Of course, Nasser would never approve. They would risk losing Egypt’s support for such a hideous act. But such a feat might push the scales in Algeria’s favor, and Nasser loved to bet on a winner. Bella’s mind was settled. It was worth the risk. He would take up the proposal of Brigitte Friang’s assassination at the next meeting of the leaders of the FLN.
A cargo ship was docked in the Port of Oran on the western coast of Algeria. Oran was the closest major port to France, which kept it busy. Longshoremen worked twenty-four hours a day to unload the ships docked at the port. Another dozen ships were anchored in the harbor waiting their turn to be unloaded and loaded.
Algeria was a major supplier of raw materials and foodstuffs to France and other European countries. France shipped back finished goods to be sold in the Algerian markets. It was a typical colonial system of trade with France having the advantage of higher priced goods and the ability to tax. As unfair as the system appeared, it provided millions of Algerians with jobs which they might not have had if the country was left to his own devices. Imperialists were efficient at taking advantage of their colonists.
An Algerian stevedore loaded crates into a cargo net in the forward hold of a ship. He had been trained by his FLN handler to recognize the labels of weapons and ammunition heading for French Army bases. He filled the net and attached the net to the crane hook lowered into the hold. He told his supervisor that he was taking a quick break for a piss and a smoke. The supervisor nodded his consent. The stevedore grabbed the top of the net and put his feet on the ropes below. Riding the load was the fastest way to reach shore. It was also one of the most dangerous, especially if the load shifted. It could easily crush a man’s hand or foot and leave him dangling for his life high above the cargo hold.
The cargo net carrying the stevedore rose out of the hold and swung over to the dock. The stevedore jumped off just before the crane set the load down. He pulled out a cigarette and signaled a vendor selling hot coffee to make him a double. He glanced back at the crates just unloaded and made a mental note of the number stenciled on the back bumper of the truck onto which the crates were being loaded. Then he walked to a dockside payphone and made a call to his FLN handler to notify him of the weapons and ammunition shipment. The FLN handler had another informant in the transportation office that would give him the schedule and destination of the truck.
The FLN needed weapons and ammunition to fight their war against the French and terrorize the pied-noir. The easiest way to acquire them was to steal them from the French. Ambushes were set up whenever a French arms shipment arrived in port. The rebels would wait until the supply convoy left the port facility on its way to the French Army bases. Once the FLN mobilized, few shipments arrived at their intended destinations.
The FLN’s methods would vary. Sometimes they would feign an accident and ambush the convoy when it stopped to help. Other times they would arrange for road work to be done on the main highway between the port and the capital. When the convoy stopped for the sign-man, the rebels would pounce. The convoy drivers were usually spared, especially if they were Algerian and did not resist.
But their favorite tactic was to wait until nightfall, then dig a trench across the road and let the front wheels of the lead truck fall into the trench. An attack would follow and capture the arms and supplies.
The FLN had eyes everywhere. Young boys on bicycles relayed intelligence throughout the country. Bed sheets on rooftops became signals that a convoy had departed a port or base. Even Algerian radio broadcasts of seemingly nonsensical phrases were utilized to send signals as the British had done to notify the French underground of pending missions against the Nazis during the occupation.
In this way, the rebels were fed an endless supply of arms and ammunition by the French convoys. Their supply of arms would need to keep pace with the expansion of their movement. Nobody wanted to fight the French unless they were given the weapons to do so. Some of the weapons would be sold off to criminals and underground movements in other nations. Cash was always king and could be used to buy information or bribe officials when required.
Smuggling was also an effective method. The FLN had sympathizers throughout Europe and the Middle East. Raising money was easy and buying arms was even easier. Getting them into Algeria and past the French border guards was the difficult part. But the rebels were ingenious. Bullets were hidden in dried dates and figs from Egypt. A heavy machine gun was hidden in a secret compartment inside a wooden cross bound for an Algerian Catholic church. Pistols were smuggled in metal olive oil cans from Italy. Grenades and shells for their bazookas were hidden inside the day’s catch by Algerian fishermen.
Once inside Algeria everything had to be stored in secret for the day when it would be needed. Mosques were often used. Local businesses had tunnels dug below their warehouses and factories. They even used Christian cemeteries where the Algerians would dig up an existing gravesite, remove the corpse for cremation later and rebury the casket filled with weapons and ammunition. Night was their co-conspirator and allowed the rebels to work without the prying eyes of the French.
The stevedore hung up the phone, bought his coffee and sat down on a load of wheat bags to finish his cigarette before returning to the ship. He watched the two French soldiers patrolling the docks as they passed by. Soon they would be forced to leave and Algeria would be free, he thought. Very soon.
SIX
Bruno wore his dress uniform with its multiple decorations and awards as he waited in front of the Palais Garnier. The baroque-style Opera House was nothing short of glorious with its stone-carved façade capped with golden statues and a green-patina roof.
Bruno did not own a suit, much less a tuxedo. His dress uniform was the best he had for formal occasions. He was hesitant to accept Brigitte’s last minute invitation to escort her to the opening performance of Cendrillon.
Brigitte climbed out of a cab. She was a vision in her evening gown with her hair up. Coyle had bought the tickets because he knew Brigitte loved the opera but was called in to fly a brigade of paratroopers back from Hanoi when another pilot came down with the stomach flu. Brigitte mused that the last minute call for the Air Force dispatcher was suspiciously timed since she knew Coyle was not a fan of the opera… any opera.
Bruno was not a fan either but he liked to be seen with Brigitte on his arm and he couldn’t think of a good excuse in time. Brigitte imagined that Coyle thought she would invite one of her female friends to accompany her. Inviting Bruno to escort her was a reminder to Coyle not to assume anything when it came to Brigitte.
Brigitte loved the opera… any opera. It was the pageantry that she loved most. Seeing everyone in high-society dressed to the nines.
Politicians liked to be seen at the opera. It made them seem cultured when their constituents saw their photos in the society columns of the newspapers and magazines. They put on airs and displayed their best manners. Brigitte found this amusing, but always played along. She knew that tomorrow they would be stabbing each other in the back. The opera was a great place to make and renew contacts. It was more difficult for a government official to refuse an interview when he knew he might run into Brigitte at a social function among their friends. Brigitte was a master at the game of social pressure.
Bruno saw her and walked down the curved stone stairs to greet her, “Brigitte, you look lovely.”
“Thank you. You clean up pretty good yourself, Little Bruno,” said Brigitte. “Is that a new decoration?”
“Yes. Yes. I had it sewed on at the last minute by my landlady. I thought you might like it.”
“I like them all. They show your bravery and love for your country.”
“Perhaps but I prefer action rather than bits of cloth to show my patriotism.”
“You are too modest.”
“Modest? I think not. Shall we go inside?” He offered her his arm.
They walked back up the spiral stairs toward the main doors. Brigitte always entered the opera house in th
e center doors even if it meant waiting a few extra minutes in line. On entering, the view of the grand staircase with its balustrade of red and green marble and the painted canopy ceiling above were breathtaking. The only room that could compare was the grand foyer, with its golden pillars, crystal chandeliers, and painted ceiling panels by Paul Baudry, to which the stairs led.
Across the street Marwa sat in the backseat of a taxi watching as Bruno and Brigitte entered the opera house. Marwa knew very well what Brigitte looked like from when their eyes met after Sami Djaout’s assassination. Marwa was happy that Saadi and the council had changed their minds and now wanted Brigitte Friang assassinated. Marwa would be only too happy to comply with their wishes.
It wasn’t that Marwa hated Brigitte. She didn’t know Brigitte. It was that Brigitte represented everything Marwa hated about France. Brigitte dressed like a modern woman and did not cover her hair. Her dresses where too short and showed her ankles. She was confident and looked men in the eye. Marwa saw all of what Brigitte was as disrespectful to her culture and religion. Marwa felt it was her duty to protect the world from people like Brigitte Friang. People that wanted to abandon the old ways and embrace the new, unproven ways. People that had no respect for Allah, her God. Brigitte’s death would be a symbol of Allah’s will and power.
Marwa had agreed with Saadi that killing Brigitte at such a public event would have the greatest shock value and was sure to capture international headlines. But the police presence had tripled since her last scouting mission. She could not hope to escape once her mission was accomplished. Saadi had taught her that it was important to survive any attack if possible so she could fight another day and serve Allah well. There would be other opportunities, she thought. Brigitte was a very public person. Marwa ordered the taxi driver to take her back to the apartment Saadi had arranged for her.
Egypt was safe. Bella watched as his young fighters trained with the Egyptian Army. The Egyptians had excellent training facilities for their troops and Bella planned to take full advantage of Nasser’s gracious offer.
Bella was not stupid. He knew that Nasser would want something in exchange for his support. Nasser had aspirations of becoming the leader of the Arab Nations as they broke free from their oppressors. Nasser would expect Bella and the other leaders of the FLN to support his bid for power once Algeria gained its Independence.
Nasser was a shrewd politician and understood the importance of keeping the military on his side. He made sure the Egyptian soldiers had the best facilities and weapons that the country could afford. The Army and Air Force generals were his most important power base and he knew his survival depended on their loyalty. They had backed him after the president’s attempt to assassinate him and he made sure they were rewarded for their loyalty. The people could be charmed and convinced with rhetoric. The generals required cash and seaside villas.
Bella’s ideas on training his soldiers were simple. Fifty FLN mujahideen would be trained in Egypt until they were proficient at military tactics and techniques. Those fifty would be dispersed throughout Algeria where they each would train ten more every three weeks. It was not safe to train more than ten at any one time in the country. Too large a group would attract attention from the French Intelligence units and their informants. Bella would need to be patient while he built his army.
In addition Bella would personally train five commando teams of four men each. The commandos would learn to strike hard at key targets, then disappear into the countryside or cities. Their missions would be less about killing and more about destabilization. Utilities, bridges, airfields, radio towers, and police stations were their focus. They would tie up large numbers of French soldiers assigned to hunt them down. They would lay booby-traps for the French soldiers and kill as many as possible. The commandos would only attack when the French forces were divided and dispersed. When French units were detached and small numbers of the soldiers could be isolated. Only when victory was assured.
Bella knew that his forces would be greatly outnumbered right from the start. He also knew that his army would grow when the people saw success in the struggle against their oppressors. Nothing was a better recruiter than success. The people would be willing to sacrifice their lives for the cause, but they did not want their lives wasted.
With luck the French would overreact against the planned attacks. Bella wanted the French to flex their military muscle against the Algerians. He wanted them to teach the people a lesson and keep them in line. The more military might the French used against the Algerians the faster his army would grow and the faster the revolution would progress. Bella needed to strike hard and enrage the French beyond reason. He would not make the same mistake the Algerians had made ten years earlier after the Setif Massacre and negotiate for better conditions. There would be no more negotiations until they had won their Independence. Once the fire was started he would pour on the oil until it engulfed the entire nation.
Coyle sat in the cockpit of the C-119 with his French co-pilot, navigator and engineer. None of them spoke English and what little French he knew was of little use. Instead, they communicated through a kind of sign language that they had made up. They had been flying for over four hours on their mission to ferry troops back to France. This time it was a demi-brigade of paratroopers. Coyle needed to urinate. He motioned to his co-pilot that he was going to pee by making an arc motion with his thumb and forefinger. The co-pilot nodded. He motioned that he had the wheel and was in control of the aircraft. Coyle got up and exited the cockpit.
There was only one toilet on the plane for the five crew members including the crew chief and sixty seven paratroopers that rode in the cargo hold on very uncomfortable canvas seats. There was a line. As pilot, Coyle had the right to jump the line, but he didn’t. He wanted to stretch his legs. Since the cargo hold was filled with the paratroopers’ gear and there was no place to walk, standing was the best he could do. He got in line with the others. “You are American?” said a voice.
Coyle turned to see a Lieutenant Colonel standing behind him. “What gave me away?” said Coyle.
“You are not smoking.”
Coyle looked down the line of paratroopers and to the man every single one was either lighting a cigarette, smoking a cigarette or putting out a cigarette butt in the bucket of sand secured to the deck. “Oh, we Americans smoke. We just breath in-between,” said Coyle.
“Very prudent,” said the Lieutenant Colonel. “You fly for the French Air Force?”
“Kinda. I’m a subcontractor. I work for Civilian Aviation Transport.”
“CIA?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Of course not. Nice to know you can keep a secret. I am Roger Trinquier.”
“Tom Coyle,” said Coyle shaking his hand. “Is this bunch yours’, Colonel?”
“Yes. My bunch.”
“It’ll be good to get home… to France I mean.”
“Yes. But it would have been better if we were victorious. No parade, I think.”
“Probably not. But good wine.”
“Ah yes. The wine… and bread.”
“… and the cheese. Don’t forget the cheese.”
“I would never be so bold. So, you flew at Dien Bien Phu?”
“Yeah. I was there.”
“And you knew the two Americans that were lost?”
“Yeah. I knew them. They were my friends.”
“Losing one’s friend is always difficult. I am sorry for your loss. Pity. We could have used more pilots.”
“I don’t think it would have mattered.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“They were more determined.”
“The Viet Minh?”
“Yeah. They just kept coming. Didn’t matter how many were killed. Their generals just replaced them and they kept charging up the hills until the garrison ran out of ammunition. It was inevitable.”
“I don’t think anything is inevitable. Even in war. It is like you say… a battle
of wills. The side that is more determined has the advantage no matter the numbers.”
“So, you think the French could have won the war?”
“Of course. We just were not prepared to go the full measure.”
“The full measure?”
“To do whatever it takes to win.”
“And what might that have been? An American atomic bomb?”
“Bombs are of little use when fighting a guerilla war. Information is the most effective weapon. He who has the most will usually win.”
“That’s probably true but useful information is hard to come by.”
“It is when our leaders refuse to see the truth.”
“What do you mean?”
“A terrorist that attacks civilians should not be treated as a criminal. He is a combatant and should be treated as a soldier.”
“I would agree with that.”
“The information that a terrorist possesses can often save dozen if not hundreds of civilian lives, especially if the information is revealed in the first seventy-two hours after capture when it is still relevant. There are times when extreme measures must be used for the good of public safety.”
“You mean torture?”
“At times… yes. But there are other means that are also effective, such as coercion.”
“Coercion?”
“Threatening a member of the terrorist’s family for example.”
“What if the family member is not guilty of any crime?”
“It is doubtful. However a threat alone will usually suffice. Actual mistreatment is rarely required.”
“Rarely?”
“Monsieur Coyle, one must be prepared for collateral damage if one is to wage war effectively. Surely you must understand this as a former fighter pilot?”
“What makes you think I was a fighter pilot?”
“I doubt the CIA would recruit you if you were not accustomed to violence. Yes?”
Café Wars Page 7