Nicolette’s guard moved further from the entrance, absorbed in the tumult. She felt the adrenaline course through her body. Now was her chance. She only had to run out from where she was, across the track in front of the cave and over the edge to the slopes below. Barely a few metres. Ten at the most. She could make for the forest. She’d be free. Her knees felt weak, she trembled. For a second she thought of her chances with Rafiq. Dismissed them. Wondered if the slope would collapse under her. But she had no more time – the men were already tying ropes to the jeep. Soon her guard would return to the cave and she would have lost her chance.
She ran. Made it across the track and jumped.
She landed, winded, but had no time to stop. She rolled upright and ran down the slope at a sharp angle to the camp above. Her tied wrists inhibited her and she slipped and fell and slid further down the gorge, but she could see a clump of shrubs and instinct drove her towards them. She heard an engine start up above and dived into the shrubs. Thorns pierced her flesh and scratched her face. She listened.
She could still hear voices, but they didn’t seem any more urgent than before. Carefully she looked out towards the camp. She could see the jeep, still with one wheel over the side, but now tied to another jeep. It seemed incredible that no one had noticed her run. The sky was lightening and soon the gorge would be in full light.
She ran.
#
She had been moving for close to two hours now and could no longer see the camp. She had expected to hear an outcry when her escape had been discovered, but no such sound had reached her. No wave of angry men had swarmed over the track to follow, no guns had been fired at her retreating form. The forest of pines was only a short distance away, but from here on the gorge levelled out and she wanted to rest a moment and try to untie her wrists before going out onto more open ground. She was tired out, bruised, scratched. Her clothes were soaked through and she was covered with mud which steamed in the cold morning air. She found a crevasse that would hide her from sight and sat down.
The rope had been tied into four knots on the side of her wrists furthest away from her, and forced her arms at an awkward angle when she tried to pull on them with her teeth. Still she concentrated on the first knot till her arms cramped and she had to lower them. The rope was wet, which made it more difficult to untie. She looked around for a sharp rock jutting out that she could use to help her, but none were suitable. She attacked the knot with her teeth once more, knowing that once she had untied the first, the ones beneath it would be easier.
She felt a section give and pulled harder. Her teeth hurt and her mouth was full of mud, but the looseness of the first knot encouraged her to continue. At last she was able to pull one strand free – it had taken her a good half hour.
The clouds above her parted, leaking weak sunshine. She spat as much mud as possible out of her mouth and tackled the second knot. It held tight, then loosened. It was as she pulled her head upwards to pull that second strand through that she saw Rafiq directly before her, his gun aimed at her head.
27
Rafiq looked at Nicolette crouched in the rock crevice, her tied wrists frozen mid-air as they had been at that precise second she’d noticed him. Her hair was streaked with mud, as were her clothes. She had the end of a black eye, burns and bruises on her face. She looked more like one of them than the elegant French woman he’d imagined she’d become, those rare times when he allowed himself to think of her. Only the eyes reminded him of the child she once was – the child who had followed him so trustingly, all those years ago. She was looking up at him now, eyes wide with fear. Then she lowered her arms and the look changed to one of defiance.
She had always shown her thoughts through her eyes.
‘How did you know where to look?’
‘You always preferred the gorges – you used to climb down them like a mountain goat.’
Nicolette nodded. ‘Tell me one thing – what’s all this about? Why us?’
‘I’m following orders.’
‘Whose orders?’
Rafiq shook his head – he wasn’t about to get into a discussion. He signalled for her to rise. He saw her begin, then stop. She sat back against the rock, her head lowered, her hands on her lap.
‘I’m not going,’ she said, so quietly he barely heard her.
He hadn’t expected this. His orders were simple – find her and bring her back. Shoot if necessary.
‘Don’t make me shoot you, Nicolette. Stand up.’ He could see she was afraid – her whole body trembled and she had clenched her hands into fists, just as she used to do as a child when she fought to control her emotions. She lifted her head and looked straight at him, that defiance back in her gaze.
‘Shoot me then, but I’m not going back.’ Her voice was stronger now, more determined. ‘Rafiq, nobody knows you’ve found me – no one needs to know. You can let me go.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Imez would have…’
He didn’t want his grandfather brought into this. He knew of the bond their grandfathers had had, but it was a different world then.
‘…just as my grandfather would have helped you.’
Rafiq knew she spoke the truth. He’d always known as a boy that he could always rely on Nicolette’s grandfather if he ever he found himself in trouble – that he would have helped him, no matter what.
He moved to adjust his gun and Nicolette closed her eyes, but not quickly enough for him not to notice her courage desert her. But though her body shook even more than before, still she did not rise.
Rafiq felt torn. Part of him knew he owed her little loyalty. His loyalty was to his men and to the Berber cause. No one else. All his life he had fought for their rights. He and Nicolette had known each other as children, true, but their friendship had been heavily influenced by their grandfathers – if not for them, would they ever have even played together? Their loyalty to each other was slight when compared to what he was fighting for – what his father, and his grandfather before him, had fought for. Died for.
But on the other hand, the bond between those two old men had been a rare thing, a pure thing. It represented everything that could have been. Even his own father had not dared disregard it when Imez had died – in spite of his beliefs, he’d still gone to warn Louis that he must leave Algeria.
I trust you to look after her. Rafiq heard Louis’ voice as if he had said those words only yesterday, and he remembered how much he had believed those words, proud that a man such as this would put so much trust in him, a mere boy. From that day on he had made it his duty to keep Nicolette safe.
But where did duty end?
He lowered his weapon and reached across to untie the knots around her wrists.
‘Follow close behind me and don’t speak,’ he said, ‘I’m not the only one looking for you.’
#
He led her through the forest, then across fields until at last, around noon, they came to a small hill with a village at the foot of it. They skirted around it until they came to a laneway leading to a house. Rafiq unlocked the door and pulled her in.
‘What is this place?’
‘Just a house. You’ll be safe here for a day or so.’
‘Rafiq? You said you were following orders. Whose orders? Why us?’
‘I don’t ask why. And it doesn’t matter now. What’s impor—’
‘It matters to me. I get dragged from my car at gunpoint, taken to some God forsaken cave, beaten up, burnt, and you say it doesn’t matter? I want to know who’s behind this.’
‘I told you, I don’t know. Obviously someone doesn’t want you around.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. Where were you going? What were you doing on that road?’
‘I was on my way to Constantine. Chasing a lead. A story.’
‘What story?’
But Nicolette didn’t want to tell him what her lead was. The AK-47 in his hand was proof enough someone – if not him, then som
eone higher up – had probably dealt with the man she was looking for.
‘Just a story. It may not even have come to anything.’
Rafiq shrugged. ‘I have to go. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t open the shutters. If anyone knocks, don’t make a noise. I don’t know how long I’ll be, but don’t let anyone see you.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘You can’t stay here – I have to get you away. I’ll see if I can arrange a boat. Probably from Skikda.’
Nicolette felt a sense of déja vu. She’d known the town as Philippeville.
‘I can’t go yet, Rafiq, not without Steven. You have to get him and Amoud out too. You have to help them.’
‘Who?’
‘The two that were brought in with me. Steven’s my offsider – he writes, I photograph. Amoud’s just our driver. He’s just a kid.’
‘There was no one else.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Just that. When the jeep came into camp, you were the only one in it.’
‘No, Steven and Amoud were with me. I saw them on the ground, just before they put the sack on my head.’
‘Look, when the jeep came in, the only people in there were two of my men and you. I have to go – remember what I said.’
Nicolette stared at the closing door. It couldn’t be as he said – he had to be lying. But why? Was it a ruse to get her to leave Algeria? But deep down she knew Rafiq wasn’t lying. So what happened to Steven? To Amound? Had they escaped before they got to the gorge? No, Steven would never do that, would never leave her there. And anyway, if they’d run off, she would have heard a commotion – they would have gone after him, shot at him. They must have taken him somewhere else. Who would know? If they were after money, who would they contact? Mike Davies was the obvious choice.
There had to be a phone here somewhere – Rafiq had told her not to answer it. They had entered the house from the back, via the kitchen. No phone here. She walked down a corridor, checking each room. A bedroom, another next to it. Then a toilet and a bathroom. At the end of the corridor, a sitting room where, on a small table next to an armchair, was the phone.
She dialled the pressroom in Algiers. She heard the engaged dial tone. Get off the phone, Mike. Get off the phone. She hung up, tried again. Still engaged. Impatiently tried a third time. Damn. Who else might know? Was DJ still in Algeria? Would Lesage know anything? It was a slim chance, but she dialled Lesage’s number anyway. Listened to it ring once, twice.
‘Lesage residence.’
Steven?
‘Hello? Lesage residence … hello?’
Steven was in Algiers?
‘Nicky? Is that you? Answer me.’
‘It’s me.’
‘Thank God you’re safe! How did you get away? Are you all right? Who helped you? Where are you?’
Not ‘did they let you go?’. Not ‘how did the rescuers find you?’.
‘I’m ok. I’m in a house.’
‘Where is it? I’ll come and get you.’
‘Steven? When did you escape?’
‘Me? That first night – my guard fell asleep. I couldn’t get to you. I tried, but there were too many of them. I figured better to get out and organise a rescue from here.’
You’re lying. ‘And Amoud?’
‘If he’s not with you he must still be there. Tell me where you are.’
Liar!
‘Nicky? Tell me where you are.’
Nicolette hung up the receiver.
She paced the sitting room as she’d paced the cave. When the jeep came in, the only people in there were two of my men and you. Why would Steven lie? Go to the trouble of pretending he was being captured? Someone doesn’t want you around. Was it Steven? But why wouldn’t Steven want her around? She’d only met him a couple of weeks ago. They only had to cover Boumedienne’s funeral then they could go off in opposite directions. Never see each other again.
She picked up a brass ashtray from the table. Wished she had her cigarettes. Steven had given her cigarettes, a lighter. Christmas presents. Was that the behaviour of someone who didn’t want her around? I was on my way to Constantine. Chasing a lead. Was that at the bottom of it all? She turned the ashtray round and round and round in her hand. Steven hadn’t wanted her to chase this up. I told you, you don’t want to go there. No – she refused to believe Steve was behind this. But Steven had definitely lied about being captured. She put the ashtray down.
She had to get out of here. She could make her own way to Skikda, but she was filthy. If she went out like this she’d attract attention. She had to clean herself up.
In the small oval mirror hanging on the bathroom wall Nicolette looked at her reflection – she’d never seen herself like this before, bruised and burnt, her hair not brushed for days. She badly needed a shower, but she’d have to hurry. She stripped off.
Not even the luxury of hot water on unwashed skin could stop Nicolette’s mind spiralling through every conversation she’d had with Steven. She examined every inflection, searched for every intimation. This isn’t a game, you know. I know. And you still insist on going? Yes. So be it then.
So be it.
So be it…
But Steven had looked out for her – comforted her when she needed it and stopped her feeling sorry for herself. Bought her boots and cigarettes. Made her eat when she wasn’t hungry so she wouldn’t get run down. So why go to these extremes now just to stop her getting that story?
Unless he was involved.
She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Steven involved in a gunrunning operation was almost too much to contemplate, but she had to consider it a possibility. She dried herself quickly; wrapped the towel around herself and used a facecloth to try and get as much mud off her clothes as possible.
Okay, so what if she assumed he was involved? It would explain all the contacts he had here. The ‘guide’ he’d provided for her first time in Constantine. But then again, surely she would have noticed something before now. She dressed and ran her fingers through her wet hair.
He never does anything that’ll give him away. It’s how he survives. Jean-Paul had said the arms negotiator never got his hands dirty – was always there, but in the background, organising things but never directly involved. Someone who can travel around without arousing suspicion. Who better than a journalist – a foreign correspondent?
It all made sense now – once she admitted the possibility of Steven being involved in arms negotiations, little things fell into place, like tumblers in a lock. The arms drop in Constantine, the night they were in Marseille – a much better reason for being there than a bowl of bouillabaisse. He’d gone off after their meal, and at the time she’d just accepted it. The missing film – she remembered now; she’d finished off the film by taking his photo. No wonder he hadn’t objected that time – he knew he’d get rid of the film somehow.
She thought of the supposed Boumedienne staff member who’d had nothing to say – a good excuse to get her away, so she wouldn’t be included in the press tour of the area. What an idiot he must have thought her – she just agreed to whatever he suggested. And Jean-Paul had said the guns used here probably came from Vietnam. I know Steven was working with the Vietnamese. He was all over the place. Even their scoop with the dead farmer made sense now; of course Steven would have known about it. He’d probably organised it.
She felt as one does when a friend had died suddenly. Violently. She wanted to scream, yell at the world, kick something – someone – anything to react to the wrongness of it all, to her stupidity, to her betrayal. But at the same time she wanted to cry, to roll up into a little ball in a corner somewhere, shut the world out and hibernate until it all went away.
She heard a noise outside and froze. Listened. A cat meowed. She breathed out. She had to think. To get out of here. Steven would be looking for her. Depending on when he could get a flight, he could get to Constantine in an hour – he could even charter a plane. How long had she
been in the house? In the shower? Would Steven know where to find her? He’d asked her where she was, but she hadn’t said anything that would hint at her location. It would take him a while.
What about Rafiq? He could tell him where he’d taken her. No – if Jean-Paul was right, Rafiq probably had no contact with Steven. Too far apart in the hierarchy. And he wouldn’t have brought her here; he would have killed her when he had the chance. No, Rafiq would never be disloyal to her – he’d proven himself, twice already. But she had thought that of Steven too…
She went back to the kitchen. She mustn’t panic – Steven would need time to find her. By the time he found this house, she’d be on her way out of Algeria. She looked in the drawers for anything she might be able to use. A knife of some sort, matches. She found an empty bottle with a lid and filled it with water. Rafiq would never be disloyal to her. Did she believe that? Did she really believe the bond between their family meant something to him? Maybe. Could she rely on that, or was it all too late? You left and forgot about us, like everyone else. But she was here, now. If she ran, she’d be doing the same thing she’d done before. Turning her back on what was really happening. Closing her eyes. The world doesn’t want to think about Algeria. It’s all too hard. She could stay. Use her photographs to make the world think. Force it to look at Algeria in the face, tear away the mask of indifference. And if The Herald wouldn’t publish her photos, she’d find another paper that would. Her grandfather would have done it. She could wait for Rafiq. Trust him. Enlist his help. Tell him the bond hadn’t died with their grandfathers. But she’d be risking her life.
Nicolette saw the flash of white turban through the shutters of kitchen window at the same instant the wood of the kitchen door splintered. She turned towards it through air as thick as molasses. Three men burst into the room. Splinters of wood spread out like a volley of miniature arrows pursued by flashes of fire spurting from automatic rifles. The bottle in her hand dropped to the floor. Shattered. Water splashed onto the cupboards and ran between the tiles of the floor, darkening the grouting. Cracks reverberated through the air, each melting into the next, wave after deafening wave. Nicolette put out a hand as if to push away the bullets. Her lips formed into an ‘o’ of surprise. Her body fell forward, curling onto itself – a time-lapse photograph of the birth of a fern, played backward.
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