He, Neil and Van Loon, and a jumpy little American called Hudson from one of the agencies, were sitting up at the bar on the second floor of the hotel, looking over the empty gaming tables in the salon de jeu. St. Leger wore a waistcoat and pinstriped trousers; only at the height of the summer did he leave them off in favour of ducks and a blazer. He was saying, ‘I met Paul Guérin three years ago in Paris. Charming fellow. Very formal, of course — very much the St. Cyr officer class. Not much gaiety there.’
They watched the candles flickering in the tall mirrors across the room. ‘What’s going to happen now?’ asked Neil.
‘Death and bloodshed,’ said St. Leger evenly, ‘they’ve got Guérin behind those barricades, while the whole Army’s on the fence waiting to see what he’ll do. But of course there’s nothing he can do until the Army does something. Then, when the Government’s moved up enough reliable security troops, they’ll go in and smash the barricades.’
‘Then you’ll see the shit start to fly,’ said Hudson.
‘It won’t be the end of it, though,’ said St. Leger, ‘the killing will go on. The combinations of terrorism in this place are almost infinite. The Secret Army commandos will go back underground. Then you’ve got the Arab Front — their terrorists are commanded by a dear little chap called Ali La Joconde. His men have been killing about a dozen Europeans a day right in the centre of the city. We’ve even had to watch our step going outside the hotel. And on top of that you’ve got the barbouzes.’
‘Barbouzes?’ said Neil. He remembered that Pol had said he was a barbouze.
‘Yes, “false beards”,’ said St. Leger, ‘special gunmen the Government’s been sending in to fight the Secret Army on its own terms. They’ve become almost a legend out here — none of the Ministries will officially admit their existence. They’re licensed to kill without any questions being asked. Some of them are reputed to be Indo-Chinese — agents recruited during the war there to infiltrate the Viet-Minh lines. But most of them are just hired thugs — police informers, ex-convicts, gendarmes who’ve been kicked out of the force for misconduct. Delightful types.’
‘How many of them are here now?’ said Neil.
St. Leger took a lick of toothpaste, rolled it round his tongue as though it were a vintage wine, and said, ‘Not easy to say — the Secret Army’s killed so many of them off. But a few days ago it was thought there were about two hundred of them operating in the city. Their favourite method of working is to get in with some Secret Army commandos and go out and shoot a few Moslems — just to show they’re in the spirit of the thing, you know — and then, when they’ve got the names of the commandos, they either move in and kill them on the spot, or take them off and question them for the names of other commandos.’
‘They use torture,’ said Hudson, his worried face bobbing about like a tennis ball.
Neil was listening gravely; he tried to form a mental picture of Pol, gun in hand in the wardroom of the ‘Serafina’; but somehow the image became distorted with Pol the Michelin Man, rubbing down his rolls of fat with a bath towel. It didn’t seem to fit.
‘Of course, one might say that any methods of fighting the Secret Army are justified,’ St. Leger was saying, ‘and using the barbouzes is just one of them.’
‘How’s it all going to end?’ said Neil.
‘Personally,’ said St. Leger, stroking his long dry neck, ‘I see no end to it. Except, perhaps, send in the Brigade of Guards and impose fifty years of paternal British rule.’ He spoke without a trace of humour, and Neil did not know whether he should laugh or not.
Outside, the night had closed in and there was a black silence over the city, interrupted by the tapping of machinegun fire. Up in his room Neil began to write a long letter to Caroline by candle light; but he was distracted by thoughts of Pol and Jadot and the barbouzes, and he knew she wouldn’t be interested in them. He thought of telling her that he had a colleague here who ate toothpaste, but she probably wouldn’t believe him. He went to bed.
CHAPTER 3
Neil woke with the telephone purring by his ear. He lifted the receiver from its cradle and a man’s voice said in French, ‘Monsieur Ingleby, you are wanted downstairs.’
‘Who by?’
The voice repeated, ‘You are wanted downstairs. This is reception.’ The line clicked dead.
Neil sat up and looked at his watch; it was a quarter to seven. Too early for any of the journalists to be up asking for him, and he didn’t think Pol would risk coming to the hotel again. Whoever was downstairs was from the Secret Army.
He felt a tightening in his stomach as he showered, dressed and went through to Van Loon. The Dutchman lay naked on his back, snoring. Neil shook him awake: ‘Peter! There’s someone downstairs to see me — from the Secret Army. You join me in the foyer in five minutes — not later!’
Van Loon opened one eye and said, ‘O.K., five minutes. Don’t get killed!’
Neil went out and along to the lifts. The hotel was very quiet. In the foyer the two receptionists stood like sentinels against the
