Page 87 of Never
‘The thumb,’ he said. ‘Shot off. He says it was an American bullet.’
Al-Farabi, she thought with mounting excitement. The leading figure in ISGS. The Most Wanted Man. Reflexively, she lifted her eyes from the length of cotton and looked to the south. Stalls and shoppers were all she saw, but she knew that the country of Cameroon was only a mile or so away in that direction – she could have seen it from the minaret of the nearby Grand Mosque. Al-Farabi had been that close.
‘And something else,’ said Haroun. ‘Something more…spiritual.’
‘Tell me.’
‘He is a man on fire with hatred. He wants to kill, he longs to kill, and kill again, and again. It is the way some men are with alcohol, or cocaine, or women, or gambling. He has a thirst that is never satisfied. He will not change until the day someone kills him, may God bring that day soon.’
Tamara was silent for a long moment, stunned by what Haroun said and the intensity with which he said it. At last she broke the spell and said: ‘What did he do, for five days, other than congratulate your group?’
‘He gave us special training. We would assemble outside the town, sometimes several miles away, then he would arrive, with his companions.’
‘What did you learn?’
‘How to make roadside bombs and suicide bombs. All about telephone discipline and coded messages and security. How to disable the phones in an entire neighbourhood.’
Even I don’t know how to do that, Tamara thought. She said: ‘When he left, did he say where he was headed?’
‘No.’
‘Was there any hint?’
‘Our leader asked him the question directly, and he answered: “Where God leads me.”’
Translated:I’m not saying, Tamara thought.
Haroun said: ‘How is the vendor of cigarettes?’
Was this genuine friendly interest, or an attempt to get information? She said: ‘Fine, last I heard.’
‘He told me he was going on a long journey.’
‘He is often out of touch for days.’
‘I hope he’s all right.’ Haroun looked around nervously. ‘You have to buy the cloth.’
‘All right.’ She took some notes from her pocket.
Haroun seemed intelligent and honest. Such judgements were guesswork, but her instinct told her to see him at least once more. ‘Where shall we meet next time?’ she asked.
‘At the National Museum.’
Tamara had been there. It was small but interesting. ‘Okay,’ she said, handing over the money.
Haroun added: ‘By the famous skull.’
‘I know it.’ The museum’s prize exhibit was the partial cranium of an ape that was seven million years old, and a possible ancestor of the human race.
Haroun folded the cotton and handed it to her. She put it in her plastic grocery bag. He turned away and vanished into the crowd.
Tamara returned to the car and rode back to the embassy, where she went to her desk. She had to put all thoughts of Tab out of her head until she had written her report on the meeting with Haroun.
She made her report low-key, emphasizing that this was her first contact with Haroun and he had no record with the Agency that might indicate whether he was reliable. But she knew that the glimpse of al-Farabi was electrifying news and would be relayed to every CIA station in North Africa and the Middle East immediately – no doubt with Dexter’s signature at the end of the message.
When she finished, the CIA staff were beginning to leave for the day. She returned to her apartment. Now there was nothing to take her mind away from Léonie Lanette.
A message from Tab appeared on her phone:
