Never, page 41
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 Citroën 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 tricolor 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 sometime. His car might have been 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 parking lot. 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 center and go to the Lamy Hotel.
She prayed the General would not drive out of the palace in the next few minutes.
She changed her instructions to the driver, and they reached the café in a couple of minutes. She hurried inside and saw, with great relief, that Karim was still there. She was only just in time: he was putting on his jacket preparatory to leaving. She had the irrelevant thought that he was getting fatter.
“I’m so glad I caught you,” she said. “The phones have been cut off by ISGS.”
“Really?” Shrugging on his jacket, he fished in the pocket for his phone, looked at the screen. “You’re right. I didn’t know they could do that.”
“I just talked to an informant. They’re planning to assassinate the General.”
His mouth dropped open in shock. “Now?”
“I thought you were the best person to raise the alarm.”
“Of course. How do they plan to do it?”
“Three suicide bombers outside the palace gates, waiting for his car.”
“Clever. A route he must use, a moment when the vehicle must move slowly—he’s at his most vulnerable.” He hesitated. “How reliable is the information?”
“Karim, no informant is totally trustworthy—they’re all deceivers at heart—but I think this tip might be true. The General should certainly take special precautions.”
Karim nodded. “You’re right. Such a warning must not be ignored. I’ll go at once. My car is out back.”
“Good.”
He turned away to leave, then turned back. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Tamara left by the front door and got back into her car.
Again she thought about going to the embassy; again she decided there was nothing to be done there. The operations manual did not have a protocol for a combined assassination attempt and telephone breakdown. She briefly entertained the idea of getting Susan Marcus to lead a squad to the neighborhood of the palace to hunt down the bombers. But the US Army could not act independently of the local army and police—the confusion would be disastrous. And by the time they got the chain of command sorted out it would be too late.
She decided to go there herself. At least she could reconnoiter the street and try to identify the jihadis.
She directed the driver south on the freeway and right onto the Avenue Charles de Gaulle. There was no stopping outside the palace, so she got out of the cab a couple of hundred yards short of the entrance and told the driver to wait.
She checked her phone again. There was still no signal.
She looked along the broad boulevard ahead. The big iron gates of the palace were on the right-hand side of the road, guarded by rifle-toting soldiers of the national guard in their uniforms of green, black, and tan desert camouflage. Opposite were a monument park and the cathedral. The no-parking rule was enforced strictly here, so the jihadis would be on foot.
A black Mercedes squealed to a halt in front of the gates and was admitted immediately. She hoped that was Karim.
She thought for the first time about how dangerous this was for her. Anytime soon, anywhere along this street, a bomb could explode, and if she were nearby it would kill her.
She did not want to die, not when she had just found Tab.
Death was not the worst thing that could happen. She could be maimed, blinded, paralyzed.
She tied her scarf more firmly under her chin. She murmured to herself: “What the hell am I doing?” Then she walked briskly toward the palace.
On the palace side of the street there was no one but the guards: everyone steered clear of men with rifles. On her side a hundred or so people were in the monument park, tourists looking at the grandiose sculptures and locals enjoying the space, eating their lunch or just hanging out. I must try to identify the bombers, she thought, and I don’t have much time!
A contingent of armed police, led by a mustached sergeant, watched the crowd. The cops were dressed in a camouflage pattern slightly different from that of the national guard. Tamara knew from experience that their main job was to enforce a rule against photographing the palace, and she doubted that they would be quick to spot a real terrorist.
Making herself calm, she carefully scanned the people in the park. She ignored middle-aged and elderly men and women: jihadis were always young. She also dismissed anyone wearing close-fitting modern clothing such as shirts and jeans, because they had nowhere to hide a suicide vest. She concentrated on men and women in their late teens or twenties wearing traditional robes, and on women in the hijab.
She made a mental note of each of the remaining possibilities. A young man in white robes and a white cap was sitting on the edge of a plinth reading the newspaper Al Wihda: he looked too relaxed to be a terrorist, but Tamara could not be sure. A woman of uncertain age had lumps under her black hijab, but that might just have been her figure. A teenage boy in orange robes and a turban was squatting at the roadside mending his Vespa motor scooter, the front wheel detached and lying on the dusty ground amid a scatter of nuts and bolts.
To one side of the park she noticed a bearded young man standing in the shade of a tree, perspiring. He wore a floor-length robe of the type call a thawb, a galabiya, or a dishdasha, but over it he had a shapeless loose-fitting cotton jacket buttoned to the neck. He was near the side street next to the park, and he glanced every now and again at the narrow road, where there was nothing to look at. He smoked nervously, with repeated quick puffs, burning the cigarette down fast.
When the president’s car emerged from the palace complex it would probably turn left or right on the wide Avenue Charles de Gaulle, but it could go straight across to the side street that ran down toward the river. Logically there should be one suicide bomber this side of the entrance, one the other, and one near the side street.
She crossed the side street to the cathedral.
She looked across the avenue to the palace gates as she drew level with them. She could see the long straight driveway that led majestically up to the distant building, which looked more like a modern office than a palace. There were half a dozen more soldiers inside the gates, but they were simply lounging around, talking and smoking. Tamara was disappointed: if Karim had raised the alarm, surely by now a squad would be assembling to clear the area and protect the public in case of an explosion? But the street was busy, and cars and motorcycles continued to pass in both directions. A bomb here might kill hundreds of innocent bystanders. Was Karim’s warning being ignored in there? Or were they perhaps concerned about the General but not the public?
The Cathedral of Our Lady of Peace was a spectacular modern church. However, the site was fenced and the gates were closed. There was no one in the grounds except for a gardener, in dark robes and a headdress, planting a small tree on the west side, close to the fence, only a few yards from Tamara. From his position he could clearly see the palace gates and the long driveway up to the building, and he could quickly cross the fence to the side street. Could he be an impostor? If so, he was taking a risk: a priest might say to him: “Who told you to plant a tree there?” On the other hand, there did not seem to be any priests around.
She returned to the monument park.
It was a matter of probabilities, but she thought the assassins were the boy mending the scooter, the sweating man under the tree, and the cathedral gardener. Each fit the profile, each had room under his robes for a sizable bomb.
Could they be arrested? Some suicide devices had dead man’s ignition, a system in which the bomb would go off when the bomber released a cord, which guaranteed an explosion even if the bomber was killed. However, all three of her suspects were using their hands: one to mend a scooter, one to light cigarettes, and one to plant a tree. That meant they could not have dead man’s ignition.
All the same they would have to be handled carefully. They had to be immobilized before they could reach the trigger. It would be a matter of a second or two.
She checked her phone. Still no signal.
What should she do? Probably nothing. Karim would make sure the General stayed out of harm’s way. Sooner or later the police would close the monument park and clear the street. The assassins would slip away with the crowds.
But then they could try again tomorrow.
She told herself it was not her problem. She had provided the information: that was her job. The local police and the army must make the decisions.
She should probably leave.
She looked across the avenue and saw the General’s distinctive limousine coming slowly down the driveway toward the gates.
She had to act.
She took out her CIA card and approached the police sergeant with the mustache. “I’m with the American military,” she said, speaking Arabic and showing him the card. She pointed to the man under the tree. “I think that man has something suspicious under his jacket. You might want to check it out. I advise you to grab both his hands before speaking to him, in case he has a weapon.”
The sergeant looked at her with suspicion. He was not going to take orders from an unknown woman, even if she did have an impressively official-looking plastic identity card with her photograph on it.
Tamara suppressed a rising panic and tried to keep her cool. “Whatever you do, you need to be quick, because the General seems to be coming.”
The sergeant looked across the avenue, saw the limousine on the drive approaching the gates, and made a decision. He barked orders to two of his men and they marched across the park toward the smoker under the tree.
Tamara sent up a prayer of thanks.
The palace guards stepped out into the avenue and stopped the traffic.
The boy mending the scooter got to his feet.
Across the side street, the gardener in the cathedral grounds dropped his spade.
The palace gates opened.
Tamara approached the boy mending the scooter. He hardly noticed her, he was concentrating so hard on the limousine. She smiled at him and put her hands firmly on his chest. Through the orange cotton robes she felt a hard object with cables attached, and fear seized her. She forced herself to keep her hands there a moment longer. She felt three cylinders, undoubtedly containing charges of C4 explosive buried in small steel ball bearings, with wires connecting the cylinders to one another and to a small box that would be the detonator.
She was a heartbeat away from death.
The boy was surprised and confused by her sudden appearance. He pushed at her ineffectually and stepped back.
In the split second it took him to realize what was happening, she kicked his legs from under him.
He fell on his back. She dropped on him, knees in his belly, knocking the wind out of him. She grabbed the neck of his robe and ripped it open, exposing the black plastic and metal of the device strapped to his chest. Dangling from the detonator box she saw a cable that terminated in a simple green plastic trigger switch. Four dollars ninety-nine at the hardware store, she thought stupidly.
She heard a nearby woman scream.
If he got his hands on that switch, he would kill himself and Tamara and a lot of other people.
She managed to grab both his wrists and push his arms to the ground, leaning forward to use all her weight. He bucked, trying to throw her off. The police nearby were staring in shock. She yelled: “Hold his arms and legs, before he blows us all up!”
After a stunned moment they did as she said. In normal circumstances they would not have followed her orders, but they could see the device and they knew what it was. Four cops grabbed the bomber’s limbs and held tight.
Tamara stood up.
All around her the bystanders were backing away, some running.
In the far corner of the park, the nervous smoker was being handcuffed.
The palace gates opened and the limousine came through.
In the cathedral grounds, the gardener ran at the fence.
The car crossed the avenue, picking up speed, and headed down the side street.
The gardener vaulted the fence onto the sidewalk. He reached inside his galabiya and drew out a green plastic trigger switch.
Uselessly, Tamara yelled: “No!”
He ran into the road and threw himself at the car. The driver saw him and slammed on the brakes, too late. The bomber hit the windshield and seemed to bounce, then there was a terrific bang and a flash. The windshield shattered and the bomber was thrown into the road. The car continued to roll forward, leaving the corpse in the middle of the street. It veered to the right and crashed into the fence surrounding the cathedral. The fence was flattened but the car came to a stop.
No one got out.
Tamara ran across the park to the crashed vehicle. Others had the same idea and were close behind her. She threw open the passenger door and looked inside.
