Page 18 of Never

‘So far ahead. Why the delay?’

‘There have been problems.’ Hakim was getting annoyed. ‘What do you care? It’s no business of yours. Just show up on the day with the money.’

Abdul guessed that the problems had to do with the attack on al-Bustan. That could have disrupted other jihadi activities, with senior men killed or injured. ‘You’re right, it’s not my business,’ he said pacifically.

Hakim said: ‘One bag per person, no exceptions.’

Abdul pointed at the bus. ‘These vehicles usually have a big luggage hold as well as racks inside.’

Hakim became angry. ‘One person, one bag!’

So, Abdul thought, the cocaine is in the luggage hold.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll be here ten days from today.’

‘First thing in the morning!’

Abdul went out.

Hakim reminded him of the Mafia back in New Jersey: touchy, bullying and stupid. Just like an American gangster, Hakim would use bluster and the threat of violence in place of the brains he did not have. Some of Abdul’s dumbest school friends had drifted into that world. Abdul knew how to deal with the type. However, he must not appear too sure of himself. He was playing a part.

And while Hakim might be a fool, his guards looked serious.

Abdul returned to his car, opened the trunk and put in the cigarettes he had not sold. His work for the day was done. He would drive to another village or town, sell some more cigarettes to maintain his cover, and find a place to spend the night. There were no hotels, but he could usually find a family willing to take in a stranger at a price.

As he shut the lid he saw a face he knew. He had seen this woman before, in the village where he had met Tamara and Tab; in fact, Tamara had gone into her house. He remembered her mainly because she looked so striking, with an arched nose that enhanced her beauty. Now the sculpted planes of her face were touched with weariness. Her shapely feet in their plastic flip-flop shoes were dusty, and he guessed she must have walked here from her home village, a distance of about ten miles. He wondered what her errand was.

He looked away, not wishing to meet her gaze. It was a reflex: an undercover operator did not want to make friends. Anything more than a distant acquaintanceship would lead to dangerous questions: Where do you come from? Who are your family? What are you doing here in Chad? Such innocent enquiries forced the operator to tell lies, and lies could be found out. The only safe policy was to make no friends.

But she had recognized him. ‘Marhaba,’ she said. Hello. Evidently she was happy to see him.

He did not want to draw attention to himself by being rude, so he said formally: ‘Salaam alaikum,’ peace be with you.

She stopped to talk to him, and he noticed a faint aroma of cinnamon and turmeric. She gave him a wide, alluring smile that made his heart skip a beat. Her curved nose was noble. An American woman would be embarrassed by such a nose, and would have it altered surgically, if she had the money, he thought; but on this woman it looked distinguished.

She said: ‘You’re the vendor of cigarettes. You came to my village. My name is Kiah.’

He resisted the impulse to stare. ‘I’m just leaving,’ he said coldly, and he moved to the car door.

She was not so readily discouraged. ‘Do you know a man named Hakim?’

He stopped with his hand on the door handle and looked back at her. The tiredness was only superficial, he saw. There seemed to be iron purpose in the dark eyes that looked at him from under the shade of her headscarf. ‘Why do you want him?’

‘I’ve been told he can help people get to Europe.’

Why was a young woman making this enquiry? Did she even have the money? Abdul adopted the condescending tone of a man advising a foolish woman. ‘You should leave that to your husband.’

‘My husband is dead. So is my father. And my brothers are in Sudan.’

That explained it. She was a widow alone. She had a child, he recalled. In normal times she might have married again, especially as she looked so lovely, but on the shrinking shores of Lake Chad no man wanted to take on the burden of a woman with another man’s child.

He admired her courage but, unfortunately, she might be even worse off in the hands of Hakim. She was too vulnerable. Hakim could take all her money and then cheat her somehow. Abdul’s heart went out to her.

But this was none of his business. Don’t be a fool, he told himself. He could not befriend and help an unfortunate widow, even if she was young and beautiful – especially if she was young and beautiful. So Abdul simply pointed to the garage and said: ‘In there.’ He turned his back on the widow and opened his car door.

‘Thank you, and may I ask you another question?’ she said. She was hard to shake off. Without waiting for consent she went on: ‘Do you know how much he charges?’

Abdul did not want to answer, did not want to get involved, but he could not be indifferent to her plight. He sighed and yielded to the impulse to help her just so far as to give her a little useful information. He turned back to her and said: ‘Two thousand American dollars.’