The dunes of the Sahara cast sand across the white, sun-blasted streets of Bamako, Mali.

A liquid shadow slid along under Ambassador Jacquie Rollison's limousine.

"Right-- fuck him and his mother." She snapped the cell phone shut.

The dark windows of the car mirrored fleshy hogs crossing the road. Sun struck the dark forehead of a corpse on the sidewalk.

She picked up her iPhone; her fingertip tapped the thin tablet.

Her swiss bank account blinked on the screen. Six hundred thirty thousand dollars. "I'll be god-fucked." Only seventeen percent growth the past quarter.

"Shit." When was the economy going to come back? A gas bubble rose in her chest. She pushed a button on the armrest, the chauffeur heard a chime.

"Adla, stop at Penzima's please, I'm dying for some frog's legs."

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