She was looking forward to the evening. Tab was a handsome and charming man who made her laugh. She wanted to look her best. She picked out a knee-length cotton dress with narrow navy and white stripes. The dress was short-sleeved, which was frowned upon by conservatives here, and anyway the nights could be cool, so she put on a blue bolero jacket to cover her arms. She stepped into low-heeled navy leather pumps: she never wore high heels. Looking in the mirror she found her outfit too demure, but that was probably just as well in Chad.
She ordered a car. The embassy used a service whose drivers were all vetted. When she went out to meet the car, night had fallen. The summer rains were over, and there were no clouds, so the sky was crowded with stars. A compact four-door Peugeot was waiting for her. In front of it was an embassy limousine.
As she approached she saw Dexter coming the other way, with his wife on his arm. They were in evening dress. There was a reception at the South African embassy, Tamara recalled. The limo would be for them. ‘Hi, Dexter,’ she said. ‘Good evening, Mrs Lewis, how are you?’
Daisy Lewis was pretty but she looked a bit cowed. Dexter managed to make a tuxedo look dishevelled. ‘Hi, Tammy,’ he said.
He was the only person in the world who called her Tammy.
She resisted the urge to correct him and, going too far in the other direction, she said: ‘Thank you for reading that message from President Green. I think it was a great thing to do. Everyone was thrilled.’ She silently accused herself of being a suck-up.
‘Glad you appreciated it.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You’re all dolled-up. I don’t believe you were invited to the South African shindig.’
‘No such luck.’ She was too lowly. ‘I’m just going out for a quiet dinner.’
Dexter said bluntly: ‘Who with?’ A normal boss would have no right to ask such a question, but this was the CIA and the rules were different.
‘I’m celebrating al-Bustan with Tabdar Sadoul from the DGSE.’
‘I know him. A steady guy.’ Dexter gave her a hard look. ‘All the same, bear in mind that you have to tell me about any “close and continuing contact” with a foreign national, even an ally.’
‘I know.’
Dexter replied as if she had disagreed with him. ‘It would constitute an unacceptable security risk.’
He enjoyed throwing his weight around. Tamara caught a sympathetic look from Daisy. He badgers her like this too, Tamara thought. She said: ‘Got it.’
He said: ‘I shouldn’t need to remind you of that.’
‘We’re just colleagues, Dexter. Don’t worry.’
‘It’s my job to worry.’ He opened the limousine door. ‘Just remember, close and continuing contact means that one blow job is all right, but not two.’
Daisy said: ‘Dexter!’
He laughed. ‘Get in the car, sweetie.’
As the limo moved away, a dusty silver family sedan pulled out of a parking space and followed: Dexter’s bodyguard.
Tamara got into her own car and gave the driver the address.
There was nothing she could do about Dexter. She might have spoken to Phil Doyle, the officer supervising the Abdul project, who was senior to Dexter; but complaining about your boss to his superiors was not the way to get on in any organization.
N’Djamena had been laid out by French planners, back in the days when it had been called Fort Lamy, and it had marvellously wide Parisian-style boulevards. The car sped to the Hotel Lamy, part of a worldwide American chain. It was the top venue for an elegant evening, but Tamara really preferred local eateries that served spicy African food.
The driver said: ‘Shall I pick you up?’
‘I’ll call,’ said Tamara.
She entered the grand marbled lobby. The place was patronized by the wealthy Chad elite. The country was landlocked and mostly desert, but it had oil. Nevertheless, the people were poor. Chad was one of the most corrupt countries in the world, and all the oil money went to those in power and their friends. They spent some of it here.
A roar of conviviality came from the adjacent International Bar. She went in: you had to pass through the bar to reach the restaurant. Western oil men, cotton brokers and diplomats mingled with Chadian politicians and businessmen. Some of the women were spectacularly well dressed. Such places had died during the pandemic, but this one had recovered and risen to new heights.
She was greeted by a Chadian man of about sixty. ‘Tamara!’ he said. ‘Just the person I wanted to see. How are you?’