He blurted back: “I don’t care—you can cut me to pieces. I still won’t do it…!”
A woman rushed to him and put her arms round his neck. She was short and fat. They made an unlovely pair. But there was no doubt of the affection which existed between them. She wept, and he tried to console her with meaningless mumblings.
Annice watched. Then she shrugged her shoulders. She had obviously come to a decision.
She said: “I don’t want to see any exhibitions of mock heroism when the time comes for the execution I have planned. And so I can be sure that you will all be a little more docile, I am going to have our friend killed now—in front of you.”
The woman screamed as a Touareg dragged her away. The Touareg with the knife smiled and tested the blade on his brown hand. The Man With Asthma blinked several times in rapid succession, as though trying to wake from a nightmare. But he did not cringe or cower away.
It was Pete who halted the horror. He said to Annice: “Let me talk to them… I think I can persuade them not to be silly.”
She looked surprised. But she nodded.
“Very well. If you think you can give courage to your own executioners, do so.”
Pete paused to collect his thoughts and to still the emotions he would never have revealed. Then he said: “I want you to know that you will gain nothing by refusing to shoot us. We would die in any case. You must do as she says, and then I think your lives will be preserved.”
The Man With Asthma wheezed dramatically.
“We can’t do it—there are limits!”
Pete smiled at him. It was a friendly smile.
“You can do it, and you must. If you die you leave your families alone in this place. When we die, we leave nothing and no one. My friend and I came here knowing the risk. We are paid to take risks. If you aim well and true when the time comes, we’ll have no cause to complain.”
Rex nodded assent.
Then they looked at each other—the hostages and the two legionnaires. The Man With Asthma said: “I’ve—I’ve never really done anything worth while since the day I was born. I’ve had things too easy. I—I thought that…”
Pete broke in gently.
“I know how you feel. But what you say is not true. You have done something worthwhile. A few seconds ago you were faced with a terrible death and you did not run away… You may never have worn a uniform sir, but you would be a good soldier in any army.”
The Man With Asthma was near to tears. But he straightened his flabby shoulders. He pulled in his paunch. And he saluted with the wrong hand as Rex and Pete were pushed out of the cellar.
The staff officers at Algiers had dined well and wined well. In the mess there was an atmosphere of mellow content. Of satisfaction with the past and confidence in the future.
They had been discussing informally the difficulties of guarding the new oil lines in places where they ran through hostile territory. The Tutana area, of course, was a special problem. Interesting, too. Full of unusual strategical and tactical considerations. And, although it was now past midnight, they were loath to let the matter drop.
At the General’s suggestion they repaired to the map room.
And there, the recently promoted General Panton, formerly commandant at Dini Sadazi, switched on the wall lights. They illuminated the mile-to-the-inch scale plan of North Morocco. The less elevated staff officers gathered round as the General picked up a cane and prepared to explain.
“In Sadazi, gentlemen, we have the advantage of a secure and well equipped forward base,” he announced. “A glance at the map…”—there was an agonising pause while he searched, desperately for Sadazi and an audible sigh of relief when the pointer alighted on the name—“…a glance will show us that any hostility from the Touaregs can be promptly dealt with by the garrison there…”
He cleared his throat and paused heavily. His satellites stared raptly at his flaccid face, as though hoping that even his features might project some jewels of military wisdom.
“…Indeed, as you know, gentlemen, a column leaves from Sadazi for Tutana within a few hours. The orders went to Colonel Jeux yesterday, and we may rely on him to put them into prompt and efficient effect…”
The fruity voice went on, and on—and still on.
But when at last General Panton was in his room, he permitted himself his nightly luxury. He enacted an imaginary scene in which he, General Panton, played a leading and heroic part.
He was being called into the presence of the President of France.
Panton stood to attention before his bed while listening to a non-existent voice congratulating him on the manner in which he had secured the oil lines.
Monsieur le President said: “By your skilful dispositions and your constant inspiration to those serving under you, you have brought glory to France and security to the Western world.”
To Panton, that voice was real. It was not his own bed he was staring at. It was a gilded chair on a dais in which sat the supreme head of State.
And Panton replied aloud: “Your Excellency is more than kind. It is more than a poor soldier deserves.”
He blushed modestly. Then his right hand opened and closed, as if threatened by palsy. But, to Panton’s vivid imagination, the motion signified that he was receiving the baton of a Marshal of France.
He saluted the empty bed. He acknowledged the polite applause of the glittering assembly.
Then he undressed, put on his pyjamas, and retired for the night.
CHAPTER 12
COUNTER-STROKE
Dawn.
Monclaire rubbed a hand over his haggard and unshaven face. He looked over the undulations of red sand. Beyond the clusters of cactus and camel-thorn. He tried to pierce the impossible distance, the five miles that lay between where he and his men had bivouacked and Dini Sadazi.
If only he could see what was happening there…
Lieutenant Gina came up to him, rubbing his eyes. Gina, it seemed, had been able to get some sleep in the three hours since they had made camp. In that respect he was more fortunate than Monclaire, who had waited and wondered through the dark and lonely hours.
Gina said nervously: “I shouldn’t worry too much, capitaine.”
Monclaire scowled at him.
“I really don’t need your fatuous attempts at consolation,” he said sharply.
Gina flushed a rich pink, and Monclaire immediately regretted the unjustified reprimand.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I’m tired. And I don’t like this. Never before have I had to wait like this without being able to do anything. It does not seem natural. And with so much in the balance…”
He ended with a Gallic gesture of the hands.
Gina glanced towards the long, orderly lines of sleeping men and the few sentries who walked between them.
“Shall we strike camp?” he asked. “It’s nearly seven o’clock.”
“Oui. We start to march exactly on the hour. The timing must be precisely correct.”
“It will be correct,” Gina said, in the sure knowledge that Monclaire would make it so.
Pete looked at his watch. It was a British Army issue, big and accurate. One of his few souvenirs of happier days.
“Nearly seven o’clock,” he said.
Rex, who was sitting propped against the wall, grunted. His brow was furrowed.
He said: “Y’know, I just can’t understand Monclaire quitting the town like that. I know there was nothing else he could do—maybe. But just the same, it isn’t like him. That guy just isn’t the sort who quits.”
“Not in the ordinary way, he isn’t. But he’s never faced a situation like this before, and neither has anyone else.”