Page 163 of Never

To one side of the park she noticed a bearded young man standing in the shade of a tree, perspiring. He wore a floor-length robe of the type called a thawb, a jalabiya or a dishdasha, but over it he had a shapeless loose-fitting cotton jacket buttoned to the neck. He was near the side street next to the park, and he glanced every now and again at the narrow road, where there was nothing to look at. He smoked nervously, with repeated quick puffs, burning the cigarette down fast.

When the president’s car emerged from the palace complex it would probably turn left or right on the wide Avenue Charles de Gaulle, but it could go straight across to the side street that ran down towards the river. Logically there should be one suicide bomber this side of the entrance, one the other, and one near the side street.

She crossed the side street to the cathedral.

She looked across the avenue to the palace gates as she drew level with them. She could see the long straight driveway that led majestically up to the distant building, which looked more like a modern office than a palace. There were half a dozen more soldiers inside the gates, but they were simply lounging around, talking and smoking. Tamara was disappointed: if Karim had raised the alarm, surely by now a squad would be assembling to clear the area and protect the public in case of an explosion? But the street was busy, and cars and motorcycles continued to pass in both directions. A bomb here might kill hundreds of innocent bystanders. Was Karim’s warning being ignored in there? Or were they perhaps concerned about the General but not the public?

The Cathedral of Our Lady of Peace was a spectacular modern church. However, the site was fenced and the gates were closed. There was no one in the grounds except for a gardener, in dark robes and a headdress, planting a small tree on the west side, close to the fence, only a few yards from Tamara. From his position he could clearly see the palace gates and the long driveway up to the building, and he could quickly cross the fence to the side street. Could he be an impostor? If so, he was taking a risk: a priest might say to him: ‘Who told you to plant a tree there?’ On the other hand, there did not seem to be any priests around.

She returned to the monument park.

It was a matter of probabilities, but she thought the assassins were the boy mending the scooter, the sweating man under the tree, and the cathedral gardener. Each fitted the profile, each had room under their robes for a sizeable bomb.

Could they be arrested? Some suicide devices had dead man’s ignition, a system in which the bomb would go off when the bomber released a cord, which guaranteed an explosion even if the bomber was killed. However, all three of her suspects were using their hands: one to mend a scooter, one to light cigarettes, and one to plant a tree. That meant they could not have dead man’s ignition.

All the same, they would have to be handled carefully. They must be immobilized before they could reach the trigger. It would be a matter of a second or two.

She checked her phone. Still no signal.

What should she do? Probably nothing. Karim would make sure the General stayed out of harm’s way. Sooner or later the police would close the monument park and clear the street. The assassins would slip away with the crowds.

But then they could try again tomorrow.

She told herself it was not her problem. She had provided the information: that was her job. The local police and the army must make the decisions.

She should probably leave.

She looked across the avenue and saw the General’s distinctive limousine coming slowly down the driveway towards the gates.

She had to act.

She took out her CIA card and approached the police sergeant with the moustache. ‘I’m with the American military,’ she said, speaking Arabic and showing him the card. She pointed to the man under the tree. ‘I think that man has something suspicious under his jacket. You might want to check it out. I advise you to grab both his hands before speaking to him, in case he has a weapon.’

The sergeant looked at her with suspicion. He was not going to take orders from an unknown woman, even if she did have an impressively official-looking plastic identity card with her photograph on it.

Tamara suppressed a rising panic and tried to keep her cool. ‘Whatever you do, you need to be quick, because the General seems to be coming.’

The sergeant looked across the avenue, saw the limousine on the drive approaching the gates, and made a decision. He barked orders to two of his men and they marched across the park towards the smoker under the tree.

Tamara sent up a prayer of thanks.

The palace guards stepped out into the avenue and stopped the traffic.

The boy mending the scooter got to his feet.

Across the side street, the gardener in the cathedral grounds dropped his spade.

The palace gates opened.

Tamara approached the boy mending the scooter. He hardly noticed her, he was concentrating so hard on the limousine. She smiled at him and put her hands firmly on his chest. Through the orange cotton robes she felt a hard object with cables attached, and fear seized her. She forced herself to keep her hands there a moment longer. She felt three cylinders, undoubtedly containing charges of C4 explosive buried in small steel ball bearings, with wires connecting the cylinders to one another and to a small box that would be the detonator.

She was a heartbeat away from death.

The boy was surprised and confused by her sudden appearance. He pushed at her ineffectually and stepped back.

In the split-second it took him to realize what was happening, she kicked his legs from under him.

He fell on his back. She dropped on him, knees in his belly, knocking the wind out of him. She grabbed the neck of his robe and ripped it open, exposing the black plastic and metal of the device strapped to his chest. Dangling from the detonator box she saw a cable that terminated in a simple green plastic trigger switch. Four dollars ninety-nine at the hardware store, she thought stupidly.