Page 85 of Never

The woman with him was tall, almost as tall as Tab, and slim. She was somewhere in her middle forties, which made her ten years older than Tab. Her shoulder-length blonde-streaked hair was expensively cut and coloured, and she was lightly but expertly made up. She wore a simple linen shift dress in a summery shade of mid-blue.

They sat at a square table, not opposite one another as they would have at a business meeting, but on adjacent sides, suggesting friendship. On the table between them were two drinks. Tamara knew that Tab’s glass would hold Perrier water and a slice of lime, at that time of day. In front of the woman was a martini glass.

She was leaning towards him, looking into his eyes, talking intensely though quietly. He was saying little, just nodding and speaking in monosyllables, though his body language was not embarrassed or rejecting. She was leading the conversation, but he was a willing participant. She put her left hand over his right on the table, and Tamara noticed that she wore no wedding ring. He let her touch his hand that way for a long moment, then he reached for his glass, making her release her hold.

She looked away from him briefly, her eyes scanning the crowd in the room without curiosity. Her gaze passed lightly over Tamara, showing no reaction: they had never met. She returned her attention to Tab. She had no interest in anyone else.

Suddenly Tamara felt self-conscious. She would feel humiliated to be caught snooping. She turned and left the bar.

In the lobby she stopped, thinking: Why am I embarrassed? What have I done to be ashamed of?

She sat on a couch, among a dozen or so people who were waiting – for colleagues, for their rooms to be ready, for their questions to be answered by the concierge – and tried to compose herself. There were twenty reasons why Tab would be having a drink with someone. She could be a friend, a contact, a fellow officer in the DGSE, a sales person, anything.

But she was poised, well dressed, attractive and single. And she had put her hand over his on the table.

However, she had not been flirting. Tamara frowned, thinking: How can I tell? The answer came immediately: they know each other too well for that.

The woman could be a relative, an aunt perhaps, his mother’s baby sister. But an aunt would not have dressed so carefully for a drink with her nephew. Thinking back, Tamara recalled diamond ear studs, a tasteful silk scarf, two or three gold bracelets on one wrist, high-heeled shoes.

Who was she?

I’ll go back into the bar, Tamara thought. I’ll just go right up to their table and say: ‘Hi, Tab, I’m looking for Karim Aziz, have you seen him?’ Then Tab will have to introduce me to her.

There was something she did not like about that scenario. She imagined Tab being hesitant and the woman resenting the interruption. Tamara would be cast in the role of the unwelcome intruder.

What the hell, she thought, and went back.

As she entered the bar she ran into Colonel Susan Marcus, who was leaving. Susan stopped and kissed Tamara on both cheeks, French style. Her normal brisk manner was gone, and she was warm, almost affectionate. They had been in a deadly gunfight and had survived together, and that had made a bond. Susan asked: ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine.’ Tamara did not want to be rude to Susan but she had something else pressing on her mind.

Susan went on: ‘It’s a couple of weeks since our…adventure. These things sometimes have psychological effects.’

‘I’m okay, really.’

‘After something like that, you should talk to a counsellor. It’s standard.’

Tamara forced herself to pay attention. Susan was being kind. Tamara had not thought about trauma counselling. When Susan said: ‘Something like that,’ she meant killing a man. No one at the CIA station had suggested that Tamara should seek help. ‘I don’t feel the need for it,’ she said.

Susan put a hand lightly on Tamara’s arm. ‘You may not be the best judge. Go once, at least.’

Tamara nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m going to take your advice.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Susan turned to go.

Tamara stopped her. ‘By the way…’

‘What?’

‘I’m sure I know the woman at the window table talking to Tabdar Sadoul. Is she in the DGSE?’

Susan looked, spotted the woman, and smiled. ‘No. That’s Léonie Lanette. She’s a big shot in the French oil company, Total.’

‘Oh. Then she’s probably a friend of his father’s, who’s a board director of Total – if I remember rightly.’

‘Maybe,’ said Susan, looking arch, ‘but either way she’s a cougar.’

Tamara felt a chill. A cougar was a middle-aged woman who preyed on young men sexually. She said: ‘You think she’s after him?’