39

When I got back on the road, I had an awful migraine and no pain relievers. I fought it, reminding myself that I had asked for this. Soon the craggy mountains of Gourma gave way to a rocky desert where scrawny goats and placid camels roamed.

I was in the Sahara.

By late morning, I had crossed the bridge that spanned the Niger River to Bilal Koyra. Gao was very close, only a few kilometers north. I drove along the dirt road that followed the river. Tuareg settlements were scattered along the sides of the road, but many of them had few, if any, residents. A drought was forcing families to abandon the settlements and seek refuge in the large towns.

Finally, I arrived on the outskirts of Gao. Once on the wide and partially sand-covered streets in the downtown area, I stopped at a service station to fill up the tank of the Land Cruiser. Then I set off to find a decent hotel near Gao’s port neighborhood. I set my sights on the Atlantide, which I knew was well-kept and had air-conditioned rooms. I parked the SUV in a lot behind the establishment. Rafael and his accomplices knew my car, and I didn’t want them spotting it. At the front desk, I paid for one night and followed the receptionist as she led me to my room. The sparse and unrefined décor consisted of local crafts for undemanding tourists, wooden sculptures, and bogolan wall hangings. But it was clean, and the AC worked. I took a quick shower and sat down on the bed with my computer. I connected to the hotel’s wi-fi and was relieved to see that the tanker truck was parked not too far from me, near the Askia Hotel. I kept my laptop on and activated an alert to indicate when the vehicle started moving. That night, I ate at the hotel restaurant. I had an excellent fillet of capitaine—caught in the river the night before, according to my waiter—which was served with a flavorful white rice. I knocked back a couple of beers with some French hydrologists and returned to my room. I stayed cooped up there, as I didn’t want to venture out and risk running into the drug traffickers in town. I slept fitfully until the alert went off. It was a few minutes past six. I rushed to get dressed.

~ ~ ~

The streets of Gao were still sleepy. The sun was rising listlessly, and women were tackling their first task of the day—making fires in their small cast-iron stoves. I drove past an animal market housing dozens of placid dromedaries. I easily found the road that the large truck had taken fifteen minutes earlier. It was heading northeast. Unfortunately, as soon as I left Gao, putting peddle to the metal, I started encountering one challenge after another. I swung the steering wheel from left to right and back again as I dodged the obstacles of nature thrown cunningly in front of my wheels—knotty tree stumps, hazardous holes, and unaware animals. I eased up on the gas to avoid a mechanical breakdown.

Apparently, the other trucks and cars on this arid steppe, peppered with withered bushes, bony trees, and sepia stones, were moving along slowly too, because half an hour later I found myself in a cloud of dust raised by a line of vehicles in front of me. That’s when things got complicated. I couldn’t follow the tracker, and I needed to know if I was still behind the crew. I had to locate them, and to do that, I had to veer off the road and get a good look at the impromptu caravan. I drove several yards in the sand and braked. I grabbed my binoculars from my backpack and brought them to my eyes. Because I was no longer in the line of traffic, the cloud of dust didn’t bother me anymore. The tanker was, indeed, moving along the beat-up road, preceded by the Pajero. I stepped on the gas, and driving on the sand, I barreled past the vehicles that had been just ahead of me. Then I got back on the road, lit a cigarillo, and slowed down. All I had to do now was follow the tanker’s cloud—at a respectful distance, of course.

I drove like that for six more hours, opting to go off-road every so often. Oddly enough, doing that at some points made for a smoother ride. Suddenly, the cloud of dust caved in like a failed soufflé. I drove a good hundred feet through the sand, praying that my car wouldn’t sink into it. Finally, I stopped behind a thicket of shrubbery that appeared to be desperately determined to thrive. I figured I could hide the vehicle there. I grabbed my backpack and got out of the car.

When the heat hit me, I almost collapsed. I took small puffs of painfully hot air to get my lungs accustomed. Then I looked around. There was no other vegetation to conceal me. I crept forward with my head down. In front of me, I made out a slight elevation, which I headed toward. By the time I reached the base of the hill, I was dripping with sweat. I spread out in the white-hot sand and crawled like a fakir over a bed of embers until I reached the top. I got as comfortable as I could behind a large rock and tried to ignore the burning sand. When I looked over the edge, I saw a bizarre scene. Half a dozen vehicles were stopped near a rusty but clearly operational bulldozer. Among the other vehicles were the tanker, the Pajero, and four sand-colored pickups. Some men were in the midst of a discussion. I raised the binoculars to my eyes. Rodrigo and Rafael were talking to a Malian wearing a military officer’s uniform. All around them were soldiers in combat uniforms. They were armed with AK-47s. One of them was working a .50-caliber machine gun mounted on a tripod in the back of one of the pickups.

One other detail caught my attention. I adjusted the binoculars to bring them into the sharpest focus possible. Painted on the side of the vehicle with the machine gun was the emblem of the Malian National Guard. I put down the binoculars and spent the next few seconds cursing between my teeth. So Rafael and Rodrigo were in cahoots with the National Guard. I took out my camera and played with the telephoto lens until I had the focus I needed. I took a photo of Rafael and his accomplices, the soldiers, and their vehicles. Right beside the vehicles I noticed a wide, flat surface a few hundred feet long. On both sides, it was lined with huge rocks and rusty barrels. A landing strip. I took a picture of it.

Still crouched at my observation post, I watched as three luxury V8 Land Cruisers with tinted windows and Niger license plates pulled up alongside the Hispanics and the Malian. Seven men, fierce- and professional-looking Arabs in black shades, stepped out of the vehicles. They were wearing Pataugas boots and safari pants, and they were all armed with American AR-15 assault weapons. They formed a circle around the SUVs, and then one of them knocked on the back window of the vehicle in the middle. A door opened, and a man who appeared to be in his sixties emerged. He was North African, plump like Buddha, with fly-away hair and a jet-black mustache. I took his picture as he gave Rafael a hearty handshake and the Malian officer saluted him respectfully. Quickly, they entered into an animated conversation. I noticed that the Spanish ex-cop was glancing impatiently at his watch. Rodrigo walked up to him and handed him a satellite phone. The drug trafficker spoke a few words into the receiver and gave it back to Rodrigo.

That’s when I heard it. An almost undetectable sound that grew louder. A jet engine. I scanned the sky, but saw nothing. Down below, Rafael was pointing toward something in the west, and the Buddha and the military officer were following his finger. Feverishly, I placed the camera atop my bag and aimed my binoculars in the direction he was pointing. And I saw it, coming closer from the west, the nose of a shiny aircraft shimmering in the heat.