As the crew chief closed the cargo hold doors, Coyle looked back through the cockpit door and saw Bruno lying helpless. Emotion flooded Coyle’s mind and his eyes teared up. Bruno was his nemesis and friend. Bruno couldn’t die. Not like this. The doctor ran forward and said, “You’ve got to keep your altitude as low and steady as possible. His blood pressure is extremely low and fluctuation in altitude could kill him.”
Coyle nodded and climbed into the pilot’s seat. He throttled up the engines, taxied onto the runway and took off into the cloudless sky.
Aussaresses’ interrogators produced the desired results. Thirty-six mujahideen collaborators were rounded up and arrested in the cities along the coast. Those thirty-six produced the names of another one hundred and seventy collaborators throughout Algeria, most of whom disappeared after being taken into French custody. The mujahideen and the FLN were taking a heavy toll from the paratrooper assaults. News of Bruno’s grave injury traveled fast and gave the underground leaders hope.
Bruno disappointed them and lived. The bullet had missed his heart by less than an inch. It had nicked an artery which would have killed a normal man. But Bruno was far from normal. The surgeons in Paris had worked on him for six hours before closing his chest and even then they were unsure of the results.
Bruno remained in the hospital for two months. Brigitte visited him almost every day. Coyle visited when he wasn’t flying missions in Algeria. They played cards, told stories and laughed. The laughing hurt Bruno for the first month as his chest cavity healed but he didn’t let on that anything was out of the ordinary, except for the occasional wince which he couldn’t help. It was only when he started doing his morning workout of squats, pushups and sit-ups in his room that the doctors finally released him. They had never had a patient like Bruno. He wasn’t like other men. He was extraordinary.
With his duffel bag beside him, Bruno stood by the C-119 on the airfield. Coyle and Brigitte approached. “Anxious to leave us?” said Coyle.
“Not you but I am looking forward to getting back to my command. All of this bread and butter is making me fat. I am setting a poor example to my men,” said Bruno as Brigitte kissed him three times on opposing cheeks as was the French custom.
“You do realize it has only been two months since you were shot in the chest?” said Brigitte.
“Yes, yes. Bad things happen. It is war,” said Bruno.
“Well I’ve got a plane to check out. I’ll leave you two to talk.” Coyle moved off to inspect his plane.
“I hope you don’t mind me seeing you off?” said Brigitte.
“No, no, Brigitte. You are always welcome,” said Bruno.
“I thought we should clear the air before you go. I don’t know when will be the next time I see you. I don’t want there to be bad feelings between us. Life is too short and one never knows what could happen. I just want to…”
“Apologize?”
“No. Acknowledge that there are times when I walk into a situation and I don’t know the whole story. It’s an occupational hazard.”
“You do not need to apologize, Brigitte.”
“Again, I’m not apologizing.”
“Have it your way. You don’t need to acknowledge anything. You are the bravest woman I know. You and I have traveled a long road together.”
“Exactly. I know you love France as I love France. We want what is best for our country and its people. This war in Algeria… The bombings in Paris… I am not sure I understand what is happening.”
“War is changing, Brigitte. You can no longer recognize the enemy.”
“It is no different than what we faced with the Nazis or the Viet Minh.”
“Maybe not, but the scale is different and their methods are madness. They torture and kill entire villages. Women and children. The young and the old. French and Muslim alike. There is no distinction. They are not just collateral damage. They are the target of their attacks, not the military. It seems their goal is just to cause as much pain and suffering as possible until we have had enough. Until we surrender.”
“There has always been an enemy willing to attack civilians to accomplish its goals.”
“I agree but there’s no logic in what they are doing. It is anarchy. Chaos for the sake of chaos.”
“That is why it is so important that we act civil. We cannot stoop to their level.”
“No, Brigitte. We must fight fire with fire. If we do not, we will surely lose.”
“And if we do as you say and fight fire with fire. What do we win? What will we have become?”
“I do not know. I am a soldier. I follow orders. I will leave it to politicians to decide who we are.”
“That’s an excuse, Bruno.”
“Yes, but a good one.”
“You are a human before you are a soldier.”
“I am not so sure anymore. It seems I have been fighting all my life.”
“Maybe it’s time to stop.”
“I would be lost. It is all I know,” said Bruno as the engines on the C-119 started to turn and cranked to life.
Bruno kissed Brigitte three times on the cheek and said, “Au revoir, Brigitte. Take care of yourself and your crazy American.”
“Au revoir, Little Bruno,” said Brigitte with a smile. “Don’t forget to duck.”
Bruno picked up his duffel bag and moved off toward the plane. Brigitte watched until the plane started to taxi to the runway. She blew Coyle a kiss through the cockpit window. She smiled as she turned and walked back to the airfield main gate.
The Saharan sun was hot and merciless. Two Berber scouts lay hidden on the defile side of a sand dune, sharing a pair of binoculars. They watched a team of roughnecks operating a drill – threading pipe extensions so the carbon steel bit can penetrate further into the bedrock below. They surveyed the surrounding area for any signs of security. A lone guard stood watch with a rifle slung over his shoulder. The stacks of crates of tools and supplies were covered with canvas tarps to keep the grit out during the frequent sand storms. There were several tripods of rifles leaning against each other near the oil rig.
The Berber scouts slid a few yards down the dune then climbed to their feet and ran down the sandy hillside. At the bottom of the dune was a raiding party of fifty Berber warriors mounted on camels. There was a quick discussion with the scouts and the raiding party’s leader. He ordered a sniper with a long rifle to take out the guard and the rest of his men to mount up and attack.
There was a crack from the sniper’s and the back of the guard’s head exploded. The roughnecks stopped their work and stared out at the surrounding dunes.
The fifty camel riders appeared over a distant dune and raced toward the roughneck’s camp and drilling rig.
The roughnecks ran for their weapons. Several were killed by long shots from the charging riders. The Berbers were excellent marksmen even from the back of a galloping camel or horse. The roughnecks grabbed their rifles and moved behind the crates as the camel riders closed their distance.
The roughnecks pulled off the canvas tarps from crates and revealed two light machine guns armed by French paratroopers. Behind the machine guns and stacks of crate were three mortar positions. Bruno appeared from behind a stack of crates weaponless and defiant. He ordered his men to open fire. The machine gunners fired first and took a terrible toll on the Berber riders.
Camels and riders fell at full gallop and their blood mixed with the sand. The roughnecks joined in the massacre and fired their rifles.
The charging camels broke and the riders pulled at their harnesses to stop them from running wildly from the battlefield.
The mortars followed the machine gun barrage with their familiar thumps as the shells were launched from their tubes.
The shells landed and exploded behind the surviving camels and riders cutting off any hope of escape. It was mayhem, as the last of the riders tried to get their camels under control. It only took another minute before there were no more camels or riders standing.
The mortars and machine guns ceased. The roughnecks cheered and ran out onto the battlefield to finish off any wounded Berbers.
Bruno wanted prisoners but knew better than to get between the roughnecks and the Berber raiders. The roughnecks wanted their revenge and were pitiless just as the Berbers had been with their long knives and rifles. There were no enemy survivors that day.
SIXTEEN
Algiers airport was crowded in the late morning as overseas tourists left their seaside hotels and caught their flights back home. Zaki finished a customer’s shoes and raced off to the toilet. He didn’t want to miss out on business but he really needed the toilet. He had eaten at the airport’s food kiosks, and that was never a good idea.
Zaki finished using the toilet and went to wash his hands at the sink. He reached for a paper towel, but the dispenser was empty as usual. He turned to see two French Army soldiers standing behind him. He didn’t react. He started to move off when one of the soldiers grabbed him by the arm and said, “Not so fast, Zaki. You need to come with us.”
“Come with you?” said Zaki. “I thought all French men liked young girls.”
“Shut the fuck up,” said the soldier squeezing his arm tighter.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll go,” said Zaki. “Just promise to use a little olive oil.”
Zaki was wearing a pair of German Army boots he had bought in the night market. He placed the edge of his right boot just below the soldiers knee and pushed down as hard as he could. His boot slid down the soldier’s shin. The soldier screamed in pain and let go of Zaki’s arm. Zaki made a run for it out of the toilet doorway. The soldiers ran after him, one limping badly.
Zaki sprinted across the terminal. His handler had warned him that one day he might need to elude the French and that he needed a preplanned escape route. He knew that there was little chance of escaping out the front of the terminal. The airport was on the outskirts of the city with lots of open space and few places to hide. There would be a car or jeep waiting to pick up the soldiers and their suspect. Even if he could find a taxi driver willing to give a young Algerian a ride, the French soldiers would force the taxi to pull over and nab him.
Zaki needed to put distance between himself and his pursuers before he reached the outskirts of the city. He ran behind the airline ticket counter and the ticket agents. He leapt over the stacks of luggage dropped off by passengers. The soldiers followed. They were big and burly. They crashed into the ticket agents and tripped over the luggage.
Zaki pushed through a door leading into the terminal operations area. There was a maze of luggage carts waiting to be loaded onto the departing planes. Zaki considered hiding behind one of the carts stacked high with mail bags. He decided against it. Too much of a chance of the soldiers enlisting the help of airport personnel to search the area. He ran through an opening that led out on to the tarmac. The soldiers entered the operations area and saw Zaki run through the opening.
Zaki ran between the planes parked on the ramp and across the taxiway. He crossed the grass that separated the taxiways. The soldiers followed, the one with the scraped shin lagging behind.
A pilot revved the twin engines on his plane and released its brakes. The plane accelerated down the runway. There was nothing the pilot could do when he saw Zaki running across the runway in front of the plane.
The two soldiers saw the plane roaring down the runway toward Zaki. They stopped at the edge of the runway. They could see that if Zaki kept running he would be directly in the path of one of the plane’s props when it reached him.
Zaki saw the plane approaching. He knew he would not make it all the way across the runway before the plane reached him. He also knew the soldiers would not venture out onto the runway while a plane was near. Zaki waited until the last possible moment before he dove to the ground. The plane’s prop went directly over him and the wing’s landing gear missed his head by less than a foot. As the plane passed Zaki jumped up and continued to run across the runway.
The two soldiers continued their pursuit until Zaki reached the perimeter fence on the far side. He climbed up and over the fence.
The two soldiers had had enough and gave up their chase. Zaki was gone.
Zaki stood in the shadows of the alley across from his family’s home – a two-story with a courtyard in the center and thick plaster walls to keep out the heat in the summer and cold in the winter. He could see his mother moving around through the kitchen window. It was almost dinner time. Zaki was hungry. He had been watching the surrounding area for over two hours.
There was no sign of anyone watching the house. He tried to remember who he might have told at the airport where he lived. He was fairly sure he had never mentioned it to anyone. But he wasn’t positive. So he waited and watched. He needed to get to his mother and warn her not to mention anything about Marwa or himself. His mother didn’t know much, because Marwa and he had agreed not to tell her anything about what they were doing for the FLN. There was no need to worry her and the less she knew the safer she would be. Still the French were very good about putting bits and pieces of information together. His mother was naïve and could say something that might lead to Marwa’s location.
He decided he had been watching long enough. Emerging from the alley, he walked down the street away from his house to look around. He saw nothing that made him feel suspicious. He turned and walked the other way. He passed his house and continued another two hundred yards up the street. Still nothing. He walked back to the front of his house and peeked through the windows. Nothing looked out of place. He moved to the front door and took one last look around. It was clear. He opened the door and went inside, careful not to make any noise.
The entry way and the living room were empty. He could hear his mother in the kitchen. He kept quiet and walked up the stairs. He took a quick look around in the bedrooms. They were empty and undisturbed. He walked back down the stairs. He could smell the evening meal and his stomach growled. He moved down the hallway and entered the kitchen, still cautious. His mother was at the sink cleaning a bowl of vegetables and didn’t see him enter. He did not see his little sister, Rania, but that didn’t worry him. She spend much of her time at her friend’s house playing and learning how to bake the cookies she loved. “Sorry I’m late,” said Zaki. “I got held up at work.”
His mother turned around. She did not smile and Zaki was worried that she was angry. “Where’s Rania?” said Zaki, trying to break the ice.
It was his mother’s eyes that gave her away. A quick glance to the pantry doorway. Zaki knew they were not alone. He thought about running out of the house but he couldn’t leave his mother and sister alone with whomever was in the house. He was not a coward. He felt the presence of someone moving up behind him in the hallway.
Zaki took two steps into the kitchen and looked into the pantry. The soldier with the skinned shin was standing in the pantry with his hands on the shoulders of twelve year old Rania. No gun was necessary. A man his size could easily break her neck. The second soldier that had chased him appeared in the hall doorway. Zaki looked at a carving knife on the counter next to him. He considered picking it up and fighting the two soldiers but he knew his family would suffer even if he won, which wasn’t likely. He knelt on the tile floor and put his hands behind his head to show he would surrender without a fight. The soldier in the doorway walked forward and slugged him in the face. Everything went black when his head hit the floor and he fell unconscious.
Aussaresses took a personal interest in Zaki’s interrogation. The politicians in Paris had been putting substantial pressure on the commanding generals of the Army to do something about the terrorist attacks that plagued their city. The bombs were scaring off the tourists, and France needed their money to rebuild and pay off her war debts.
In turn the commanding generals were putting pressure on Massu. Massu told Aussaresses to use all means necessary to find information that would reveal the location of the terrorists. Shit always rolls downhill, thought Aussare
sses.
Aussaresses knew that Zaki was a low-level spy for the FLN. Zaki was never told why his handler and those in command wanted to know when certain people entered or exited Algeria. He didn’t need to know to do his job. In fact Zaki didn’t know much beyond the identity of his handler and even that was probably an alias. Hardly worth Aussaresses’ time. But Aussaresses understood the concept behind a crack in the damn and Zaki was just the crack he needed.
With Zaki in custody the leaders of the FLN did not know what he would reveal, if anything. They didn’t know how the French would use what information they learned against the rebels. The longer Zaki stayed in custody the more the FLN would worry and that was what Aussaresses wanted. He wanted the members second guessing each other. He wanted them to panic. Aussaresses would make great use of Zaki, even if he didn’t know anything. But first Aussaresses wanted to know what Zaki did know and Aussaresses was an expert at pulling information from a prisoner’s head.
After three days without sleep, a person loses all track of time and begins to hallucinate. They don’t know if it is day or night unless they see the sun or the moon which their interrogators deprive them of as soon as they enter prison. They begin to forget what they said and can’t remember what they didn’t say. A skilled interrogator can twist the prisoner’s mind into believing he or she has already told them everything they wanted to know even when in reality the prisoner has told them nothing. The prisoner is forced to use the interrogator as a gauge of what is real and what is not real. Sleep deprivation is a very effective tool in discovering the truth.
Zaki had been awake for almost sixty-nine hours when he dozed off and his head nodded down. The bucket of cold water that hit him in the face woke him. Zaki was strapped to the armrests and legs of a wooden chair with baling wire. It had already cut deep into the flesh around his wrists and ankles. It cut further when Zaki jerked from pain.
Café Wars Page 19