Tamara was nervous. Last night she had lain awake thinking. She had now spent more than two years in Chad, gathering information about ISGS, but her work had consisted of things like studying satellite photos of distant oases, looking for signs of military force. She had not yet come into direct contact with men whose aim in life was to kill people like her.
She was carrying a gun, a neat small Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistol in a holster that was built into the vest. CIA officers rarely saw action, even overseas. Tamara had passed the firearms course top of the class, but she had never fired a weapon outside the shooting range. She would be happy to keep it that way.
Susan’s careful precautions made her worry more.
The twin bridges over the Logone River were about fifty yards apart, Tamara observed as they came within sight, and the vehicle bridge was higher. She turned off the main road onto a dusty track.
Twenty yards from the end of the pedestrian bridge was a scatter of parked vehicles: a minibus, presumably waiting to take people into the city centre; a couple of taxis on a similar errand; and half a dozen jalopies. Tamara drove in among the cars and pulled up where she had a clear view of both bridges. She left the engine idling. The squad parked beside her.
At first glance the situation seemed normal. People were crossing the pedestrian bridge from the Cameroon side in a steady stream, very few travelling in the opposite direction. She knew that many residents of Kousséri, the small town on the far side, came to N’Djamena for work or business. Some rode bicycles or donkeys, and Tamara saw one camel. A few carried produce in baskets or home-made handcarts, presumably heading for markets in the city centre. This evening they would return, and the stream would flow the other way.
She thought of commuters back home in the Chicago Loop. Apart from the clothes, the main difference was that in Chicago everyone would be rushing, whereas here they seemed to be in no great hurry.
No one was questioning people or asking for passports. There was little sign of officialdom. A small low building might have been a guard hut. At first she thought there was no barrier, but after a moment she spotted a long piece of wood, the trunk of a slender tree, lying on the ground next to a pair of trestles, and guessed that it could quickly be erected to form a flimsy hurdle.
This is Toytown, she thought. What am I doing here with a pistol under my jacket?
After a moment she realized that not everyone in view was moving purposefully. Two men dressed in incomplete army uniforms were lounging against the parapet at the near end, both with pistols in belt holsters. They wore camouflage trousers with civilian short-sleeved shirts, one orange and one bright blue. The one in orange was smoking, the other eating his breakfast, a stuffed pancake roll. They were watching the commuters uninterestedly. The smoker glanced towards the parked cars and showed no reaction.
Finally Tamara spotted the enemy, and felt a chill of apprehension. A few yards farther across the bridge were two men who looked serious. One had a strap over his shoulder from which dangled something that was mostly covered by a cotton shawl – all but one end, which stuck out and looked exactly like the muzzle of a rifle barrel.
The other was staring straight at Tamara’s car.
For the first time, she felt in real danger.
She studied him through the windscreen. He was a tall man with a gaunt face and a high forehead. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to have an air of implacable purpose. He paid no attention to the people swarming around him, as if they were insects. He, too, carried a rifle that was partly wrapped in a cloth, as if he did not really care whether people saw it or not.
As she was looking he took out a phone, dialled a number, and put the device to his ear.
Tamara said: ‘There’s a guy—’
‘I see him,’ said Susan, beside her.
‘On the phone.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But who to?’
‘– is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.’
Tamara felt like a target. He could shoot her through the windscreen. The distance was close-range for a rifle. She was clearly visible and she could hardly move, sitting in the driving seat. She said: ‘We should get out of the car.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m not going to learn anything sitting here.’
‘Okay.’
They both got out.
Tamara could hear the traffic on the upper bridge but could not see the vehicles.
Susan went to the green car and conferred with the squad. When she came back she said: ‘I told them to stay in the car, as we’re being discreet, but they’ll jump out at any sign of trouble.’
From somewhere there was a shout: ‘Al-Bustan!’
Tamara looked around, puzzled. Where had it come from and why would anyone shout those words?
That was when the first shots were fired.
There was a rat-tat-tat like a snare drum in a rock band, then a crash of breaking glass, and finally a shout of pain.
Without thought, Tamara threw herself under the Peugeot.
Susan did the same.
There were screams of terror from the people crossing the bridge. Looking that way, Tamara saw that they were all trying to run back the way they had come. But she could not see anyone firing.
The man Tamara had been watching had not deployed his weapon. Lying under the car, her heart thudding, Tamara said: ‘Where the fuck did that shot come from?’ The uncertainty made her more scared.
Alongside her, Susan said: ‘From above. From the vehicle bridge.’
Susan had a clear view of the high bridge when she poked her head out on her side, whereas Tamara could see the pedestrian bridge without moving.
‘The shots smashed the windscreen of the other car,’ Susan went on. ‘I think one of the guys got hit.’
‘Oh, Christ, I hope he’s all right.’
There was another roar of agony, this one longer.
‘He doesn’t sound dead.’ Susan looked to her right. ‘They’re dragging him under their car.’ She paused. ‘It’s Corporal Ackerman.’
‘Oh, hell, how is he?’
‘I can’t tell.’
There was no more yelling, which Tamara thought was a bad sign.
Susan looked out and up, with her pistol in her hand. She fired once. ‘Too far away,’ she said with frustration. ‘I can see someone pointing a rifle over the parapet of the vehicle bridge, but I can’t hit him at this distance with a damn handgun.’
There was another burst of fire from the bridge, and a terrifying cacophony of breaking sounds as bullets tore into the roof and windows of the Peugeot. Tamara heard herself scream. She put her hands over her head, knowing it was useless but unable to resist the instinct.
However, when the burst ended she was unhurt, and so was Susan.
Susan said: ‘He’s firing from the high bridge. Now would be a good time to draw your weapon, if you’re ready.’
‘Oh, fuck, I forgot I had a gun!’ Tamara reached into the holster attached to her vest under her left arm. At the same moment the soldiers began to fire back.
Tamara lay flat on her belly with her elbows on the ground, holding her pistol in both hands, taking care to point her thumbs forward so that they would be out of the way of the slide when it sprang back. She set her Glock to single-shot firing – otherwise she could run out of ammunition in seconds.
The soldiers paused their fire. Immediately, there was a third burst from the bridge but, this time, within a split second, the soldiers fired a returning burst.
Tamara could not see the high bridge from her position, so she kept an eye on the pedestrian bridge. There was something like a riot as those desperately fleeing the near end, where the shooting was, shoved into less-terrified people at the far end who probably were not sure what the bangs meant. The two border guards in camouflage trousers were at the back of the crowd and panicking just as much as the civilians, beating the people in front of them in their attempt to get away faster. Tamara saw someone jump into the river and start swimming for the far side.
At the near end, she saw the two jihadis clambering down to the riverbank. As she inched the sight of the Glock towards them, they took cover under the bridge.