But Tamara passed everything.
Chad was her first overseas posting. It was not a high-tension station like Moscow or Beijing, nor a comfortable one like London or Paris, but though low-key, it was important because of ISGS, and Tamara had been pleased and flattered to be sent here. And now she had to vindicate the Agency’s decision by doing a great job.
Just being in the team supporting Abdul was a feather in her cap. If he found Hufra and al-Farabi the whole team would bask in the glory.
Now the working day was coming to an end and, outside the window, the shadows of the palm trees were stretching longer. Tamara left the office. The heat of the day was easing.
The American embassy in N’Djamena was a thirteen-acre compound on the north bank of the Chari River. It occupied an entire city block in Avenue Mobutu, halfway between the Catholic Mission and the French Institute. The embassy buildings were new and modern, and the car parks were shaded by palm trees. It looked like the Silicon Valley headquarters of a profitable high-tech company, a look that nicely concealed the hard hand of American military power. But security was tight. No one got past the guards at the gate without a verified appointment, and visitors who arrived too early had to wait in the street until the proper time.
Tamara lived in the compound. The city outside was considered unsafe for Americans and she, along with others, had a studio apartment in a low-rise building that housed unmarried staffers.
Crossing the compound on the way to the apartment buildings, Tamara ran into the ambassador’s young wife. Shirley Collinsworth was almost thirty, the same age as Tamara. She was dressed in a pink skirt suit that Tamara’s mother might have worn. Shirley had to appear more conventional than she was, because of her role, but at heart she was like Tamara, and they had become friends.
Shirley was looking radiant, and Tamara said: ‘What are you so pleased about?’
‘Nick has had a small triumph.’ Nicholas Collinsworth, the ambassador, was older than Shirley at forty. ‘He’s just been to see the General.’
The president of Chad was known as the General. He had come to power in a military coup. Chad was a fake democracy: elections were held, but the sitting president always won. Any opposition politician who began to gain popularity either found himself in jail or suffered a fatal accident. Elections were for show; change happened only by violence.
‘Did the General summon Nick?’ Tamara asked. This was an important detail and the kind of thing an intelligence officer always wanted to know.
‘No, Nick asked to see him. President Green is proposing a resolution at the United Nations General Assembly, and all ambassadors have to lobby for support. That’s not generally known, by the way, but I can tell you, you’re CIA. Anyway, Nick went to the presidential palace with his head stuffed full of facts and figures about arms deals, poor lamb. The General listened for two minutes then promised to back the resolution and started talking about soccer. Which is why Nick is triumphant and I’m happy.’
‘Good news! Another victory.’
‘It’s minor compared with al-Bustan, of course.’
‘All the same, will the two of you have a party?’
‘A glass of champagne, perhaps. We get the good stuff here, thanks to our French allies. You?’
‘I’m having a celebratory dinner with Tabdar Sadoul, my opposite number from the Direction Générale de Sécurité Extérieure.’
‘I know Tab. He’s Arab, or partly.’
‘Algerian French.’
‘Lucky you. He’s hot. All that’s best of dark and bright.’
‘Is that a poem?’
‘Byron.’
‘Well, we’re just having dinner. I’m not going to sleep with him.’
‘Really? I would.’
Tamara giggled.
Shirley said: ‘I mean, I would if I were not married to a wonderful husband, of course.’
‘Of course.’
Shirley grinned. ‘Have a great time,’ she said, walking away.
Tamara headed for her apartment. She knew Shirley was kidding. If she seriously intended to cheat on her husband she would not joke about it.
Tamara had a single room with a bed, a desk, a couch and a TV. It was only a little more comfortable than student accommodation. She had made it individual with local fabrics in bright shades of orange and indigo. She had a shelf of Arabic literature, a framed photograph of her parents on their wedding day, and a guitar that she still had not learned to play.
She showered, blow-dried her hair, made up her face lightly, then stood looking into the closet, considering what to wear. This was not an occasion for her working uniform of a long dress over trousers.