Never, p.38
Never, page 38
Tab performed the introductions, continuing in French. Tamara said a prepared sentence: “I’m so glad to meet the parents of this wonderful man.” In response, Anne smiled, but coolly. Any mother should have been pleased by such a remark about her son, but she was unimpressed.
They all sat down. On the coffee table was an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne and four glasses. The waiter came in and poured, and Tamara noticed that the champagne was vintage Travers. She said to Anne: “Do you always drink your own champagne?”
“Often, yes, to check on how it’s surviving,” Anne replied. “Normally we taste in the cellars, and the same is true for buyers and wine writers who come from all over the world to our winery in Reims. But our customers have a different experience. Before they drink the wine it travels perhaps thousands of miles, and then it may be kept for years in unsuitable conditions.”
Tab interrupted her. “When I was a student in California I used to work at a restaurant where the wine was kept in a cupboard next to the oven. If someone ordered champagne we had to put the bottle in the freezer for fifteen minutes.” He laughed.
His mother did not see the funny side. “So, you see, champagne needs one quality that will never show at a cellar tasting: fortitude. We must make a wine that can survive ill treatment and still taste good despite conditions that are less than ideal.”
Tamara had not expected a lecture. On the other hand, she found it interesting. And she had learned that Tab’s mother was remorselessly serious.
Anne tasted the champagne and said: “Not too disappointing.”
Tamara thought it was delicious.
As they chatted, Tamara checked out Anne’s jewelry. The flared sleeves of her dress revealed a pretty Travers watch on her left wrist and three gold bangles on her right. Tamara was not planning to talk about jewelry, but Anne commented on her pendant. “I haven’t seen anything quite like that before.”
“It’s homemade,” Tamara said, and she explained what a Tuareg arrowhead was.
“How original,” Anne said.
Tamara had met American matrons who could say something like How original when they really meant How dreadful.
Tab asked his father about the business side of his trip. “All the important meetings will take place here in the capital,” Malik said. “The men who run this country are all here—I don’t suppose I need to tell you that. But I will have to fly to Doba and look at oil wells.” He turned to his wife to explain. “The oil fields are all in the far southwest of the country.”
Tab said: “But what will you actually do in Doba and N’Djamena?”
“Business is very personal in Africa,” Malik said. “Being on friendly terms with people can be more important than giving them generous terms in a contract. The most effective thing I do here is find out whether people are discontented—and take the action necessary to keep them on our side.”
By the end of lunch Tamara had a vivid picture of this couple. Both were smart businesspeople, knowledgeable and decisive. But Malik was amiable and laid-back, whereas Anne was lovely but cold, like her champagne. In a lucky roll of the genetic dice, Tab had inherited his father’s easygoing personality and his mother’s good looks.
Afterward Tamara and Tab left together. “They’re a remarkable couple,” she said to him in the lobby.
“I thought the occasion was terribly stiff.”
He was not wrong, but tactfully she did not voice her agreement. Instead she proposed a solution. “Tomorrow night, let’s take them to al-Quds,” she said. It was Tamara and Tab’s favorite restaurant, a quiet Arab place where Westerners never went. “There we can relax more.”
“Nice idea.” Tab frowned. “They don’t serve wine.”
“Will your folks mind?”
“Maman won’t. Papa might want a drink. We could have champagne at my apartment before going to the restaurant.”
“And tell your parents to wear really casual clothes.”
“I’ll try!”
“So,” she said, grinning, “did you really work in a restaurant kitchen in California?”
“Yes.”
“I imagined that your parents would have bankrolled you.”
“They gave me a generous allowance, but I was young and foolish, and one semester I overspent. I was too embarrassed to ask them for more, so I got a job. I didn’t really mind, it was a new experience. I’d never had a job before.”
Young, but not so foolish, Tamara thought. He had had the strength of character to solve the problem for himself, rather than run back to Papa and Maman for help. She liked that. “Good-bye,” she said. “Let’s shake hands. If anyone’s watching us we’ll look like colleagues, not lovers.”
They left. In the back of her car, Tamara could stop pretending. The lunch had been awful. Everyone had felt uncomfortable. Malik might have been all right on his own: he probably would have flirted with Tamara. But Anne had the correct kind of manners that put everyone on their best behavior.
Tamara’s relationship with Tab did not depend on his mother’s approval, she was sure of that. Anne was a strong character, but not that strong. However, if she took against Tamara it could be an irritant, something that could cause occasional friction between a couple for many years. Tamara was determined not to let that happen.
And there had to be a real woman somewhere inside Anne. She was an aristocrat who had broken out of her social circle and married the Arab son of a shopkeeper: to do that she must have been led by her heart rather than her head. Somehow Tamara would connect with the girl who had fallen head over heels in love with Malik.
She returned to the US embassy and sought out Dexter, who was back at his desk with a large bruise on his forehead and one arm in a sling. He had not thanked her for rescuing him at the refugee camp. “I spoke to Karim about the missing drone,” she said.
“Missing drone?” Dexter looked annoyed. “Who told you about the missing drone?”
She was taken aback. “Was I not supposed to know?”
“Who told you?” he repeated.
She hesitated, but Susan would not care what Dexter knew or thought. “Colonel Marcus.”
“The women’s grapevine,” he said scornfully.
“We are all on the same side, aren’t we?” Tamara said, letting her annoyance show. The drone story was not top secret. It was just that Dexter liked to control the flow of information. Everything had to pass through him, incoming and outgoing. It was tiresome. “If you don’t want to hear what Karim said . . .”
“All right, all right, go on then.”
“He said the General doesn’t have the drone, but I thought he was lying.”
“Why did you think that?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Women’s intuition.”
“If you like.”
“You’ve never been in the military, have you?”
“No.”
Dexter had served in the navy. “You don’t understand.”
Tamara said nothing.
“Ordnance goes missing all the time,” Dexter went on. “No one can keep track. There’s just too much stuff in too many places being moved too often.”
She was tempted to ask how he thought large international airlines managed their fleets, but she continued to hold her tongue.
“Missing gear is missing,” he said. “No need for a conspiracy theory.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so,” said Dexter.
* * *
On the evening of the next day, Malik and Anne sat on stools in Tab’s small kitchen. Tab spread hummus on cucumber slices while Tamara sprinkled olive oil, salt, and rosemary leaves on plain tortilla wraps and crisped them in the oven. As they moved around in the small space they touched one another frequently, as usual. Everyone chatted, but Tamara knew she was being watched, especially by Anne. However, when she caught Anne’s eye she thought she saw a pleased look. Eventually Anne said: “You two are happy together.”
It was the first time she had said anything about the relationship between her son and Tamara, and it was positive, which gratified Tamara. And Anne ate all the hot tortillas.
Perhaps one day they could even be friends.
Tamara was a bit nervous about walking into al-Quds with Anne. Tamara could pass for an Arab girl, but Anne was a tall blonde. However, she was not insensitive, and tonight she had put on a headscarf and baggy linen trousers, to be less conspicuous.
The proprietor knew Tamara and Tab and welcomed them cordially, and seemed pleased when Tab introduced his parents and explained that they were visiting from Paris. Al-Quds did not get many customers who were visiting from Paris.
When the food came, Tab began a prepared speech. “My relationship with Tamara is a problem with our bosses,” he said. “They don’t like us getting too close to officers from other countries’ intelligence services. So far we’ve been discreet, but we can’t carry on like this indefinitely.”
Anne said impatiently: “Do you have a plan?”
Tab abandoned his script. “We want to live together.”
“After one month?”
“Five weeks.”
Malik laughed. “Don’t you remember how it was with us?” he said to Anne. “After a week we went to bed on a Friday and didn’t get dressed until Monday morning.”
Anne flushed and said: “Malik! Please!”
Malik was not to be subdued. “They’re the same, can’t you see?” he said. “That’s what true love is like.”
Anne did not want to discuss the nature of true love. “Do you want children?” she said.
They had not had this conversation, but Tamara knew how she felt. She said: “Yes.”
Tab said: “Yes.”
Tamara said: “I want kids and a career, and in that I have two splendid role models: my mother and you, Anne.”
“So what will you do?”
Tab said: “I’m going to leave the DGSE, and if you’ll have me, Maman, I’d like to work with you in the business.”
“I would love that,” Anne said instantly. “But, Tamara, how do you fit in?”
“I’d like to stay in the CIA if I can. I’ll try to get a transfer to the Paris embassy. If that doesn’t work out I’ll have to think again. But here’s the bottom line: I’d leave the Agency rather than leave Tab.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Anne gave the warmest smile Tamara had yet seen on her face. She reached across the table and put her hand on Tamara’s. “You really love him, don’t you?” she said quietly.
“Yes,” said Tamara. “I really do.”
* * *
Next day Tab called to tell her that the French drone had failed to pick up the radio signal from the consignment and had not sighted a bus anywhere along its route.
Abdul had disappeared.
Chapter 22
The Mercedes bus spent five days in a Libyan village with no name, waiting for a new fuel pump to be brought from Tripoli. The inhabitants of the village spoke a Tuareg dialect unknown to anyone on the bus, but Kiah and Esma communicated with the women in gestures and smiles, and managed well enough. Food had to be brought from neighboring villages, because the one settlement could not cope with thirty-nine more mouths to feed, regardless of how much money was offered.
Hakim demanded that everyone pay him extra, because he had not budgeted for this. Abdul said angrily that he was running out of money, and other passengers did the same. Kiah knew that Abdul was pretending, hiding the fact that he had plenty.
They were all used to Hakim and his armed guards now. They were not afraid to argue and negotiate with him about extra payments. The group had survived many setbacks. Kiah was beginning to feel almost safe. She began to think about crossing the Mediterranean, for that was now the part of the journey that scared her.
Strangely, she was not unhappy. The daily privations and perils had come to seem almost normal. She talked a lot to Esma, who was about her own age. But she spent most of her time with Abdul, who had become fond of Naji. Abdul seemed fascinated by the mental development of a two-year-old: what the boy understood, what he could not understand, and how much he learned every day. Kiah asked him if he would have a son of his own one day. “I haven’t thought about that for a long time,” he said. She wondered what he meant. But she had realized weeks ago that he did not answer questions about his past.
One day they woke to a thick fog, coating everything in a film of cold dew, something that happened in the desert, albeit rarely. They could not see from one house to the next, and the sounds of other people were muffled, footsteps and snatches of talk heard as if through a wall.
Kiah tied Naji to her with a strip of cloth, fearful that if he wandered off he might never be found. She and Abdul sat together all day, with no one else in sight most of the time. She asked him what he would do for a living once they reached France. “Some Europeans will pay a man to help them keep fit and strong,” he said. “Such men are called personal trainers, and they can charge up to a hundred dollars an hour. You must look athletic, but otherwise all you have to do is tell them what exercises to do.” Kiah was baffled by this notion. It made no sense to her that people would pay so much money for nothing. She had much to learn about Europeans.
“What about you?” he asked. “What will you do?”
“Once I get there, I’ll be happy to do any work.”
“But what would you prefer?”
She smiled. “I’d love to have a little fish shop. I know about fish. I’m sure they have different kinds in France, but it won’t take me long to learn about them. I’d buy fresh every day and close the shop when I’ve sold them all. When Naji’s older he can work in the shop and learn the business, then take it over when I’m too old to work.”
Next day the fuel pump was at last delivered, by a man on a camel who stayed to help Hakim install it and to make sure it worked properly.
When they set off the following morning they again headed west. Kiah recalled that Abdul had questioned Hakim about their direction previously, but now he kept his mouth shut. However, he was not the only person on the bus who thought the Mediterranean coast did not lie in that direction. Two of the men confronted Hakim at the next rest stop and demanded to know why they were driving away from their destination.
Kiah listened, wondering what he would say.
“This is the way!” Hakim said angrily. “There is only one road.”
When the questioners persisted, Hakim said: “We go west, then north. It’s the only way, unless you’re on a camel.” He became sarcastic. “Go ahead, get a camel, we’ll see who’s first to reach Tripoli.”
Kiah said quietly to Abdul: “Do you believe Hakim?”
Abdul shrugged. “He’s a liar and a cheat. I don’t believe anything he says. But it’s his bus, and he’s driving, and his guards have the guns. So we have to trust him.”
The bus made good progress that day. Toward the end of the afternoon Kiah looked out of the glassless window and noticed the grubby signs of human habitation: dented oil drums, cardboard boxes, a car seat with the foam stuffing bursting out. Looking ahead, she saw in the distance a settlement that did not look like a Tuareg village.
As the bus drew closer she saw details. There were a few cinder-block buildings and many improvised huts and shelters made of dried-up tree branches and oddments of canvas and carpet. But there were also trucks and other vehicles, and parts of the area were closed off with stout chain-link fencing.
Kiah said: “What is this place?”
“It looks like a mining camp.”
“A gold mine?” Like everyone else, she had heard of the gold rush in the central Sahara, but she had never seen a mine.
“I guess so,” said Abdul.
The place was filthy, Kiah saw as the bus drove slowly between the huts. On the ground between the dwellings there were drink cans, discarded food, and cigarette packets. “Are gold mines always so dirty?” she asked Abdul.
“I believe that some are licensed by the Libyan government and subject to labor laws, but others are rogue excavations with no official status and no rules. The Sahara is too big to be policed. This place must be unofficial.”
Ragged men looked incuriously at the bus. Among them were a few guards, bearded young men with rifles. Security guards would be needed at a gold mine, Kiah guessed. She noticed a tanker and a man with a hose dispensing water to people with jugs and bottles. In the desert most settlements were built around oases, but mines had to be where the gold was, Kiah reasoned, so water would have to be trucked in to keep the miners alive.
Hakim stopped the bus, stood up, and said: “This is where we will spend the night. They will give us food and somewhere to sleep.”
Kiah was not in a hurry to eat anything prepared in such a place.
Hakim went on: “Security is strict, because this is a gold mine. Stay out of the way of the guards. Whatever you do, don’t climb over a fence into one of the restricted areas. If you do, you could be shot.”
Kiah really did not like it here.
Hakim opened the bus door. Hamza and Tareq got out and stood with their guns in their hands. Hakim said: “We are in Libya, and as previously agreed, you will now pay me the second installment of your fare before you get off the bus. One thousand American per person.”
Everyone rummaged in their luggage or fumbled under their clothing for their cash.
