Tuareg

He knew as soon as the telephone rang that it was the President,

since he was the only one who had a direct line to him.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘General Al Humaid, Ali…’ He was clearly struggling to keep calm and his voice was notably strained. ‘He has just called me, begging me “with all due respect” to call an election as soon as possible and avoid bloodshed.’

‘Al Humaid!’ Ali Madani realised that his voice had become equally strained and that he was trying, without much success to maintain a calm that he most certainly did not feel. ‘But Al Humaid owes everything to you. He was just an obscure commandant that never…’

‘I know Ali! I know!’ he interrupted him impatiently. ‘But he’s up there now, the military governor of a key province and he has our biggest tank corps under his command.’

‘Get rid of him!’

‘That’ll just get things going. If he rises up, the provinces will follow. And a rebel province is all the French need to call for a provisional government to be put in place. You know that the mountain cabilenos have never liked us, Ali. You of all people know that.’

‘But you cannot possibly accept his demands…’ he pointed out. ‘The country’s not ready for an election.’

‘I know,’ came his reply. ‘That’s why I’ve called you. What news of Abdul?’

‘I think we’ve located him. They’re keeping him in a small chateau in the St-Germain wood in Maison-Laffitte.’

‘I know the place. We hid in that wood for about three days once, as we prepared for an assault. What’s your plan?’

‘Colonel Turki went to Paris last night, via Geneva. He’ll be getting in touch with our people as we speak. I’m expecting his call any moment.’

‘Don’t do anything until we’re completely sure of success,’ he replied. ‘If we fail this time, the French won’t give us a second opportunity.’

‘Alright. Keep me up to date.’

He hung up. The Minister of the Interior, Ali Madani, put the receiver down slowly and sat quite still for a long time, lost in his own thoughts, mulling over what might happen if Colonel Turki failed and Abdul-el-Kebir continued to rally the nation. General Humaid was the first, but knowing him as he did, he doubted that he would have taken the initiative and challenged the President if he was not certain that there were other garrisons ready to follow suit. Going over the names in his head, he guessed that at least seven provinces, which held a third of the armed forces, would move over to Abdul-el-Kebir. From there, it was just a question of time before civil war broke out, especially if the French wanted it. They had still not recovered from their humiliating defeat some twenty years previously and had held on to the dream that they would one day return to claim back some of the country’s riches, that for a century they had considered their own. He lit one of his lavishly adorned, Turkish cigars, stood up and went over to the window, from where he could see the calm sea, the beach that was empty at that time of year and the wide esplanade before it and wondered to himself whether the time had come for him to abandon the office that he loved so much, for good.

It had been a long journey to get to where he had done, during which time he had seen the man who he had fundamentally admired, be imprisoned and then found himself entirely subservient to another man, whom he basically despised. A difficult road for sure, but one which had given him more power and strength than anyone else in the country so that no one, except for that damn Targui perhaps, could make a move without first receiving his consent.

But he was aware that this power was starting to weaken and he could almost feel it, like mud dried by the sun, crumbling through his fingers and the harder he tried to hold on to it, the quicker it disintegrated. He could not believe that this monolithic state they had built from so much sweat and blood could have ended up by being so fragile and that the simple echo of a name — Abdul-el-Kebir — had been enough to see its very foundations collapse. But recent events had shown this to be the reality and it was clear that it was time to face the truth and accept defeat.

He returned to the table, picked up the telephone and dialled his home number.

‘Pack your suitcases darling,’ he said. ‘I want you to take the children to Tunisia for a few days. I’ll tell you when you can come back.’

‘Are things that bad?’

‘I’m not sure yet,’ he admitted. ‘Everything depends on what Turki manages to get done in Paris.’

He hung up and sat there lost in thought once again, his eyes fixed on the large portrait of the President that took up most of the back wall. If Turki failed or deflected to the enemy, then all was lost. He had always had great faith in his efficiency and loyalty, but now he was overcome with the uneasy feeling that somewhere along the lines, his faith in him might have been a little misplaced.