40

The aircraft was a trijet, an older model. Although my aviation knowledge was limited, I guessed it was a Boeing 727. I watched as the landing gear dropped and the ailerons and flaps engaged. Practically at a crawling speed, the plane got into position on the runway’s centerline, whipping up a gigantic dust cloud. Its nose came down, and the wheels touched the makeshift track. The engines roared as the pilot switched into reverse thrust to decelerate. Thick smoke rose in the burning heat, and the plane shook so much you’d think it had Parkinson’s. I was highly skeptical of the runway’s sufficiency, but the 727 eventually stopped at the very edge of it, in front of a row of small dunes. One of the Buddha’s men spoke into a portable radio, and immediately a dozen pickups carrying Arab men in tagelmusts arrived out of nowhere. Some of them had Kalashnikov rifles over their shoulders. They parked near the baggage hold of the plane, whose engines continued to turn.

Rafael and his cohorts started walking toward the plane as the door near the pilot’s cabin opened. A man with brown hair stuck his head out. He lowered a ladder and climbed down while Rodrigo held it in place. Two more men came out the same way. The 727 pilot and his team gave Rafael and Rodrigo a warm greeting and shook hands with the Buddha and the Malian officer. The Arabs jumped out of their pickups and opened the doors of the baggage hold. Then they went to work unloading the plane’s cargo. They formed a human chain, passing bundles wrapped in plastic from hand to hand to the backs of the trucks, where they were carefully stacked. There were hundreds of bundles. Several tons of merchandise—no doubt cocaine. It was probably the same stuff that Bahia Tebessi had the bad luck of transporting. In shock over this discovery, I didn’t notice the soldiers right away. But then I couldn’t miss them. They were shouting to each other and gesturing wildly in my direction.

Shit! Motherfucking shit!

How the hell did they spot me? Then I realized my massive mistake. My camera lens. It was reflecting the sunlight. What a dumbass I was! A fucking amateur. I had revealed my spot by sending shiny signals in their direction. Three guards jumped into the back of the pickup with the machine gun. The truck spewed sand as it revved up and headed straight at me. I turned around to see if I could get to my SUV in time. It was too far away. And besides, the machine gun would turn it into a smoking carcass in no time. I rummaged anxiously in the backpack beside me. I took out the satellite phone and, with trembling fingers, punched in a number. The pickup was getting closer. It was slowing down, and the men in the back were fiercely scanning the terrain. The phone kept sounding one ring after another, and I could tell the voice mail would soon pick up.

Answer the fucking phone!

“Yes?” I heard Kansaye’s sullen voice at the other end of the call.

“Commissioner, it’s Solo,” I said quickly. “Listen carefully. In a few seconds, I’m going to get captured by the National Guard, units from Gao. They’ll kill me if you don’t step in real fast.”

I ended the call and snatched the memory card from my camera. The pickup was now several yards from me. I swiftly slipped my pants down, shoved the memory card in my rectum, and pulled my pants back up. The Arab with the machine gun tapped on the roof of the vehicle while yelling something in Tamasheq, the Tuareg language spoken around Timbuktu. The truck hurtled forward, its wheels stopping centimeters from my feet. Sand flew all over me. I stood up, spitting out a mouthful of the grit and gingerly opening my eyes. The men jumped out of the vehicle and pointed their rifles at my chest. I raised my hands in surrender.