Oui, it was worth trying. Anything was better than this! And as he came to the decision, D’Aran was faintly surprised to note that he was not afraid. He was only tense with anticipatory excitement.
It was apparently as an afterthought that he said to Gallast: “Do you smoke?” and offered his case. Gallast hesitated. Then he took a cigarette. D’Aran produced a box of matches and struck one. Gallast leaned slightly forward to receive the light, his gun raised so that it was aimed at D’Aran’s chest.
The burning match travelled towards the cigarette.
Then, at the last moment, it changed direction. The flame licked against Gallast’s hairy gun hand. Gallast took in a swift, hissing breath of pain as he twitched the hand away. And D’Aran drove a fist into his face. In that transient period Gallast was an ideal target. He was off balance and on the corner of the desk. His gun was temporarily useless and he had no other defence. A right upper cut of only nominal accuracy and power would have put him on the floor, even if it did not knock him out.
But D’Aran was no pugilist. He hit while still sitting, instead of rising with the blow. And his knuckles landed on the bridge of Gallast’s nose, where they had the minimum of effect. The result was that, although Gallast reeled off the table, he managed to keep his feet. He stumbled backwards and sideways, arms outstretched to maintain balance.
D’Aran jumped up. He remembered a brass paperweight on the desk. He grabbed it and threw it as Gallast was again levelling the gun at him.
There was no time to take careful aim. But this time he was fortunate. The heavy lump of metal struck Gallast on his right elbow. Gallast grunted under the shock and involuntarily opened his hand. The gun crashed to the stone floor.
Both dived for it together.
But D’Aran, because he was lighter and more nimble, got there first.
He landed with a breath-shaking jolt on his chest. His fingers closed round the Luger muzzle. A second later Gallast’s heavy body dropped on top of him, across his shoulders.
D’Aran tried to twist free. It was impossible. The weight was crushing. He kicked in a futile way as he felt Gallast wriggle round. He knew what was going to happen. Gallast was about to link his fingers round his throat and throttle him.
He felt the fingers, thick and strong, groping under his collar. He felt sudden pressure over the gullet. Then, suddenly, his head felt as if it was expanding under an intolerable internal pressure as the blood supply was cut off from his brain.
Instinct aided him—an instinctive recollection of a simple counter-move in unarmed combat.
He felt for Gallast’s little fingers. His senses were fading fast as he grasped them and pulled outwards. But he had just enough strength to break the throttle hold. And as the pressure ceased his head seemed to clear miraculously, ‘it was like coming to the surface after spending a long time swimming under water.
Somehow he managed to hold on to Gallast’s weakest fingers as he suddenly arched his back. Now, because Gallast was himself leaning backwards in an effort to get free, D’Aran was able to throw him clear.
And as he did so there was a faint snapping sound from Gallast’s right hand. The small bone there had broken before it had slipped from D’Aran’s grip.
Gallast gave a grunt which turned into a low groan. But D’Aran was scarcely aware of what had happened.
He had retrieved the Luger.
Holding it, he staggered to his feet, his breath coming in retching gasps.
Gallast was sitting upright. His hard-hewn face was distorted with pain. His close-cropped fair hair glistened with sweat.
D’Aran said jerkily: “If you try to call out… I’ll shoot you. Understand?”
There was no reply. No vocal reply. Only an expression of submissive hatred.
D’Aran backed towards the radio table.
Still watching Gallast, he fumbled for the main switch, locating it by touch. When it was pressed down he heard an oscillating whine emerge from the headphones. It was a strangely comforting sound. But he did not put the headphones on. This was no time for an awkward one-handed manoeuvre. His main concern was to get a message out. He would listen for a reply—if a reply came—after that.
Transferring the Luger to his left hand, he started to tap with his right. He gave the fort’s brief recognition call twice. Then he immediately went into the message. It was brief. And there could be no question of coding it. He was not well enough versed in cipher to be able to code a message verbatim.
He tapped out: Hostile forces seized fort to observe explosion.
He hesitated, wondering whether to add anything to it. He decided not to do so. Those seven words were enough. Far better use whatever time was available in repeating the message.
His breathing was easier now and he felt calmer as he prepared to transmit again.
But at that moment a violent and fiercely echoing crash came from the doorway. At the same time D’Aran felt his gun hand become numb, useless. The Luger fell on to his lap, then slithered down his legs to the floor.
One of Gallast’s men was standing there, a thin thread of smoke coming from the gas port of his pistol.
Vaguely, D’Aran heard someone shouting from outside. Then a clattering rush of feet.
The feet were still clattering, and getting louder, and louder, and louder, when he realised that the bare room was revolving round him.
Then there was blackness in the moment before he folded to the floor.
He was still on the floor. Gallast was standing over him, looking an evil mountain of a man. And for a time all D’Aran wanted to do, all he could do, was to stare upwards.
Then he became aware of two facts.
There was a dull pain in his left shoulder which centralised in a small area of clotting redness. It seemed that his wound was not too serious.
And a buzzing was coming from the radio. The same few Morse signs were coming over again and again. He concentrated. It was an effort, but he managed to follow the signal.
It was a call from Sidi Bel Abbes.
And it was saying: We received only last word of your message. Word was ‘Explosion’. Please repeat at once.
D’Aran tried to match himself against another seeping wave of despair. And Gallast was smiling now.
“You heard, lieutenant?” Gallast asked.
“I did.”
“I am glad—it is as well that you fully understand your position.”
D’Aran groped for some means, however feeble, of upsetting this man’s suave confidence. Eventually, he said: “The High Command will be puzzled—they’ll send out a patrol.”
“I think not, lieutenant. I myself will send back a suitable message, purporting to come from you. It will be an ordinary and harmless enquiry ending with the word ‘Explosion’. It will satisfy them.”
He had been idly stroking his now bandaged finger.
Suddenly he bent down. With his uninjured hand he jerked D’Aran to a sitting position. He thrust his face close to that of the Frenchman. He said with a queer, calculated malevolence: “I have yet another item of information for you. I intended to break it to you gently, for I am a tolerant man, but you have lost my sympathy…”
He broke off as D’Aran tried to shake himself free. It was a useless attempt. Gallast had a strong grip on his tunic.
“You can say nothing more that can interest me, Gallast—if that is your name.”
“It is my name, even though I introduced myself with the wrong title. I am Colonel Gallast, of… but that does not matter. Now listen to me, you young fool. Listen carefully. Have you thought of what we intend to do with you and your men during the explosion?”