Page 30 of Never

‘Did the General summon Nick?’ Tamara asked. This was an important detail and the kind of thing an intelligence officer always wanted to know.

‘No, Nick asked to see him. President Green is proposing a resolution at the United Nations General Assembly, and all ambassadors have to lobby for support. That’s not generally known, by the way, but I can tell you, you’re CIA. Anyway, Nick went to the presidential palace with his head stuffed full of facts and figures about arms deals, poor lamb. The General listened for two minutes then promised to back the resolution and started talking about soccer. Which is why Nick is triumphant and I’m happy.’

‘Good news! Another victory.’

‘It’s minor compared with al-Bustan, of course.’

‘All the same, will the two of you have a party?’

‘A glass of champagne, perhaps. We get the good stuff here, thanks to our French allies. You?’

‘I’m having a celebratory dinner with Tabdar Sadoul, my opposite number from the Direction Générale de Sécurité Extérieure.’

‘I know Tab. He’s Arab, or partly.’

‘Algerian French.’

‘Lucky you. He’s hot. All that’s best of dark and bright.’

‘Is that a poem?’

‘Byron.’

‘Well, we’re just having dinner. I’m not going to sleep with him.’

‘Really? I would.’

Tamara giggled.

Shirley said: ‘I mean, I would if I were not married to a wonderful husband, of course.’

‘Of course.’

Shirley grinned. ‘Have a great time,’ she said, walking away.

Tamara headed for her apartment. She knew Shirley was kidding. If she seriously intended to cheat on her husband she would not joke about it.

Tamara had a single room with a bed, a desk, a couch and a TV. It was only a little more comfortable than student accommodation. She had made it individual with local fabrics in bright shades of orange and indigo. She had a shelf of Arabic literature, a framed photograph of her parents on their wedding day, and a guitar that she still had not learned to play.

She showered, blow-dried her hair, made up her face lightly, then stood looking into the closet, considering what to wear. This was not an occasion for her working uniform of a long dress over trousers.

She was looking forward to the evening. Tab was a handsome and charming man who made her laugh. She wanted to look her best. She picked out a knee-length cotton dress with narrow navy and white stripes. The dress was short-sleeved, which was frowned upon by conservatives here, and anyway the nights could be cool, so she put on a blue bolero jacket to cover her arms. She stepped into low-heeled navy leather pumps: she never wore high heels. Looking in the mirror she found her outfit too demure, but that was probably just as well in Chad.

She ordered a car. The embassy used a service whose drivers were all vetted. When she went out to meet the car, night had fallen. The summer rains were over, and there were no clouds, so the sky was crowded with stars. A compact four-door Peugeot was waiting for her. In front of it was an embassy limousine.

As she approached she saw Dexter coming the other way, with his wife on his arm. They were in evening dress. There was a reception at the South African embassy, Tamara recalled. The limo would be for them. ‘Hi, Dexter,’ she said. ‘Good evening, Mrs Lewis, how are you?’

Daisy Lewis was pretty but she looked a bit cowed. Dexter managed to make a tuxedo look dishevelled. ‘Hi, Tammy,’ he said.

He was the only person in the world who called her Tammy.

She resisted the urge to correct him and, going too far in the other direction, she said: ‘Thank you for reading that message from President Green. I think it was a great thing to do. Everyone was thrilled.’ She silently accused herself of being a suck-up.

‘Glad you appreciated it.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You’re all dolled-up. I don’t believe you were invited to the South African shindig.’

‘No such luck.’ She was too lowly. ‘I’m just going out for a quiet dinner.’

Dexter said bluntly: ‘Who with?’ A normal boss would have no right to ask such a question, but this was the CIA and the rules were different.