Page 35 of Never
‘Okay.’
They went out. She felt a bit down, and wished she had not refused his offer of a nightcap.
He asked the doorman to fetch his car and offered her a lift. She declined and phoned the car service.
While they were waiting he said: ‘I enjoyed talking to you so much. Could we have dinner again? With or without marc de Champagne afterwards?’
‘Okay,’ she said.
‘We could go somewhere more laid-back next time. A Chadian restaurant, perhaps.’
‘Nice idea. Call me.’
‘Okay.’
Her car came and he held the door for her. She pecked his cheek. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Sleep well.’
The car took her to the embassy and she went to her room.
She liked him a lot, she realized as she got undressed; then she reminded herself that she was very bad at picking men.
She had married Stephen while still at the University of Chicago. It was not until after the ceremony that she discovered he did not feel the vows should stop him from sleeping with anyone else he fancied, and they had split after six months. She had not spoken to him since and never wanted to see him again.
After Chicago she had done a master’s degree in International Relations, specializing in the Middle East, at the Paris university called Sciences Po. There she had met and married an American called Jonathan, who was a different kind of mistake. He was kind, clever and amusing. The sex had been a bit vanilla, but they had been happy together. Eventually, they both realized that Jonathan was gay. They had a friendly divorce, and she was still fond of him. They talked on the phone three or four times a year.
Part of her trouble was that so many men were attracted to her. She was nice-looking and vivacious and sexy, she knew, and it was easy for her to catch a man’s eye. Her difficulty was figuring out which were the good ones.
She got into bed and turned out the light, still thinking about Tab. He certainly looked good. She closed her eyes and pictured him. He was tall and slim, his hair was made to be stroked, and he had deep brown eyes that she wanted to stare into. His clothes seemed to cling to him lovingly, whether he was dressed in a suit, as tonight, or casually. Tamara had wondered how he could afford such well-cut clothes, but he had explained it: his family was wealthy.
Tamara mistrusted handsome men. Stephen had been handsome. They could be vain and self-absorbed. She had once gone to bed with an actor who had said afterwards: ‘How was I?’ Tab could be like that, although she did not really think so.
Was Tab as good as he seemed, or would he turn out to be another one of her ghastly errors? She had agreed to see him again, and she could not pretend that the second date was purely business. So I guess I’ll find out, she thought; and with that she went to sleep.
CHAPTER 5
Tamara swam in the embassy pool first thing in the morning, when the sun was low and the air was still cool and free of dust. She was normally alone. For half an hour she could think over everything that was on her mind: Abdul’s courage, Dexter’s hostility, Karim’s fondness, and Tab’s unconcealed interest in her. She had her second date with Tab tomorrow: drinks at his apartment and dinner at his favourite Arab restaurant.
When she got out of the water she found that Dexter was sitting on a poolside lounger, watching her. She felt irritated, especially when he stared at her wet swimsuit.
She wrapped a towel around herself and felt less vulnerable.
‘Something I want you to check out,’ he said.
‘Okay.’
‘You know the N’Gueli Bridge.’
‘Of course.’
The N’Gueli Bridge crossed the Logone River, which formed the border between Chad and Cameroon, so the bridge was an international crossing. It connected N’Djamena with the Cameroonian town of Kousséri. In fact, it was two bridges, a high viaduct for vehicles and an older bridge, lower and narrower, now used only for pedestrians.
Tamara shaded her eyes and looked south. ‘You can almost see the bridge from here – it’s about a mile away as the crow flies.’
‘It’s a frontier post, but not strictly policed,’ Dexter went on. ‘Most vehicles don’t get stopped. As for the pedestrians, they all seem to be friends and relatives of the border guards. Only white people are detained. They’re charged a fictional entry tax, or exit tax. The amount depends on how affluent they look, and the guards accept only cash. I assume I don’t have to draw you a picture.’
‘No.’ Tamara was not surprised. Chad was notoriously corrupt. But this was not a CIA problem. ‘Why are we interested?’
