37

As I rode back home on the Jakarta, I thought about what Soumano had said. Rafael was having Jet A delivered, and this fuel would only be used for jet planes. The two old crates that Stéphane Humbert piloted for Cartagena had traditional piston engines. So then, what plane was this fuel designated for? Just as I was beginning to form an idea, my phone went off inside my pocket, killing my train of thought. I answered while steering with one hand. Despite the danger factor of such a move, I was able to stay the course while talking to Pierre. He wanted to remind me of my promise to provide him with an explanation. I switched up my route and headed in the direction of the criminal investigations office.

After knocking back a couple of beers with Pierre, I explained how I was continuing my investigation of Cartagena. I had merely checked out a few remote possibilities. I had “closed off avenues,” as those on the force put it. Pierre nodded, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. He insisted that I report every piece of information I uncovered, whether it was extraneous or pertinent. I put my hand over my heart and swore I would, and as I left his office, I had a bad taste in my mouth. But I had decided not to bring him in on all of it. The coming days would be decisive. There could be collateral victims, as was the case with Bahia Tebessi. Too many innocent people had died already.

On the way home, I stopped at an electronics shop and picked up a satellite telephone with a car charger. Nothing worked better for making calls from the middle of nowhere. Outside the cities and major towns, cell coverage was sparse.

Back at the house, I treated myself to a relaxing cool shower and put on a pair of shorts, I went to inspect the Land Cruiser. It took me a good ten minutes to find Ronny’s magnetic GPS tracker underneath the engine block, near the radiator. I pulled it off and examined the casing. It had a cable with a male USB port. I hooked it up to my computer and quickly figured out how to download the correct application. Fifteen minutes later, the GPS’s location showed up on Google Earth. Satisfied, I charged the battery before going to bed.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of the Muslim call to prayer and hopped in the shower to scrub off the remaining traces of my dreams. I packed my canvas bag with things I would need for a trip that would last no more than a week. I didn’t know where this investigation would take me, but I wanted to be as prepared as possible. So I slipped my laptop with a heavy case into the bag, along with a pair of binoculars, my digital camera equipped with a telephoto lens, and the satellite phone. After a light and simple breakfast, I borrowed Modibo’s Jakatar again and rode off toward the airport.

When I got there, I spotted huge fuel tanks bearing Total’s logo in a storage area. I found a shady place to wait with the moped. Soumano was sure the delivery would take place in the morning. When I asked him how many times Ortega and his men had placed orders for Jet A, Four-Eyes checked on his computer, and I was stunned. This was the third time in a year.

The sun was already high in the sky, and the damned thing was moving along happily. The Harmattan trade winds were whipping up piping-hot clouds of dirt. Like an idiot, I hadn’t thought to slip a bottle of water into one of the moped’s satchels. My mouth was parched.

Before I could dwell on it, a tanker driven by Rodrigo pulled up. A Malian muscleman was in the passenger seat. It was the giant who was with him at the slaughterhouse. They drove right by me, oblivious to my presence, and pulled into a hydrocarbon stockroom. It took them an hour to load up the truck and sign the paperwork. When the vehicle left, I tailed it as it headed toward Bamako. We hit heavier traffic at the city’s periphery, and I used the time at a red light to position myself behind the vehicle.

I glanced in the large outside mirror to make sure the Malian meathead wasn’t looking my way. Seeing that I was still off their radar, I took out the magnetic GPS tracker from my safari jacket and stuck it underneath the right fender—a place it could be spotted only under close examination. It made a small clunking sound, but no one noticed. When the light turned green, the truck took off toward the Pont du Roi Fahd. I didn’t follow. There was no need to suck up any more exhaust fumes. Back at the house, I plugged in my laptop and clicked on the GPS tracker icon. To my great relief, it was working perfectly and was indicating Cartagena’s headquarters. Modibo came into the room with a chilled beer. I thanked him and downed it in just a few gulps.

~ ~ ~

When I awoke the next day, I rushed to my laptop. Shit! The tanker was on the move. It was heading toward the town of Segou to the east. Those fuckers had left in the night. I drank a quick cup of coffee, grabbed my travel bag, slid my Glock into its holster, and hopped into the SUV. After giving Modibo a few hasty instructions, I reassured him that I’d be back soon. The kid seemed disoriented, worried even.

“Don’t fret. Everything will be all right,” I told him.

He gave me a confused look.

“What does fret mean?”

An ocher cloud of dirt went whipping in the air as I sped off.