She had her own key now. She walked in, calling: ‘It’s me.’
‘I’m in the bedroom.’
He was in his underwear. He looked cute, and she giggled. ‘Why are you in your tighty-whities?’
‘I took off my suit and I haven’t got dressed yet.’
She saw that he was packing a small bag, and her heart turned cold. ‘Where . . .?’
‘I’m going to Abéché.’
It was what she had feared. She swallowed. ‘I wish you weren’t. It’s practically a war zone.’
‘Not really.’
‘A combat zone, then.’
‘We accepted the possibility of a certain amount of danger when we became intelligence officers, didn’t we?’
‘That was before I fell in love with you.’
He put his arms around her and kissed her, and she knew he had liked her saying that she had fallen in love with him. A minute later he broke the kiss and said: ‘I’ll take care, I promise.’
‘When do you leave?’
‘Tomorrow.’
She could not help thinking that this might be their last evening together, ever.
She told herself not to be melodramatic. He was going with the General. He would be protected by half the National Army.
He said: ‘What would you like for supper? Or shall we go out?’
Suddenly she wanted to hold him in her arms. ‘Let’s go to bed first,’ she said. ‘We can have supper later.’
‘I like your priorities,’ said Tab.
*
The General made the speech the next day. The late-afternoon television news showed him in full military regalia, surrounded by heavily armed troops, haranguing a crowd of reporters, watched from a distance by a dismal cluster of gaunt, dusty-haired refugees.
The speech was inflammatory.
The government press office circulated the text while the General was speaking. It was more provocative than anyone had anticipated, and Tamara wished she had been successful in getting an advance draft. Perhaps she would have if not for Dexter’s interference.
The General began by blaming Sudan for the killing of Corporal Ackerman. This had already been hinted at by the government media, but now for the first time the accusation was explicit.
He went on to say that the incident was part of a pattern of Sudanese sponsoring of terrorism throughout the Sahel. That, too, was no more than a bold statement of something that was believed by many, including the White House.
‘Look at this camp,’ he said, waving his arm to indicate what was all around him; and the camera obediently panned across a settlement that was bigger than Tamara had imagined – not just a few dozen tents but several hundred makeshift dwellings, with a cluster of scrawny trees indicating a pond or well at the centre. ‘This camp,’ the General said, ‘shelters refugees from the viciousness of the regime in Khartoum.’
Tamara wondered how far he would go. The White House did not want anything to destabilize Chad, because it was a useful ally in the war against ISGS. President Green would not like this speech.
‘We in Chad have a humanitarian duty to our neighbours,’ the General said, and Tamara felt he was reaching the main point. ‘We help those fleeing from tyranny and brutality. We must help them, and we do help them, and we will continue to help them. We will not be intimidated!’
Tamara sat back. That was the meat of it. He had issued an open invitation to opponents of the Sudan government to make their headquarters in the refugee camps in Chad. She muttered: ‘This is going to infuriate Khartoum.’
Leila Morcos heard her and said: ‘In spades.’
The speech came to an end. There had been no trouble, no violence. Tab was all right.
As Tamara was leaving, she passed Layan, who said: ‘About seven this evening?’
‘Perfect,’ said Tamara.
*
Layan’s home was north-east of the city centre in the neighbourhood called N’Djari. She lived in a litter-strewn street. On both sides, dwellings hid behind crumbling concrete walls and high metal gates, blank and rusty. Tamara was surprised at how poor the neighbourhood was. Layan always came to work in smart tailored clothes, wearing a little make-up expertly applied, her hair pinned up elegantly. She never looked as if she had come from a slum.
As in most N’Djamena houses, the high gate opened onto a courtyard. When Tamara walked in, Layan was cooking over a fire in the middle of the open space, watched by an elderly woman who resembled her. The adjacent building had cinder-block walls and a tin roof. Layan’s motor scooter was parked in a corner. To Tamara’s surprise there were four small children playing in the dust. Layan had never mentioned them, and there was no photograph on her office desk.