The Mysteries of Algiers (7 page)

‘Our guests have a tight schedule. They have to be in Constantine by evening and cannot be with us long. Not all of you will have met them, though Major Quénault of our own Legion is I am sure familiar to us all – by reputation at least.’

Major Quénault grins wolfishly at us. A real thug, but a good man to have on your side in a brawl. The colonel continues -

‘I do not think that there is any need even to name the civilian participants at our meeting. It is enough to say that they represent a broad spectrum of interests in Algiers, Constantine and Oran. The fewer who know that we have been talking to them the better. It therefore seemed desirable that they confer with us here in the Security Panel rather than addressing the officers’ corps as a whole. For the same reason they will remain in this room until the moment their transport is ready to take them on to Constantine. I must say that in my conversations with them, I have become conscious that what they have to say is of the utmost importance for all our futures. Gentlemen, the Turks are at the gates of Constantinople!’

And at that moment Joinville does indeed resemble a Byzantine scholar who has been roused from deep contemplation of the Neoplatonic Triads by the roar of Turkish artillery beyond the walls. He mutely gestures to Raoul who takes the floor.

‘Thank you. I won’t waste your time. I know, Colonel, that you can answer for every man assembled here. We all have the best interests of France at heart. But what are those interests? I have now to ask you all in this room what, in your opinion, would the Legion’s attitude be if there were to be a breakdown in civil order in Algiers – having regard particularly to the possibility of civilian casualties among the
piednoir
population? I think that here we are envisaging the possibility of widespread demonstrations in the coming months. In such circumstances the future of white Algeria might hang on a knife edge.’

‘Here at Fort Tiberias, this is where Western civilization makes its stand,’ murmurs Joinville. ‘I only wish it were better worth defending.’

Raoul acknowledges this with a quick smile and continues –

‘More generally, I must ask would the army as a whole view with favour a new direction in the administration of metropolitan France? I do not think that anyone can be unaware of the widespread unease that is being caused by what some have termed “de Gaulle’s sell-out in Algeria”. We may deplore it, but we do not gain anything from ignoring the fact. There is talk in some quarters of the need for a demonstration in strength by responsible parties. Major Quénault has with him a list of para colonels which he will show you if required. The officers on that list have expressed concern about the dangers to public order and the possibility of civilian casualties in the sort of situation that we are envisaging. The gendarmerie won’t act to clear the streets unless they have their cover guaranteed by the army. It is not possible to envisage the use of conscripts against Frenchmen in the cities. So now, naturally, we have come down here to discover what the attitude of the Legion will be.’

Raoul sits down. The brilliant white eyes of the colonel swivel round the darkened room. Everyone is alert and they have been listening intently. Raoul’s speech was uncharacteristically circumspect, but we all know what he is talking about – insurrection,
coup d’état,
demonstrations by
pied-noir
militias and youth groups, designed to draw out the army into a proclamation that it cannot fire on the civilian population. This proclamation would in turn only be the prelude to a
coup
against de Gaulle and his ministers in mainland France. Our Fifth Compagnie Portée de la Legion may have a crucial role to play in all this. The words were turgid, mealy-mouthed even, but my fellow officers are sharing an unspoken vision with Raoul – of proclamations posted on the walls, pamphlets fluttering down from office blocks, barricades going up, tanks cruising down the streets. Yes, and then the heady days of successful revolution, the women hugging the troops and climbing on to the tanks with garlands of flowers, the indiscriminate gestures of affection and solidarity, the days of hope.

A traitor among the traitors, I sit listening to these men talking in pompous and measured terms of betraying their country, doomed muddlers having to consort with student agitators and over-excited grocers. It seems to me that the ghosts of Dien Bien Phu whisper from the shadows of the room calling on them to avenge the shame brought upon French arms in Indochina. I see here the slow step of the Legion towards disaster. They think that this decision will cleanse them of shame and indecision. But they have no understanding of the material bases of change or of the necessity for a revolutionary proletariat, so their putsch is really kitsch. Those who do not move in the direction in which the historical process is moving are condemned to impotence. I am not without compassion for them, but it will be as if their lives had never been.

Joinville too has his forebodings.

‘Too many Hungarians in this company,’ he mutters enigmatically.

Looking round the room, I can see that I am surrounded by friends. Been through good times and rough times with them. Shared quite a few beers. I am glad that I have had the courage to betray them. Some would say that with Rocroy in particular I have a bond, a thing created by words, but too strong for words. Rocroy has become for me in Algeria what Mercier was in Vietnam. Out in the Jebel hunting the fellagha, Rocroy and I have talked not only about families, fatigues and women, but ultimate things. We have talked until it might seem that we have truly reached the bottom of things (not the sort of talk one has with a woman), but yet there is always a false bottom to my mind. Rocroy and I share a smile across the table now. What I do not share with Rocroy is my knowledge of him as one of those engaged in maintaining through violence the expropriation and oppression of the miserable people to whom this land rightfully belongs. The roundups, the tortures, the rapes – a few beers and some disarming confidences aren’t going to change that.

For sure, some people would say that I have been brainwashed by the Viet Minh, but look at these men, the prisoners of their class and social circumstances! What is this freedom? Who is not conditioned? Life brainwashes everyone. My masters at the re-education centre at Lang Trang on the Gulf of Tonkin simply took out what my parents, the
lycée
and Saint-Cyr put in. In my opinion the result has been a considerable gain in objectivity.

Chantal is the only one to speak plainly. She speaks of giving the Reds and so-called liberal intellectuals a bloody nose. As she speaks Joinville cringes into his seat at the vulgarity of this plain talking. (The Joinvilles are old money, while the de Serkissians are of course new money.) Cutting her short, Joinville winds up our circumspect little plotters’ debate –

‘No final answer can be given at this meeting. It seems to me that we are always marching to the sound of an invisible drum. It is distant in the wilderness, but always audible if we but pause to really listen. It is not for me to say who plays that drum, but we must all consult our consciences and that is not a thing which is done in haste. Are there any more questions?’

Rocroy whispers to Delavigne that, yes, he would like to know when we are going to get on to the sand rose, scorpion and samovar, but Joinville does not hear this –

‘In that case we proceed to item two on the agenda.’

Well it is time now for me to present my report on the security – or rather lack of security – of communications between the fort and Algiers. My report is at least as dull as anything that has gone before. Privately I exult at being able to ladle all this rubbish out, but I take care to keep my voice as dull as my message. It is all in the most general terms. My report calls for a heightened awareness of security needs. Alarmism would be out of place and I emphasize the need for more time and cross-checking.

As I speak there is a lot of reaching for cigarettes and a lot of chair-scraping. I have taken pains to be known as a dull, plodding speaker. Colonel Joinville picks up the sand rose and begins to meditate on its prismatic surfaces.

I press on. Clearly opportunities have been missed and there have been some disturbing failures in recent counter-insurgency operations. The possibility of a double agent, even at the highest level within our ranks, cannot be categorically dismissed. A review will be necessary. It will be time-consuming. I have no clear recommendations. I merely remind those present of already existing security procedures. I would, of course, welcome comments or detailed questions from other members of the Security Panel or from our distinguished visitors.

‘I do not like long drawn-out security reviews and, in this case, I do not think one will be necessary,’ says Joinville without looking up from the sand rose which revolves in his hands. ‘Chantal, you have something to say I believe?’

Everyone sits up. Chantal has one of those voices which carry from one end of the Galeries Lafayette to the other.

‘I too share Captain Roussel’s unease and like him I have been going over the archives here and in Algiers, in the hope of discovering the source of the leaks that we all know are taking place. It is indeed a slow process of elimination and narrowing down. In my researches I found that again and again I was being let down by our intelligence records. I was not the first to have found this to be the case. I have formulated slowly, reluctantly and very tentatively the notion that it might not be that the defects of the filing system constituted an obstacle to the solution of the problem … rather they were a pointer to the answer to the problem.’

Listening to her, I feel a little queasy. Is it possible that when I thought that I was playing with her, she was playing with me?

She continues -

‘I have to say that I can draw no conclusions from all this. What I would recommend is that a fresh eye undertakes an overall investigation of the intelligence archives at Fort Tiberias. It is certainly possible that Captain Roussel and I are too close to the material for us to be able to resolve several puzzling features that I have noticed in them. I think it would also be helpful if all those involved in the collation of intelligence archives prepared reports on their work for …’

The bitch! The bitch! She has not actually said it, but everyone understands perfectly what it is she has not actually said. On the one hand, I think surely I can talk myself out of this. On the other hand, I think that Chantal has started a process which is slow but whose conclusion is inevitable. Events at the Security Panel move too slowly. It is time to give them a push. Action is always the answer.

‘My colonel, I have an answer for all this.’

Joinville looks up surprised from his contemplation of the sand rose. I let him see my Tokarev. Then I fire it. At this short range the shot sends him and the chair flying backwards. The sand rose shatters. Next, I shoot the big-shot tradesman Potier, simply because he is sitting next to me and I am in a panic that he will try to pull my gun away from me. After that it is impossible to be sure what I or anyone else is doing. People are diving for cover. I think my third shot, aimed at Chantal, went over her back. People are screaming. Someone else in the room, Rocroy possibly, has a gun and a shot ricochets off the ceiling. The siren on the courtyard wall has gone off and there is shouting outside too. The door swings open. There is only one trooper there. The other must have gone for help. I take the remaining one easily before he can get his rifle up to fire.

I start running down the corridor. Once round the corner I find Captain Desineux and six legionnaires coming in the opposite direction.

‘Captain Desineux, those civilians … there is an
FLN
suicide squad in the room … the colonel’s been shot. Have a guard put on the corridor. And I want men on the roof. And others on the wall opposite watching the windows.’

He finds it hard to take in, but he nods and I run on. Out in the courtyard, I see that I am not going to make it through the main gate. It is firmly bolted and a guard is already on alert there. I might try bluffing my way out through the gate, but I can’t see that it will work. I should like at least to return to the archive room and wreak some final damage there, but paper burns disappointingly slowly. Whether I leave here in a jeep or a coffin, I should like to have done as much damage as possible. So where now? What now? Think. Think.

Along the corridor to the laundry, halfway along the corridor I stop, look and see if anyone is coming either way. Then I slide against one of the walls and put my feet on the opposite one and push and wriggle. The corridor is four foot wide. With my back against one wall and my feet against the other I am levering myself up the passage towards the ceiling. There’s a space up there, eight feet up on the left-hand wall, I noticed some time ago – had no idea what use it would be. This ledge is narrow and goes up to the ceiling. I suppose that it was created by irregular boxing in of the laundry pipes. It is two foot wide, four foot long and about three foot high. It is not going to be comfortable. Indeed it resembles the detention cells we use for other ranks. I am going to spend the night here. While legionnaires tramp below I have time to think. It is all I have.

Now what the hell do I do? I listen to the legionnaires passing below me. Their snippets of conversation do not help. They have not been told much of anything really. They don’t know what has happened to the colonel or to me. We have not been seen. The gates of the fort are closed. All leave is cancelled. Most of the reconnaissance patrols have been cancelled too.

I stretch out on the ledge and think. It is my curse that I always think several things at once. So I think how am I ever going to come off this ledge and get out of here. But I also go over the events at the security meeting and I think about Chantal. There are never less than two chains of thought running simultaneously.

In the last three days I have tortured a man and then murdered him. I have killed three others. The colonel I sort of respected and liked and murdered. But murder is not murder when it is committed by an agent of the people. It is an execution. I have also systematically betrayed the woman I was sleeping with. But I consider myself superior to a woman like Chantal. I can appreciate her and her values. In a way I admire them I suppose, but I am also opposed to them.