Monclaire sat in the vacated chair. He drew a note pad towards him and wrote down the problems that confronted him. In that way, they became clear. But they also became even more overwhelming.
It was now nearly five o’clock in the afternoon. In almost exactly twelve hours a company was due to leave to protect the Tutana oil line. But the company could not leave because serious trouble might flare up m the town, and the garrison would have to be at full strength to deal with it.
But it would be worse than useless to explain this to the High Command. Their concern was the oil line. And they would expect their orders for its protection to be followed to the most minute detail.
Obviously, the Touaregs had their agitators working in Sadazi. And it was those agitators who were organising the mass hysteria, perhaps using the Czech woman as a pawn.
If he could strike first? If he could pull in the leaders and make an example of a few of them?
A tinkling of broken glass.
It interrupted Monclaire’s thoughts. It was carried faintly but clearly on the afternoon air.
Then Monclaire realised that there had been other sounds in his ears, too. But he had been too absorbed to heed them. They were a cacophony of many voices. And they were getting louder.
Monclaire crossed to the window.
The barracks were surrounded by tall iron rails, and the main gates faced him. The stone guardroom stood beside the open gates. And there one of the windows was broken, the glass glittering on the ground.
But the main point of interest was immediately outside the rails. There, a mob of several hundred Arabs had gathered, and their numbers were growing fast.
Monclaire saw the massive figure of Sergeant Zatov, the N.C.O. in charge of the guard. Zatov had drawn his twelve men in a single line facing the mob. But he had made no attempt to close the gates. In this he was right, for the Arabs were making no attempt to rush the barracks. And any premature precaution would look bad. It would merely suggest panic.
The office door opened. A slightly built and rather pallid lieutenant entered and saluted.
Monclaire recognised Gina, the orderly officer of the day.
Gina’s eyes roved the room, as though searching for Jeux. Then he said: “B Company is at readiness in case of trouble, capitaine.”
Monclaire nodded.
“Keep them inside the building. I don’t want to anticipate trouble. Have you any idea…”
Gina interrupted. He was gazing over Monclaire’s shoulder and through the window.
“Capitaine! Look!”
Monclaire wheeled round.
The mob had parted to let three people through. The trio were walking quietly and confidently through the gates. There they were intercepted by Zatov. After a few seconds, Zatov escorted them into the guardroom.
Monclaire and Gina looked at each other in bewilderment.
Two of the trio were Touaregs. The other was Annice Tovak.
The guardroom was linked to the commandant’s office by an aged and battery operated telephone. This gave an uncertain ring, and Monclaire pressed the instrument to his ear. Zatov’s voice came rustily through. But his excitement was easily detectable.
He said: “That woman is here, capitaine, and…”
“I know. Bring them here.”
“That’s what they want, capitaine. They are here to see the colonel.”
Monclaire slapped down the receiver. He was tempted to go back to the window, but decided not to do so. After dismissing Gina—who would certainly have preferred to stay—he sat at the desk and waited.
The room seemed strangely empty as Monclaire waited. As though it were a vacuum straining to be filled. And the minutes went by heavily, reluctantly. Deliberately, he suppressed the teeming questions that tried to form in his brain. They would, he told himself, be answered soon enough.
Clong!
The barracks clock struck the hour.
And the door opened.
Annice Tovak was there.
She glided past the massive Sergeant Zatov. The two Arabs followed. Monclaire recognised one of them as Tu el Adaa, in whose house Annice had been found. But he gave him no more than a brief glance, then concentrated again on Annice. And, because he was a Frenchman, he thought: “Mon Dieu, no wonder Legionnaire Tovak tried to desert to reach her! She’s beautiful. Why did I not notice it before? Perhaps I am getting old…”
She justified his silent praise.
Despite the fact that her linen dress was now rumpled and a little torn. Despite the fact that her vivid fair hair was astray and untended. Despite the tension, which made her face hard, and turned her blue eyes into cold seas.
They advanced on the desk, she leading. Monclaire rose and gestured towards the only other chair in the room. She ignored it. He sat down again, a little uncomfortably.
Her voice had the unnatural clarity of an amplified whisper. She said: “We want to see the commanding officer.”
“I am the commanding officer for the time being. The colonel is—unwell. And I want to speak with you, madame. Do you realise that you were the indirect cause of this morning’s bloodshed? Have you forgotten that you escaped while under arrest?”
She stood very still. She looked over Monclaire’s head and into the middle distance as she answered.
“I am not interested, capitaine.”
“You ought to be—for now you are here, I am having you deported from French Morocco.”
The fat Adaa was standing on Annice’s right. His staring eyes reflected faint amusement. The other Touareg—richly robed, like Adaa—was less subtle. He smiled openly. He even made a gesture towards his knife.
Monclaire added sharply: “And these Touareg associates are also under arrest. I have no doubt they have been of assistance to you.”
She said: “None of us is under arrest, capitaine.” There was a quiet finality in her words as she added: “And I am not leaving Morocco.”
“Oui? You interest me, madame.”
“I thought I would. I have had experience of fighting armed tyranny such as yours, capitaine. During the war I was a saboteur against the Nazis. I think my knowledge will prove useful now. I have willingly placed it at the disposal of the Arab peoples.”
Monclaire had difficulty in disguising his mounting fury. To compare the French administration of her African colonies with the jackboot methods of the Nazi, was more than he could stand.
But he said: “I have heard of your war experiences. The matter was referred to during the court martial of your husband.”
Her skin, always pale, became paler still. For just a moment, the reference to Legionnaire Tovak put her off balance. She gave herself time to recover before saying: “Knowing my background, and knowing what you did to my husband, you will understand why I am glad to help in the struggle against the French…”
She took a long step forward, and placed her small clenched fists on the desk. Then she added slowly: “Tyranny is the same, whatever name you give it, monsieur capitaine. I risked my life before in fighting it, and I am doing so again. The Touaregs have told me how the French use their Legion lackeys to terrorise their lands, to thwart their right to self-government. And I, capitaine, have told them how to meet terror with terror…
“I have told them that everywhere the Western oppression of the coloured races is waning. In any one place it needs only courage and ruthless action to end it. And it can be ended here in Sadazi…