The Caliphate by André Gallo (books to read for 13 year olds .TXT) 📕

known, which he did quickly. Heading toward them at right angle, the UAV shot a hail of bullets their way. The bullets were high, Steve noted, because some of them were tracers, bullets modified with a pyrotechnic charge that burn brightly making the path of the bullet visible to the naked eye, giving the shooter a way to correct his aim.

     Campbell headed higher while Steve got out his camera and shot photographs of the camp and of the UAV that continued to follow them, firing an occasional burst.

     “Let’s get out of here!” cried Kella.

     This was advice Campbell took gladly and pointed the aircraft south gaining speed. After ten minutes, the UAV turned back.

    “What the hell was that all about? I never saw that camp before,” Campbell said. “What kind of flag was that?” he asked.

     “It only needs a skull and cross-bones,” said Steve, suspecting that they had just flown over a Salafist installation, an open secret the Malian Government was choosing to ignore.

***

On their way back to the airport, they flew over Timbuktu. It was clearer from the air that the city of legends was struggling to survive. The sands of the Sahara, with the patience of centuries and the power of the wind, were trying to smother the city. Houses on the outskirts of town acted as a barrier to the slow but irresistible juggernaut of rock ground by the elements into tons of minute granules and moved at the command of the wind. Heading north was a caravan of at least fifty camels, with two Tuaregs walking in front and a few others near the middle and the rear of the caravan. Steve wondered if they were going to Morocco.

     After a surprisingly smooth landing Campbell said, “I went through a difficult patch back there but, hey, thanks mate, I don’t know what happened. I couldn’t think straight. I shouldn’t charge you anything for this flight but you must understand, my bank account is a little low right now.”

     Kella got out of the plane as quickly as she could and, without another word, headed toward their car.

     “Well, it was a memorable flight. I don’t like getting shot at,” Steve answered.

     Boy, had his life changed. His CIA briefings had obviously been incomplete. He wondered what other surprises were out there.

18. Timbuktu: Hendrina Khan Hotel

The next day, Steve and Kella had breakfast together. They were planning on an early start, and the dining room was otherwise empty. They sat at a table against the wall.

     Kella wore khakis and a white t-shirt, over which she had an open, light-blue shirt with long sleeves rolled up above the elbow where she buttoned them down. Her black hair was pulled back, and Steve noticed that her only make-up was a light trace of lipstick as protection against the sun. She looked rested and fresh faced.

     She put her tan bush hat on one of the other chairs at their table and took a sip of her orange juice.

     “I’m really excited about seeing my cousins again. This is going to be a good day. Do you think we’ll get there today? I don’t know about you, but I don’t ever want to fly with that Aussie again. Yesterday was a miserable day. I thought we were going to die before we even left the airport.”

     “I’m sorry,” Steve said, “but we did find the Tuareg camp. Your marabout knew what he was talking about. We should get to your relatives early tomorrow.”

     Atrar loaded their backpacks, two large plastic containers of water, and a cooler that Kella had found in the Timbuktu market in which she stocked flat bread, fruits, and a chicken she had persuaded the hotel to cook for them. At the time, Steve had said the cooler looked ideal for the beer, but he had lost the argument and sent Atrar to find another cooler. So they left with his-and-hers coolers.

     The camp was about a hundred miles due west, as the crow flies. However, by land, it was more like one-hundred-fifty miles, since Atrar wanted to use tracks as long as he could before heading out across the desert. On the way, Kella talked about her early childhood as a nomad tending the goats, pounding millet into meal, seeing the world from the top of a camel when the clan changed grazing areas and desert wells and, when possible, attending school.

     “As a kid,” she said, “I did a lot walking when we changed grazing areas. Now, I’d rather ride, thank you very much. Although I do jog for exercise, I really hate it—so boring.”

     “What about women’s role in the tribe?” Steve asked. “You hinted at it in Paris. It sounded very different from the Muslim tradition.”

     “You’re right. In the Tuareg tradition, ancestry flows through the female line. My mother and her mother always had positions of leadership. That didn’t mean necessarily that I would also have been a tribal leader. But, in a way, it was mine to lose.”

***

They spent the night in Goundam, a town surrounded by several lakes created by the Niger’s annual floods.

     Before they left the next morning, they had coffee at the hotel on a deck overlooking a tributary flowing into the Niger where a family of hippopotami was bathing.

     A young American couple joined them. The man wore a white shirt with a pouch slung across his chest bandoleer-style. The woman wore khakis and a long sleeve shirt, also white. It seemed big for her as if it belonged to her companion. The newcomers introduced themselves as John and Elise West, a brother and sister team of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints—Mormons—in the last few days of their two-year proselytizing mission.

     Steve asked the waiter to set