Assignment Madeleine (11 page)

“You do not speak like a man of violence,” Durell said.

“I have had enough of it.”

“But you bear arms and command troops.”

“A great many
harkas
,
or units.
Yes. I only wish what will be best for my people and Algeria. One moves with
the winds of the desert. Or one dies. I shall be truthful with you, Durell. As
an old comrade, you will understand. I know why you are here. I knew you were
coming before you left Paris. Our intelligence is very, very good. I knew your
friend, Orrin Boston. He was my friend, too. We talked often about you. I have
said prayers for him since his death.”

“Was Orrie negotiating with you?”

“Yes.”

“For a truce?” Durell asked tentatively.

El-Abri smiled thinly. It was like a movement in granite.
“You are an astute man. I trusted Orrin Boston. Yes, I was negotiating for a
truce with the French. After the extremists came in, I searched my conscience
for the right and wrong of this war. The extremists use violence, murder,
looting. They think they can win the rebellion this way and hope for stability
afterward. I believe otherwise. I believe in negotiation to achieve Algerian
aims. For this reason—and because your enemies, too, seek to blow up the sands
of the Sahara to obscure their own aims against you—I was prepared to surrender
with my two thousand men to the French.”

Durell sat back in die hard wooden chair. Nothing changed in
his face, but he knew the importance of el-Abri’s announcement. Few of the rebels
had dared to surrender, in view of the extremist ten-or behind them. If a truce
here could be achieved, a chain reaction might result that could bring reason
and eventual peace in a reasonable time. He understood now what Orrin Boston
was trying to do. Peace anywhere in the world” was worth any effort, and
desirable for the West.

 
‘What stopped your
plans to surrender, then?” Durell asked. “You haven’t laid down your arms,
Hadji.”

The Berber said flatly, “Because I was betrayed.”

“Not by Orrin Boston,” Durell said.

“No, no. By his assistant, that man L’Heureux. The man you
claim as your prisoner.” The Kabyle’s eyes were like hard topaz as he leaned
forward into the light of the kerosene lamp. “Listen and understand, Durell.
You think it will perhaps be a small thing if I surrender with my small force
of men. Maybe so. A small event in a large and troubled world. But who knows
which straw, Durell, will tip the scales for or against the Western world?”

Durell nodded. “Hadji, you know me of old. If I fight
for anything, it is to see men live in peace, through reason, not locked in a
struggle to kill each other.”

“Yes, you were always
i
e that,”
el-Abri mused.

“Well, I was prepared to surrender, granted amnesty.

It was all arranged by Orrin Boston, and Captain DeGrasse
knew my intentions. But I was betrayed, as I said. As I took my men down out of
the mountains, I marched them unwittingly into an ambush. The ambush was not
made by the French. It was sprung by my so-called brothers of the extremists.
Someone informed them of my readiness to negotiate, and because of their
fanaticism and zeal, they set a trap for me. It was a massacre, my friend. Many
of my men fell.”

“But you escaped,” Durell said quietly.

“Yes. And we took one of the extremists a prisoner. We made
him talk It was not easy. Nothing is easy in the desert. The prisoner was a
lieutenant, and I had to torture him before his tongue loosened. He told me
that your agent, Charles L’Heureux, working for Orrin Boston, tipped his
commanders that I was coming out of the mountains to negotiate a surrender. So
they waited for me and tried to wipe us out. They failed. And now I know that
L'Heureux killed your friend and mine, Orrin Boston, when Boston learned of
L’Heureux’ part in the affair. The blood of many of my men are on this man’s
hands. And he is the man you have come to take

back with you as a prisoner.”

Durell nodded. From outside the hut came the measured tread
of a guards boots on the rocky shale at the edge of the wadi. The wind had
changed. The chill of a desert night was in the air.

“What are your plans now, Hadji?” he asked.

“I still wish to surrender. I believe my way is right.”

“And what about your men?”

“They will follow me. They are lonely for their women and
their own
mechtas
.
We have discussed it democratically. They will go where I lead them.”

“I can arrange it for you,” Durell said. “Perhaps I can finish
Orrin Boston’s work.”

“That would be fitting,” el-Abri said. “But there is a
condition.” The Kabyle’s thin face was harsh. “The condition is L’Heureux. You
must give him to me. And then I will surrender to DeGrasse.”

“No,” Durell said.

“It is a small thing. Perhaps you do not yet understand. He
caused many good men to die because of his greed and treachery. And he killed
Orrin Boston.”

“What would you do with him?”

“I intend to kill him.”

"I'm sorry,” Durell said. “You can't have L’Heureux.”

The guerrilla commander stood up and walked to the door of
the hut and looked out at the desert night. His voice had tightened. “Would you
defend such a man, Durell?”

“I don’t defend him. And I don’t judge him. My orders are to
take him back to Paris.”

“You have no desire for revenge?”

“My personal feelings cannot enter into it,” Durell said.

El-Abri looked at him curiously. “I ask you once more for this
murderer, this assassin. I want this man who killed our mutual friend, who
would have seen me killed along with my men, for personal gain. Two hours after
he is in my hands, I promise to surrender. There will be an end to the fighting
here. A small thing, perhaps, as I said before. I do not delude myself about my
importance. But it is a straw, is it not?”

“You can surrender, anyway,” Durell said. “Charles L’Heureux
is of no importance in this matter.”

“He is important to me. It is a matter of honor.”

“I can’t let you have him,” Durell said.

The Kabyle turned away from the door of the
mechta
. His face
had hardened. He looked as cruel as the barren land that had given him birth.
“Durell, we are old friends. We fought together. You remember how it was, when we
were young?”

Durell smiled. “I don't feel that old now.”

“Still, it was many years ago. One grows old quickly in this
land. And the world has changed. Your country can no longer walk in pride and
solitary arrogance. You need friends. I do not like to speak to you in this
fashion,. Give me Charles L’Heureux.”

"No."

“I cannot understand you.”

Durell said, “I have my orders. Call it duty. I have to do
my job.”

“It is only that? A sense of duty?”

“Would you call that a small thing, Hadji?” Durell asked. “I
don’t enjoy having to protect this man. I didn’t ask to save his life. But he
must live to be tried justly and honestly, and then ta.ke his punishment. I’m
taking

him back to Paris with me.”

“You were always a stubborn man,” the Hadji said softly. He
looked at Durell with sadness behind his bold, tawny gaze. “It could be a
stupidity. But I have one more thing to offer.”

“The money.” Durell asked.

The Kabyle was surprised. He flied to hide it, but for
just one moment the stony mask of his face gave way. He reached down on the floor
and picked up a thermos bottle and poured two cups of coffee into small tin
mugs. “What do you know about it?” el-Abri asked.

“I know that a quarter-of-a-million American dollars is
floating around here somewhere. Do you have it, Hadji?”

“No."

“Do you know where it is?”

“I think so.”

“Tell me about it,” Durell said.

“The money was taken from your courier in a criminal plot,”
el-Abri said. “It had nothing to do with politics at the time. Then L’Heureux got
into it through his associations with criminal gangs in this area and in the
Mediterranean. Smugglers and the like. Scum and offal. The original thieves
were killed. And the people for whom L’Heureux used to work got into it.”

“Who are they?”

“Frenchmen,” el-Abri said flatly. His voice rang harshly in
the barren hut. “The types who, in their own way, are as bad as the rebel
fanatics. The wealthy, the conservative territorials, landowners, businessmen
with vested interests in Algeria, who seek only to crush our reasonable
aspirations with brutal force to keep us subservient. The day for that sort of
thing is over, do you understand? There are elements in the extremists who
might be called fascist, nationalist, racist, and there is a parallel element
among the French.”

“Where does the money come into it?”

“This certain French element wishes the money to be found
publicly, under certain circumstances that would indicate your government is financing
the extremists.”

“That’s ridiculous. Who would believe it?”

“Enough in France would believe it to whip up a frenzy of
hate and violence. There would be a call to greater effort to crush the
rebellion with force, terror, any brutal way at all. Conciliation, contact and
negotiation would end. There would be no hope at all for a reasonable peace.”

“It’s a lot of money to throw away for that,” Durell said.

“These people are rich. The money means nothing.”

“It means something to L’Heureux. Has he planted it? Is that
what you mean, Hadji? Is it ready to he discovered?”

“Yes.”

“And you know where it is?”

“I can find it. For a price.”

“For Charles L’Heureux?”

The Kabyle nodded. His eyes were bright and hard.

“Yes.”

“I can’t let you have him,” Durell said.

The guerrilla was silent for a moment. “We have been
friends, Durell. You choose to be an enemy. Do you understand?”

“It is not my choice.”

“I will have L’Heureux,” el-Abri said. “You will not reach
the coast with him. Not tonight or tomorrow. Not ever.”

Durell stood up. The guard walked back and forth in front of
the
mechta
.
The night had suddenly grown colder. He went to the door and looked at the
stars shining over the rocky desert. He looked at el-Abri.

The Kabyle chieftain stood straight and tall, a dangerous
man. His topaz eyes looked like stone in the cold light coming from the black
sky.

“Will your driver take me back to the hotel now?” Durell
asked.

“You came in peace. You may depart in peace. After that—”
El-Abri shrugged. “I do not understand you at all, Durell. It is a small thing.
A worthless life, against the saving of many lives.”

“I have my job to do,” Durell said.

“Then I shall have to kill you,” the Kabyle said softly.

Chapter Eleven

JANE LARKLN was awake and dressed when Durell returned to
the hotel. It was two o’clock in the morning. She heard the truck stop in the
market place, and she looked down into the starlit darkness and saw Durell get
out, followed by the slighter figure of Captain DeGrasse. A driver
remained in the truck cab. The two men walked into the hotel entrance under her
window.

Jane turned and looked toward the bed. “Chet?”

He lay on his back, hands clasped under his head. He staged
at the ceiling and didn’t reply.

“They’re here, Chet. I'm sure he’s going now, tonight.”

“Good for him,” Chet said.

“I’m going with him.”

“No, Jane.”

“With you or without you,” she said.

He still didn’t look at her, and that was the worst of it,
she thought. “Please, Chet. We've quarreled all night. It’s enough.”

“We’ve quarreled all our life together.”

That’s not my fault.”

“Is it mine?”

"l don’t know. I'm sorry."

She wondered what she was sorry about, really. Why should
she feel like crying?‘ It was over now, irrevocably finished. The dreams
of girlhood, of one man forever, the scorn she once had of friends who married
and divorced as it on a merry-go-round of thin and hysterical emotion. She had
sworn it wouldn’t be like that with Chet and herself. They would be different.
Even old-fashioned. There was nothing wrong in being old-fashioned
 
it meant staying with one man for the rest of
your life.

But it hadn’t worked out like that. Everything was
different. She hated this place, she was homesick, she hadn’t reached that
place in Chet where he lived and worked and laughed. She could have stayed in
Algiers. Algiers wasn’t so bad. The French officers were charming, attentive.
The shops on the Rue
d’Isly
were fun. But he had
insisted that she meet him here in this god-forsaken village, halfway to the
oil fields. The quarrel tonight had been the very worst, too. But nothing
would change her mind. Even Algiers wasn’t good enough now. She was going home,
back to where things were safe and secure. With Chet or without him. If it had
to be that way, then she couldn’t help it. She wanted to hate him for his
stubborn calm; but she wanted to weep.

She spoke to his silent figure. “I’m going to talk to
Durell. I'm going to insist that he take me with him.”

“All right,” Chet said quietly.

“What do you mean, all right?”

“All right, I’ll go with you.”

“I thought you said your job—”

“You win,” he said. “I’ll quit. Are you satisfied?”

She wasn't. She didn’t understand why she felt this stab of
disappointment. She had won. She was going to have her way, after all. Chet
would come back to Houston with her. But all at once she knew that this wasn’t
right, either. She didn’t like this sudden, meek surrender.

Daddy would have taken her over his knee and smacked some
sense into her, according to his principles. But not Chet. Chet was always too
gentle.