They headed off in different directions.
The CIA had borrowed a conference room for the training session. CIA officers were more hip than regular embassy staff, or thought they were, and some of the younger ones had deliberately dressed down today, wearing band T-shirts and distressed denim rather than the more usual hot-weather outfits, chinos and short-sleeved dress shirts. Leila Morcos’s T-shirt said: ‘It’s not personal, I’m a bitch to everyone.’
In the corridor Tamara met Dexter and his boss, Phil Doyle, who was based in Cairo but had responsibility for all of North Africa. They were both in suits. Doyle said to Tamara: ‘Any word from Abdul?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘He may be stuck at some oasis in a broken-down bus. Or he could be driving through the outskirts of Tripoli right now, trying to get a phone signal.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘I’m looking forward to this course today,’ Tamara lied. Turning to Dexter she said: ‘But I’ll have to leave early.’
‘No, you won’t,’ he said. ‘This is compulsory.’
‘I have a rendezvous with an informant at three o’clock this afternoon. I’ll be here for most of the day.’
‘Change the rendezvous.’
Tamara suppressed her feeling of frustration. ‘It may be important,’ she said, trying not to sound exasperated.
‘Who’s the informant?’
Tamara lowered her voice. ‘Haroun.’
Dexter laughed. He said to Doyle: ‘He’s not exactly crucial to our operation.’ Turning back to Tamara he said: ‘You’ve only had one meeting with him.’
‘At which he gave me valuable intelligence.’
‘Which was never confirmed.’
‘My instinct tells me he’s genuine.’
‘Women’s intuition again. Sorry. Not good enough. Postpone.’ Dexter ushered Doyle into the meeting room.
Tamara took out her phone and wrote a one-word reply to Haroun:
Tomorrow.
She went into the meeting room and sat at the conference table to wait for the training session to begin. A minute later her phone vibrated with a message: Your jeans are now 11 American.
Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, she thought. No problem.
*
The museum was about three miles north of the American embassy. Traffic was light and Tamara was early. The museum was a new modern building in a landscaped park. There was a statue of Mother Africa in a fountain, but the fountain was dry.
She took out the blue scarf with orange circles, put it over her head and tied it under her chin, just in case Haroun had forgotten what she looked like. She wore a scarf most of the time; with her usual dress and trousers she did not look noticeably different from a hundred thousand other women in the city.
She went inside.
This had not been a good choice for a clandestine rendezvous, she saw immediately. She had imagined that the two of them would be lost in a crowd, but there was no crowd. The museum was almost empty. However, the few visitors all looked like genuine tourists, so with luck no one would recognize Tamara or Haroun.
She went upstairs to the skull of the Toumai Man. It looked like a lump of old wood, almost shapeless, barely recognizable as a head. Perhaps that was not surprising as it was seven million years old. How could something have been preserved that long? As she was puzzling over this, Haroun appeared.
He was wearing Western clothes today, khakis and a plain white T-shirt. She felt the intensity of his dark-eyed gaze as he looked at her. He was risking his life, again. Everything he did would be extreme, she thought. Having been a jihadi he was now a traitor to the jihadis, but he would never be anything in between.
‘You should have come yesterday,’ he said.
‘I couldn’t. Is this urgent?’
‘After the ambush at the refugee camp, our friends in Sudan are thirsty for revenge.’
It never ends, Tamara thought. Every act of vengeance has to be avenged. ‘What do they want?’
‘They know the ambush was the personal plan of the General. They want us to assassinate him.’
No surprise there, Tamara thought; but it would not be easy. The General’s security was tight. However, such things were never impossible. And if the attempt succeeded, Chad would be plunged into chaos. She had to sound the alarm about this.
She said: ‘How?’
‘I told you that the Afghan taught us how to make suicide bombs.’
Oh, Christ, she thought.
Two tourists came into the room, a middle-aged white couple in hats and sneakers, speaking French. Tamara and Haroun were speaking Arabic, which the visitors almost certainly could not understand. However, the newcomers strolled across to where Tamara and Haroun stood, by the cabinet containing the skull. Tamara smiled and nodded to them, then said quietly to Haroun: ‘Let’s move.’
The next room was empty. Tamara said: ‘Go on, please. How will this take place?’
‘We know what the General’s car looks like.’
Tamara nodded. Everyone knew. It was a stretched Citro?n like that used by the French president. There was only one in the country and, as if that were not enough, it had a small flagstaff on the fender flying a tricolour of blue, gold and red in vertical stripes, the banner of Chad.
Haroun went on: ‘They will wait in the street near the presidential palace, and when he drives out they will throw themselves at the car, detonate their explosives, and then, they believe, go straight to heaven.’
‘Shit.’ It could work, Tamara thought. The palace complex was heavily defended, but the General had to come out some time. His car might be bulletproof but it probably was not bombproof, especially if the suicide vests carried a large charge.
However, now that she had found out about the plot, the CIA could warn the General’s security people, who could take extra precautions. ‘When are they planning to do this?’
‘Today,’ said Haroun.
‘Fuck!’
‘That’s why you should have met me yesterday.’
She took out her phone. She paused for a moment. What other details did she need? ‘How many bombers?’
‘Three.’
‘Can you describe them?’
Haroun shook his head. ‘I wasn’t told who had been chosen – just that I had not.’
‘Men?’
‘One could be a woman.’
‘How would they be dressed?’
‘Traditionally, I expect. The robes hide the suicide vests. But I don’t know for sure.’
‘Anyone else involved, in any way, over and above the three?’
‘No. Extra people just create extra risk.’
‘What time will they go to the palace?’
‘They may be there now.’
Tamara called the CIA station in the embassy.
The call did not go through.
Haroun said: ‘The Afghan also taught us how to temporarily disable phone connectivity in the city.’
Tamara stared at him. ‘You mean ISGS turned off everybody’s phones?’
‘Until someone figures out how to fix them.’
‘I have to go.’ She hurried from the room.
Behind her, she heard Haroun say: ‘Good luck.’
She ran down the stairs and out to the car park. Her car was waiting, engine running. She jumped in and said: ‘Back to the embassy, fast, please.’
As the car pulled away she had second thoughts. At the embassy she could report personally to the CIA station, but what could they do with no phones? It would be better to go straight to the presidential palace; but she was not well enough known to be admitted without delay – and would the guards at the gate believe a girl who said the General’s life was in danger?
Then she thought of Karim. He would have immediate entry to the palace and could quickly get the ear of the General’s head of security. But where would she find Karim? It was not yet noon: he might still be at the Café de Cairo, which was near the museum. She could try there first, and failing that drive into the town centre and go to the Lamy Hotel.
She prayed the General would not drive out of the palace in the next few minutes.