She left the ballroom and crossed the compound. It was evening: the sun had gone down and the air was cooling. In her apartment the phone rang while she was in the shower. Dexter left a message asking her to call back. He was probably going to congratulate her. That could wait until morning: she was impatient to see Tab. She did not return the call.
She put on fresh underwear and dressed again in a purple shirt and black jeans. She put on a short leather jacket for warmth. Then she called for a car.
There were a handful of people waiting for cars: Drew and Annette, Dexter and Daisy, Dexter’s deputy Michael Olson, and two juniors from the CIA station, Dean and Leila. Drew and Annette suggested sharing a car with Tamara, and she agreed readily.
Dexter was a bit red in the face from champagne. ‘I called you,’ he said accusingly.
‘I was just about to call you back,’ she lied. It did not sound as if he was planning to congratulate her.
‘I have a question for you,’ he said.
‘Okay.’
He raised his voice. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
She was so startled that she took a step back. She felt her neck flush red. The others standing nearby looked embarrassed. She said: ‘What have I done?’ She spoke in a quiet voice in the hope that he would too.
It did not work. ‘You briefed the ambassador!’ he raved. ‘That’s not your job. I brief the ambassador, and if I can’t, Michael does. You’re about twenty places down the goddamn line!’
How could he do this in front of so many of her colleagues? ‘I haven’t briefed the ambassador,’ she said, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth she realized that she had, technically. ‘Oh, you mean about the General.’
Wagging his head and putting on a silly voice, he said: ‘Yes, that’s right, I mean about the motherfucking General.’
Daisy said quietly: ‘Dexter, not here.’
He ignored his wife. With his hands on his hips he looked belligerently at Tamara and said: ‘Well?’
He was right, strictly speaking, but following protocol would have wasted time. ‘Nick was distressed and puzzled, and I happened to find out what he needed to know,’ she said. ‘I thought he should have the information right away.’
‘And you would be able to make judgements like that if they made you Head of Station, which, right now, you are not, and never will be if I have anything to do with it.’
It was true that intelligence needed to be assessed before it was passed to politicians. Unfiltered reports were untrustworthy and could be misleading. Senior people in the Agency appraised what came in, checked the past reliability of the source, compared one report with another, and put things in context, then handed the politician their best judgements. They rarely shared raw data if they could avoid it.
On the other hand, this was a simple case. Nick was an experienced diplomat who hardly needed reminding that intelligence was not always right. No harm had been done.
Tamara guessed that Dexter’s rage was fuelled by the fact that his department had enjoyed a little triumph but he was getting no credit. But there was no point in arguing with Dexter. He was the boss and he had the right to insist on protocol. She had to suck it up.
His limousine arrived and the driver opened the door. Daisy got in, looking mortified.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tamara said. ‘I acted impulsively. It won’t happen again.’
‘It better not,’ Dexter said, and he got into his car.
*
Three hours later Tamara had forgotten that Dexter existed.
She ran her fingertips along the line of Tab’s jaw, a gracious curve from one earlobe to the other. She was glad he did not have a beard.
His apartment was dimly lit by a single table lamp. The couch was big and soft. A piano quartet played quietly; Brahms, she thought.
He took her hand and kissed it, his lips moving gently on her skin, tasting her, exploring the knuckles, the pads of the fingertips, the palm, and then the soft place at the wrist, where people cut themselves when they wanted to die.
She kicked off her shoes, and he did the same. He was not wearing socks. He had broad, shapely feet. It seemed that everything about him was elegant. There must be a flaw, she told herself. Within the next hour she was going to see him completely naked. Perhaps he has a big ugly navel, or . . . something.
I should be a bit nervous now, she thought. He might be a disappointment: inconsiderate, or too hasty, or peculiar in his desires. Sometimes when sex went wrong a man could become angry and abusive, blaming the woman. She had suffered a couple of bad experiences and heard about many more from women friends. But she felt relaxed. Instinct told her she did not need to worry about Tab.