The Gems of Tsingy De Bemaraha Read online

There they found a camp site on the outskirts of town amid minaret shaped rocks. Paul pulled a blanket out of his pack and gave it to Marwan.

  The second day they rode a bus to Adrar, where they camped on a barren flat clay area. They spent two hot days waiting for their next bus. In Reggane, Paul checked in at the police post shortly after arriving as required by local law. His false identification worked beautifully. Before hunting down a camp site, they ate a fly-besieged meal in the bus station. The third day they caught the bus across the nearly uninhabited stretch of desert called the Tanezrouft. Only the fearless nomadic Taureg braved to live in this stretch of the Sahara. Finally, they came to the palm-dotted dunes of Bordj Mocktar on the Malian border.

  Borjd Mocktar was a small colony of mud dwellings. At the police post, Paul went through the usual formalities at the customs office, which took most of the afternoon. The slow speed of life in the Sahara tried his patience. Yet there was nothing he could do about it. They set up camp outside of town and slept in the midday heat under a tarp.

  The fourth day, Paul and Marwan loitered at the customs office all afternoon waiting for transportation. Eventually they found a ride with a French guy who was driving a Range Rover south to pick up his new wife, a Taureg woman, whom he planned on rescuing from her hard life as a desert nomad. He planned to take her to France to enlighten her on the benefits of civilized life in the city, or so he thought. His car was traveling with an armed convoy. The big tires of his Range Rover hummed on the pavement, but the tire noise drifted away when they began their rough journey across the sand of the Sahara.

  They were headed to the ancient city of Gao, once an important city on the sub-Saharan camel route.

  ***

  Otto Kroucher stopped his Toyota land cruiser at the Police post in Borjd Mocktar. Adjusting his checkered head-cloth, he limped toward the small mud building with Sheikh Saleh at his side. Entering the post, they found the officer-on-duty asleep with his head on his desk and several flies on his cheek.

  They awoke the man and went through an elaborate and respectful greeting common in the desert.

  With irritatingly bad timing, some other travelers entered the quiet post. Otto needed to talk to the officer in private, so he said he'd be back in a while.

  Outside, he lit a cigarette, coughed, and spat some blackened mucus into the sand.

  “Should we call Abu Bakr?” Otto said. “Update him?”

  The sheikh sneered. “Don't be stupid. We have nothing to update him about.”

  Otto winced. “We must update him. Do not forget that Abu Bakr is the father of our cause.”

  “Later,” the sheikh said.

  Otto sighed, but was actually relieved. He only brought up the idea to put on an act of loyalty and commitment.

  The sheikh stared at him for a moment, then turned his back and started slowly walking down the track.

  To Otto, Sheikh Saleh represented the inhuman oppression and cruelty that was inescapable in Abu Bakr's organization. Otto had to get out, away from the constant humiliation, the fear, the brutality.

  He shuttered as he remembered what he had gone through. But he had a plan. He was going to escape. He had been a prisoner for too long in this cruel life. How he regretted the day he became a terrorist in a desperate act to escape from grinding poverty. He knew it was better to starve in peace than sell himself into the bondage of evil men. But now he was trapped.

  He took a long drag off his cigarette while squinting his shiny little bulging eyes against the glare of the merciless sun. Then the feelings of the misery of his youth came back. He wanted true peace without hunger.

  Shaking his head in disgust, he remembered how he used to place no value on his own life. Nothing had mattered but putting food in his stomach and cash in his pocket. How stupid he had been to enslave himself to extremists for a mirage of lies. But now he was powerless to escape from invisible bonds.

  His head throbbed. He wrapped his lips around the butt of a Marlboro cigarette and sucked, as if he could find in that drag the freedom he craved. He exhaled into the heat waves of the godforsaken desert.

  How foolish Otto had been to go to Abu Bakr for protection after he defected from the sleeper cell in Berlin. But his wife convinced him he would be important. Things would be different. Immediately, Abu Bakr suspected that Otto was a spy. Otto should have seen that coming. As a German Muslim, he was immediately suspect. Something deep inside him whimpered with despair as he flashed back to the month of torture that Abu Bakr put him through before deciding that Otto was trustworthy. He'd finally regained his ability to walk and gotten enough freedom to move, but was too broke to escape. And of course the sheikh was always watching. Somehow Otto had to get some money without Abu Bakr knowing.

  Abu Bakr was a fool to have tortured Otto. How could Abu Bakr think Otto would be loyal after that? Did he think fear of him would keep him down? No, Otto would be gone at first chance. But for now, he would follow orders and apprehend the American. He didn't mind this job. After all, it was sacrilege that the American dared travel to the sacred soil of the desert.

  No, that was the old Otto talking. He scoffed. Nothing was sacred anymore—not the revolution, not the desert—only himself and his freedom.

  A hundred yards down the sand track, Sheikh Saleh turned around and started walking back. Otto wished the police would hurry up.

  ***

  Kelly watched the vast expanse of the Sahara desert pass beneath the helicopter. She was totally at the mercy of these men who she was certain knew nothing of mercy. The helicopter flew into the heart of the vast, hopelessly remote oven. Nothing could possibly survive a spontaneous journey across the endless Sahara desert. She’d never felt more helpless. She had quit trying to reason with the men. She gave up trying to appeal to their sympathies. A conviction grew in her that her fate was beyond her control. The thought that these animals might kill her before she could find Ryan tormented her.

  Before she had thought that some extreme measure might be employed to escape. But now she faced the reality that to escape from these men was to die in the sand. She shook with the fear of death. For a while she angrily refused the water they offered. They laughed. But then, even in the helicopter, the heat got to her. Thirst rose in her until her head throbbed and her tongue felt so dry it stuck to the top of her mouth.

  After that, she gulped the water greedily while the man in the white turban poured the warm liquid down her throat.

  Finally the helicopter descended toward a speck in the middle of the endless wasteland. As they descended, Kelly saw a small settlement of tents that were erected by a couple of sun-baked one-story buildings. From what she could see, there was absolutely no reason for anyone to be there. There was no river, no oasis, no trees—nothing. Just a dozen tents randomly placed in the center of a blistering hot corner of hell.

  When veiled women escorted her off the helicopter, the smoldering heat swept over her. She had to breathe through her nostrils so the hot air didn't burn her lungs. Suddenly she wanted to get back on the helicopter.

  ***

  The veiled women took Kelly to a large, animal-skin tent, shaped like a caterpillar. Inside, the musky smell of the hides made her hold her breath. A doll-like white woman with big eyes sat on an elaborately decorated chair. She wore black robes, but no veil or scarf to cover her short white hair. The little woman smiled dimly, her yellowish eyes carefully appraising Kelly.

  One of the veiled women handed the sapphire to the lady with short white hair. The doll-like woman smiled wide as she lifted the gemstone with a manly hand.

  “Is that what you wanted?” Kelly said.

  The woman was so entranced with the beauty of the sapphire that she didn't hear Kelly. After a minute, she fixed her eyes on Kelly, looking her up and down.

  “Why have you brought me here?” Kelly said.

  The woman ignored her question. “If you’re smart, you will stay close by. Even if you could get past my Taureg guards you wouldn't last
a day in the Sahara.”

  The woman laid the gemstone on a silver tray that sat on the table beside her, causing the taut muscles in her big hand to ripple.

  “My name is Dailia,” she said as she gazed lovingly at the sparkling blue sapphire that glistened on the tray. “There’s nothing I can do about the heat, but otherwise your stay here will be as pleasant as possible. You will have your own tent. You should find it reasonably comfortable. Nothing like you are used to, but it will do. I'll send for you later.”

  “You have the sapphire. What else do you want?” Kelly said. “What do you need with me?”

  “Agerzam!” Dailia shouted.

  A man with a blue turban stormed into the tent.

  “Show our guest to her tent,” Dailia ordered.

  The Taureg thug grabbed Kelly’s wrist and pulled her harshly.

  “You can't keep me here,” Kelly cried out.

  Dailia eyes didn't move from the large cobalt sapphire that lay on the silver platter.

  CHAPTER 26

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Abu Bakr entered the northwest courtyard of the huge mosque. The Fatih mosque was built on Emperor Constantine’s old mausoleum church in this city which the great infidel made the capital of his empire during the crusades. Not only was this mosque built on a location of historical and symbolic importance, the multi-domed and pillared mosque dominated Istanbul’s skyline. Generally, Abu Bakr avoided high-profile places like this; however, his mission here was important enough to take a little extra risk.

  Standing in the moonlight of the stone-floored courtyard, Abu Bakr’s eyes focused on the face of a man who was coming out the lighted doorway that led into the mosque’s interior. This was the outspoken anti-American cleric Ahmet, who had recently been stealing the headlines with his hostile calls for holy war against America and Britain. Abu Bakr liked the messages that Ahmet sent out in hopes of inflaming anti-American rage, but Abu Bakr had a more important role for Ahmet now.

  Wearing his traditional robes, the cleric approached, and the two men greeted each other.

  “What has happened to your hand?” Ahmet asked.

  “I was burned by an infidel assassin.”

  “Are rumors of a Mossad plot against your life true?”

  “Of course,” Abu Bakr nodded. “But they will fail as all the others have.”

  “I support your plans for holy war,” Ahmet said deferentially.

  “Of course you do. You’re a true Muslim. All the publicity you’ve been getting lately has been very helpful to our cause. Inciting the rage of moderate Muslims is essential and few people have done as much as you have lately.”

  “I follow the will of Allah,” Ahmet said. “I hope we can work closely together in the future.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “Oh and why not?”

  Abu Bakr reached into his cloak and withdrew a razor-sharp sword.

  “What is this?” Ahmet asked, clearly shaken by the unexpected gesture.

  “You’re work is finished, Ahmet. Now you can do more for our cause by dying than by living.” Abu Bakr swung the sword.

  Ahmet stumbled backwards but the blade caught him on the neck, slicing his throat. He fell to the ground and tried to scream, but gurgling sounds escaped the rent in his oozing skin. Abu Bakr kneeled down beside him and gently stroked his cheek. “My prayers go with you, Ahmet. We are brothers and we shall meet again.” With that, Abu Bakr put the blade to Ahmet’s throat and roughly severed his head from his body.

  Abu Bakr lay down the antique crusader sword next to the body. As he walked toward the entrance into the mosque, he dropped an identification card of an American Navy SEAL that his counterfeiters had made. Experts could determine that the card was a fake, but Abu Bakr doubted that they would ever get a chance amid the religious outrage that was certain to follow. And even if they did, he didn’t care. By then it wouldn’t matter anymore. The Islamic media would have their story. The damage would be done. Angry Muslims would believe what they wanted to believe.

  Abu Bakr headed down an arched hallway toward the nearest exit.

  CHAPTER 27

  Sahara Desert

  The Range Rover was stuck in the soft sands of the desert. Paul and Marwan dug the tires out in the flaming heat. The vehicle bogged down several more times. Each time Paul and Marwan dug the SUV free. When the vehicle entered rocky terrain the French man stopped to remove the soft sand tires and put radials back on. The vehicle now rolled freely on firm ground.

  Two days later they arrived in Gao. The Niger River dominated this once important trading town. Since it was now March, the water level of the Niger had receded, leaving muddy beaches along both sides of its bank. On the far side of the river, huge sand dunes rose from the shore. Paul spotted a walled compound near the town ferry with a sign that said ‘Hotel’.

  “We will stay there tonight,” Paul said as he headed toward the white-fenced grounds.

  Marwan did not move. “You said that we would camp until we got to Timbuktu.”

  “Not tonight,” Paul said walking towards the ferry that would take them to the hotel.

  “I will not go. Tonight I sleep in the desert.” Marwan turned abruptly and trudged away.

  “Suit yourself,” Paul said as he walked away.

  After he checked into the hotel, Paul booted up his laptop in the room. He read a story on an English news site about a cleric who was assassinated by American Special Forces. What really got his attention was a quote attributed to Abu Bakr. After the assassination he warned America that a new crusade was beginning and called for the faithful to join his Unity Movement. Abu Bakr claimed that selective extermination of important Muslims was the beginning of a campaign of ethnic cleansing of the faithful instituted by the infidels. He called for all Muslims to join him in bloody opposition to this most recent threat.

  Paul closed the laptop and laid down on one of the thin single beds in the room. The ceiling fan above him whirled like the propeller of a rust-bucket yacht. He closed his eyes and dreamed of days spent on smooth seas.

  The next morning, he collected Marwan from his desert camp and walked down the road to the police post, a couple of miles outside of town. The police asked the usual questions before abruptly leaving to pray to Allah. Marwan joined them, returning later with sand sticking to his forehead. Although Paul and Marwan were the only travelers around, it took the police several hours to collect the fee and clear them to proceed on their journey. Paul was slowly readjusting himself to the level of patience that was essential when traveling in Africa. It took them several hours to find a ride to their next destination, Timbuktu.

  As their hired truck was pulling out of town, a policeman banged on the door and yelled for them to stop.

  The driver heaved the brakes and the old rig squealed to a halt.

  The policeman gestured angrily with his arms and talked rapidly.

  “You must go back to Gao. Extremists are active in the area. Foreigners are at extra risk of being killed.” He stared at Paul. “Especially Americans.”

  “I must go to Timbuktu. It is very important.”

  Hearing the name of the legendary city, the policeman again delivered another lecture on the dangers of traveling across the desert. He would not he let them go on.

  CHAPTER 28

  Sahara Desert

  Walking back to town, Paul didn’t say a word. He would find a way to Timbuktu. He would stop Abu Bakr.

  Marwan broke the silence. “Now what?”

  Paul knew that unless he stopped Abu Bakr, he would never be able to shake the shame he felt about what happened on that day in Madagascar. It was the last time he saw Ryan Lebarge alive. He told himself that the million dollar bounty on Abu Bakr’s head had nothing to do with his desire to exact justice. Looking at Marwan he said, “What’s going on with the Taureg? I’ve heard about the recent uprising but this seems extreme.”

  Marwan’s eyes squinted as he looked at Paul.
“They are fierce and ruthless warriors.” His black eyebrows arched as he turned to look at the Niger River that cut the desert in two. “The drought in the 1970s wiped out their livestock and many Taureg died. Those who survived were reduced from a proud nomadic tribe to beggars.” He paused.

  “Why are the police so concerned about them now?” Paul asked.

  “The Taureg tradition has always been to raid travelers, and some still do. If they get resistance, they kill. If they get no resistance, maybe they kill. But if the traveler is an infidel—”

  The risk of being robbed and killed in Africa wasn't anything new to Paul. He had dealt with the Taureg before. “So the Taureg rebels are a bunch of murdering thieves. They’ve always been that way.”

  Marwan frowned and shook his head. “For them robbery is disgraceful and so is murder. Yet raiding is honorable and praised. Raiding is what Mohammad did. If people die as a result, that's just because of the raid. This is honorable for them. After all, they have been disgraced and humiliated for so long that a return to their glorious past is good.”

  “Glorious past?”

  “They've never been welcome by the governments of any of the desert countries,” Marwan went on, “but now that oil has been found in the Sahara, the Taureg want to reclaim their land and turn the Sahara into an independent Taureg nation.”

  “Do you think they have a chance?”

  Marwan shook his head. “Who knows?”

  As Marwan continued to talk, Paul gazed at the muddy Niger River. On the far bank he saw a man on a thin boat paddling with a rustic oar in the slow-moving current. When Marwan paused to take a breath, Paul broke in. “We’ll take a boat to Timbuktu.”

  “Not possible. The steamship doesn’t run this time of year. The river is too low.”

  “Follow me,” Paul said. “We’ll hire a boat.”

  “They are too slow. Abu Bakr will be gone by the time we get there.”