Luanda 1 August 1979

A El-Nabil looked at the paper bag and then his green finger. “And if I’m caught?” “You won’t be,” she said. “Put the powder on a shelf. Just do what you have always done. Work hard in the kitchens. Don’t get noticed. Come here at this time every week and leave a note at reception. Write ‘Room 711’ and tell me how he is, but don’t mention any names. Pretend it’s your father or someone.” He nodded, though his hand shook as he picked the bag up. The faint green dust stuck to his fingers. For a moment he rubbed them together, trying to erase the stain, but it wouldn’t go. He slipped the bag into his pocket. He bowed once and quietly left the room. Once in the corridor, he moved quicker. By the time he reached the stairs, he realised he was still holding his breath. When the door of the room clicked shut, Judith Morales stayed perfectly still. She stared at the closed door, waiting for the tension to drain from her shoulders, but it didn’t. Her hands still smelled very faintly of the green powder. She crossed to the basin, turned on the tap, and scrubbed her fingers. A faint solution of pale green swirled down the plughole, and for an instant she imagined it was blood. She glanced at the mirror and saw a stranger’s face: calm, precise, efficient — but the eyes betrayed something else. She had told herself a hundred times that the game demanded unwavering loyalty and ruthlessness. The Egyptian was a weapon, Neto a target, Angola just another square on the board. Yet beneath all that discipline lay the simple truth: she had cowardly handed certain death to a terrified man and considered it a normal day’s work. She lit a cigarette, the tremor in her hand slowly steadying after the first drag. For a moment she thought of Roberto — his laugh, the way he spoke softly when he said her name. The uniform folded neatly on the chair by his bed. A Cuban officer. The enemy. What would he think if he knew what she had done tonight? Judith crushed her cigarette, slipped the buibui into her bag, and took one last look around the room. “One month,” she said to herself, to the Chief, for El-Nabil, to whatever conscience she still had left.

A Short Extract from Chapter 3 of

The Cuckoo Asset

The Assassination of a President