The day after, Tamara had a rendezvous with Karim, but she suggested they meet somewhere other than the Lamy Hotel, for fear that people would begin to notice how often they were there together. Karim said they were unlikely to be seen at the Café de Cairo, and gave her an address outside the city centre.
It was a clean but basic coffee house patronized entirely by local people. The chairs were plastic and the tables were covered with a wipe-clean laminate. On the walls were unframed posters of the sights of Egypt: the Nile, the pyramids, the mosque of Muhammad Ali and the necropolis. A waiter in a spotless apron welcomed Tamara effusively and showed her to the corner table at the back where Karim was waiting. As usual he was immaculately dressed in a business suit and an expensive tie.
‘This isn’t the kind of place where I’d expect to see you, my friend,’ Tamara said with a smile as she sat down.
‘I own the place,’ Karim said.
‘That explains it.’ She was not surprised that Karim owned a café. Everyone at the top in Chad politics had money to invest. ‘The General’s speech was exciting,’ she said, getting down to business. ‘I hope you’re prepared for reprisals by Sudan.’
‘We would not be surprised,’ Karim said with an air of complacency.
There was an implication in there somewhere that disturbed Tamara. She said: ‘The Sudanese army might even attack across the border, using the excuse that they are pursuing subversives.’
‘Let me tell you,’ he said, and his expression became smug, ‘if they come, they will get a surprise.’
Tamara concealed her alarm. Aiming to harmonize with his mood, she tried to grin, and hoped it did not look as fake as it felt. ‘A surprise, eh?’ she said. ‘They will meet more resistance than they’re expecting?’
‘And how.’
She wanted more, and continued to act the awestruck ingénue. ‘I’m glad the General has anticipated this attack, and the National Army of Chad is ready to repel it.’
Fortunately Karim was in a boastful mood. He loved to drop portentous hints. ‘With overwhelming force,’ he said.
‘This is very . . . strategic.’
‘Exactly.’
She flew a kite. ‘The General has prepared an ambush.’
‘Well –’ he was not quite willing to assent to that – ‘let’s just say that he has taken precautions.’
Tamara’s mind was in a whirl. This was beginning to sound like serious conflict brewing. And Tab was out there. So was Dexter.
She tried to keep the tremor of fear out of her voice as she said: ‘If there is a battle, I wonder when it will begin?’
Karim seemed to realize that his bragging had already given away more than he had intended. He shrugged. ‘Soon. Could be today. Could be next week. It depends how ready the Sudanese are – and how angry they get.’
He was not going to come up with any more information, she realized. Now she needed to get back to the embassy and share the news. She stood up. ‘Karim, it’s always a pleasure to talk to you.’
‘For me, too.’
‘And good luck to the army, if the battle happens!’
‘Believe me, they will not need luck.’
She tried not to hurry out of the café and into her waiting car. As the driver pulled away she debated who she should report to. Obviously the CIA needed to get this news immediately. But so did the military. If there was a battle the US army might need to get involved.
When she got to the embassy she made a snap decision and went to Colonel Marcus’s office. Susan was there. Tamara sat down and said: ‘I’ve just had a disturbing conversation with Karim Aziz. The government here is expecting the army of Sudan to launch a raid on a refugee camp, in retaliation for the General’s speech, and the Chad National Army is at the border in force to ambush the Sudanese if they come.’
‘Wow,’ said Susan. ‘Is Karim reliable?’
‘He’s not a blowhard. Of course no one can be sure what Khartoum will do, but if they attack, there will surely be a battle. And if they attack today, there’s a group of media and embassy civilians who may get caught up in the fighting.’
‘We may need to do something about that.’
‘I think we will, especially as one of the embassy civilians is the head of the CIA station here.’
‘Dexter went?’
‘Yes.’
Susan got up and went to her map wall. She pointed to a group of red dots between Abéché and the Sudan border. ‘These are the refugee camps,’ she said.
‘They’re scattered across a big piece of territory,’ Tamara said. ‘What is it, a hundred square miles?’
‘About that.’ Susan returned to her desk and tapped her keyboard. ‘Let’s look at the latest satellite photographs,’ she said.
Tamara turned her attention to the large screen on the wall.
Susan muttered: ‘This could be the one day of the year when there’s cloud cover over the eastern Sahara . . . but no, thank God.’ She touched more keys, and the satellite showed a town with a long, straight airstrip on its northern edge. ‘Abéché,’ she said. She changed the picture, and a tan wasteland appeared. ‘All these photos were taken in the last twenty-four hours.’
Tamara had experience of looking at satellite images. It could be frustrating. ‘A whole army could hide in that much desert,’ she said.
Susan kept changing the picture, showing different sections of desert landscape. ‘If they’re stationary, yes. Everything gets covered with dust and sand in no time. But when they’re moving they’re easier to see.’
Tamara half hoped there would be no sign of the Sudanese army. Then Tab would return in safety to Abéché this afternoon and fly back to N’Djamena tomorrow morning.
Susan grunted.
Tamara saw what looked like a column of ants on the sand. It reminded her of a TV programme she had watched about swarming. She narrowed her eyes. ‘What are we looking at?’
Susan said: ‘Christ Jesus, there they are.’
Tamara remembered thinking that Tuesday evening might be her last with Tab. No, she thought, please, no.
Susan was copying co-ordinates off the screen. ‘An army of two or three thousand men, plus vehicles, all in desert camouflage,’ she said. ‘On an unpaved road, it looks like, so they’ll be slow.’
‘Ours or theirs?’
‘No way to be sure – but they’re east of the camps, towards the border, so they’re probably Sudanese.’
‘You found them!’
‘You tipped us off.’
‘Where’s the Chadian army?’
‘There’s a quick way to find that out.’ Susan picked up the phone. ‘Get me General Touré, please.’
‘I have to tell the CIA,’ Tamara said. ‘Let me write down those co-ordinates.’ She grabbed a pencil and tore a sheet from Susan’s notepad.
Susan began to speak French, presumably talking to General Touré, using the familiar ‘tu’ rather than the formal ‘vous’. She rattled off the co-ordinates of the Sudanese army’s location, and paused for him to write them down. Then she said. ‘Now, César,’ using his first name, ‘where is your army?’
Susan repeated the numbers aloud as she wrote them down, and Tamara noted them too.
Susan said: ‘And where did you take the press party?’
When Tamara had the three sets of co-ordinates she grabbed a Post-it pad from Susan’s desk tray and went to the map wall. She put stickers at the positions of the two armies and the press party. Then she stared at the map. ‘The press party is between the two armies,’ she said. ‘Fuck.’
Tab was in mortal danger. This was no longer her morbid imagination; it was plain fact.
Susan thanked the Chadian general and hung up. She said to Tamara: ‘You did incredibly well to get this warning to us.’
‘We have to rescue the civilians,’ Tamara said, thinking mainly of Tab.
‘We sure do,’ said Susan. ‘I’ll need authorization from the Pentagon, but that won’t be a problem.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
This was logical, as she had supplied the key information, and Susan nodded agreement. ‘Okay.’
‘Let me know when you’re leaving and where to meet you.’
‘Of course.’
Tamara went to the door.
Susan said: ‘Hey, Tamara.’
‘Yes.’
‘Bring a weapon.’
CHAPTER 15