9

I was driving on Route Koulikoro with one eye glued to the rearview. The Land Cruiser was on my ass. By now I could easily make out the two silhouettes in the front seat. Either the driver didn’t know rule No. 1—leave some room between you and the target—or he was taunting me. The latter was a bigger cause to worry. This wasn’t the first time I’d been tailed. In my field, making enemies is inevitable. People have always tried to intimidate me. Generally, I take a philosophical approach. But on this night I wasn’t in the mood. I decided to get rid of the two assholes. Given the difference in power between our two vehicles, I’d have to ask for help. At the intersection of Marne and Modibo-Keïta avenues, three traffic cops were dozing on their Chinese mopeds. I parked close to them, and from the corner of my eye, I saw the Land Cruiser do the same about two hundred feet back. I motioned to the officers and lowered my window. The older one, and therefore higher in rank, raised an eyebrow. Grumbling, he walked over to my car. He bent down to my window and asked what I wanted. He didn’t recognize me, which worked to my advantage.

“Sergeant, I don’t mean to bother you, but there’s a strong possibility that I’m in danger.”

He looked at me dubiously. “We’re here to help our citizens,” he said.

I didn’t pick up much conviction in his voice. But the ten-thousand-franc bill disappeared like magic when I slipped it in his hand.

“You have my full attention,” he said. Now there was a lot of conviction in his voice.

“You see that big SUV parked just behind us and the two guys inside?”

He glanced at the Land Cruiser and nodded.

“They’re hired muscle that my associate has sent after me. He wants my share of our company and is willing to do anything for it, even use extreme measures.”

“What exactly do you want us to do?” the cop asked.

“I want you to hold them back long enough for me get somewhere safe.”

“No problem.”

He turned toward the two other officers and barked orders in Bambara. They then got up and headed toward the Land Cruiser with their hands on their ancient Tokarev pistols. The higher rank smiled at me and tapped the hood of my car.

“Go ahead. We’ll take care of them.”

I started the engine and sped away as fast as my old Toyota would allow. The cops weren’t going to wait too long before doubling down.

I made it home without any incidents and got into bed feeling deeply alone. For once, I experienced a relatively calm sleep. My nightmares had dispersed. They, too, needed to breathe. The next day I went to my office. I had an appointment with the cheated-on wife, and I didn’t even have time to make my coffee before she burst in and collapsed in the chair in front of my desk, breathing as heavily as an ironworker. When I showed her the photos of her husband canoodling with his mistress, she whimpered and then began wailing. Her blubbery chest and gelatinous thighs bounced with each sob. Even with the aspirin I took as a precaution, I felt a migraine looming.

“I hope his cock rots inside that slut’s dirty twat, and she shrivels up and dies after getting eaten by rabid dogs.”

She calmed down when I told her that the object of her husband’s passion was Ivorian. Because her husband’s family had lived in Bamako for generations, he would never take a foreigner as a second wife. Now my client didn’t feel threatened. Instantly, her sniveling stopped.

“At any rate, I’m going to have a little chat with him. This isn’t seemly,” she said in a confident tone. “I’m too nice, too understanding.”

She rummaged through her bag and dropped a bulging wad of bills on my desk.

“I mean, what do you expect?” she said, sighing. “I love him.”

She got up and slammed the door behind her with a bang that made my skull crack the way dry mud splits in a drought. Nauseated, I threw the tainted bills into my old cast-iron box. Then I grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and downed half of it. The chill made my eyes tear up. I spent the rest of the day taking care of my piles of paperwork and writing up reports on past assignments. That night, my cell phone started ringing as soon as I arrived at my gate. I didn’t answer and instead watched the bats taking flight over my house. I wanted to be forgotten by the world. I wanted to forget myself.

The phone kept ringing, and I was finally forced to see who was calling. It was Kansaye. I picked up, sighing.

“Yes?”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“What?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Solo!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied, irritated.

Strangely, Drissa wasn’t waiting at his post. I honked the horn. No answer.

“I explicitly told you to walk on eggshells, and you, you couldn’t find anything better to do than to stir up shit!” Kansaye blared in my ear.

I honked again.

“Listen, I just told you I don’t understand why you’re angry. So for fuck’s sake, settle down and tell me!”

I was expecting an explosion of cursing. But Kansaye actually seemed to calm down.

“All of Bamako knows about the contract…”

“Jesus Christ, what contract?”

“The one you made with Farah Tebessi to hunt down and eliminate her sister’s killers.”

“What? That’s bullshit!”

“So you’re denying it?”

Still no Drissa. This had never happened in the ten years he had worked for me. What if he was hurt?

“I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

“No! Don’t hang up—”

I ended the call and slipped the cell into my pocket. I got out of my car and called for Drissa but heard only the distant laughter of kids playing on the riverbank. My phone started vibrating furiously. Kansaye was fit to be tied. I glanced around. The street was deserted, except for a scraggly dog rifling through the ruins of an abandoned house. I pushed open the gate. It wasn’t locked. Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t like Drissa to leave the house wide open. I went inside.