The flight from Algiers to Paris was short. Saadi and Ludmila had entered France under the cover story that they were recently married and were on their honeymoon in Paris. They had forged documents including a marriage license that backed up their story and they had stayed the previous night together in the same hotel room. Ludmila had slept on the couch and Saadi in the bed.
Ludmila had considered slipping into bed with Saadi in the middle of the night. She doubted that he would be able to resist her and she wanted him. She knew he was married and a father, but that only made him more desirable. She knew fornication before marriage was a sin, but multiple wives were permitted in Islam. In her mind, the forged marriage license that Saadi carried had been recognized by French officials and was therefore valid. She was sure he would agree after they had made love. The only thing that stopped her was their mission together. Like him, she wanted it to be a success and their desires for each other could interfere with that success. She decided to wait.
Saadi could tell that Ludmila wanted him. It was often the case that young subordinates fell in love with their superiors. He admitted to himself that she was beautiful and had the type of disposition that would make her desirable in bed. He also knew that he needed to put her life at risk to succeed in the war against the French. She was a valuable asset. He could not let his feelings for her interfere with his mission. He would wait until the war was won before allowing any intimacy between the two of them. For now, he would see her as a soldier in the struggle for Independence and if she needed to be sacrificed for the cause then so be it.
Brigitte showed her press pass to the police officers holding the crowd of onlookers at a distance. They let her by. She walked to the remains of the café. There were body parts and pieces of burning furniture scattered across the ground. The sidewalk was charred black.
Brigitte watched as a forensic team sifted through the wreckage. One the forensic inspectors used a pair of tongs to pick up the mangled remains of a metal lid. She had seen the lid before in her own apartment. It belonged to a popular brand of tea biscuits. She made a notation in her notebook.
Brigitte was exhausted when she opened the door to her apartment. She have interviewed over a dozen survivors from the bomb blast. Nobody was able to identify the bomber although there was some mention of a European looking woman with a shopping bag that had sat near the suspected center of the explosion. Brigitte wondered if it could be the same woman that had assassinated Sami or if the woman had been killed by the blast. She would need to visit the city morgue tomorrow morning to find out if the woman had indeed died.
As she entered her apartment she heard the gasps of a woman weeping. She entered her bedroom to find Linh sitting on the floor crying uncontrollably with a telegram in her hand. Linh had already made Brigitte’s bed and didn’t want to wrinkle the bedspread by sitting on it. “Linh, what’s wrong?” said Brigitte kneeling by her side.
“My brother in Hanoi… he dead,” said Linh.
“Tuan is dead?”
“Yes. He dead. The Communists… they find out he work for the French and kill him. They cut off his feet and hand. They hang him from post.”
“Jesus. I’m so sorry. His family… are they okay?”
“I not know. I cannot find. My sister send telegram.”
“We’ll find them, Linh. I promise.”
Brigitte had feared that there would be retaliation by the Communists when they took over North Vietnam. Elected officials, journalists and government workers would be their first targets. Intellectuals and schoolteachers would be next on the list. She had seen it before when the Viet Minh had taken over villages during the war. But Hanoi was a city of millions and the death toll from the purge could be very high.
Linh had worked as a secretary for the French magazine where Brigitte was employed at the time. Linh had helped her brother get freelance jobs as a photographer for the magazine until he was hired by the French government’s public relations department. Brigitte worried about Linh’s close connection with the French. She had brought Linh to France to keep her safe and hired her as her housekeeper until she could find work. She knew that there was little hope of finding Linh’s brother’s family. They would be in hiding if they were still alive and that was a big “if.”
EIGHT
Oran was located on the Mediterranean like most of the large cities in Algeria. Unlike many coastal communities, the city’s stone fortress was located on a point several kilometers from the city and was in surprisingly good condition.
Marche de le bastille, the city’s main outdoor market, was located near the palace and was known for its fresh snails, fruit and vegetables. Everything one needed could be found under the market’s canopies. There were clothes, hand-woven carpets, tin lamps, and leather goods. There were baked goods, sweets and candies, spices galore, and freshly butchered chickens and goats. There were coffee houses where locals would gather to gossip and drink a hot tea or coffee before returning to work.
The market was frequently visited by local government officials during the late afternoon before they headed home. It was a good place to gauge the current temperament of the local population and pick up the ingredients for the evening meal.
Samuel Bazalgette was the French administrator for the city of Oran. Technically, he shared power with Sak Amrani, a Muslim representative of the Grand Chieftains. However Amrani was not very interested in the actual administration of the city and saw his job as more ceremonial. He was good at making speeches and objected to the French mandates just enough to the keep the Chieftains that elected him happy. That was okay with Bazalgette. He preferred taking command and was good at organization. Bazalgette knew he would get the lion’s share of the credit from the French Foreign Office if the city was run well. After all, he was French and Amrani was Muslim.
It was important that the two were seen together in public and that they appeared amiable. They made it a habit of appearing together somewhere in the city at least once a week. Today, they decided a stroll through the market would be nice since Amrani’s young wife had requested he buy some fresh dates on his way home from the office.
Amrani was known for his pro-French views. He didn’t love the French culture or the people. He saw them for what they were, the overlords that stripped away Algeria’s natural resources and treated the Algerians like second class citizens. However he was also practical and saw the benefits that they brought to the Algerians. The Oran hospital was one of the best in Northern Africa and there were medical clinics in most neighborhoods. The city had its own university and while schools were lacking in the poorer neighborhoods there were several good private schools that educated the children of the elite. Oran was a peaceful city and attracted many European tourists. The tourists brought money into the local economy and the hotels and restaurants they enjoyed provided jobs. The police did an excellent job of keeping the riff-raff away from the tourist areas where pickpocketing and muggings were at an all-time low. Many French families purchased vacation homes overlooking the Mediterranean and employed maids, cooks and gardeners during the warm fall and winter months when Paris was known for its overcast skies and cold temperatures.
It was late afternoon when Bazalgette and Amrani strolled through the market. They we escorted by two French soldiers that kept their rifles slung over their shoulders. They knew to keep out of the way unless there was trouble. Amrani was generous with his purchases and often bought candies that he immediately handed out to the children in the street. It seemed like he knew the name of every shopkeeper and was quick with the latest joke that would make them laugh.
Bazalgette was much more subdued. He listened more than he spoke. He liked the Muslims in Oran and found their culture fascinating but was keenly aware that they detested him. He knew it was nothing personal. He represented France and the Muslims wanted their Independence. Of course they would hate him. Still he tried his best to put on a good face and do his job the best way he knew how. Efficient admini
stration was the best deterrent against the opposition’s outcry, he thought as he walked through the crowded market.
Nihad stood by a vendor selling purses and women’s shoe and watched as Amrani and Bazalgette flanked by the two French soldiers approached. She was nervous and was having trouble remembering everything Saadi had told her. He had placed a pencil detonator with a short time fuse in the explosives. She would only have ninety seconds to leave the area once she started the timer. She needed to time the approach of the two men and the French soldiers so they were as close as possible to the explosives when they went off. She did not know Amrani and Bazalgette. She knew that they must be important or Saadi would not risk her life. She set her shopping bag down in front of the vendor’s table and pretended to look at a pair of shoes. She asked if she could try them on and the vendor gladly agreed. “Of course. They are from my family’s workshop. Five generations we have been cutting leather,” said the vendor. “You will not find better quality in all of Algeria.”
She picked up a pair of shoes and knelt down beside the table to try them on. She reached into her purse and pulled out the pair of pliers. She placed the pliers around the pencil detonator. She looked around at where she would go once she started the chemical timer. The path she preferred was blocked by a cart picking up trash. She would need to walk in the direction of the two approaching government officials and the soldiers. They were getting close. She squeezed the pliers and broke the acid vial inside the pencil detonator. She stood up and started walking toward the two officials. “Mademoiselle, my shoes,” said the vendor.
She turned and walked back to the vendor and picked up the shoes she had left by her shopping bag. “I am sorry. They do not fit,” she said.
“I have many sizes. Where they too small or big?”
“No. Thank you. I don’t want them.”
She turned and walked away. The vendor looked down and saw her shopping bag. He called after her again, “Mademoiselle, you forgot your shopping bag.”
The vendor picked up the bag and trotted after her. One of the soldiers saw the vendor chasing after her and stopped her as she walked past thinking she might have stolen something. “What is the matter?” said Amrani.
The soldier pointed to the approaching vendor with the shopping bag. “I don’t want it. I don’t want it,” said Nihad trying to break free of the soldier’s grip.
“Don’t be silly, Mademoiselle,” said Amrani taking the shopping bag from the vendor and offering it to Nihad. “It is yours.”
Nihad’s eyes went wide like the shopping bag was a coiled snake ready to strike and refused to take it. Amrani and Bazalgette both realized something was wrong and exchanged a knowing look. Amrani opened the bag and looked inside. He pulled out the tin of tea cookies and laughed.
The explosion ripped through the market instantly killing eighteen people including Amrani, Bazalgette, the two French soldiers, the vendor and Nihad. Thirty-three more were seriously wounded, three of whom would die in Oran’s state-of-the-art hospital in the ensuing days. Most were Muslim and did not think good or bad of the French or the Independence movement. They just wanted to sell their goods or buy something for their family’s evening meal.
Saadi was saddened and angry on reading of Nihad’s death. He had spent a great deal of time training her and he knew her to be loyal to Allah and her country. He did not relish the idea of informing Nihad’s family of her death. He hated the wailing of Algerian women. He decided to let someone else inform the family. He had no time to mourn and needed to stay focused on the mission at hand.
Nihad was not smart and her nervous temperament ill-suited for this type of work, he thought. I will need to be more careful selecting her replacement. He was at the beginning of a war and he did not have time to train a new siren right away. It would have to wait. In the meantime, Marwa and Ludmila would need to take up the slack left by Nihad’s death. The Café Wars would continue.
The heat was merciless in the Northern Sahara. The sun beat down like a hammer on an anvil. A mixed crew of German and Italian pied-noir roughnecks operated a drilling rig in the middle of the desert. The camp where they lived during their three week shifts was set up next to the rig and had all the comforts of home, including a shower and working toilet.
Oil had been discovered in Algeria at the end of World War II. Foreign oil companies were quick to drill test wells and the results had been promising.
This was a mixed blessing for the FLN and Algeria. It meant that when Independence was achieved the Algerians would have more natural resources to replace the revenue lost by the French departure from their lands. The flip side of the coin was that the French were less likely to leave now that Algeria was about to become their nation’s gas pump.
A caravan of Berbers appeared over the horizon and approached the rig and camp. It was unusual for the Berbers to pay any type of notice let alone visit the pied-noir. They mistrusted foreigners and disliked most city dwellers. The crew stopped working and watched as the camels and mules approached. “What do you suppose they want?” said a roughneck.
“How the hell I am supposed to know?” said the supervisor. “Maybe cigarettes. They like cigarettes. Probably want to trade a goat or something.”
“I like goat.”
“Shut up and get back to work. I’ll deal with them.”
The roughnecks went back to work. The supervisor walked to his tent and retrieved a carton of cigarettes. He didn’t want their dirty goat but he knew better than to piss off the Berbers. They could be trouble when they were angry.
He walked back out and moved toward the first camel rider as they entered the camp. “Welcome,” the supervisor said making sure they could see that he was holding a carton of cigarettes.
The Berber riding at the head of the column pulled out his sword and split the foreman’s head down the center with one stroke. He fell dead. The remaining Berbers charged the roughnecks as they scattered into the desert running for their lives. They didn’t get far. The women in the caravan let an ear-piercing shrill with their vibrating tongues claiming a great victory.
Si Larbi entered a coffee house filled with Algerian business men discussing deals with their suppliers and customers. Coffee houses were common places to do business and people talked freely. He moved to the back of the building and found Bella sitting at a table in the corner. Bella rose and hugged Si Larbi as was the traditional greeting. “You are getting fat,” said Si Larbi.
“Nasser likes to talk business during dinner,” said Bella. “I admit I have put on a few kilos. Too many dates I think.”
“So he is still cooperating? Nasser?”
“Yes. He has turned out to be a reliable ally.”
“He will want something in return.”
“Of course. The council is aware. What he wants most is loyalty and he’s willing to pay for it. We will take his money and use his influence as long as it benefits our cause, and no further.”
“I thought we agreed you would no longer come to Algeria once the war started.”
“We did. But the council and I felt it was important that we meet face to face to discuss the next phase.”
“There has been a change in plan?”
“Yes. There are some on the council that feel we need to more drastic in our attacks.”
“More drastic?”
“Yes. We need international allies to convince the French to abandoned their efforts against our Independence. We need to take action that will force the French to overreact. Their overreaction will bring about sympathy for our cause. We are rebels and are not held to the same standard as the French forces. They are a western army and have agreed to the rules of war. We have not.”
“Even if we are the ones that start the conflict?”
“Newspapers have a funny way of twisting the truth to bring about the most dramatic news. They will deemphasize the origins of the conflict if they feel the French reaction will sell more of their papers. We will need something
big and terrible that provokes the French.”
“What are you thinking?”
“You suggested an attack on Philippeville…”
“Yes. It is manageable. It’s not as big as Algiers and we have strong support in the Muslim communities in the city.”
“How long will it take you to prepare?”
“A week… maybe two. Most of our Mujahideen are already positioned in the surrounding area.”
“And the fellagha?” said Bella using the traditional term for the Muslim militia.
“Perhaps a thousand. But more will join if they know the Mujahideen will lead the fight,” said Si Larbi.
“Good. Prepare your forces,” said Bella. “I will be sending you some of my commandos to help occupy the police.”
Bruno stood at the front of a lecture hall filled with young French officers. In the beginning, the young officers had worn their dress uniforms out of respect to attend Colonel Bigeard’s lectures. Soon after, the entire class had changed to paratrooper jumpsuits as that was what Bruno wore on a daily basis.
Bruno was the epitome of what a French soldier aspired to be. He was a true warrior and had fought in almost every major battle in both World War II and the Indochina War. It didn’t seem to matter that Bruno had lost the last battle at Dien Bien Phu which ended the war in a French loss. He had fought bravely until the end. He was a living legend.
Café Wars Page 9