The fact that her accusations were grossly inaccurate did not matter. Here was a white woman damning the Legion in a native wineshop. It was unheard of. But it was true. Skilful tongues could make much of it in repetition.
Rex summarised their thoughts.
“She’s made us look like a couple of mugs,” he said. “And I guess she’s caused a whole lot of harm, too. But we can’t blame her. And we can’t sit around while she walks out of here alone. We’ll have to see that she’s okay.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Pete said dryly. “Look.”
Rex looked.
Annice was standing by the door. She was not alone. A Touareg Arab was talking to her. His robes were somewhat richer than most. He carried himself with an air of assured authority.
She was listening to him. Listening intently. Several times she nodded, as though indicating emphatic agreement. Then she turned back with him into the wineshop.
They went to a remote table in a quiet corner.
They were still sitting there when Rex and Pete had to leave for midnight appel.
CHAPTER 3
OPERATIONAL ORDER
Colonel Jeux wrestled with the document. But he could make little sense of it. It ran to four closely typed pages, comprising eleven sections and fifteen sub-sections. It was headed: Operational Order For Protection of Oil Pipe Line in Tutana Region. It was from the High Command, Algiers. And it was addressed to he, Colonel Jeux, commanding officer of the Legion garrison at Dini Sadazi. It was a confidential document. It was a vital document, calling for immediate action. But it defied Jeux’s drink-addled brain.
Once, with a great effort, he was able to comprehend the meaning of the entire first page. But as soon as he turned to page two the import of page one was forgotten. And by the time he got half way down page three the whole document had become a mess of fuddled phrases.
So he started again. This time, he tried reading it aloud. The result was just as unsatisfactory. Worse, if anything. For the sound of his own voice increased the violence of his headache.
There was only one thing to do. He must have a drink—even though it was early in the morning.
He rose wearily from behind his steel desk, and went to a steel filing cabinet. The bottom drawer was labelled ‘Miscellaneous’. He unlocked it and produced a half-full bottle of Bisquit Dubouche and a tumbler. Colonel Jeux looked very old and very sad as he poured himself a long drink.
And as he drank it greedily he thought: “It is ruining me—but what can I do? I am useless—oui, useless—without it.”
He was, he realised, typical of too many senior officers. Long years of boredom in sweltering and unhealthy garrison towns such as this, years in which he had seen none but the same faces and repeated the same routines, had led to a constantly increasing consumption of brandy. At first it had been a solace. It freed him from the dragging chains of reason and let his mind soar to the stars. Under its influence he had thought as the poets think, saw things as the philosophers saw them. Brandy had made life tolerable.
But not now.
Now the stuff had half paralysed his mind. Drink enough of it and he could think—after a fashion. Do without it, and he was a weak, helpless creature.
Ah! The tragedy of it all.
As the liquid warmed and caressed his vitals, Colonel Jeux thought of the Man He Might Have Been.
Thirty years ago he had been the senior cadet of his class at St. Maixent. His marking had been the highest ever known in the history of that military college. “Jeux,” they had said, “has a brilliant brain. One day he will be a general…”
And he had thought so, too. Particularly when, as a lieutenant, his thesis on the use of cavalry in desert warfare had been adopted as a standard work.
Now look at him! Look at what the years and the brandy had done… He was fortunate indeed to have reached his present rank. Thank God the High Command did no more than suspect that his brain was rotting. Rotting in a bath of alcohol.
This document, which lay on his desk…
Any pimply-faced sous lieutenant would be able to understand it. But not he. Not Jeux.
He poured more brandy into the tumbler and went back to his desk. He started to read again, sipping frequently. It was a little better this time.
The main points became fairly clear and he was able to retain them in his mind. But it was too much of an effort to follow the details.
It seemed that oil from the new refineries at Reggan was to be pumped across a thousand miles of desert to the naval base at Oran. There it would refuel the fleets of the Western powers.
The pipes were almost completed and pumping was due to start within a fortnight.
But—and this was the important point—there had been several recent instances of damage to the pipes in the Tutana region. The High Command was of the opinion that this must be the result of action by the Touareg tribes. There were two reasons for this opinion. Firstly, the Bureau Arabe—a security department dealing with Arab affairs—had reported sudden activity by the Touaregs in the area. Secondly, the Touaregs were known to be hostile to the oil plan, claiming that the pipes infringed their territorial rights.
It was therefore required that he, Colonel Jeux, make dispositions for the protection of the oil supply. And he was also to take any necessary action to subdue the Touaregs.
That was the bare essence of the eleven sections and the fifteen sub-sections.
The remainder of the operational order was concerned with the number of troops to be employed, arrangements for replacements at Sadazi, lines of liaison with the Bureau, channels of reports to the High Command…
Jeux blinked uncomprehendingly at them.
He rubbed his thin, wrinkled face. He had no choice about it. He would have to call for assistance. He would have to get someone to explain it all, then take over the administrative work from him.
Strictly speaking, the man for such a task was the staff adjutant, Major Baya. But Jeux dismissed such a notion as soon as he thought of it.
No doubt, Major Baya would explain it all very competently. But while doing so, there would be a cynical note in his voice and a light of ugly amusement in his eye. Baya would also do all the necessary organising with smooth efficiency. But at the same time he would be secretly sneering at his commanding officer. Talking in the mess. Saying that Jeux was a drunken fool. That Jeux ought to be relieved of his command.
Jeux knew that his adjutant said these things. They frightened him. Why? Because they were true.
Non, Baya must not know that he, Jeux, was incapable of following a command order.
Monclaire was the man.
Captain Monclaire was very senior and very experienced in his rank. He had an exceptional record of active service. And he was a man to be trusted. People instinctively trusted Monclaire.
Oui, Monclaire would help. And he would not patronise. He would not talk.
For Jeux knew that Monclaire understood him. Understood why the barren years had destroyed a once brilliant and finely poised mind. And, because of his understanding, he sympathised.
It must be Monclaire.
Jeux touched the bell on his desk. He gave an order to the orderly corporal.
Then he picked up the bottle of brandy. He corked it and carefully relocked it in the drawer labelled ‘Miscellaneous’.
But he forgot about the tumbler. He left that—still with a little liquid in it—standing conspicuously on his desk.