*
A switchboard operator said: ‘I have Corporal Ackerman’s father on the line, Madam President. Mr Philip Ackerman.’
Pauline hated this. Every time she had to speak to a parent whose child had died in the armed services, it wrenched at her heart. She was forced to think about how she would feel if Pippa died. It was the worst part of her job.
‘Thank you,’ she said to the operator. ‘Put him on.’
A deep male voice said: ‘This is Phil Ackerman.’
‘Mr Ackerman, this is President Green.’
‘Yes, Madam President.’
‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Pete gave his life, and you gave your son, and I want you to know that your country is profoundly grateful to you for your sacrifice.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I believe you’re a firefighter, sir.’
‘That’s right, ma’am.’
‘Then you know about risking your life for a good reason.’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t ease your pain, but I can tell you that Pete’s life was given for the defence of our country and our values of freedom and justice.’
‘I believe that.’ There was a catch in the man’s voice.
Pauline judged it was time to move on. She said: ‘May I speak to Pete’s mom?’
There was a hesitation. ‘She’s very upset.’
‘It’s up to her.’
‘She’s nodding at me.’
‘Okay.’
A woman’s voice said: ‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Ackerman, this is the president. I’m very sorry for your loss.’
She heard the sound of sobbing, and it brought tears to her own eyes.
In the background the husband said: ‘You want to give me the phone back, honey?’
Pauline said: ‘Mrs Ackerman, your son died in a tremendously important cause.’
Mrs Ackerman said: ‘He died in Africa.’
‘Yes. Our military there—’
‘Africa! Why did you send him to Africa to die?’
‘In this small world—’
‘He died for Africa. Who cares about Africa?’
‘I understand your emotion, Mrs Ackerman. I’m a mother—’
‘I can’t believe you threw his life away!’
Pauline wanted to say: I can’t believe it either, Mrs Ackerman, and it breaks my heart. But she remained silent.
After a pause Phil Ackerman came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘No need to apologize, sir. Your wife is suffering terrible grief. She has my deep sympathy.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Ackerman.’
‘Goodbye, Madam President.’
*
The debrief took the rest of the day.
The army suggested the whole thing had been a trap: false information lured them to the bridge where an ambush had been laid. Susan Marcus was sure of it.
The CIA disagreed with that interpretation, which reflected badly on Dexter. The implication was that he had trusted an informant who deceived him. On the contrary, Dexter argued, it had been a genuine tip-off and the jihadis on the pedestrian bridge had panicked when the army arrived in force and had called in reinforcements.
By six o’clock in the afternoon Tamara no longer cared which explanation was accepted. She felt mentally bruised. Back in her apartment she considered falling into bed, but she knew she would not sleep. She kept seeing Pete’s lifeless body and the destroyed head of the gaunt-faced man she had killed.
She did not want to be alone. She remembered that she had a date with Tab. She felt instinctively that he would know what to do. She showered and put on fresh clothes, jeans and a T-shirt with a cotton shawl for decorum. Then she called for a car.
Tab lived in an apartment building near the French embassy. It was not very swanky, and she guessed he could have afforded better, but he would be obliged to use diplomatic premises that could be vetted and monitored.
He opened the door and said: ‘You look dead beat. Come in and sit down.’
‘I was in a kind of shoot-out,’ she said.
‘At the N’Gueli Bridge? We heard about that. You were there?’
‘Yes. And Pete Ackerman died.’
He took her arm and led her to the couch. ‘Poor Pete. And poor you.’
‘I killed a man.’
‘My God.’
‘He was a jihadi, and he was about to shoot me. I’m not sorry.’ She realized she could say things to Tab that she had not been able to say in the debrief. ‘But he was a human being, and one second he was alive, and moving, and thinking; and then I squeezed the trigger and he was dead, gone, a corpse; and I can’t get him out of my head.’