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Alejo ID’d him from Timbuktu the day of the bombing.”
    What? This guy helped kill the kids at the school?
    Wara shivered and swallowed, hard. Appearances could be deceiving.
    This was all feeling a little unreal. A few days ago, Lázaro Marquez showed up all scarred with wild hair and no memory. Then he tried to kill her. Now she was sitting in a briefing about terrorist players in Mali.
    And soon she’d be going there.
    Timbuktu must be a great place to hide. And obviously it was a very important assignment, keeping the kids safe.
    Wara had to admit her mind was not really there, though.
    What about Lázaro?
    “Alejo,” Rupert was saying. “Give us your best guess as to what the motive is behind the attack on the kids.”
    Alejo’s lashes lowered and it took him a minute to start talking. “We think it’s because of Amadou,” he said. “Besides his work at the school, he’s the curator of one of the largest manuscript collections in Timbuktu. The manuscripts are a really valuable source of African history, priceless. Amadou’s always valued education, and he was even in a BBC documentary because he risked his life to smuggle manuscripts out of Timbuktu in 2012 when Al-Qaeda in the Maghreb, AQIM, took over the city for a little while. The French troops kicked them out pretty quickly. AQIM has hated Amadou ever since. They hate him worse, now, because Amadou is also one of the last Christians left in Timbuktu. Most of them got out in 2012, afraid for their lives. Amadou started a Christian school along with the last family of missionaries left in the area. Most of the kids have converted to Christianity, along with some of their families. Obviously AQIM isn’t happy.”
    Cail took a long slurp of coffee. She’d had about six cups already, in a tall black beer mug that said “The Godfather.”
    “So,” she narrowed a green eye at Alejo, “the school was a target because it’s Christian. I assume they also educate girls?”
    Before meeting Wara, Cail spent a year in Pakistan guarding a girls’ school from the Taliban. The Taliban believed that girls who wanted an education deserved a nice splash of acid across the face. Cail and another CI agent rode with the girls on the bus, armed, and had to stand outside the gate every day just so those girls could learn to read and write, hopefully without getting disfigured in the process.
    Alejo nodded seriously. “Yeah, the school has girls. AQIM hates that.”
    “And Amadou was a target because of his involvement with the school and the manuscripts?” Rupert asked.
    “Look,” Alejo said. “The Islamists bring a spirit of legalism and death wherever they go. Amadou believes in knowledge and education. He takes care of those manuscripts just like his ancestors did for generations. He teaches little boys and little girls, as equals. He fights against the spirit of the law that makes life hell for people there in Timbuktu. And AQIM hates him for it.”
    “Doesn’t Amadou have a wife?” Cail asked. Alejo flinched and Rupert exhaled long and slow.
    “She was killed in the attack last Thursday,” Rupert said.
    They all sat there in silence.
    How horrible.
    It was awful that Amadou, who seemed to be doing such great things there in Timbuktu, had lost his wife.
    And then there were the children.
    And they couldn’t forget about Lázaro.
    This was getting to be too much for her.
    “Well.” Wara’s voice sounded jagged. She felt her shoulders rise, then slump. The muscles still ached. “Rupert, you said we’d talk more about my…problem when Alejo got here.” She felt her cheeks start to burn ruby-red.
    Rupert stroked his mustache. “Yes,” he said. “Marquez. This is what we know about him: he came from Puerto Rico to study in Bolivia in 2010. Double masters in Tourism and Economics. While in Bolivia he converted to Islam and was recruited into the Prism, an organization some people at the table are familiar with.” Rupert flashed his eyes over to