John Robb - I Shall Avenge!

Gina said diffidently: “But she may be exceptional, capitaine . She has cause to hate us.”

“It only makes it worse. She has used these people as an instrument of her own grudge. But the background was there all the time. Do you remember where she comes from?”

“ Oui . Czechoslovakia.”

“Exactly. And she could not have left there without the approval of her government. Mon ami … I feel sure that she came here knowing that her husband could not leave the Legion until he had served his five years. She intended to use that as a means of causing as much trouble for us as possible. Then she found he was dead. She knew grief, oui . But she also saw a great opportunity. She is clever, is Madame Tovak. She has used her opportunity well.”

Monclaire broke off, as though realising that he might have said too much. He was not in the habit of conveying his private views to officers while on parade. But, on balance, he was glad he had spoken thus to Gina. The mere act of articulation had clarified points that had been dormant and confused in his mind.

He hád no doubt now that Annice Tovak was much more than a woman rendered crazed with shock and sorrow. Those emotions—although genuine enough—only stimulated and aided her in the work she had undertaken.

But now a more immediate problem had to be faced—the orderly evacuation of Sadazi.

He returned to the front of the file by way of the right flank. There the horse transport was assembled. This consisted of the mobile kitchen—smelling faintly of countless forgotten soupe stews—and the Red Cross wagon. The rear curtains of this were slightly apart. Through the aperture Colonel Jeux’s braided cap could be clearly seen.

In fact, it seemed as though the cap might fall out when the wagon moved. But Monclaire ignored the possible loss. He let it remain there on the edge of the floor, with a brandy bottle to keep it company.

Satisfied, Monclaire tucked his cane under his left arm and gave an order. It was repeated by Zatov, as the senior N.C.O. The three files made a left turn from the repos position.

“ Gare a vous !”

They turned to attention. Lebels were sloped. “ Avant ! Par droit …”

The sudden thythm of many marching feet was startling. The boots clashed hollowly and starkly on the hard surface, drowning for the moment the shouting of the Arabs.

The long column made a wheel towards the open gates. There the small remaining guard presented arms, then fell in at the rear of the horse transport.

The retreat had begun.

And as Monclaire led them out, chaos broke loose among the mob. The loathing of years found expression in a roar of obscenities. Fists and scimitars were brandished, a few stones were thrown.

The noise was like that of an unrelenting hurricane.

But not all the Arabs showed hate. Here and there were tongues that did not accuse, fists that did not threaten.

And one of those was an ancient crone. She had withered with the years, and now she was dry and ugly, like an old twig. But fires had been lit in her dim and rheumy eyes. Her quavering voice trembled above the tumult.

“Oh, you foolish ones,” she called to those who pressed around her. “You children of evil…”

Some of the mob, realising that she was not declaiming the soldiers, became quiet and listened.

“You embrace your own damnation,” she told them. “I—I who am older than any of you, can tell of the days before the French came among us! I can tell of the time when no Arab of the alleys was safe from the slave traders… when our lives could be taken to give sport to a sheikh! But the French ended such things, I tell you! When the French came to Morocco, the weak were protected from the strong and all men found justice…

“Now—now you drive away the shield that has guarded you and you find joy in your own future sorrows…”

Her old voice faded and cracked. There was laughter among the mob. Malicious laughter. Then they turned again to the pleasure of jeering at the departing Legion.

Clong !

Midnight.

Most of the hostages were sleeping in hot and hard discomfort. But a few were awake.

“…what’s that row going on outside…?”

“…sounds like some native festival…”

“…perhaps they’re going to let us out of here…”

“…we’ve got to be released sometime. I mean, even the Legion can’t remain in ignorance of this outrage forever…”

“…y’know, I think the garrison’s had the infernal cheek to go on a route march. I’m sure I heard marching feet…”

“…and they gave me a book in the tourist office. It said something about visiting a real Foreign Legion base in comfort…”

“I might as well die now and be finished with it. With my asthma, I’ll never be normal again…”

Annice Tovak adjusted the unfamiliar robes. She found the garments uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous. But it had been a good decision to wear them. She must identify herself as closely as possible with the outward characteristics of the people. If the ordinary Touareg women did not wear such rich robes as hers, Annice did not worry.

Some distinction was necessary for a leader.

She continued to gaze out of the window as the column marched past.

Here, she decided, was her greatest accomplishment. She had caused dissension and violence in many parts of Europe—but this, her first visit to Africa, had produced the supreme result. It had been a masterstroke to send her to Sadazi when it was discovered that Kriso was stationed there in the Legion.

For then two motions were combined into an irresistible whole—her loyalty to the Cause and her love for her husband. But the Cause came first.

Perhaps… yes, perhaps it was even worth losing Kriso for such a victory as this.

Not, she told herself, that Kriso would have seen it that way. He had always been weak, timid.

It was that which made him appeal to her. She was strong, and she liked to give him the protection of that strength. It was a pity, but she had never met a man who could dominate her, or outwit her

Never… unless…

There was that damned Frenchman… Monclaire…

He had been hard to break. He had courage, but not much cunning. That had been Monclaire’s weakness.

And now, there he was.

Marching at the head of the retreating garrison. Defeated without a shot being fired.

She turned to Adaa.

“Send for the two legionnaires. I want them to see this,” she said.

She waited impatiently, for she did not want them to miss the spectacle. Her face was glowing with anticipation when four armed Touaregs escorted Rex and Pete into the room. She noted that their wrists had been bound. That was good. She knew the type. They were capable of attempting anything.

“Come here,” she said, “and look…”

Rex and Pete were pushed towards the window. She watched their faces as they stared down at the long column and at the jeering, jostling mob.

Rex compressed his lips and his eyes narrowed. He whispered a lurid Brooklyn deprecation. But Pete offered no reaction. His features remained bland, as though he were taking a polite interest in a rather tedious ceremonial parade.

She said: “Look on it well! They are going. And you are alone. They have deserted you, for the sake of a handful of worthless civilians—the civilians who will slay you within a few hours.”

Pete slowly turned his head towards her.

He said: “Madame, you’re much too melodramatic. Frankly, we find you rather a bore.”

Like many Englishmen of his background, Pete could be supremely insulting. He emphasised that fact as he added: “I believe that condemned men are usually granted a last request. I’ll make mine now. I want you to take that preposterous robe off. It’s not at all impressive, I assure you. In fact, you look as if you’re about to take a bath.”