Page 37 of Never

The analysis was very clear. Susan had a brain like a steel trap. Tamara wondered why she herself had not figured all this out. She said feebly: ‘Maybe this is a prestige thing.’

‘Like touching your toes. It does you no good, but you do it just to prove you can.’

‘In a way, everything the jihadis do is for prestige.’

‘Hmm.’ Susan was not convinced. ‘Anyway, you need a precautionary bodyguard.’

‘Dexter doesn’t think so, but he said I should take a couple of soldiers if it makes me feel better.’

‘Dexter’s full of shit. They’re jihadis. You need protection.’

***

They set off from the embassy compound the next day just as the sun edged up over the brick fields to the east of the city. Susan insisted that they all wear body armour, lightweight bulletproof vests. Tamara had a baggy blue denim trucker jacket over hers; later she would feel hot.

They went in two cars. The CIA had a three-year-old tan Peugeot station wagon with a dented fender, used for discreet operations because there were so many cars like it in the city. Tamara drove it and Susan sat beside her. The soldiers’ transport was driven by Pete Ackerman, the cheeky twenty-year-old who had once asked Tamara for a date. That car was not so anonymous, a green sport-utility vehicle with darkened window glass, a car some people might look at twice. However, they took off their caps and put their rifles on the floor, so that anyone glimpsing them casually through the windscreen might not realize they were troops.

The streets were quiet as Tamara led the way along the north bank of the Chari River, then took a bridge to the southern suburb of Walia. The main road here led directly to the border crossing.

Tamara was nervous. Last night she had lain awake thinking. She had now spent more than two years in Chad, gathering information about ISGS, but her work had consisted of things like studying satellite photos of distant oases, looking for signs of military force. She had not yet come into direct contact with men whose aim in life was to kill people like her.

She was carrying a gun, a neat small Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistol in a holster that was built into the vest. CIA officers rarely saw action, even overseas. Tamara had passed the firearms course top of the class, but she had never fired a weapon outside the shooting range. She would be happy to keep it that way.

Susan’s careful precautions made her worry more.

The twin bridges over the Logone River were about fifty yards apart, Tamara observed as they came within sight, and the vehicle bridge was higher. She turned off the main road onto a dusty track.

Twenty yards from the end of the pedestrian bridge was a scatter of parked vehicles: a minibus, presumably waiting to take people into the city centre; a couple of taxis on a similar errand; and half a dozen jalopies. Tamara drove in among the cars and pulled up where she had a clear view of both bridges. She left the engine idling. The squad parked beside her.

At first glance the situation seemed normal. People were crossing the pedestrian bridge from the Cameroon side in a steady stream, very few travelling in the opposite direction. She knew that many residents of Kousséri, the small town on the far side, came to N’Djamena for work or business. Some rode bicycles or donkeys, and Tamara saw one camel. A few carried produce in baskets or home-made handcarts, presumably heading for markets in the city centre. This evening they would return, and the stream would flow the other way.

She thought of commuters back home in the Chicago Loop. Apart from the clothes, the main difference was that in Chicago everyone would be rushing, whereas here they seemed to be in no great hurry.

No one was questioning people or asking for passports. There was little sign of officialdom. A small low building might have been a guard hut. At first she thought there was no barrier, but after a moment she spotted a long piece of wood, the trunk of a slender tree, lying on the ground next to a pair of trestles, and guessed that it could quickly be erected to form a flimsy hurdle.

This is Toytown, she thought. What am I doing here with a pistol under my jacket?

After a moment she realized that not everyone in view was moving purposefully. Two men dressed in incomplete army uniforms were lounging against the parapet at the near end, both with pistols in belt holsters. They wore camouflage trousers with civilian short-sleeved shirts, one orange and one bright blue. The one in orange was smoking, the other eating his breakfast, a stuffed pancake roll. They were watching the commuters uninterestedly. The smoker glanced towards the parked cars and showed no reaction.

Finally Tamara spotted the enemy, and felt a chill of apprehension. A few yards farther across the bridge were two men who looked serious. One had a strap over his shoulder from which dangled something that was mostly covered by a cotton shawl – all but one end, which stuck out and looked exactly like the muzzle of a rifle barrel.

The other was staring straight at Tamara’s car.

For the first time, she felt in real danger.

She studied him through the windscreen. He was a tall man with a gaunt face and a high forehead. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to have an air of implacable purpose. He paid no attention to the people swarming around him, as if they were insects. He, too, carried a rifle that was partly wrapped in a cloth, as if he did not really care whether people saw it or not.

As she was looking he took out a phone, dialled a number, and put the device to his ear.

Tamara said: ‘There’s a guy—’

‘I see him,’ said Susan, beside her.

‘On the phone.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But who to?’