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Of course she did not spend enough time with her daughter. No one who had a demanding full-time job could be with their children as much as they would like. But when she was with Pippa it was quality time. Gerry’s remark seemed unfair to her.

She was naked, and she could not help noticing that Gerry had not watched her undress. She slipped a nightdress over her head and got into bed beside him. She said: ‘Have you thought this for some time?’

‘It’s just an ongoing subterranean worry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to criticize you.’

Yes, but you did, she thought.

He put down his magazine and turned off his bedside lamp. Then he leaned over and kissed her lightly. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’ She turned out the light on her side. ‘I love you too.’

It took her a long time to get to sleep.

CHAPTER 4

Tamara Levit worked at the American embassy in N’Djamena, in the suite of offices that formed the CIA station. Her desk was in the communal area: she was too junior to have a room of her own. She talked on the phone to Abdul, who told her that he had made contact with a people smuggler called Hakim, and she was writing a short report on this towards the end of the afternoon when she and all the staff were summoned to the conference room. The Head of Station, Dexter Lewis, had an announcement.

Dexter was a short, muscular man in a rumpled suit. Tamara thought he was clever, especially in operations involving deceit. But she thought he might be dishonest in everyday life too. He said: ‘We’ve had a great triumph, and I want to thank you all. I have a message here that I’d like to read to you.’ He was holding a single sheet of paper. ‘“To Colonel Susan Marcus and her squad, and to Dexter Lewis and his intelligence team. Dear colleagues, it is my pleasure to congratulate you all on your victory at al-Bustan. You have struck a vital blow against terror and saved many lives, and I am proud of you. Yours sincerely” –’ he paused dramatically, then finished – ‘“Pauline Green, President of the United States.”’

The assembled team burst into cheers and applause. Tamara felt a flush of pride. She had done plenty of good work for the Agency, but this was the first time she had been involved in a big operation, and she was thrilled that it had been such a success.

But the person who most deserved President Green’s congratulations was Abdul. She wondered whether the president even knew his name. Probably not.

And the mission was not over. Abdul was still in the field, still risking his life – and worse – by spying on the jihadis. Tamara sometimes lay awake thinking about him, and about the mutilated body of his predecessor, Omar, whose life’s blood had soaked into the sand.

They returned to their desks, and Tamara recalled Pauline Green. Long before Pauline became president, when she was running for election as a Chicago congresswoman, Tamara had been a volunteer organizer in her campaign headquarters. Tamara was not a Republican but she admired Pauline personally. They had become quite close, Tamara had thought, but attachments formed in election campaigns were notoriously temporary, like cruise-ship romances, and the friendship had not continued after Pauline got elected.

In the summer after Tamara got her master’s she had been approached by the CIA. There had been nothing cloak-and-dagger about it. A woman had phoned and said: ‘I’m a recruiter for the CIA and I’d like to talk to you.’ Tamara had been hired by the Directorate of Operations, which meant working undercover. After her introductory briefing at Langley she had done a residential training course at a place they called the Farm.

Most CIA officers went through their entire careers without ever using a gun. They worked in the US or heavily guarded embassies and sat in front of screens, reading foreign newspapers and scanning websites, gleaning data and analysing its significance. But there were some, working in countries that were dangerous or hostile or both, who went armed and occasionally became involved in violence.

Tamara was no wimp. She had been captain of the women’s ice-hockey team at the University of Chicago. But until she joined the Agency she had known nothing about firearms. Her father was a university professor who had never held a gun. Her mother raised money for a group called Women Against Gun Violence. When the trainees were each given a 9mm automatic pistol, Tamara had to watch the others to figure out how to eject the magazine and rack the slide.

However, she was pleased to discover, after a little practise, that she was an unusually good shot with any kind of weapon.

She decided not to tell her parents this.

She soon realized that the Agency did not expect everyone to finish the combat course. The training was part of the selection process, and a third of the original group dropped out. One very ripped man turned out to be terrified of physical violence. In a bomb-threat simulation using paintball ammunition, the toughest-looking of the guys shot all the civilians. Several people simply apologized and went home.

But Tamara passed everything.

Chad was her first overseas posting. It was not a high-tension station like Moscow or Beijing, nor a comfortable one like London or Paris, but though low-key, it was important because of ISGS, and Tamara had been pleased and flattered to be sent here. And now she had to vindicate the Agency’s decision by doing a great job.

Just being in the team supporting Abdul was a feather in her cap. If he found Hufra and al-Farabi the whole team would bask in the glory.

Now the working day was coming to an end and, outside the window, the shadows of the palm trees were stretching longer. Tamara left the office. The heat of the day was easing.

The American embassy in N’Djamena was a thirteen-acre compound on the north bank of the Chari River. It occupied an entire city block in Avenue Mobutu, halfway between the Catholic Mission and the French Institute. The embassy buildings were new and modern, and the car parks were shaded by palm trees. It looked like the Silicon Valley headquarters of a profitable high-tech company, a look that nicely concealed the hard hand of American military power. But security was tight. No one got past the guards at the gate without a verified appointment, and visitors who arrived too early had to wait in the street until the proper time.

Tamara lived in the compound. The city outside was considered unsafe for Americans and she, along with others, had a studio apartment in a low-rise building that housed unmarried staffers.

Crossing the compound on the way to the apartment buildings, Tamara ran into the ambassador’s young wife. Shirley Collinsworth was almost thirty, the same age as Tamara. She was dressed in a pink skirt suit that Tamara’s mother might have worn. Shirley had to appear more conventional than she was, because of her role, but at heart she was like Tamara, and they had become friends.

Shirley was looking radiant, and Tamara said: ‘What are you so pleased about?’

‘Nick has had a small triumph.’ Nicholas Collinsworth, the ambassador, was older than Shirley at forty. ‘He’s just been to see the General.’

The president of Chad was known as the General. He had come to power in a military coup. Chad was a fake democracy: elections were held, but the sitting president always won. Any opposition politician who began to gain popularity either found himself in jail or suffered a fatal accident. Elections were for show; change happened only by violence.