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Pauline felt as if she had swallowed something cold and heavy.

‘I’m sorry to be so bleak,’ Gus said.

‘I asked for it.’

She leaned forward and reached out with both her hands. Gus took them in his and held them.

After a long moment she said: ‘It must never happen.’

He squeezed her hands gently. ‘Please God.’

‘And you know who’s in charge of preventing it: you and me.’

‘Yeah,’ said Gus. ‘Especially you.’

CHAPTER 21

Tamara thought they might have lost Abdul.

It was now eight days since he had called and said the bus was about to cross the border into Libya. He might have been arrested by the Libyans, though that part of the world was so lawless it seemed improbable. More likely he had been kidnapped or murdered by tribesmen who had nothing to do with any government. Perhaps a ransom demand was on its way.

And perhaps Abdul had disappeared never to be seen again.

Tab called a meeting to discuss what to do. Such meetings were hosted by the Americans and the French alternately, and this one was held in the French embassy. As the discussion would be in the French language Dexter did not attend.

It was chaired by Tab’s boss, Marcel Lavenu, a big man whose bald head rose above his shoulders like a dome on a church. ‘I saw the Chinese ambassador last night,’ he said, speaking conversationally as the group took their seats. ‘He’s mad as hell about the rebellion in North Korea. But the Chinese don’t mind arming rebels in North Africa. Imagine the reaction if the nuclear base at Sangnam-ni had been taken over by men with Bugles!’

Tamara did not understand the reference, and Tab explained: ‘The Bugle is the nickname for the bullpup rifle made by the French company FAMAS.’

Tab was spreading a large map on the conference table. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled, and his brown arms had a light covering of hair. Leaning over the map with a pencil in his hand and his forelock tumbling over his eyes, he looked irresistibly attractive, and Tamara wanted to take him to bed there and then.

He was oblivious to the effect he had. One time she had laughingly accused him of deliberately dressing to make women’s pulses race, and he had given a vague smile that showed he did not really understand what she was talking about. Which made him even more alluring.

‘This is Faya,’ he began, pointing with his pencil to a place on the map. ‘A thousand kilometres from here by road. It’s where Abdul called from, eight days ago, when he gave us a mass of priceless data. Since then he has presumably been out of telephone range.’

Monsieur Lavenu was a smart man, if a little pompous. He said: ‘What about the radio signal from the consignment? Can’t we pick that up?’

‘Not from here,’ said Tab. ‘Its range is only about a hundred and fifty kilometres.’

‘Of course. Carry on.’

‘The military aren’t proposing to take any action yet against the terrorists Abdul has identified, for fear of alerting others, possibly more important, farther along the road. But we’ll pounce before too long.’

Lavenu spoke again. ‘And how was the morale of Monsieur Abdul, eight days ago?’

‘He spoke to our American colleague.’ Tab indicated Tamara.

Lavenu looked at her expectantly.

‘He was in good spirits,’ she said. ‘Frustrated by the breakdowns and delays, naturally, but learning an enormous amount about ISGS. He knows he’s in terrible danger, but he’s brave and tough.’

‘There is no doubt about his courage.’

Tab picked up the story. ‘We assume the bus went north-west from Faya to Zouarké, then due north, with the mountains on its right and the Niger border on its left. There are no paved roads there. Somewhere to the north of Wour the bus will have crossed the border, we assume. Abdul is probably in Libya now, though we have no way to be sure.’

Lavenu said: ‘This is not quite satisfactory. Of course we must accept that we may lose sight of an undercover operative, but are we doing all we can to find him?’

Tab said politely: ‘I don’t know what else we could do, sir.’