The Centurions (58 page)

The régime was playing its last card in this affair. It threw it down on the table because it was reduced to this extremity, but with ill grace, as though it already realized that by taking such a decision it was condemning itself to death.

Villèle, in his turn, was summoned to Paris. His “boss” asked him what he thought of the paratroops.

“There's a lot of good and a lot of bad in them,” he replied. “They're dangerous because they go to any lengths and nothing will hold them back. They've assimilated the Marxist conception of enlisting the masses and, like the Communists, they are beyond the conventional notion of good and evil.”

He was then asked for his opinion on the
10
th Colonial Parachute Regiment, its C.O. and its officers. He replied:

“It's the regiment which will do best in this new form of warfare. One could almost say it was formed specifically with that aim in view.”

The boss produced a file dealing with the massacre in the
mechtas
of Rahlem.

“We're building up a file on tortures and measures of oppression.”

“What about the F.L.N.s?”

“We're not interested in them. What should we do about this file?”

“Wait and see.”

“Do you think you can stay on in Algiers without running too many risks.”

“Yes. The paratroops will look after me, because they feel the need to convince me, to win me over to their side. They're like the Communists, they don't yet consider me ‘irrecuperable.'”

“What chance have they got of succeeding?”

“Hardly any. The paratroops know nothing about the rebellion and its organization or about Algerian mentality. The police and the civil administration will do everything in their power to put a spoke in their wheel; from jealousy, because they can't allow others to succeed where they themselves have failed. The rest of the army is envious of the airborne units and they all fall into rival camps according to whether they wear red, green or blue berets or forage caps.”

“Would you be able to meet any ‘political heads' of the rebellion?”

“No. You sometimes forget that I come from Algiers and that my mother, brother and sisters might be blown up by a bomb any day.”

“When you meddle in politics, it's best to rise above that sort of contingency.”

“That's easy, when you've got your whole family living in the Avenue Foch.”

“I thought you had fallen out with yours?”

“You can't keep that sort of thing up at a time like this.”

“Mr. Michel Esclavier wants to see you.”

“He can go and take a running jump at himself!”

“He's a great friend of the firm, and for the first time we've got him in our clutches. He doesn't want his name to be compromised in the business of the
mechtas
of Rahlem on account of his brother-in-law.”

“It's not his name!”

“Just as Villèle isn't your name. He is anxious to cover up for Captain Esclavier. You seem rather jumpy and aggressive . . . The air of Algiers perhaps? When are you going back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Go and have a rest, then come and dine with us this evening. It should be quite an interesting party . . .”

“I already know who's going to be there: an academician, three ambassadors, a few past, present and future ministers, some business tycoons and a title or two, an American Communist, an official from a people's democracy who has just chosen freedom, a Dominican, some conscientious objectors, a syndicalist and a film star . . . An interesting party! I'd rather go and join that idiot Pasfeuro.”

“What are Pasfeuro's views on the situation?”

“He doesn't have any. He's nothing but a journalist who reacts to every event and passes on his reactions to five hundred thousand readers. An idiotic, devoted hack.”

“Are you thinking of leaving us?”

“No, because you're on the winning side.”

“You occasionally forget that I'm the one who made you.”

“I've served you well.”

“If there was any fighting in Algiers, would you go out into the streets?”

“I'd take to my heels, hoping that everything would go up in smoke, that there would be nothing left of the town . . . because, sir, I love Algiers. You once told me that a man who is attached to something, no matter what, a town, a woman, a country or an idea, can never have a great destiny.”

“I love my country, my wife and my children.”

“A country which is merely a reflection of yourself, your wife because she's nothing but your shadow, your children because you cannot imagine they could ever be different from you.”

“I'm also fond of you, Villèle.”

“A contradictory emotion but an understandable one. You need a man on this paper who stands up to you, but only up to a certain point, merely as a stimulant, like a cup of coffee.”

“One day I'm going to make you a director.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Do come and have dinner this evening.”

“What's the name of that actress of yours?”

“Evelyn Forain. She's free and unattached.”

“On the down grade?”

“On the contrary, a rising star.”

“Good, then I'll come.”

The boss signed an expense voucher for Villèle. It was for double the amount he was usually given.

Villèle sneered:

“The four hundred thousand francs of Judas.”

 • • • 

On
20
January, the chief of staff of the division summoned all the regimental Intelligence officers to Algiers.

Boisfeuras and Marindelle took part in this strange conventicle, at which a dozen officers received orders to clean up Algiers as rapidly as possible, foil the strike, unearth the terrorist networks, take the whole organization of the town in hand and to do it in such a way as “to avoid too many casualties.”

“How does a town of seven hundred thousand inhabitants work?” Marindelle naïvely inquired.

“I've no idea,” the colonel replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “We were not taught that sort of thing at staff college.”

“Have we got any information on the rebellion, the way it's organized, the names of its leaders?” a captain in a red beret inquired.

“Very little. Algiers is established as an autonomous zone, with a civil and military governor whose names we don't know, tribunals, armed groups, a bomb network, committees and even, so they say, hospitals. You will be given a little pamphlet on the rebellion which I've had roneotyped for your benefit, the same pamphlet that's handed out to the foreign journalists who come to Algeria. That's all the police is willing to let us have.”

“How will the town be divided up?” Boisfeuras asked.

“In four sectors, one to each regiment. The Tenth, for instance, will have in its sector the west part of the Kasbah on the water-front, including Bab-el-Oued, of course.”

There was a burst of laughter, for the whole division knew about Raspéguy's adventure.

“What about orders?” an elderly captain inquired.

“No written orders. Do as you see fit. You'll be covered by the general, you've got his word for this.”

“That's pretty meagre, the word of a brigadier-general in a matter of this importance,” a young major observed. “What about the Government?”

“It's the Government that has given you the order to occupy Algiers and to act in such a way as to . . .”

“A written order?”

“We're not here to discuss points of procedure but to fight. We've got to do this job irrespective of all legality and conventional method. The strike must be foiled, otherwise the F.L.N. will be able to show U.N. that they're in control of Algiers. If we don't achieve some rapid results against terrorism, the Europeans will come out into the streets, there will be massacres, and once again everyone will say that France is unable to maintain order in Algeria, that she must therefore be relieved, the problem put on an international footing and U.N. observers sent in, which will be tantamount to the victory of the F.L.N.”

“It still means,” the major went on, “that we're now being asked to do a police job, after being forced to act as schoolmasters and wet-nurses. It's extremely unpleasant.”

“Yes, but you've all been trained in operational intelligence. Look upon this Algiers business as a battle that you've got to win at any price, the most important of your battles, even though it isn't normal campaigning. The stakes are even higher than at Dien-Bien-Phu.

“The regiments will enter Algiers after dark on
24
January. The population must wake up in the morning to a new town of which you will be the masters. The surprise, the shock, must be as violent for the Moslems as for the Europeans. You've got the right to requisition, you can enter any house, by day or by night, without a search warrant.”

“Who gives us this right?” Boisfeuras asked.

“You take it upon yourselves. The general will see all unit commanders at midnight on the
24
th. Good hunting, gentlemen.”

Boisfeuras parted from Marindelle, who had decided to spend the night at Christiane Bellinger's, and went to report to Colonel Puysange who had sent for him.

Boisfeuras was one of the few paratroop officers who was on good terms with him. The man did not inspire the captain with aversion despite his twisted mind, his love of intrigue, his lack of scruples, good faith and honour, his monstrous thirst for power which he could only quench in the shadow of his seniors in rank, which made him sly and at the same time embittered. Boisfeuras felt a certain attraction for people who, in the image of his father, pursued great aims by devious paths, the disciples of Machiavelli, Ignatius Loyola, Lenin and Stalin.

That day Puysange had assumed his expression of a sphinx with half-closed eyes. He was the initiate of great mysteries and was anxious to appear so.

“My dear Captain,” he said, “You're being launched on an adventure in which there's every chance of coming to grief. You know the deep regard I feel for Colonel Raspéguy, the finest soldier in the French Army, and for you yourself and your friends . . . So I've decided to come to your assistance by providing you with one of the keys of Algiers, which will enable you, while the others are marking time, to get a move on. This key is called Mr. Arcinade. He'll be waiting for you at eight o'clock this evening at the Aletti bar; he'll be wearing a grey suit and be ostentatiously reading
Nouvelle France
. From now on, my friend, it's up to you!”

After the captain had left, Puysange allowed himself to smile as he drummed with his fingers on the glass slab covering his desk. He had got himself out of an embarrassing situation extremely cleverly, by ridding himself of that madman Arcinade, and at the same time he was settling an old score with Raspéguy by foisting him on to the colonel together with the cloth-merchant's corpse.

After an hour's conversation with Arcinade, Boisfeuras came to the conclusion that the man ought to be locked up and that Puysange, once again, had indulged in a manœuvre for which he could see no rhyme or reason. Arcinade maintained that the principal leader of the rebellion, Si Millial, was living in Algiers under the name of Amar, as well as Abbane, Krim Belkhacem, Ben M'Hidi and Dalhab Saad, his heads of the interior, and that he, Arcinade, had got hold of twenty million francs belonging to the rebels, not to mention the plan of the whole financial organization of the autonomous zone.

He had taken this plan out of his pocket, together with a list of the names of the merchants who were acting as cashiers.

“Money matters,” said Arcinade, “have always been the weak point of the F.L.N. Many of the collectors made off with the dough, so Chihani had decided to split the merchants up into groups of ten; having received the subscriptions from nine of them, the collector would then hand the funds over to the tenth, which avoided leaving large sums of money in the hands of young cut-throats . . .”

“If this crackpot story is true . . .” Boisfeuras suddenly reflected.

He pocketed the papers and asked Arcinade to assemble his team of “activists” on the following evening and also to bring the funds he had unearthed with him.

The word “activist” had a genuine revolutionary ring; Arcinade seized on it at once. He had discovered a new word with a certain amount of consistence, on to which he could fasten, as though they were so many coloured balloons, his most extravagant fantasies.

After leaving him, Boisfeuras rang up Inspector Poiston and asked:

“Which branch of the police handles the confidential information in connexion with the rebellion, in other words the rebels' card index system?”

“The D.S.T.,” Poiston replied, “but nothing would persuade them to make it available, least of all to you.”

“Where's the card index kept?”

“State Police Headquarters, third floor of the Prefecture, Room
417
. Is that all you want to know? You'd better be quick about it, the card index is liable to be moved at any moment.”

“Thanks for the information, Poiston.”

“But I haven't given you any information!”

On the evening of
20
January, Marindelle had called on Christiane Bellinger. He did not have time to let her know he was coming and found her in company with a Moslem friend, whom she introduced to him by the name of Amar. She had known him, she told him, for a long time, for he had been her guide on her first expedition to the Mzab. He had managed to get her into certain Ibadite circles and into Melika, the holy city, and had introduced her to an old
cof
official who had given her valuable information on the Immamate of Tiaret in the tenth century.

Christiane seemed restless and uneasy; she kept launching into technical terms and historical references to make Amar's presence there more plausible.