Page 9 of Never
And Africa would be a bit safer for people like Kiah and Naji.
Abdul gave precise directions to the encampment.
Both Tamara and Tab had notebooks on their knees and wrote down everything he said. Tamara was awestruck. She could hardly digest the fact that she was talking to a man who had taken such risks with his own life and achieved such a coup. As he talked, and she made notes, she took every chance of studying him. He had dark skin and a trim black beard and unusual light-brown eyes that had a flinty look. His face was taut with strain, and he appeared older than twenty-five. He was tall and broad-shouldered; she recalled that while attending the State University of New York he had been a mixed-martial-arts fighter.
It seemed strange that he was also the vendor of cigarettes. That man had been easy-going, garrulous, talking to everyone, touching the men on the arm, winking at the women, lighting everyone’s cigarettes with a red plastic lighter. This man, by contrast, was quietly dangerous. She felt a bit afraid of him.
He gave full details of the route followed by the consignment of cocaine. It had passed through the hands of several gangs and had been transferred to different vehicles three times. As well as the paramilitary base he had located two smaller encampments and several city addresses for ISGS groups.
‘This is gold dust,’ Tab said. Tamara agreed. The results were more than she had hoped for, and she felt jubilant.
‘Good,’ said Abdul briskly. ‘Did you bring my stuff?’
‘Of course.’ He had asked for money in local currencies, pills for the gastric ailments that often afflicted visitors to North Africa, a simple compass – and one thing that had puzzled her: a yard of narrow-gauge titanium wire, fixed to wooden handles at each end, the whole ensemble sewn inside a cotton sash of the type worn by men as a belt around a traditional robe. She wondered if he would explain that.
She handed everything over. He thanked her but made no comment. He looked around, studying the view in every direction. ‘All clear,’ he said. ‘Are we done?’
Tamara looked at Tab, who said: ‘All done.’
Tamara said: ‘Have you got everything you need, Abdul?’
‘Yes.’ He opened the car door.
‘Good luck,’ said Tamara. It was a heartfelt wish.
Tab said: ‘Bonne chance.’
Abdul pulled his scarf forward to shade his face, then got out, closed the door, and walked back into the village, the carton of Cleopatras still in his hand.
Tamara watched him go and noticed his gait. He did not stride out the way most American men would, as if they owned the place. Instead, he adopted the desert shuffle, keeping his face down and shaded, using minimum effort to avoid generating heat.
She was awestruck by his courage. She shuddered to think what would happen to him if he were caught. Beheading would be the best he could hope for.
When he had disappeared from sight she leaned forward and spoke to Ali. ‘Yalla,’ she said. Let’s go.
The car left the village and followed the track to the road, where it turned south, heading back to N’Djamena.
Tab was reading his notes. ‘This is amazing,’ he said.
‘We should do a joint report,’ Tamara said, thinking ahead.
‘Good plan. Let’s write it together when we get back, then we can submit it in two languages simultaneously.’
They seemed to work together well, she thought. A lot of men would have attempted to take charge this morning. But Tab had not tried to dominate the conversation with Abdul. She was beginning to like him.
She closed her eyes. Slowly her elation subsided. She had got up early and the drive home would take two to three hours. For a while she just saw visions of the nameless village they had visited: the mud-brick homes, the pathetic vegetable gardens, the long walk to the water. But the drone of the car’s engine and the tyre noise reminded her of long trips in her childhood, driving in the family Chevrolet from Chicago to St Louis to see her grandparents, slumping next to her brother in the wide back seat; and eventually, now as then, she dozed.
She fell into a deep sleep and was startled awake when the car braked sharply. She heard Tab say: ‘Putain,’ which was the French equivalent of ‘Fuck’. She saw that the road ahead was obstructed by a truck parked sideways. Around it were half a dozen men wearing odd articles of army uniform mixed with traditional garments: a military tunic with a cotton headdress, a long robe over army pants.
They were paramilitaries, and they all had firearms.
Ali was forced to stop the car.
Tamara said: ‘What the hell?’
Tab said: ‘This is what the government calls an informal roadblock. They’re retired or serving soldiers making money on the side. It’s a shakedown.’
Tamara had heard of informal roadblocks but this was her first experience of one. She said: ‘What’s the price?’
