She was carrying a gun, a neat small Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistol in a holster that was built into the vest. CIA officers rarely saw action, even overseas. Tamara had passed the firearms course top of the class, but she had never fired a weapon outside the shooting range. She would be happy to keep it that way.
Susan’s careful precautions made her worry more.
The twin bridges over the Logone River were about fifty yards apart, Tamara observed as they came within sight, and the vehicle bridge was higher. She turned off the main road onto a dusty track.
Twenty yards from the end of the pedestrian bridge was a scatter of parked vehicles: a minibus, presumably waiting to take people into the city centre; a couple of taxis on a similar errand; and half a dozen jalopies. Tamara drove in among the cars and pulled up where she had a clear view of both bridges. She left the engine idling. The squad parked beside her.
At first glance the situation seemed normal. People were crossing the pedestrian bridge from the Cameroon side in a steady stream, very few travelling in the opposite direction. She knew that many residents of Kousséri, the small town on the far side, came to N’Djamena for work or business. Some rode bicycles or donkeys, and Tamara saw one camel. A few carried produce in baskets or home-made handcarts, presumably heading for markets in the city centre. This evening they would return, and the stream would flow the other way.
She thought of commuters back home in the Chicago Loop. Apart from the clothes, the main difference was that in Chicago everyone would be rushing, whereas here they seemed to be in no great hurry.
No one was questioning people or asking for passports. There was little sign of officialdom. A small low building might have been a guard hut. At first she thought there was no barrier, but after a moment she spotted a long piece of wood, the trunk of a slender tree, lying on the ground next to a pair of trestles, and guessed that it could quickly be erected to form a flimsy hurdle.
This is Toytown, she thought. What am I doing here with a pistol under my jacket?
After a moment she realized that not everyone in view was moving purposefully. Two men dressed in incomplete army uniforms were lounging against the parapet at the near end, both with pistols in belt holsters. They wore camouflage trousers with civilian short-sleeved shirts, one orange and one bright blue. The one in orange was smoking, the other eating his breakfast, a stuffed pancake roll. They were watching the commuters uninterestedly. The smoker glanced towards the parked cars and showed no reaction.
Finally Tamara spotted the enemy, and felt a chill of apprehension. A few yards farther across the bridge were two men who looked serious. One had a strap over his shoulder from which dangled something that was mostly covered by a cotton shawl – all but one end, which stuck out and looked exactly like the muzzle of a rifle barrel.
The other was staring straight at Tamara’s car.
For the first time, she felt in real danger.
She studied him through the windscreen. He was a tall man with a gaunt face and a high forehead. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to have an air of implacable purpose. He paid no attention to the people swarming around him, as if they were insects. He, too, carried a rifle that was partly wrapped in a cloth, as if he did not really care whether people saw it or not.
As she was looking he took out a phone, dialled a number, and put the device to his ear.
Tamara said: ‘There’s a guy—’
‘I see him,’ said Susan, beside her.
‘On the phone.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But who to?’
‘– is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.’
Tamara felt like a target. He could shoot her through the windscreen. The distance was close-range for a rifle. She was clearly visible and she could hardly move, sitting in the driving seat. She said: ‘We should get out of the car.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m not going to learn anything sitting here.’
‘Okay.’
They both got out.
Tamara could hear the traffic on the upper bridge but could not see the vehicles.
Susan went to the green car and conferred with the squad. When she came back she said: ‘I told them to stay in the car, as we’re being discreet, but they’ll jump out at any sign of trouble.’
From somewhere there was a shout: ‘Al-Bustan!’
Tamara looked around, puzzled. Where had it come from and why would anyone shout those words?
That was when the first shots were fired.
There was a rat-tat-tat like a snare drum in a rock band, then a crash of breaking glass, and finally a shout of pain.