The Rift by Rachel Lynch (good book recommendations txt) 📕

Azawad, the French had supplied the government with weapons and explosives – namely – C4, produced in the UK, but traded everywhere it was needed, for the right price. After the loss of thirteen French soldiers in a helicopter crash sustained while fighting the rebels, French resolve had become harder than ever, and the Mali government, sensing victory, was grateful for any funds poured into their cause. Fawaz bin Nabil had been generous. This was his payment by return.

It was the exchange of packages at the border that was the pivotal moment of the whole journey. No amount of bribery could reduce the stress factor inherent to doing a deal on an African border, in the middle of a desert, faced with automatic weapons and no exit plan. To their relief, the trade went off seamlessly and the soldiers even laughed when they pointed to a box full of American whisky. Now Fawaz’s men knew what it was for. They’d been sorely tempted to drink it but Dirty Harry had warned them not to because it would smooth their passage at some point. Now was that time.

Once into Mauritania, the onward trek over the Algerian border and the two thousand kilometres to the capital loomed before them, but at least they could relax a little. Not too much, though, as the road system, though improved, was neglected at best and lethal at worst. They were more likely to die in a road traffic accident than be hijacked by bandits looking to make gains from passing trade. They drove past burned-out and abandoned vehicles in the desert, which no one wanted to claim. It told a story of destruction at the hands of the careless, responded to by those who cared even less.

Their hands were sweaty as they took turns to drive, and water was running low. They took on gallons more at Abadla, a thousand kilometres from Algiers. From there, the roads grew busier, and they passed small villages made of stone, but mostly of dried mud made into bricks by the searing sun. They shone orange in the day and looked like the surface of a faraway planet, with their domed roofs and tight pod-like formations. No one came out to look at them. They attracted little attention. At least they had the luxury of a proper road now they were closer to civilisation. Each of the men dreamt of a bath, and of a woman. They itched, spat, wiped sweat from their brows and burped after a meal in transit: it was a man’s domain, the little cabins filled with detritus from long journeys, like that of any long-haul driver discarding last night’s dinner packaging wherever it would fit. They stank.

Conversation had ebbed to a minimum and, as they neared the capital, they were almost overcome by exhaustion. They sensed the end of their epic trip and what it might mean for them in terms of reward. Their payment was in cash: half before they set off and half when they reached the port of Algiers. They could taste the dollar bills on the tips of their tongues and, once on the outskirts of the city, they perked up, wily and alert once more, ever vigilant to the prospect of being pulled over. They’d changed plates at each border, and the vehicles carried the familiar licence of the country they were in. Algerian plates were recognisable for their long numbers, denoting origin and manufacture, and were distinctly modelled on their French counterparts.

They fitted in.

It had only been at Abadla where all the vehicles had risked being simultaneously connected by radio, and it was exuberantly celebrated that everyone had made it through. Now, nearing the port, they drove to their prearranged meeting point and waited. It was a carpark hidden among the vastness and chaos of thousands of ships waiting assignment or perhaps docking and unloading. They merged into the cacophony and looked ordinary in their mission. As the last truck parked up, the men got out and stretched, congratulating one another and swapping stories from the desert: scorpions scuttling away from their piss, rocks the size of houses, ditches challenging the axle, close calls with death in hidden ravines and riverbanks, and what they would do to the first woman they saw in Algiers when they cleaned up and went looking. The atmosphere was one of pure relief.

They’d done it.

Now, they had to wait for their contact to arrive. It was the last tedious part of their arduous odyssey. They didn’t know the name of their associate, only that the guy in charge had a phone, given to him by an even more important person. The phone would ring at some point and then they could all go and get a wash. The congratulations and celebrations waned as they waited and smoked cigarettes. Empty packs of red American Legend littered the cabins but boredom eventually got the better of a few of the men and they began tidying up. Abdul, the man with the phone, who’d met Dirty Harry seemingly a lifetime ago, got out a pack of cards. Somebody else found a makeshift table: an upside-down plastic pallet, and they crouched around to play Agram. It wasn’t unusual to see groups of men doing the same, passing time at the port, waiting for work, filling gaps between ships and the like.

When Abdul’s phone rang, the men had almost forgotten why they were here, and the sun was dipping towards the horizon. There was a brief conversation, and they watched as Abdul nodded and took instructions. He hung up and walked towards the dockside, between huge containers looking as though they were out of use or forgotten. He came back empty-handed and gave a brief résumé of how they would spend the next few hours. They were waiting for a blue pickup truck and a man who would deliver their cash. After that, they were free to go wherever they wanted. Accommodation had been organised around the city