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Tamara was worried, too. He could be dead. But she spoke calmly. ‘Our instructions are that he will find us. Meanwhile, we have to stay in character, so let’s dip and look around.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s go and look around.’

‘But what did you say before? Dip?’

‘Sorry. I guess it’s Chicago slang.’

‘Now I could be the only French person who knows that expression.’ He grinned. ‘But first we should pay a courtesy call on the village elders.’

‘Why don’t you do that? They never take any notice of a woman anyway.’

‘Sure.’

Tab went off and Tamara walked around, trying to remain unflustered, taking pictures and talking to people in Arabic. Most villagers either cultivated a small piece of arid land or had a few sheep or a cow. One woman specialized in mending nets, but there were few fishermen left; a man owned a furnace and made pots, but not many people had any money to buy them. Everyone was more or less desperate.

A ramshackle structure of four posts holding up a network of twigs served as a clothes dryer, and a young woman was pinning up laundry, watched by a boy of about two. Her clothes were the vivid shades of orange and yellow that the people of Chad loved. She hung up her last item, put the child on her hip, then spoke to Tamara in careful schoolgirl French with a strong Arabic accent and invited her into her house.

The woman’s name was Kiah, her son was Naji, and she was a widow, she said. She looked about twenty. She was strikingly beautiful, with black eyebrows and bold cheekbones and a curved nose, and the look in her dark eyes suggested determination and strength. She could be useful, Tamara thought.

She followed Kiah through the low-arched doorway, taking off her shades as she moved from the glare of the sun into deep shadow. The inside of the hut was dim and close and scented. Tamara felt a heavy rug under her feet and smelled cinnamon and turmeric. As her eyes adjusted she saw low tables, a couple of baskets for storage, and cushions on the floor, but nothing she recognized as regular furniture, no chairs or cupboards. To one side were two canvas palliasses for beds and a neat pile of thick wool blankets, brightly striped in red and blue, for the cold desert nights.

Most Americans would see this as a desperately poor home, but Tamara knew that it was not only comfortable but a touch more affluent than the average. Kiah looked proud as she offered a bottle of local beer called Gala that she had cooling in a bowl of water. Tamara thought it would be polite to accept hospitality – and anyway she was thirsty.

A picture of the Virgin Mary in a cheap frame on the wall indicated that Kiah was Christian, as were some 40 per cent of the people of Chad. Tamara said: ‘You went to a school run by nuns, I suppose. That’s how you learned French.’

‘Yes.’

‘You speak it very well.’ This was not really true, but Tamara was being nice.

Kiah invited her to sit on the rug. Before doing so, Tamara went back to the door and glanced out nervously, screwing up her eyes against the sudden brightness. She looked towards the car. The cigarette vendor was bending down by the driver’s-side window with a carton of Cleopatras in his hand. She saw Ali behind the window, his scarf wound around his head, making a contemptuous flicking-away gesture with his fingers, evidently not wanting to buy cheap cigarettes. Then the vendor said something that altered Ali’s attitude dramatically. Ali jumped out of the car, looking apologetic, and opened the rear door. The vendor got into the car and Ali quickly closed the door.

So that’s him, Tamara thought. Well, the disguise is certainly effective. It fooled me.

She was relieved. At least he was still alive.

She looked around. No one in the village had taken any notice of the vendor getting into the car. He was now out of sight, hidden by the tinted windows.

Tamara nodded with satisfaction and went back inside Kiah’s house.

Kiah asked her: ‘Is it true that all white women have seven dresses and a maid to wash a different one every day?’

Tamara decided to answer in Arabic, as Kiah’s French might not be good enough. After a moment’s thought she said: ‘Many American and European women have a lot of clothes. Exactly how many depends on whether the woman is rich or poor. Seven dresses wouldn’t be unusual. A poor woman would have only two or three. A rich woman might have fifty.’

‘And do they all have maids?’

‘Poor families don’t have maids. A woman with a well-paid job, such as a doctor or a lawyer, will usually have someone to clean the house. Rich families have many maids. Why do you want to know all this?’

‘I am thinking of going to live in France.’

Tamara had guessed as much. ‘Tell me why.’

Kiah paused, collecting her thoughts. She silently offered Tamara another bottle of beer. Tamara shook her head. She needed to stay alert.

Kiah said: ‘My husband, Salim, was a fisherman with his own boat. He would go out with three or four other men, and they would share the catch, but Salim took half, because it was his boat, and he knew where the fish were. That is why we were better off than most of our neighbours.’ She lifted her head proudly.

Tamara said: ‘What happened?’