Never

Layan had something on her mind. Tamara waited, standing by her chair.

‘Tamara, would you like to come to my house for dinner? Sample some genuine Chad cooking?’

Tamara was surprised, but pleased. ‘I’d love that,’ she said. It was the first time she had been invited to a Chadian home in N’Djamena. ‘I’m honoured.’

‘Oh, don’t say that. It will be a pleasure for me. How about Wednesday night?’

‘Wednesday is good.’ I’ll go to Tab’s place after, she thought.

‘You know that we don’t eat at a table. We sit on a rug on the floor for dinner.’

‘That’s okay, no problem.’

‘I look forward to it.’

‘I can’t wait!’

Tamara left the canteen and headed for the CIA office.

She was very curious about the General. Why did he suddenly feel the need to work on his image?

The two youngest agents at the station had the chore of reading every newspaper published in N’Djamena and watching every news show on TV, in both French and Arabic. The French expert was Dean Jones, a bright blond-haired kid from Boston; the Arabic speaker was Leila Morcos, a savvy New Yorker with dark hair in a bob. They sat opposite one another, with the day’s papers on the desk between them. Tamara spoke to both. ‘Have you noticed any criticism of the General in any of the media?’

Dean shook his head and Leila said: ‘Nothing.’

‘Even slight hints and murmurs? Something like, “On reflection, this could have been better handled”, or maybe, “It’s a shame this was not foreseen”; that sort of coded remark?’

They both thought harder then repeated their earlier replies. Leila added: ‘But we’ll look out for such comments especially, now that we know you’re interested.’

‘Thanks. I’ve just got a feeling the General is a bit worried about something.’

She sat at her desk. A few minutes later Dexter summoned her and she went into his office. He had his tie pulled loose and his shirt collar unbuttoned, even though the air-conditioning kept the place cool. He probably thought it made him look like Frank Sinatra. ‘About Karim Aziz,’ he said. ‘I think you misjudged him.’

She had no idea what he was talking about. ‘How so?’

‘He’s really not as important or well connected as you imagined.’

‘But—’ She was about to argue then stopped herself. She did not yet know where this was going. She would let him speak, and garner as much data as she could before responding. ‘Go on,’ she said.

‘He never produced that speech of the General’s that he said was going to be so important.’

So, Karim would not give Dexter the draft he had half promised to Tamara. She wondered why.

Dexter went on: ‘And no such speech has been made.’

The General might have abandoned the speech – but it was equally likely that he was simply waiting for the right moment. However, Tamara said nothing.

Dexter said: ‘I’m going to hand him back to you to run.’

Tamara frowned. Why was he doing this?

He responded to her frown. ‘Karim doesn’t merit the attention of a senior officer,’ he said. ‘Like I said, you overrated him.’

But this man works in the presidential palace, Tamara thought. He’s almost certain to have useful intelligence. Even a cleaner at the palace can pick up secrets from the waste-paper bins. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll give him a call.’

Dexter nodded. ‘Do that.’ He looked down at the document on his desk. Tamara took that for dismissal and went out.

She busied herself with routine work, but she was worried about Abdul. She hoped he would make contact soon. There had been no word from him for eleven days. This was not completely unexpected, just worrying. On American highways, a thousand-mile journey would be a two-day trip, Chicago to Boston; Tamara had driven it once, to visit a boyfriend at Harvard. One time she took the bus: thirty-six hours, a hundred and nine dollars, free Wi-Fi. Abdul’s trip would be very different. There were no speed limits because none were needed: it was not possible to go more than about twenty miles per hour on stony unpaved desert tracks. Punctures and other breakdowns were likely, and if the driver could not fix the problem they might wait days for help to arrive.

But Abdul faced hazards worse than punctures. He was pretending to be a desperate migrant, but he had to talk to people, watch Hakim, identify the men Hakim contacted, and learn where they hung out. If suspicion fell on him . . . Tamara saw again the body of Abdul’s predecessor, Omar, and she recalled like a nightmare how she had knelt in the sand and picked up his severed hands and feet.

And there was nothing she could do other than wait for Abdul to call.

A few minutes after twelve noon, Tamara got a car to take her to the Lamy Hotel.

Karim was standing at the bar in a white linen suit, drinking what looked like a non-alcoholic cocktail, talking to a man Tamara vaguely recognized as being from the German embassy. She asked for Campari with ice and soda, a cocktail so weak that a gallon of it would hardly make her tipsy. Karim left his German acquaintance and came to talk to her.

She wanted to know why the General was giving out free trainers, and whether his popularity was slipping; but a blunt question would put Karim on his guard, and he would deny everything, so she had to approach the subject carefully. ‘You know the US supports the General as the basis of stability in this country.’

‘Of course.’

‘We’re a little concerned to hear rumours of discontent with him.’ She had heard no such rumours, of course.

‘Don’t worry about rumours,’ Karim said, and Tamara noticed that he had not contradicted her. ‘It’s nothing,’ he went on, making her think it was definitely something. ‘We’re dealing with it.’

Tamara chalked up a point to herself. Karim had already confirmed something that had been no more than speculation on her part. She said: ‘We can’t understand why this has started just now. There’s nothing wrong . . .’ She let the unasked question hang in the air.

‘There was that incident at the N’Gueli Bridge that you were involved in.’

So that was it.

He went on: ‘A few people are saying that the General should have responded quickly and decisively.’

Tamara was excited. This was a new insight. But she frowned, as if dispassionately calculating dates, and said: ‘Well, it’s more than two weeks ago.’

‘People don’t understand that these things are complicated.’

‘That’s true,’ she said, showing sympathy by agreeing with an empty platitude.

‘But we will respond very firmly, and soon.’

‘I’m glad. You spoke of a speech –’

‘Yes. Your friend Dexter was very curious about that.’ Karim looked offended. ‘He almost seemed to think he had the right to approve the draft.’

‘I’m sorry about Dexter. You and I help one another, don’t we? That’s what our relationship is about.’

‘Exactly!’

‘Dexter may not have realized that.’

‘Well, perhaps that’s all it was,’ said Karim, somewhat mollified.

‘When will the General deliver his speech, do you think?’

‘Very soon.’

‘Good. That should put a stop to the mutterings.’

‘Oh, it will, you’ll see.’

Tamara was desperate to see a draft, but she could not ask, after Dexter had caused offence by making the same request. Could she pick up a hint? She said: ‘What has delayed the speech, I wonder?’

‘We are still making final preparations.’

‘Preparations?’

‘Yes.’

Tamara was genuinely mystified. ‘What preparations?’

‘Ah,’ said Karim with an enigmatic smile.

Tamara said ruefully: ‘I’m trying to imagine what preparations you could need that would be so elaborate they would delay a speech for more than two weeks.’

‘I can’t say,’ said Karim. ‘I mustn’t reveal state secrets.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Tamara. ‘Heaven forbid.’

*