‘I thought I might do it myself.’
So that’s it. You’ll get the credit for my work. Like a professor who publishes a paper based on a discovery by his doctoral student. Classic.
Dexter said: ‘I assume his contact numbers are all in your written reports.’
‘You’ll find everything you need in the computer files.’ Except for a few little things I didn’t write down, such as the number of his wife’s phone, which he carries when he wants to be hard to reach; but fuck you, Dexter, you’re not getting that.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That’ll be all for now.’
Dismissed, she left his office and went to her desk.
Later that morning she got a message on her phone:
Marrakech Express leaves early tomorrow, back in time for work on Monday. Okay?
Tomorrow was Saturday. They would have forty-eight hours. She replied:
You bet your cute little ass.
She decided she wanted to see Karim one more time. It would be a courtesy to let him know about Dexter’s decision, and for the news to come from her personally. She would give Karim a sugared version, of course. She would have to say she was being shifted to different responsibilities.
She checked her watch. It was coming up to midday. Around this time Karim was often to be found in the International Bar at the Lamy Hotel. She had time to have a drink with him. If she went from the hotel straight to the market she could still get there by two o’clock.
She ordered a car.
She would have preferred to ride. There were thousands of large and small bikes on the broad boulevards of N’Djamena, motorcycles and scooters and mopeds and even the occasional classic Parisian Vélo Solex, a bicycle with a little 50cc engine the size of a concertina fixed over the front wheel. Back in DC she had ridden a Fat Boy, with a low seat and high handlebars and a massive V-twin engine. But it was too ostentatious for Chad. ‘Never attract attention’ was a basic rule of diplomatic and intelligence work. So she had sold it when she was posted here. Perhaps one day she would get another one.
On the way she got the driver to stop at a little convenience store. She bought a box of breakfast cereal, a bottle of water, a tube of toothpaste and a pack of tissues. She carried them out in a giveaway plastic bag. She asked the driver to keep them in the trunk and wait for her to come out of the hotel.
The lobby of the Lamy was busy. People were meeting for lunch here or leaving for dates at other restaurants. Tamara might have been in Chicago or Paris. This central district was an international island in an African city. People who travelled all the time wanted every place to look the same, she reflected.
She turned into the International Bar. It was time for pre-lunch drinks. The bar was busy, but quieter than at the evening cocktail hour, more businesslike. Most of the customers wore Western attire, though a few were in traditional robes. There was a preponderance of men, but she spotted Colonel Marcus in civilian clothes. However, Karim was not here.
But Tab was.
She saw his face in profile, seated near a window and looking out. He was wearing a dark-blue soft-shouldered jacket with a light-blue shirt, which she now recognized as his favourite outfit. Her own face broke into a smile of surprise and pleasure. She took a step towards him then stopped. He was not alone.
The woman with him was tall, almost as tall as Tab, and slim. She was somewhere in her middle forties, which made her ten years older than Tab. Her shoulder-length blonde-streaked hair was expensively cut and coloured, and she was lightly but expertly made up. She wore a simple linen shift dress in a summery shade of mid-blue.
They sat at a square table, not opposite one another as they would have at a business meeting, but on adjacent sides, suggesting friendship. On the table between them were two drinks. Tamara knew that Tab’s glass would hold Perrier water and a slice of lime, at that time of day. In front of the woman was a martini glass.
She was leaning towards him, looking into his eyes, talking intensely though quietly. He was saying little, just nodding and speaking in monosyllables, though his body language was not embarrassed or rejecting. She was leading the conversation, but he was a willing participant. She put her left hand over his right on the table, and Tamara noticed that she wore no wedding ring. He let her touch his hand that way for a long moment, then he reached for his glass, making her release her hold.
She looked away from him briefly, her eyes scanning the crowd in the room without curiosity. Her gaze passed lightly over Tamara, showing no reaction: they had never met. She returned her attention to Tab. She had no interest in anyone else.
Suddenly Tamara felt self-conscious. She would feel humiliated to be caught snooping. She turned and left the bar.
In the lobby she stopped, thinking: Why am I embarrassed? What have I done to be ashamed of?
She sat on a couch, among a dozen or so people who were waiting – for colleagues, for their rooms to be ready, for their questions to be answered by the concierge – and tried to compose herself. There were twenty reasons why Tab would be having a drink with someone. She could be a friend, a contact, a fellow officer in the DGSE, a sales person, anything.
But she was poised, well dressed, attractive and single. And she had put her hand over his on the table.
However, she had not been flirting. Tamara frowned, thinking: How can I tell? The answer came immediately: they know each other too well for that.
The woman could be a relative, an aunt perhaps, his mother’s baby sister. But an aunt would not have dressed so carefully for a drink with her nephew. Thinking back, Tamara recalled diamond ear studs, a tasteful silk scarf, two or three gold bracelets on one wrist, high-heeled shoes.
Who was she?
I’ll go back into the bar, Tamara thought. I’ll just go right up to their table and say: ‘Hi, Tab, I’m looking for Karim Aziz, have you seen him?’ Then Tab will have to introduce me to her.
There was something she did not like about that scenario. She imagined Tab being hesitant and the woman resenting the interruption. Tamara would be cast in the role of the unwelcome intruder.
What the hell, she thought, and went back.
As she entered the bar she ran into Colonel Susan Marcus, who was leaving. Susan stopped and kissed Tamara on both cheeks, French style. Her normal brisk manner was gone, and she was warm, almost affectionate. They had been in a deadly gunfight and had survived together, and that had made a bond. Susan asked: ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m fine.’ Tamara did not want to be rude to Susan but she had something else pressing on her mind.
Susan went on: ‘It’s a couple of weeks since our . . . adventure. These things sometimes have psychological effects.’
‘I’m okay, really.’
‘After something like that, you should talk to a counsellor. It’s standard.’
Tamara forced herself to pay attention. Susan was being kind. Tamara had not thought about trauma counselling. When Susan said: ‘Something like that,’ she meant killing a man. No one at the CIA station had suggested that Tamara should seek help. ‘I don’t feel the need for it,’ she said.
Susan put a hand lightly on Tamara’s arm. ‘You may not be the best judge. Go once, at least.’
Tamara nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m going to take your advice.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Susan turned to go.
Tamara stopped her. ‘By the way . . .’
‘What?’
‘I’m sure I know the woman at the window table talking to Tabdar Sadoul. Is she in the DGSE?’
Susan looked, spotted the woman, and smiled. ‘No. That’s Léonie Lanette. She’s a big shot in the French oil company, Total.’
‘Oh. Then she’s probably a friend of his father’s, who’s a board director of Total – if I remember rightly.’
‘Maybe,’ said Susan, looking arch, ‘but either way she’s a cougar.’