Every year the sands of the Sahara drew closer. In time the city would vanish under the dunes. From what he saw from the air, Carter didn't think it would be much of a loss. As they came in to land they flew over the burned out wreckage of a twin engine cargo plane near the end of the runway. It brought bad memories. He pushed them away.
They stepped through the gate. Two men in police uniform carrying M-16s blocked their way.
"Depp? Connor?"
"Yes."
"You will come with us."
Selena and Nick looked at each other.
"Where?" Carter said.
"Come with us. Someone wishes to speak with you."
The two policemen led them to a door marked Airport Security in bold white letters and knocked. A deep voice responded.
"Come."
The voice belonged to a large, powerful man the color of dark chocolate. He sat behind a large desk. He sweated. The sweat beaded on his round face and trickled under the soiled collar of his shirt.
The sweating man informed them with satisfaction that his name was Colonel Samake. He wore a loose, brown suit that strained over his massive frame. His hands were massive, broad and powerful. He gestured at two wooden chairs.
"Please. Sit." They sat.
Sand gritted on the floor under Carter's boots. A tiny fan stirred papers on Samake's desk. It did nothing for the oppressive heat. Carter figured him for a security watchdog from Bamako. The two policemen stood by the door. They seemed nervous, as if they might make a mistake standing there.
"I wish to welcome you to our country, Doctor Connor. You are here to pursue research at the Institute?" Samake's voice was resonant, deceptively soft for such a big man.
"Yes, Colonel. For a presentation at the Islamic International Conference in Istanbul."
"That conference is two years away."
"Preparation is always lengthy." Carter kept silent. Something was going on here besides a welcome wagon.
"How long do you intend to stay?" Samake smiled, showing blunt, powerful teeth.
"It's difficult to say. Perhaps a week. We'd also like to do a little sightseeing. I've never been to Mali before."
Small talk.
"And Mister Depp? He is your assistant?"
"Yes. He helps me organize my research and takes care of travel arrangements, lodging, those sorts of things." She turned to Nick. "Don't you, Johnny?"
Nick looked down at the floor. "That's right, Doctor."
She looked away from him before he'd finished speaking. Dismissive. Nick admired her act. A gopher under a woman's thumb. No threat to Samake or anyone else. Nick almost laughed.
"Colonel, it is so nice of you to welcome us."
Selena stroked the man's ego. Almost flirting with him. Samake folded his big hands in front of him and leaned forward. He had an earnest expression. A sincere friend, about to give advice.
Bullshit, Carter thought.
"I must advise you to avoid the northern part of our country, should you decide on venturing out of Timbuktu."
"Oh?"
"There are temporary difficulties with bandits in that area. It is not safe for foreigners. It would be a shame if anything happened to such a distinguished visitor."
Carter's ear burned. That had been a veiled threat. It would have sounded like friendly advice to a real tourist. The message was clear. Don't go to the north.
CHAPTER SEVEN
An hour later they'd checked into their hotel. Carter looked out at the dusty courtyard. Forty Euros a night for a room with two questionable narrow beds and a fan. Selena had the room next to his.
Timbuktu had a grand total of six hotels. None of them met a reasonable international standard, but this one wasn't bad. There was a pleasant outdoor terrace and a second floor balcony restaurant with a view. His room had a private bath and the fan worked. There was a fine dusting of sand everywhere, adding to the exotic ambience of being in one of the world’s legendary destinations.
Selena knocked on the door and came in.
"It's hard to get used to that beard. You look like a pirate."
"Johnny Depp, at your service. It itches." At least they'd decided skin dye wasn't necessary. Westerners weren't unusual in Mali. "Johnny?" he said.
"Well, it worked, didn't it? Colonel what's his name never gave you a glance after that."
"Samake. He doesn't want us out of his sight and he doesn't want us going north. It could just be advice to an important tourist, but I think there's more to it than that. He's right about the north being a bad place to go."
"Why?"
"That's AQIM country."
"AQIM?"
"It's a terrorist group. AQIM stands for Al-Qaeda in the Maghreb. They're a bunch of thugs. That area is a major route for drugs from South America headed for Europe. AQIM finances their ops by protecting the shipments. They like to kidnap westerners stupid enough to go up there and hold them for ransom or kill them. If there aren't any tourists, they ambush border patrols to keep busy. There aren't many of those, now."
"How come no one has stopped them?"
"You can't find them. They hide out in the southern mountains of Algeria. The whole region is within something called the Arc of Instability, across all of North Africa from the Atlantic coast to the Red Sea."
"Then maybe we shouldn't go there."
"We probably won't need to."
"Ready for the library?"
"As I'll ever be. How long will this take, you think?"
"It's research, Nick. There are around twenty thousand manuscripts. It could take days."
"We don't have days. Rice needs results."
"You can't hurry a search like this. I'm just saying it can take time. But I might get lucky. I'm told the manuscripts are well organized. The collection dates from the thirteenth century, right where we need to look."
They found a taxi in front of the hotel and headed for the Institute. A hot, dry wind carried the timeless scent of the Sahara. The great desert stretched away for thousands of miles to the east.
The cab drove past blocks of low houses and shops made from yellowish mud brick. The buildings had heavy wooden doors studded with metal decorations and decorative grillwork over the windows. The driver told them most of the houses were built around hidden courtyards and gardens.
The streets were unpaved sand. Sand was everywhere. They passed donkeys, cows, goats. An occasional mangy dog or cat. They passed bee hive shaped clay ovens that hadn't changed design in hundreds of years, where groups of women in bright colored head wrappings and long skirts baked bread and chattered to each other.
They pulled up in front of the library, on the edge of the desert. The building was new and modern, built to replace an older structure in another part of the city. They entered through a series of high barriers designed to minimize the blowing sand and found themselves in a large paved courtyard. Thick concrete and mud walls blocked the heat. A fountain trickled water into rectangular channels and small pools that cooled the air.
Inside, Selena introduced herself to the librarian. Carter followed her down a ramp to the lower level. The restricted reading area was glassed off and air conditioned. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Selena told the research assistant what she wanted. Carter took a seat. The assistant returned with a stack of manuscripts in colored binders. Selena settled in and began reading. It looked like a long day.
Carter looked around the room. Several people bent over articles and manuscripts. A man with a dark, pockmarked face studied a manuscript at a table across the room. Nick's ear tingled. Something about him didn't seem right, but Carter couldn't pin it down. As if reading his mind, the man looked up at him.