His name was Karim and he was very well connected. He was a friend of the General’s, having helped his rise to power. Tamara was cultivating Karim as a source of information from inside the presidential palace. Fortunately, he seemed to have similar intentions towards her.
He wore a lightweight business suit, grey with a faint pin stripe, probably bought in Paris. His yellow silk tie was perfectly knotted and his thinning hair was brilliantined. He kissed her twice on both cheeks, four kisses in all, as if they were members of the same French family. He was a devout Muslim and a happily married man, but he had a harmless tendresse for this self-confident American girl.
‘I’m glad to see you, Karim.’ She had never met his wife, but she said: ‘How is the family?’
‘Splendid, thank you, just marvellous, grandchildren coming along now.’
‘That’s wonderful. You said you were hoping to see me. Is there something I can do for you?’
‘Yes. The General would like to give your ambassador’s wife a gift for her thirtieth birthday. Do you know what kind of perfume she likes?’
Tamara did. ‘Mrs Collinsworth uses Miss Dior.’
‘Ah, perfect. Thank you.’
‘But, Karim, may I say something frankly?’
‘Of course! We are friends, aren’t we?’
‘Mrs Collinsworth is an intellectual with an interest in poetry. She might not be very pleased with a gift of perfume.’
‘Oh.’ Karim was taken aback by the notion of a woman who did not want perfume.
‘May I suggest an alternative?’
‘Please.’
‘How about an English or French translation of one of the classical Arab poets? That would please her much more than perfume.’
‘Would it?’ Karim was still struggling with the idea.
‘Perhaps al-Khansa.’ The name meant gazelle. ‘One of the few female poets, I understand.’
Karim looked dubious. ‘Al-Khansa wrote elegies for the dead. A bit gloomy for a birthday.’
‘Don’t worry. Mrs Collinsworth will be pleased that the General knows about her love of poetry.’
Karim’s face cleared. ‘Yes, of course, that would be flattering to a woman. More so than perfume. I understand now.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘Thank you, Tamara. You’re so smart.’ He glanced towards the bar. ‘Would you like a drink? A gin and tonic?’
She hesitated. She was keen to develop her relationship with Karim, but she did not want to keep Tab waiting. And there was something to be said for playing hard to get. ‘No, thank you,’ she said decisively. ‘I’m meeting a friend in the restaurant.’
‘Then perhaps we could meet for coffee one day soon?’
Tamara was pleased by the invitation. ‘That would be great.’
‘May I call you?’
‘Of course. You have the number?’
‘I will get it from the secret police.’
Tamara was not sure whether that was meant to be a joke. She thought not. She smiled and said: ‘We’ll talk soon.’
‘Delightful.’
She left him and walked through to the Rive Gauche restaurant.
This room was quieter. The waiters spoke softly, the tablecloths muted the sound of cutlery, and the customers had to stop talking while they ate.
The ma?tre d’ was French, the waiters were Arab, and the busboys clearing away dirty plates were African. There was colour discrimination even here, Tamara thought.
She saw Tab right away, sitting at a table near a curtained window. He smiled and stood up as she approached. He was wearing a navy-blue suit with a crisp white shirt and a striped tie. It was a traditional outfit but he wore it with panache.
He kissed her on one cheek then the other, but did not double up, showing more decorum than Karim. They sat down and he said: ‘Shall we have a glass of champagne?’
‘Sure.’ She waved a waiter over and ordered. She wanted to make it clear, to Tab and to anyone watching, that this was not a romantic date.
Tab said: ‘So – we had a win!’
‘Our friend with the cigarettes is solid gold.’
They were both being careful what they said, not naming al-Bustan or Abdul, just in case there should be a recording device hidden in the small vase of white freesias at the centre of the table.
The champagne arrived, and they were silent until the waiter went away.
Then Tab said: ‘But can he do it again?’
‘I don’t know. He’s walking a tightrope, a hundred feet above the ground, with no safety net. He can’t afford a single mis-step.’