A Foreign Country

‘You are looking for a taxi, sir?’

The driver who had asked the question was in his late twenties and wore a Barcelona football shirt, a pair of white Adidas trainers and stonewashed jeans. Probably a veteran of the Jasmine Revolution, but certainly too young and excitable for the task Kell had in mind.

‘Not right now. I’m just interested in how long it would take.’

His appearance had drawn the attention of an older man, bald and squat, wearing a collared shirt and pressed trousers. Kell nodded him over. Quick, intelligent eyes, a lazy smile and an ill-concealed pot belly attested to the sort of personality Kell was looking for. He needed somebody with experience of the world, somebody who wasn’t going to go talking to his friends about all the money he was about to make.

‘Bonjour.’

‘Bonjour,’ the man replied.

In the late afternoon sun, beneath the scarlet dazzle of a bougainvillea in full bloom, the three men had a brief conversation about tourist attractions in Tunis. In due course, the younger of the two drivers was distracted by a call on his mobile and Kell was left alone with the older man.

‘You work these hotels on a regular basis?’ he asked. They had switched to Arabic.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What kind of hours?’

The driver shrugged, as though the concept of the nine-to-five was alien to him.

‘Can you take me into La Marsa?’

It was a risk, of course, but Kell needed a driver on call, somebody who could keep tabs on Malot. Usually SIS would have provided a support agent, but with the Amelia operation off the books, Kell was obliged to improvise. It was just a question of whether or not this man could be trusted as a second pair of eyes. Kell climbed into the passenger seat of a well-maintained Peugeot 206 and instructed him to head towards the beach. He introduced himself as ‘Stephen’ and they shook hands over the gearstick.

‘Sami.’

A mile from the hotel, beyond the security roadblock, Kell asked the driver to pull over. Sami kept the engine running for air conditioning and Kell turned square in his seat to face him.

‘I want to offer you a business proposal.’

‘OK.’

He liked this reaction: an easy nod, a half-glance at the meter.

‘What are you doing for the next few days?’

‘I work.’

‘Would you like to work for me?’

‘OK.’

Again, an easy nonchalance in the reply. Kell could hear a tractor running in the distance.

‘I’m here on business. I’m going to need a driver on call at the hotel from first thing in the morning to late at night. Do you think you can manage that?’

Sami thought for a fraction of a second and said: ‘OK.’

‘I’ll pay you five hundred dinars a day, first instalment up front.’

It was the equivalent of about two hundred pounds, a vast sum to a Tunisian who wouldn’t expect to earn more than a thousand dinars per month. Kell handed over the money. Still Sami maintained his inscrutable cool.

‘I’ll pay you the other instalments at the end of every second day. I don’t want you telling anybody about our arrangement and I may have to ask you to follow some people if they leave the hotel. Is that going to be a problem?’