The Mysteries of Algiers E-Book

Robert Irwin

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

A novel about the psychology of terrorism set in algiers in 1959. "Entertaining and very nasty, this calculatedly intellectual comedy succeeds well as an unheroic quest starring Philippe, an interesting monster of disarming modesty." The Listener

Leseprobe

Contents

Title

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

About the Author

Copyright

Chapter One

ALGIERS, 8 SEPTEMBER 1959

Necessary and inexcusable, that is how murder appeared to them. Mediocre minds, confronted by this terrible problem, can take refuge by ignoring one or other of the terms of the dilemma. They are content, in the name of formal principles, to find all direct violence inexcusable and then to sanction that diffuse form of violence which takes place on the scale of world history …

Mercier was pretending to read Camus. He found the pretence very hard and, every now and again, it was forgotten and he found himself engaged with the actual text. An essay could be written about pretending to read serious books. Perhaps Camus should write it? Perhaps Mercier should write to Camus about it?

A man who thinks that he is going to Fort Tiberias will find it difficult to concentrate on such stuff. Mercier had arrived off the plane from Paris on Friday at midday. He had stood blinking on the overheating tarmac and marvelled at the sharpness of everything – the air-control tower hacked out in hard-edged white against the brilliant blue sky, the stunning yellow hills in the distance and the fierce profiles of the Arab porters. Then a young woman had emerged from the shadows of baggage control and hustled him through it. He had hardly had time to assure himself that she was his appointed contact from the Section de la Documentation Extérieure et du Contre-éspionnage before she had hurried him into the car and set off, driving at top speed towards the city. Since she was both pretty and intelligent-looking, Mercier had tried to engage her in conversation. It did not go well.

‘Since Indochina I have mostly worked on diplomatic security. This sort of work is all going to be strange to me and this will be my first assignment in Algeria.’

‘I know, but you were specifically asked for.’

Since she seemed disposed to say nothing more, he tried again.

‘I have often thought that an educated man’s first impressions of a place are likely to be filtered and shaped by what he has read. For instance, as I look through the window now I am not sure whether I am looking at the real road into Algiers, or Gide’s road to Algiers.’

‘That sucker of African cocks!’

She laughed. It really ought to have been an ugly laugh, but Mercier had to admit that it was not. She gave Mercier a swift glance.

‘I should not take Gide as a guide to our country. Let me warn you, if you are that way inclined, it is better to go to Tangiers. Here, it has been known for the FLN to use the Arab boys as decoys, and you are liable to end up smiling the Kabyle smile. Besides, I bet you don’t find that in Gide …’

The car had had to move out into the middle of the road to avoid a column of Arabs with their hands on their heads who were being shepherded by steel-helmeted troops on to an army lorry.

‘But if you have never read Gide –’

‘Let me concentrate on my driving.’

Mercier was reduced to studying the car’s documentation, and from this at least he learned that his driver’s name was Chantal de Serkissian. She put him off at the SDECE building in the rue de Sarras. She was about to drive off, but he clung to the car door.

‘Mademoiselle, I assure you, I am not “that way inclined”. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night? Perhaps, since you know the town, you could suggest the place?’

She refused but countered with an invitation to a beach party the following day. Then he went in to see his briefing officer.

Castiglione was forty-six kilometres outside Algiers and Mercier had had to hire a car to get himself there. The beach was covered with lean brown bodies like a fauvist design for a ballet and he had found her only with difficulty. There was no opportunity for serious conversation. He had been roped into a game of football with the young men, while the girls watched and sang songs, disposed upon the beach like so many sirens. A lifeguard and two paras with sub-machineguns watched over it all. Languid girls and muscle-flexing young men, they were all posing and telling lies with their bodies. Mercier, pale and grey, felt uncomfortable, open to their examination. In the evening, they wandered about as a gang on the boulevard. There wasn’t much to see, just the Monument aux Morts and the aquarium. Outside the aquarium there was a poster advertising the forthcoming screening of Cocteau’s Orphée at the Bardo cinema in Algiers.

‘I must see that film again. Maria Casarès is a friend of mine. I have only met Cocteau once but –’

Chantal leant wearily against the wall of the aquarium.

‘Another bumboy. Cocteau’s attempt to raise trick photography to an art form has been applauded by all those who … who … Oh damn! I have forgotten how the rest goes.’

Chantal was reciting with her eyes shut.

‘That is a quotation?’ Mercier had asked.

‘Not one of your Paris intellectuals. Captain Roussel said it, but I can’t remember the rest of what he said.’

‘This is Captain Roussel of the Fifth Compagnie Portée de la Légion?’

‘Yes, him.’

‘But I know him. He is one of the few people out here that I was hoping to get in touch with.’

Philippe and Mercier had worked on the survey of the Plain of Jars, been involved in counter-insurgency operations in the Bay of Tonkin area and had fought together at Dien Bien Phu, actually shoulder to shoulder. But they had parted company after Indochina when Mercier had been seconded out to the SDECE in Paris.

Chantal opened her eyes. She was all animation and surprise.

‘What a chance! We know Captain Roussel too! Daddy is giving a big dinner party tomorrow – a formal dress affair. Philippe will be there. Why don’t you come too? I love hearing veterans going over their wars.’

Yet it seemed to Mercier that there was something studied in her animation, and something plotted and predatory, too, in the way in which she now took his arm.

It is one of the problems of working in intelligence that one’s work gives one little to talk about at dinner parties. The dinner had been disappointing from Mercier’s point of view. Philippe had embraced him on arrival, but was stiffer and more reserved than Mercier remembered. They didn’t refight the Indochina campaign that evening, for there had been another guest at table, a sharp young Algiers lawyer, at least ten years their junior, Raoul somebody. Raoul and Philippe had locked horns over the conduct of the present war – or containment operation as Philippe pompously called it. In the course of the evening, Philippe had given ground and was driven to rely on claims that he was only a simple soldier who obeyed orders. But if Raoul ran rings round Philippe, it still seemed to Mercier that Raoul was the prisoner of his own cleverness.

Mercier enjoyed intellectual debate, but this just seemed like two men playing chicken and trying to force each other to the outside edge of the pavement. Come to that why didn’t the soldier and the right-wing lawyer just clear a space on the table and arm wrestle? In Indochina the soldiers used to make it more exciting by holding upturned knives behind the clenched hands, so that the loser’s hand would slowly but surely be impaled. Surely Chantal was bright enough to have become a little bored with the garrison population of Algiers and what passed for its intelligentsia?

Chantal went over to sit beside her father and demurely rested her head on his shoulder while he praised his daughter’s shooting to the other guests. But after he had retired early to bed, she produced an exotically carved cigarette holder. The dress she was wearing – an extraordinary Schiaparelli creation, low cut and of pink silk – and the way she brandished her cigarettes, made Mercier think of an adventuress. He told her this and she looked pleased. The row between Philippe and Raoul thundered on. Mercier mocked their swagger and their uncompromisingness. He had told Chantal that beneath the formalities of political debate, what they were actually engaged in was a competitive demonstration of brute male strength – a not very subtle way of impressing women, using their inflexible logic as a method of social oppression. He had gone on to quote something from de Beauvoir’s La Deuxième Sexe at her.

Chantal had looked impatient and tossed her head.

‘Who on earth is oppressing me? But all this political talk is boring me.’ She clapped her hands and an attendant came running up. ‘Boy! I am going for a swim. Get me my swimming things and have Hamid put the pool lights on.’

Chantal strode off towards the changing cabins, and a little later some of the younger guests followed her into the pool. She took pity on him only as he was leaving.

‘I’m sorry if I seemed rude, but it was so hot and I wanted to swim. I’m sorry about this evening, but, as you will swiftly discover, things are not what they seem. I don’t know if Philippe has told you, but the office will tell you tomorrow. He’s fixed it for you to do a short assignment in Algiers and then for you to come and join him at Fort Tiberias. I have work down there too. Perhaps down there, next week, we can talk about books and things …’ she tailed off vaguely.

So now he was on Philippe’s little assignment, pretending to read Camus, actually shadowing al-Hadi. There were plenty of distractions in the café – a pair of youths noisily exulting over their triumphs at the pinball machine, a repulsive small boy crawling under the tables pretending to be a dog, and a very pretty girl sitting directly opposite him. And there was the clack of dominoes, and the radio blaring out. There had just been a five-minute blast of martial music. Doubtless they were being prepared for another important announcement from Metropolitan France, from General ‘Manifest Destiny’ himself. The view from the windows was of the harbour and of the corniche road towards the casino. Thick brown clouds had been rolling in over the sea since midday and it was very sultry. Mercier’s shirt clung to him like a wet facecloth and he felt the pressure in his head spreading to the muscles at the back of his neck. Every few minutes or so he found himself infuriated with all these distractions and equally frequently he had to pull himself up and remind himself that he was not supposed to be reading the book anyway. He wished that he had brought a less interesting book along with him. Between Camus’s arguments and the diversions of the café, he was constantly distracted from his real business.

Al-Hadi sat at the bar. A brown-paper parcel was parked at the foot of the stool. Al-Hadi had been in the café for almost half an hour now, but as far as Mercier could see, he had made no contact with anyone. Unless perhaps it was the barman who supplied him with Pernod. He had not expected that al-Hadi would turn out to be a drunk. Even if he proved after all not to be a runner for the FLN, it was still the case that al-Hadi was not a city Arab, but a Sahrawi and few of the Sahrawis had a developed taste for alcohol.

But perhaps al-Hadi was only pretending to get drunk, just as Mercier was pretending to read Camus and the small boy was pretending to be a dog? And perhaps also the noisy bluster of the two youths at the pinball was designed to conceal their homosexuality? And the barman a police informer? And the pretty girl a transvestite prostitute? For sure, this bar and every bar and every place on earth was full of people pretending to be what they were not. Drunks pretending to be sober, introverts pretending to be extroverts, petits bourgeois pretending to be upper class, unhappily married women pretending to be happily married. Algiers, specifically, was a city of frightened people pretending not to be frightened. Disguises and pretence, then, were hardly what distinguished agents from other people. What was extraordinary about Mercier’s trade was that he was supposed to tell lies in order to discover the truth. Why should we all spend our lives telling lies? Mercier was very depressed.

Al-Hadi was believed to carry information from Fort Tiberias to the FLN command cell in Algiers. Whenever Mercier thought of his forthcoming assignment to Fort Tiberias, a heavy ball of sick fear began to gather in his stomach. Mercier knew what danger was. The difference between him and Philippe was that Mercier thought about what he was doing, and that he did not think that the end of winning the war in Algeria justified the use of any and every means, no matter how foul. Algeria should be policed with honour and compassion. If, and only if, it could not be held thus, then it should be relinquished. Fort Tiberias’s reputation as an interrogation centre was exceeded only by that of the Zeralda Barracks outside Algiers (and this itself may have been because fewer of those questioned at Fort Tiberias survived to complain about their experiences).

The small boy under the table, pretending to be a dog, had fixed his teeth into Mercier’s trousers. Mercier shook him off impatiently. What was honour? The Arabs regarded their women as the vessels of their honour. Reputation among women, that was the only thing that counted among the men. Secret vessels of honour, the folds of their white gondourahs clenched between their teeth, gold ornaments clinking with every step, the women who walked on their roofs by night and called to one another across the narrow streets. He tried to imagine Chantal or the girl sitting opposite him resigning themselves to becoming shrouded vessels of honour. The hoarse mocking laughter, the shrill ululations of triumph … No, it was impossible. Then in an effort not to think about Chantal, he looked down at his book.

It is a well-known fact that we always recognize our homeland when we are about to lose it. Those whose self-torments are too great are those whom their homeland rejects. I have no desire to be brutal …

This time a sports car pulling up outside the café pulled him away from his book. A young man and his girl got out and, with their beach robes draped negligently over their shoulders, entered the bar. Yacht club people. It was a timely distraction, for as his eyes followed them to the counter, Mercier realized that while he had been reading and alternately brooding, a row had broken out between al-Hadi and the proprietor. Al-Hadi was shouting in Arabic. The proprietor obviously had no idea at all what it meant. Neither did Mercier. Then al-Hadi was showering money on the counter, many coins and quite a few notes – more than the price of a few drinks. Al-Hadi appeared to lose patience and, stooping low to retrieve the brown-paper parcel from the floor, he thrust it into the baffled proprietor’s arms. Then he gathered his long white robes around him like an affronted woman and flounced out of the café.

There was no need for Mercier to follow. There would be another tail waiting round the corner, waiting to see where al-Hadi’s trail led them next. Mercier waited for a couple of minutes. Then he put the book down, apologized to the pretty girl for moving the table out a little, and started towards the proprietor. The flash was so brilliant, he could not see the proprietor. His feet were somewhere not on the floor. Something seemed to be flooding his ears. He closed his eyes to think more clearly. When he opened them again, he saw without surprise that he was covered in blood and dust was drifting down to settle on the blood. He wondered if the blood was his. Probably not, he thought, that girl beside me has lost both her legs. It’s probably her blood. He closed his eyes again and waited for the sirens.

Chapter Two

FORT TIBERIAS, 20 SEPTEMBER

This was the third rock ’n’ roll session. Al-Hadi was stripped and bound with leather straps to the wooden plank, which we had tipped at an angle of 45 degrees. As for the two leads of the field telephone, one went up his nostril and the other we had fixed to the tip of his penis with Scotch tape. Crocodile clips would have been better, but we didn’t have any. The current surged up again, and al-Hadi rocked and rolled. The eyes dilated and bulged as if the skull was going to spit his eyeballs out at us. We took the current back down, and I ran over my notes. Mercier’s last moments must have been pretty much as I had them reconstructed on my clipboard, though there is no certainty in such things. A story created under close questioning, and in which pain has been used, not mindlessly, but as a technique for investigating the truth – it will achieve results, but they are not necessarily entirely reliable.

Anyway, we are not especially interested in Mercier’s last moments. According to Colonel Joinville, the first thing we want from al-Hadi is what or who was his source of information here, deep in the Sahara, information so valuable that the FLN command cell in Algiers needed and could risk al-Hadi’s irregular but frequent runs to the coast. Second, who could have tipped him off that there was a tail on him that day? Third, how did al-Hadi know that the middle man in the chain of shadows was not some low-grade trainee or gendarme in plain clothes, but Mercier, the man who had been due to take over security here? Mercier was in on the shadowing operation only to familiarize himself with al-Hadi’s appearance. Half an hour or an hour on the job – that should have been all, but within half an hour of sighting al-Hadi he was dead.

The lieutenant and I are both shivering. This is not a pleasant working environment. The solitary light bulb is protected by a wire grille and its tight meshwork casts odd shadows over the buckets of water and other stuff on the floor. Packing cases are piled high against three of the walls. I have to share this room with the ordnance section. The lieutenant rarely looks at the prisoner or at the mess around us. Instead his gaze drifts upwards to a point on the wall above al-Hadi’s head where Brigitte Bardot and Suzy Delair flash their saucy bottoms at us. Such pin-ups are Scotch-taped all over the fort – in the lockers, on the jeeps, even on some of the guns. I remember, in Indochina, thinking how odd it was that the Viet Minh had no pin-ups. Men and women, their partisans fought shoulder to shoulder – and I guess now that the fellagha hiding up in the mountains, hundreds of miles to the north of Fort Tiberias, have no pin-ups either. It is not the torture but the pin-ups that signify that the Legion is going to lose this war too.

But now another puzzle for Joinville – if al-Hadi knew he was going to be tailed, what suicidal impulse made him bring a bomb out with him on his ramble through the streets of Algiers? He must have known that he would be picked up afterwards – as indeed he was, ten minutes later, after a short chase. There had been five dead in the bar and twelve wounded. Also two gendarmes had to be hospitalized after injuries sustained protecting al-Hadi from the pied-noir mob which swiftly gathered around the arrest.

Al-Hadi looks at me. It is such a look! I can imagine the lieutenant thinking to himself, ‘This is the look of complicity that passes between the torturer and the tortured. There is a bond here.’ Perhaps there is such a bond. Al-Hadi understands why I must torture him and I already know why al-Hadi had to kill Mercier.

‘Do not think that I do not know what you are going through,’ I tell our prisoner. ‘I am a man like you and I can tell you. As the current begins to ease up there will be an unpleasant tingling, bearable at first, but soon you will be out of control. You will be grateful for the gag, but I am afraid there is nothing we can do to prevent you damaging your wrists still further on the leather straps. You don’t even know what damage you are doing to your body as one electric explosion after another fills your head. And, when the gag comes out … in the end, you must say exactly what I want you to say. As you can see, I am not in any hurry. So now, we come to your marriage. This woman of yours, this Zora, how often does she come to your bed? Or do you go to hers? Is she circumcised? Does she shave down there? Do you kiss? You know, I have never seen an Arab kiss his woman. If we bring her in, will we have a good time? What do you think, if we bring her in, will we have a good time? You are going to tell us everything. Nothing will be left to our imagination. In any case, as you can see, Schwab has no imagination.’

The interrogation was going slowly. I was deliberately taking it slowly. Schwab, the lieutenant standing beside me, was looking increasingly restive and sulky. I have explained to him that the nature of the Arab mentality is such that if we can get al-Hadi to talk about his wife and his private life, if we can break into the filthy harem of his mind, and get him to talk about it, then he will talk about anything. He will indeed be a broken man.

To Joinville, the commanding officer at Fort Tiberias, I should rather put it that I was engaged in a rare form of person to person anthropology. But I doubt if I shall have to justify the slowness of my procedures to Colonel Joinville. As far as our colonel is concerned, it is not the results achieved by torture that are valuable, but rather the torture itself. Torture is precisely the forcing engine for bringing the benighted races of the world to civilization, part of the melancholy passage from childhood to maturity for the happy-go-lucky blacks and feckless Arabs.

‘Pain,’ Joinville says, ‘is not a penalty. It is part of civilization – indeed it is at its heart. The European peoples have had to suffer in order to attain to reason and obedience. Now it is time for the others to follow in our footsteps. Civilization is not a fun palace. It is indeed a miserable affair. Yet they have asked for it and we must respond to their request.’

Though the colonel is much admired by the men who serve under him, he is not exactly popular. For one thing he, like me, believes that the French are going to lose this war. An officers’ briefing rarely goes by without him pointing out that there must be a certain nobility in the defence of a cause that is lost.

‘We have enrolled in the ranks of Hector while the FLN have taken the side of Achilles. It would take a subtle man to determine who has chosen the better part.’

And again, while Joinville’s ruthlessness is admired, it takes many peculiar forms.

‘We burn their douars, we rape their women, we confiscate their crops, we carry out the necessary exemplary executions and we round up those who are left into what I can only call concentration camps. These wretches suffer for us. God has chosen the Algerian Arab to suffer for the sins of France, but God must hate the French very much to let our Algerians suffer so …’

In any event, it is clear that Joinville would sympathize with my stated intention to break into this man’s head. But I have a different story for everyone.

I had been thinking that Schwab didn’t like the business with the Scotch tape – that he was one of those that didn’t like touching Arabs. Then it occurs to me that he may have compunctions about ‘deep questioning’, and that this series of interrogations may be his first. Such virgins are increasingly rare these days.

‘Pissed off, lieutenant?’

‘You can say that again.’

I steeled myself to give the standard pep talk.

‘Not all army work is pleasant. Very little of it is. Come on – you saw the pictures. That girl will be a freak on two stumps for the rest of her life. Have you heard one word of regret for that from this creature? I’ve seen it before. When the ambulances come the Arabs cheer and their children pelt the stretchers with stones and the women stand on the roofs making their damn youyou noises. You cannot stand back and do nothing. That is not on offer. If you are alive today and still alive in two years’ time when your service is up, it will be because somewhere – somewhere and sometime – I don’t know when – one of our men has submitted one of theirs to deep questioning and he has discovered the cache of landmines, one of which would otherwise have blown up you and your jeep. Face it. You can’t ride on the backs of your fellow officers with a fine liberal conscience. Your life here is not a gift. It has to be worked for.’

He looks obstinate.

‘I do not like your way of torture.’

‘This is not torture. Well of course it is, in a loose sense. There is no point in mincing words in the Legion. It is torture in the sense that pain is applied to extract precise points of information. But it is not torture in the sense that the communists practise it. They use horrible methods to break a man’s spirit, to make him into a zombie who will renounce anything, denounce anything. But here we respect a man’s physical and moral integrity. Am I right, lieutenant?’

He looks doubtful. And I am about to try my ‘I would not ask any of my prisoners to undergo anything that I have not myself undergone’ line. In my case it is more or less true. After the fall of Dien Bien Phu, I spent ten grim weeks in a special detention camp outside Lang Trang. But he breaks in –

‘All right, it is probably necessary to put a little extra pressure on this man, but it is a dirty business. Could we not get it over with, in his interests and ours? Could we not go a little faster?’

‘Faster?’

‘You keep going over the shitty business over and over again. The bomb factory, the Bar des Ottomans, and so on, and now all this stuff about his childhood and his family, and his work, and who were his neighbours ten years ago and such shit and more detailed shit. It makes my flesh creep to watch him screaming, while you try to piece together his earliest memories of childhood – as it were.’

‘Know the mind of the enemy, lieutenant. Know the mind of the enemy – not just what is in it, but how what is in it got there in the first place, and what the enemy will do with what it is that is in his mind. We must know the mind of the enemy better than the enemy knows it himself. It is the only way that we can win this war.’

‘Well, I can accept that I suppose –’

‘You’d better!’

‘– but we seem so close to a breakthrough on what we really want to know. But then you bring the current down again, and start the questioning and then when you’ve got him confused and he’s about to make a slip, then it’s back on with the current. With respect I am fucked off with it all.’

‘Lieutenant, you are new to interrogation technique, aren’t you?’

He nods stiffly.

‘That is all right with me. I’ve been working with these techniques since ’55. Lesson 1: If you are going to use the magneto, there is no point in shooting up to top voltage from the start and keeping it there. While the voltage is on the poor guy just tries to swallow the gag, and when the switch is off he is too dazed senseless to speak. No, you work through gradations of pressure and fear. It is a matter of finesse. Finesse.’

During all this our voices have got lower and lower, conscious of al-Hadi’s baleful eyes trained on our dispute. Disturbed, I turn away from the lieutenant and put my hand on the field telephone. Al-Hadi cries out, ‘If you put me through that again, I’ll tell all.’

‘That is what we want, isn’t it, lieutenant?’

My eyes are back on the lieutenant now. He doesn’t like me. He does not respect me even. Well, I am used to it. Al-Hadi has switched to Arabic and is jabbering away. The lieutenant seems to understand no Arabic. The voltage is pushed up a little way and then stops, for the corporal has poked his head around the door. He is careful not to see our detainee.

‘Captain, there is a lady …’

‘A woman, corporal. A woman. We don’t interrogate ladies.’

‘No, I mean … to see you. She insists that she has a right to be down here. She has a pass, but it’s not a military one and I told her that she –’

‘I assure you, captain, I am all woman.’

‘Lieutenant, get Mademoiselle de Serkissian out of here.’

Schwab is already at the foot of the stair, blocking her way. Chantal waves her SDECE pass and tries to peer over Schwab’s shoulder to see what is going on.

Al-Hadi switches back to French.

‘Help! Madame, help me! Tell them what you see down here. They are killing me … Tell the newspapers.’

I lean over the prisoner and suggest that he shouts a little louder. Chantal has no ears for the prisoner. She has been engaged in a polite struggle with my lieutenant, trying to push past him, but it is not possible to sustain a polite struggle for any length of time. They smile sheepishly at one another and Chantal allows herself to be conducted upstairs. If I leave them alone for long enough she will be suggesting that Schwab should look in on her some evening to see her stamp collection. Poor fool, the proposal will not mean what he will think it means. I am not in fact displeased at this new interruption of our interrogation and I absently pat al-Hadi on the head.

‘Take a rest. I’m impressed.’

Then I go upstairs to simulate the displeasure I do not feel. She and Schwab are talking animatedly in the corridor. The stamp collection for sure. Telling Schwab to take a break, I take Chantal by the arm and steer her outside.

‘This is my investigation and it stays that way.’

Out in the sunlight of the parade ground she puts on her broad brimmed floppy hat and sunglasses. She looks like a masked cavalier.

‘Your interrogation procedures,’ she sighs. ‘They are all so sordid.’

‘Sordid is how you see it. The enemy doesn’t think that torture is sordid. “The fires of torture lit by our imperialist oppressors are the fires that purify our revolution.” ’

‘Shit on their purified revolution. It’s sordid.’

‘Oh well, interrogation’s not my job usually. I’m only in on this one because it was Mercier who got killed.’

‘Oh, I know, but all that translation and filing, that’s so dreary too!’ Her lip curls in mock petulance. ‘Anyway, Mercier was my friend too … even if I didn’t like him very much.’

‘Your message?’

‘Message …? Oh yes, the message! The security review meeting has been brought forward a week, so it’s the day after tomorrow and it will take place here, not at Laghouat. There will be several unscheduled guests sitting in and a new item on the agenda.’ She fishes in her handbag and produces a brown envelope. ‘It’s all in here, except that while you will probably recognize our military guest, the civilians – there are three of them – will only reveal their true identities in the meeting. Anyway, the colonel expects you to sort out clearances and find accommodation for these three pseudonymous gentlemen.’

‘We are holding the meeting in the fort for reasons of unusual security, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about item one on the agenda?’

‘It’s item two now. First we have to listen to whatever the paras and these civilian gents may have for us.’

‘But, Chantal, item two raises the possibility of a high-ranking traitor within Fort Tiberias itself! That’s not going to impress our security-conscious guests. And it is even possible that the traitor, if there is one, may be sitting in on the discussion of item one, whatever it may be.’

She smiles uncertainly, then shrugs. Chantal, like me, works on intelligence records, but her main area of responsibility is tracking deserters. When harkis go on the run, these Muslim troops tend to take themselves and their weapons straight to the nearest FLN battalion. Of course, it is Military Intelligence’s job to work out which FLN group, if any, the deserting harkis have gone over to. When I take men out on operations in the Jebel and if we are lucky enough to flush out any of the fellagha, then most of them get killed in the fighting. Even those who are taken alive have a way of dying an hour or two later. However someone is always detailed to cut off the heads of our ‘bag’ and, somehow or other, these heads are got back to base. It is Chantal’s job to compare these heads with photographs of enlisted men in army records.

Down in the cellar once more, Schwab hands me my roster of questions. It is a matter of the slow unfolding of revelations. It may be that tomorrow or the day after we shall have the truth. But today and for the moment all I am looking for is a convenient lie.

Chapter Three

What is she doing? Her dress is off. I have unzipped it for her, but Chantal is taking her time. She said that she was just going to remove her ear-rings. There are muffled thumps and bangs in the other room. Then the door swings open and my doubts are answered.

‘Hands on your head, Philippe.’

My gun is in her hands. I know it is loaded. I do as she suggests.

‘Stand right where you are.’ And she sidles round me to reach the bed.

‘You can turn round now – but slowly, with your hands on your head.’

She has settled herself back comfortably against the pillows. Though she still holds the gun with both hands, it shakes a little. The gun is a Tokarev T33, a Russian pistol, heavier than the MAS 35s carried by my fellow officers, but in most respects a superior weapon. I bought it from a sailor on my way out of Indochina.

‘I’ve been doing some thinking, Philippe. No, you don’t have to talk. I have been looking at your books through there.’

(I don’t have many books. I don’t believe in them and I don’t read for pleasure. I have never owned more than a dozen books in my life. What I have out there are three dictionaries (French, Arabic and Vietnamese), Marx’s Capital, and Economical and Philosophical Manuscripts, The Thoughts of ChairmanMao, Ho Chi Minh’s Selected Works and Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks – oh yes and Peltier’s Psychology of Persuasion.)