‘We’ve got a problem,’ Tamara said worriedly.
‘Fortunately, a solution has presented itself. In the last couple of days the consignment has been transferred again, this time to a bus that carries illegal migrants. This is not unusual – the two kinds of smuggling fit together well, and both are lucrative.’
‘It could still be difficult for you to track the vehicle without arousing suspicion.’
‘That’s why I’m going to be on the bus.’
‘You’ll travel as one of the migrants?’
‘That’s my plan.’
Tamara said: ‘It’s clever.’
Abdul was not sure how Phil Doyle and the higher-ups in the CIA would take the news. But there was little they could do about it. The officer in the field had to act as he thought best.
Tamara asked a practical question. ‘What will you do with your car and all those cigarettes?’
‘Sell them,’ he said. ‘Someone will be keen to take over the business. And I won’t be holding out for a high price.’
‘We could sell the stuff for you.’
‘No, thanks, it’s better this way. I should stay in character. The sale will explain how I got the money to pay the people smugglers. It reinforces my cover story.’
‘Good point.’
‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘More or less by accident I came across a useful asset. He’s a disillusioned terrorist in Kousséri, Cameroon, just across the bridge from N’Djamena. He’s in the loop, and he’s willing to pass information to us. You should try him out.’
Tamara said: ‘Disillusioned?’
‘He’s an idealistic young man who has seen too much senseless killing to believe in jihad any longer. You don’t need to know his name, but he’ll call himself Haroun.’
‘How do I contact him?’
‘He’ll get in touch with you. The message will mention a number – eight kilometres, or fifteen dollars – and the number will be the time he wants to meet you by the twenty-four-hour clock, so fifteen dollars would mean three p.m. The place of the first meeting will be La Grande Marché.’ Tamara knew it – everyone did. It was the central market in the capital city. ‘At the first meeting you can agree the location for the second.’
‘The market is huge,’ Tamara said. ‘Hundreds of people of all races. How will we know one another?’
Abdul reached inside his jalabiya and pulled out a blue scarf with a distinctive pattern of orange circles. ‘Wear this,’ he said. ‘He’ll recognize it.’
Tamara took the scarf. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Abdul’s mind returned to the raid on al-Bustan. ‘I assume the prisoners have been questioned about al-Farabi.’
‘They’ve all heard about him, but only one claimed to have seen him in the flesh. He confirmed the usual description – grey hair, black beard, amputated thumb. The prisoner had been part of a group in Mali that was trained by al-Farabi in how to make roadside bombs.’
Abdul nodded. ‘I’m afraid that’s highly credible. From what little we know, it seems al-Farabi isn’t interested in getting all the African jihadis to work together – he probably thinks they’re more secure as disparate groups, and he would be right about that. But he does want to teach them to kill more people more efficiently. He gained a lot of technical expertise in Afghanistan and now he’s sharing it, hence the training course.’
‘A smart guy.’
Abdul said bitterly: ‘That’s why we can’t catch him.’
‘He can’t hide from us for ever.’
‘I sure as hell hope not.’
Tamara turned around to face him. She stared, as if trying to understand something.
He said: ‘What?’
‘You really feel this.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Not the way you do.’ She held his gaze. ‘Something happened to you. What was it?’
‘They warned me about you,’ he said, but he was smiling gently. ‘They said you could be a bit blunt.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve been told I ask overly personal questions. You’re not angry?’
‘You’ll have to work harder than that to offend me.’ He closed the hood. ‘I’m going to pay the man.’
He strolled over to the hut. Tamara was right. For him this was not a job, it was a mission. It was not enough for him merely to damage ISGS, as he had with the intelligence on al-Bustan. He wanted to wipe them out. Completely.
He paid for the gas. ‘You need some cigarettes?’ the proprietor joked. ‘Very cheap!’
‘I don’t smoke,’ said Abdul.
Tamara’s driver came into the hut as he was leaving. Abdul returned to his car. For a couple of minutes he had her to himself. She had asked a good question, he thought. She deserved an answer.
He said: ‘My sister died.’
*
He was six years old, almost a man, he thought, and she was still a baby, at four. Beirut was the only world he knew then: heat and dust and traffic, and bomb-damaged buildings spilling rubble into the street. It was not until later that he learned Beirut was not normal, that that was not how life was for most people.
They lived in an apartment over a café. In the bedroom at the back of the building, Abdul was telling Nura about reading and writing. They were sitting on the floor. She wanted to know everything he knew, and he liked instructing her, for it made him feel wise and grown-up.
Their parents were in the living room, which was in the front of the building, overlooking the street. Their grandparents had come for coffee, two uncles and an aunt had shown up, and Abdul’s father, who was the pastry chef for the café, had made halawet el jibn, sweet cheese rolls, for the guests. Abdul had already eaten two and his mother had said: ‘No more, you’ll be sick.’
So he told Nura to go and get some.
She hurried out, always eager to please him.
The bang was the loudest noise Abdul had ever heard. Immediately afterwards the world went completely silent, and there seemed to be something wrong with his ears. He started crying.
He ran into the living room, but it was a place he had never seen. It took him a long time to understand that the entire outside wall had vanished, and the room was open to the air. It was full of dust and the smell of blood. Some of the grown-ups looked as if they were screaming, but they made no noise; in fact, there was no sound at all. Others lay on the floor, not moving.
Nura, too, lay motionless.
Abdul could not understand what was wrong with her. He knelt down, grabbed her limp arm, and shook her, trying to wake her, though it seemed impossible that she was sleeping with her eyes wide open. ‘Nura,’ he said. ‘Nura, wake up.’ He could hear his own voice, albeit faintly; his ears must be getting better.
Suddenly his mother was there, scooping Nura up in her arms. A second later Abdul felt himself lifted by the familiar hands of his father. The parents carried the two children into the bedroom and put them down gently on their beds.
Father said: ‘Abdul, how do you feel? Are you hurt?’
Abdul shook his head.
‘No bruises?’ Father ran a careful eye over him and looked relieved. Then he turned to Mother and they both stared at the still form of Nura.
Mother said: ‘I don’t think she’s breathing.’ She began to sob.
Abdul said: ‘What’s the matter with her?’ His voice came out as a high-pitched squeak. He felt very scared but he did not know what he was frightened of. He said: ‘She doesn’t speak, but her eyes are open!’
His father hugged him. ‘Oh, Abdul, my beloved son,’ he said. ‘I think our little girl is dead.’
*
It was a car bomb, Abdul learned years later. The vehicle had been parked at the kerb immediately under the living-room window. The target was the café, which was patronized by Americans, who loved its sweet pastries. Abdul’s family were merely collateral damage.