Never, page 24
Milt stood up. “I’m serious about her, you know,” he said quietly. “She’s the love of my life.”
Pauline believed him. It was absurd, but against her will she felt a twinge of sympathy. She said: “If you really love her, you’ll break up with her, and let her go back to the life of a normal teenager. Now go and do the right thing.”
He looked sad. “You’re a hard woman, Pauline.”
“Yeah,” she said. “But I have a hard job.”
Chapter 14
On Monday morning Tamara began to suspect that the General was up to something. It might have been trivial, but she had a bad feeling.
She was too euphoric, after Marrakech, to go straight to her desk, so she dropped her bag at her room and went to the canteen. She got a big cup of weak black coffee, American style, and a slice of toast, and picked up a copy of the government-subsidized French-language daily newspaper, Le Progrès.
It was when she turned to page three of the paper that an alarm bell rang faintly in the distant back of her mind. There was a photograph of the General, bald and smiling, dressed as if for sport in jogging pants and a warm-up jacket. He was pictured in the Atrone slum in northeast N’Djamena. News from Atrone usually focused on delays in extending the city’s fresh water and sewage network. However, today there was a positive story. The General, pictured against a shantytown background, was surrounded by a crowd of happy children and teenagers, and he was handing out free Nike sneakers.
As she mulled over the story her mind kept wandering to Tab.
She had traveled discreetly. Tab had ordered cars from the French embassy to take them to and from the airport, where they used the private aviation terminal to board the Travers company jet. Tamara had filed the required notification that she would be out of the country, but had not included the information that she was traveling with Tab. Dexter never read that kind of paperwork anyway.
The weekend had been a success. They had been inseparable for forty-eight hours without getting irritated or bored by one another. Tamara knew that domestic intimacy could cause quarrels. Men were never as hygienic as you thought they should be, and they in turn accused you of being a fusspot. People had long-established habits that they hated to change. “We’ll tidy up in the morning,” men would say, but they never did. However, Tab was not like the rest.
She kept reminding herself how badly she had judged men previously, especially the two she had married, immature Stephen and gay Jonathan. But surely she must have learned better? Jonathan had been an improvement on Stephen, and Tab was better still. Perhaps Tab was the One.
She thought: Perhaps? Bullshit. He is. I know it.
As they drove back into town on Monday morning, Tab said: “Now we have to get ready to pretend we’re not madly in love.”
She smiled. So he was madly in love with her. He had not used that phrase before. She was pleased.
But they now had a problem. Their countries were allies but had secrets from one another just the same. In principle, there was no CIA rule that forbade her to have a relationship with an officer of the DGSE, and vice versa. In practice, it would blight her career, and probably his too. Unless one of them found another job . . .
She looked up from the paper and saw the ambassador’s secretary, Layan, carrying a tray. “Come and join me,” Tamara said. “You don’t usually have time for breakfast.”
“Nick’s having breakfast at the British embassy,” Layan explained.
“What’s he plotting with the Brits?”
“We think Chad might be furtively doing business with North Korea, selling them oil in violation of sanctions.” Layan spooned yogurt over fresh figs. “Nick wants the Brits and others to pressure the General to sell his oil elsewhere.”
“He probably gets a higher price from Pyongyang.”
“I expect so.”
Tamara showed Layan the newspaper. “What do you think this is all about?”
Layan studied the page for a few moments. “It’s pretty good,” she said. “For the price of a few hundred pairs of shoes, the General gets the whole nation thinking he’s Santa Claus. A cheap way to win popularity.”
“Agreed, but why does he need to chase that kind of publicity? He doesn’t need popularity, he has the secret police.”
“Maybe, up to a point. Being a beloved dictator is probably easier than being a hated dictator.”
“I guess.” Tamara was not convinced. “I’d better go to work.” She stood up.
“Um . . .”
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 honored.”
“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 wastepaper 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 nonalcoholic 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 sneakers, 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 rumors of discontent with him.” She had heard no such rumors, of course.
“Don’t worry about rumors,” 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 offense 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.”
* * *
That evening, before going to meet Tab for dinner, Tamara phoned her ex-husband Jonathan. He was wise and loving, and he was still her best friend. It was time she told him about Tab.
San Francisco was nine hours behind N’Djamena, so he would probably be having breakfast. He picked up right away. “Tamara, sweetheart, how nice to hear your voice! Where are you? Still in Africa?”
“Still in Chad. How about you? Is this a good time to talk?”
“I have to go to work in a few minutes, but I have time for you, always. What’s happening? Are you in love?”
His intuition was good. “Yes, I am.”
“Congratulations! Tell me all about him. Or her, but if I know you it’s a boy.”
“You know me.” Tamara described Tab in glowing terms and recounted their trip to Marrakech.
“You lucky girl,” was Jonathan’s comment. “You’re crazy about him, I can tell.”
“But it’s been less than a month. And you have to admit that in the past I’ve fallen for men who weren’t right for me.”
“So have I, darling, so have I, but you have to keep trying.”
“I’m not sure what to do next.”
“I know what you should do, if he’s anything like your description,” said Jonathan. “Lock him in the cellar and keep him there as a sex slave. I would.”
She laughed. “Seriously, though.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I’ll tell you, and I’m as serious as a heart attack.”
“Go on.”
“Marry him, you fool,” said Jonathan.
* * *
An hour later Tab said: “How would you like to meet my father?”
“I’d love to,” Tamara said immediately.
They were in a quiet Arab restaurant called al-Quds, which meant Jerusalem. The place had become their favorite haunt. They were not worried about being spotted: it did not serve alcohol, so Europeans and Americans did not go there.
“My father comes to Chad on business occasionally. The Total oil company is Chad’s biggest customer.”
“When will he be here?”
“In a couple of weeks.”
She glanced at a reflective window and touched her head. “I need to get my hair cut.”
Tab laughed. “Papa’s going to love you, don’t worry.”
She wondered whether his parents met all his girlfriends. Before she could stop herself she blurted out: “Did your father meet Léonie?”
Tab winced.
“I’m sorry, what a rude question,” Tamara said, embarrassed.
“I don’t really mind. That’s you, you’re direct. No, Papa never met Léonie.”
Tamara moved on hastily. “What’s he like?” She was genuinely curious. Tab’s father was Algerian French, the child of a shopkeeper, now a high-powered executive.
“I adore him, and I think you will too,” Tab said. “He’s smart and interesting and kind.”
“Just like you.”
“Not quite. But you’ll see.”
“Will he stay in your apartment?”
“Oh, no. A hotel is more convenient for him. He’ll be at the Lamy.”
“I hope he likes me.”
“How could he not? You make a stunning first impression: you’re absolutely gorgeous, plus you have the kind of simple chic style that French people prize.” He made a gesture toward her outfit: she was wearing a mid-gray shift dress with a red belt, and she knew it looked great. “And then he’ll love you for speaking French. Of course he speaks English, but French people hate having to do so all the time.”
“Politics?”
“Middle of the road. Socially liberal, financially conservative. He would never vote for the French Parti Socialiste, but if he was American he’d be a Democrat.”
Tamara understood: in Europe the political center was somewhat to the left of its American equivalent.
There was nothing about Tab’s father to bother her. All the same she said: “I’m nervous.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll charm his socks off.”
“How can you be sure?”
He gave a very French shrug. “It’s what you did to me.”
* * *
The General’s plan was revealed the next afternoon in a press release that went to all embassies as well as the media. He was going to make a major speech at a refugee camp.
There were a dozen such camps in the east of Chad. The refugees came across the border from Sudan. Some were opponents of the government there; others were simply collateral damage, families escaping from violence. These camps enraged the government of Sudan in Khartoum, which angrily accused Chad of sheltering insurgents, and used that as an excuse to send its army over the border in hot pursuit of fugitives.
The Chad government made mirror-image accusations. The Chinese guns supplied to the army of Sudan found their way into the hands of rebel Chadians such as the Union of Forces for Democracy and Development, as well as assorted other North African troublemakers.
