope on which I had just scribbled the name.

“He’s in a meeting. But you can leave the envelope here if you wish. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

I tried to look upset.

“That doesn’t work for me. My boss instructed me to deliver it personally. It’s very important.”

“Then you’ll just have to wait. Second floor, fourth door on the right.”

I thanked him and followed his directions. I waited a good half hour at the door, and when Rafael and Rodrigo came out, I turned my back. As soon as they disappeared down the hall, I knocked.

“Come in.”

I walked into the nicely cooled office. A guy wearing a plaid button-down and a filthy purple tie was staring at me from behind a pair of glasses with thick lenses. His messy desk was piled high with papers, as were all the shelves and most of the chairs. The guy’s office was a temple dedicated to the pencil-pusher gods.

“What do you want?” he asked in the impatient tone bureaucrats use to assert their importance.

I threw the envelope in his wastebasket and flashed a fake police badge.

“Inspector Souleymane Camara from the criminal investigations unit,” I declared pompously, praying he wouldn’t recognize me.

“What do you want, Inspector?”

Clearly, I wasn’t as famous as I thought I was.

“I’m investigating the two men who just left your office.”

“Mr. Ortega and his associate are highly successful and respected businessmen,” Soumano protested, as if I had implicated him personally.

“You’re right. That’s when they’re not playing with their chainsaws.”

“I beg your pardon. Mr. Ortega and his associate have been exonerated of any wrongdoing in that case.”

“I would like to know why they came to speak with you.”

Soumano looked at me suspiciously.

“You may be a police investigator, but why they were here is none of your business. As I said, they’ve been exonerated of any wrongdoing and released from jail. Don’t you need a warrant or a formal request for this kind of information?”

“You’re wasting my time. Call my boss, Chief of Police Pierre Diawara. He’ll back me up.”

I gave him the number, and because he was hesitating, I really drove it home.

“Hurry up, or would you prefer a little visit from the entire criminal investigation unit!” I thundered.

My order, delivered with all the confidence I had managed to summon, produced the desired effect. Soumano did what I told him to do. He slowly entered the number on his landline and pressed the speakerphone button. The receptionist answered, and Soumano asked to speak with the chief. When I heard Pierre pick up, my heart tightened. I didn’t know how he would react.

“Chief, I have one of your men here with me: Inspector Souleymane Camara. He claims to be looking into a few of our clients. He has an unusual request. That’s why I would like you to confirm that he is, indeed, working for you as an undercover investigator.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. I started to sweat. Finally, Pierre spoke.

“Inspector Camara is a highly regarded member of our team. I suggest that you respond to every one of his requests.”

Soumano gave a forced smile.

“Very well, Chief.”

“Solo, can he hear me?”

“Yes, indeed. You’re on speakerphone.”

“Please keep me up to speed on the progress of your very important investigation.”

“I certainly will, Chief.”

Soumano hung up. “What do you need, Inspector? We’ll be happy to help you in any way.”

I sat down in a chair, stretched out my legs, and put my hands behind my head. My insolent attitude hardly raised an eyebrow.

“I need to know the reason for Ortega’s visit.”

Soumano cleared his throat. All of this was hard for him to swallow.

“Mr. Ortega and his associate came to make sure their requested delivery is being processed and will arrive on time.”

“And is it?”

“Yes, it is.”

We looked at each other in silence for several long seconds.

“And? What is this delivery?”

He sighed, and I actually thought he was going to cry.

“A tanker truck filled with Jet A.”

“And what is Jet A?”

“Kerosene. It’s airplane fuel.”