Assignment Madeleine (16 page)

Every muscle in her legs was a tiny flame of torment. Dust
burned in her throat. Her chest ached and there was an uncomfortable little
cramp in her stomach. She knew she must look a perfect fright, with sweat
running down her face, rivulets streaking through the dust that gritted her
skin. A giggle lifted in her as she thought of what her friends at the country
club would say if they could see her now. The giggle was silent at first,
and then she heard the sound of it and it frightened her and she clamped her lips
shut. Chet had looked quickly at her, glowering and yet alarmed.

Poor Chet.

He didn’t know her at all. Not a bit. She was still a stranger
to him, even after the year of their marriage, even after the night of their
reunion in Algiers.

Don’t think about that night, she told herself. That’s the
cause of all your trouble.

She had almost told him about it this morning, but some
perverse streak in her had checked her tongue. It was impossible now. Not after
what had happened with Charley. Men were so stupidly jealous. And Chet was worse
than most. He said he loved her, but he didn’t trust her. He was only too
willing to jump to the wrong conclusions about her. If he’d only listened to
Daddy and kept the job in the Houston office, none of this would have happened.
Everything would have been fine. But no, he had to come here to this
god-forsaken, sun-blasted country peopled by maniacs, just to prove something
to himself. It was only words, Jane told herself. This business of standing on
his own two feet. Being independent. A man. Accepting no charity. Proving he
could support her without help from Daddy.

It was all so sad and stupid.

She looked up and the horizon reeled drunkenly around her.
How long had they been walking this time? She looked at the delicate Swiss
watch on her wrist. It had stopped. Sand must have gotten into it somehow. Or
the heat had expanded something inside. How long would it be before she
stopped, too? She couldn’t walk much more. She was thirsty again, too. The
whole thing had been stupid. Why hadn't they stayed by the truck? The French soldiers
would have come along sooner or later and rescued them. And why hadn't Durell
been more careful about the driver? She knew the answer to that one, but her
mind shied away from the responsibility. If she hadn’t gone for that walk with
Charley and even encouraged him to attack her, Durell wouldn’t have left the
truck to the mercy of Talek.

Well, she couldn’t help that. She looked up again, seeing
L’Heureux’ tall figure striding along with his hands behind his back.
They were traversing a narrow gully that paralleled the road. It was Chet’s
fault, really. She had tried to explain, but now he wouldn’t listen. It just
goes to show you. Charley could have escaped easily. He could have walked off
as easy as pie. He might even have taken her with him as a sort of hostage. But
he had thrown away his chance to escape because of her, because he couldn’t
wait to have her. . . .

The thought made a strange heat rise in her. He had just
looked at her and wanted her. If he hadn’t lost his head over her, he could
have escaped. But he hadn’t been able to control himself. She felt smug about
that.

She wondered if Chet would have done the same.

No. Chet was too sensible. Too prudish. Even now, whenever
Charley looked at her, it was plain to see that he hadn’t given up. It was
flattering to know she could do that to a man like Charley. A man who was
dangerous, reckless, strong. If Chet didn’t want her, she would certainly be
all right, anyway. Besides, there was no real danger. L’Heureux was tied up
again, and Durell seemed able to take care that he wouldn’t step out of line
again. It was too bad, in a way. But it was fun to know you had such power over
a man, to know he was still a prisoner, maybe facing a death sentence, because
he hadn’t been able to resist her.

Suddenly Jane stumbled and fell. It came so unexpectedly
that she was shocked and stunned. For several moments she didn’t know what had
happened. She felt herself falling and sliding, while stones and sand went roaring
around her. Her cry was involuntary. The sun went spinning overhead, an
awesome, blazing ball of fire that blinded her. Pain shot through her
leg, and then there came a prompt repetition of that queasy feeling in the pit
of her stomach.

Chet was beside her, kneeling. His tanned, square face looked
young and concerned.

“Jane, Jane, honey. Are you okay?”

She looked at him blankly. “I fell.”

“Let me help you up.”

“No, I’m all right. Let me stay here a minute.”

The others were walking, not running, back to where they
waited. The highway was visible through a narrow cleft in the rock to her
right. It shimmered like a wet ribbon in the sunlight. Jane caught her breath
and rubbed her leg. It was all right, actually. She hadn’t sprained or broken
anything. It just hurt like the devil for the moment. She looked at Chet. She
felt nausea rise like acid in her throat.

“You're awfully solicitous all of a sudden,” she said.

“Jane, I’ve been thinking. Of course I was jealous. You and
that man—I’m sure I was wrong in thinking you encouraged—”

“Oh, shut up,” she said. “You're an idiot, Chet.”

He looked as if she had slapped him.

Then she threw up.

It was awful. She had been fighting it for hours, and it
was the first time Chet ever caught her at it. He had no idea what it
meant.

She hadn’t told him yet about the baby. And she wasn’t going
to, either.

Durell and Madeleine came up to her. Durell ordered Chet to
move her into the shade of the tree and announced a second rest period.
Madeleine knelt beside her. “Are you all right,
cherie
?”

The French girl’s eyes were thoughtful, studying her. “Is it
the heat?”

“I don’t think so.”

”Then this is not the thing you should be doing,
cherie
.”

”Please,” she said. “It's nothing. I’m just tired.”

Madeleine looked quickly at Chet. “If you wish it to be that
way, of course.”

”Yes, please. Maybe it is the heat, and the walking . . .”

“Naturally. But you must rest a little now.”

‘Only for a little time. A few moments.”

‘I understand, Mrs. Larkin.”

But Jane didn’t think the redheaded girl really understood.
How could she? It was her own carelessness, her own thoughtless passion, that
had brought her to this stupid state. Her mind went spinning back into the
past, to the night two months ago when Chet had greeted her at the
Maison
Blanche airport outside of Algiers.

She remembered how it was that night only too well. She had
really been looking forward to their reunion eagerly. She had missed Chet more
than she had been willing to admit. And Algiers had looked like fun. It was like
Paris and it was like San Francisco, with its terraces and hills and funny
little streetcars and narrow streets and bright shops on the Rue
d’Isly
and the Rue Michelet. She remembered her first
glimpse of the city as the plane had circled, the Sahel hills hugging the
coast, lifting behind the buildings, so that the town looked suspended between
mountain and sea. And the war didn’t seem so terrible, with all the uniforms on
the streets, the paratroopers in their cute green berets. . . .

There had been no restraint and no inhibitions in their reunion.
They had gone directly to the hotel overlooking the semicircular harbor, and
from the balcony they could look north at the darkening Mediterranean. They’d
had a wonderful French dinner in the room, sharing a muted, breathless
excitement every time they just looked at each other.

When she came out of the shower, she hadn’t bothered to put
on any clothes again. The room was filled with a kind of electric violet
light, the dusky air was warm, the sea wind brought with it the tang of salt
and all the exciting scents and strangeness of North Africa.

She remembered the look on Chet’s face when she had walked
toward him that way, with no clothes on. She had never done that before. His
voice caught in his throat in such a funny way when he spoke her name. And then
he took her with a crazy strength that was unusual to his gentle nature. Right
there on the balcony, in the dusk, on the floor.

They had giggled crazily afterward. She accused him of
raping her. But those heated moments had been repeated again and again that
night, in an abandonment of mutual rediscovery.

The next day had brought quick disillusionment when they
drove to Marbruk and Chet left her at Felix’ hotel for a solid week while he
worked at some emergency thing in the oil exploratory fields much farther
to the south. By the time he returned, expecting a renewal of that night in the
Algiers hotel, everything was different.

They hadn’t slept together since. . . .

Chet’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Jane, can you go on?”

Durell spoke above her. “She has to. Ten minutes are up.
Everybody on their feet.” ’

Chet said angrily, “Look, she’s hurt her leg—"

“Then she’ll have to be carried. We can’t stay here. One way
or the other, we go on.”

“We can rest a little longer, can’t we?”

“Not in this sun. Not here.”

Jane hadn’t heard that tone in Durell’s voice before. It was
like the crack of a whip. She stood up. Her leg was all right. It hurt a
little, but not too much. She ached all over, but her stomach had settled down,
thank God, and it things went according to schedule, she’d be all right for the
rest of the day.

She looked at Charley L’Heureux. He was always watching, she
thought. His eyes were inviting.

Why not?
she
thought. At least, he really wants me.

Chapter Fifteen

AT NOON, less than an hour later, Durell called a
definite halt. It was too hot to go on, whatever the urgency. They ate
dry sandwiches and sipped water sparingly, seated in the shade of huge boulders
strewn on a slope above the Baroumi road. Not that the shade offered much
relief. The landscape was scorched by the sun, shimmering with heat waves that
distorted the vision and created crazy delusions wherever one looked. Durell
allowed L’Heureux to join them while they ate.

The way ahead was over a long, flat stretch where no escape
from the sun was possible. Moreover, Durell thought, their toiling progress
would be visible to anyone tor miles around. For that reason alone, it was
impossible to go on. But it would have been murder for the two women, anyway.
Of the two, Madeleine looked much better equipped for survival. She was sparing
of any wasted motion, calm and withdrawn, as if her whole being was quietly
concentrated on the simple problem of breathing the scorched air. Jane had
deteriorated more than ever. She was limping now, too, and there was a pallor
under her skin that indicated the near approach of exhaustion.

Chet kept his eyes on L’Heureux. He looked as if he wanted
to kill the prisoner, the way he kept fingering his carbine. L'Heureux
looked amused when he met Chet’s hot, angry stare.

Durell had finished eating when he heard the distant sound
of a motor. He stood up at once, holding his carbine ready, and studied the
shattered landscape. To the northwest, where Baroumi was located, was a low
range of brownish hills. Somewhere in the folds of the land close ahead was the
village. Behind them was the twisted, rocky terrain they had just covered. Up
to this moment, they had seen nothing living and heard nothing whatever of man.

The motor sound came from a plane. It came from the east,
but it flew too far to the north for the pilot to spot them. The harsh
sunlight flashed brilliantly on the yellow fuselage of the machine. It was an
L-51, a light reconnaissance plane, and Durell wondered if it had flown
in from the coast to Marbruk. If it had, his departure by truck might have been
premature.

A dull thudding sound came from behind the low hills ahead.
The plane circled in the sky over there. Smoke scarred the blue-white sky. It
lifted in a black, greasy cloud, untouched by any wind.

L’Heureux stood up awkwardly because of the way his hands
were tied, and walked over to join Durell.

“Baroumi is over there,” the prisoner said. “I wonder what’s
going on. That’s a French Army plane.”

“We’ll find out about it when we get there.”

“Aren’t you going to wait until dusk?”

"Yes," Durell said. “Sit down. And stay away from
the girls."

Next he heard the sound of truck motors coming down from the
hills to the north. There was more than one, but until they carne into sight
along the narrow road, he couldn’t be sure. He counted three, then four, moving
in a slow convoy. The figures of men trotted along after the slowly
rolling vehicles. None of the men looked like French troops. There was too much
lack of discipline in their movement. Durell swung back to L’Heureux again.

“What do you make of them?”

“You need help?” L'Heureux sneered. “You know damned well
they're rebels."

Durell nodded. “If you make one sound to attract their attention,
you’re a dead man. Understand?”

“I thought you were supposed to take care of my hide,” L’Heureux
said, grinning.

“Don't count on it too much.”

The trucks rolled closer. There was a sudden whining and
thunder in the sky, and Durell saw the incredible flash of a
fighter jet swooping up over the range of hills and then banking down
over the convoy on the road. Rockets boomed and a louder explosion followed the
drop of an antipersonnel bomb. One of the trucks careened crazily and went off
the road and slammed headlong into a high outcropping of rock. Men spilled from
it like shattered dolls. A few of them got up and ran for cover. The rest of
the convoy had stopped. There was a small huddle of men who seemed to be tied
together, and Durell lifted his field glasses to study the scene. The
huddle of men were prisoners, mostly Arabs in robes and burnooses, although
there were patchwork French Army uniforms among them.