Today’s big news was that extreme Japanese nationalists were calling for a pre-emptive attack on North Korean bases by the Japan Aerospace Self-Defence Force, which had more than three hundred combat aircraft. Tamara did not think the Japanese would risk a war with China – but anything was possible, now that the equilibrium had been disturbed.
Tab’s parents had gone home, which was a relief. Tamara felt she had broken through Anne’s shell, but it had been a strain. If Tamara moved to Paris and lived with Tab, she would have to work hard to get on with his mother. But she could do that.
Walking across the embassy compound in the mild morning air she ran into Susan Marcus. Susan was in combat dress with boots, instead of the service uniform normally worn in an office. Perhaps there was a reason, or perhaps she just liked it.
Tamara said: ‘Did you find your drone?’
‘No. Have you picked up any whispers?’
‘I told you I suspected the General had it – but I haven’t been able to confirm that.’
‘Nor have I.’
Tamara sighed. ‘I’m afraid Dexter doesn’t take the problem too seriously. According to him, ordnance is always going missing in the military.’
‘There’s some truth in what he says, but that doesn’t make it all right.’
‘However, he’s my boss.’
‘Thanks, anyway.’
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.