But, when all else seemed impossible, did not the wild idea sometimes succeed? Certainly. The whole history of the human race showed that…
Suppose he agreed…
Were these two legionnaires best fitted to carrying out their own plan? Or should he give the task to a couple of junior officers?
Monclaire had little difficulty in resolving that problem.
The American he knew to be courageous and quick witted. This very interview proved that. And his previous Legion record proved it, too.
And the Englishman—he had once been an officer in a British regiment. Not that that in itself was an automatic qualification, for there were many ex-officers from many armies in the ranks of the Legion. Zatov was one of them.
But Legionnaire Pete Havers had certain very desirable qualities. He lacked the innate gusto of his American friend. But he had a balancing sense of logic. A capacity for clear judgment. Like most Englishmen, he was steady under fire.
Yes, they would be an ideal pair to attempt such a desperate throw into the wheels of chance…
Monclaire dropped the pencil. He stood up and smiled. It was a wan smile, but then it was his first for many hours.
He said: “I accept the plan. I will put it into operation. But neither of you needs to play the main part in it. If you prefer, I will arrange for two others to do so.”
Rex contrived to express respectful indignation while standing firmly to attention. Pete gave an almost imperceptible negative shrug of his shoulders.
“Tres bien. I knew it would be so. Now there are many details to arrange, and we have not much time…”
Clong!
Five hours to midnight.
The heat in the cellar was becoming intolerable. All of them were sprawled on the floor now. All were in need of water. They had called for it, they had tried threatening for it, but none came. The only response was a muttering of Arabic abuse from the guards outside the door.
The children were making plaintive pleas. The women were trying to comfort them. The men were expressing mounting indignation.
“…hundreds of legionnaires within sight of the place…”
“…they don’t even know a mob has seized the hotel…”
“…if I ran my exporting business the same way the Legion run their affairs I’d be…”
“…my asthma…”
CHAPTER 8
THE CRUEL LADY
Monclaire said: “I have done everything possible. I shall continue to do everything possible. Now I can only wish you good fortune.”
He tried to sound confident, but he did not feel confident, Now that the time had arrived he wondered whether he was not allowing two of his best soldiers to walk into a death trap.
Suppose the Touaregs were waiting for an attempt at infiltration? The thought had occurred to him as he watched the legionnaires putting on Arab burnouses. It had nagged him as he watched them darken their already brown faces with the potash preparation supplied by the medical officer. Was not Annice Tovak the sort of woman who would foresee such a tactic? It could be. She had proved herself a great master of the arts of the francs-tireur. For her, foresight would be a basic necessity.
He had thought of abandoning the entire plan.
But if he did so, what could he put in its place? Nothing. He could only wait to hear the screams at midnight. To look out when dawn came to see the mangled bodies impaled upon the barrack railings. Non, the plan had to go through…
He indicated the two Piet automatic rifles, which lay on his desk. Each was loaded with a magazine containing thirty-eight cartridges. And two spare magazines lay beside each of them.
The Piets were not a normal Legion issue. For purposes of desert warfare they—like all automatic rifles—were far too heavy on ammunition for it to be possible to equip every legionnaire with one. And, because of the short barrel and the vibration caused by the self-ejecting action, they were inaccurate at anything but the shortest range. But for such a purpose as this, they were ideal. They were easy to conceal. And they were utterly deadly.
Rex and Pete picked up the weapons. They weighed them in their hands to get the balance. They felt strange after the long and unwieldy Lebel. There was a sharp clicking sound as they pushed over the cut-off slides and tested the trigger movements. Then they jerked free the magazines to ensure that the forcing springs were operating freely.
Satisfied, they lowered the Piets and the spare magazines into deep pockets inside the robes. There they could rest, secure and concealed. And it would be the work of a moment to bring them out.
The robes had been part of a vast conglomeration of Arabic equipment, which had assembled in the barracks over the years. The pockets had been hurriedly prepared by a legionnaire who claimed skill in such matters.
Beneath the stain, Rex’s face was flushed with excitement. If Pete felt the same, he did not show it. He portrayed only the casual indifference of a man who was completely bored.
Rex said: “Thank you, mon officier. If you can reach us soon after the shooting starts, we ought to be okay.”
Monclaire nodded.
“You can rely on that, mes legionnaires. Even now, two hundred men are assembled and waiting in their barrack rooms. Hold the Touaregs for ten minutes at the most, and we will be with you.”
He held out his hand. Even Pete looked slightly surprised as he shook it. It was an unusual gesture from an officer to the legionnaires.
And Monclaire added: “Your first obstacle will be to get over the barrack railings without being seen. Fortunately there is no moon, so you ought to have no trouble… bon chance.”
They saluted awkwardly in their robes.
Then they turned to the door and were gone.
The night was a well of blackness.
Only the outline of the barrack buildings gave them their position as they crossed the northern parade ground, skirted the rifle range where Tovak had died, and made for the rear railings.
The railings did not come into view until they were almost upon them.
They heard a heavy crunch of feet. They belonged to the sentry. And the sentry said: “It all clear is. But I a watch will keep.”
Rex and Pete recognised the syntax of Legionnaire Krormonn, the man from Hamburg. The plodding, conscientious Krormonn, had been ordered to help, although he had not been told exactly why. But, being a German, he accepted the order without concerning himself at all about the reason for it. Since the captain said he was to assist two legionnaires dressed as Arabs to climb over the rail—gut. If the captain had said he was to shoot the two legionnaires, then that would have been gut, also. Krormonn was a reliable soldier. But he had his limitations. Like a clock that needs frequent winding.
Rex and Pete took out their Piets and laid them just inside the rails. Pete bent almost double and Rex kneeled on his back. Then he stood upon it. From this height, but with some difficulty, Rex was able to get a hand grip round two of the top spikes. He pulled himself up until his legs were wedged on the uppermost parallel bar.
Very cautiously, he eased himself round so that he was facing towards the barracks. Then he let his legs fall free. For a moment he hung in space, then dropped to the ground. It was not a long drop, but it was a hard one because of the baked condition of the ground.
“Take it easy,” he warned Pete. “It’s a whole lot more difficult than it looks.”
Krormonn bent over to take Pete’s weight. And because the German was considerably under average height, Pete found that be could not reach anywhere near the top of the rails. He did the only thing possible. He flexed his legs, and using Krormonn’s back as a springboard, he jumped vertically. Krormonn uttered an obscene oath as he was forced off balance and, still holding his Lebel, crashed against the base of the rails.