Pyotr wraps the wire several times about the man’s wrists, then twists the ends together to hold it in place. The Arab resumes his appeals as the
légionnaire binds him.
“Please, it’s not my fault. I didn’t do anything. Please. They’ll blame me.” He cranes his neck, trying to catch Pyotr’s eye as he speaks. A sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead.
"Keep the knife, Sarge may want to see it. You want to check this radio? See if it goes anywhere special?" Pyotr asks Vidal.
“In a minute,” the radioman replies, sitting on the edge of bed.
“Cover him for a moment.” He tugs at the small rip in the thigh of his pants, finds a tiny hole in his thigh where the shotgun pellet entered. The marks is small, and feeling around his thigh he can find no exit wound –
the pellet is still in there, he thinks glumly. There is a little blood, but not much.
Two close calls. He picks up his MAT-49 again, trains it on the Arab.
“Get on your knees and stay there,” he orders. The man whimpers as he brings himself to a kneeling position.
“Please, I don’t want to die. I didn’t do anything...”
Pyotr reaches under the bed to retrieve the
rifle. The bolt-action is reminiscent of the many Mausers he’s seen – the rifle is old but well-kept. Stamped at the base of the barrel are the words,
FABRICA DE ARMAS OVIEDO 1915. He walks it back over to the door and places the rifle and the shotgun together, then begins to search through the bunkhouse. Flipping open cabinets and trunks, the Ukrainian finds what one might expect among farm hands – work clothes, a few tools, traditional Arab clothing folded neatly away, a couple of sturdy pocket knives but no guns. Four of the trunks by the beds are nearly empty – what contents remain appear disturbed, as if hastily gone-over.
He turns his attention to the bodies next. Both men are dressed in European work clothes, though it appears that one was wearing the woven knit caps that Pyotr has seen on Arab men wherever he’s gone in Algeria. Looking at the positions of the bodies, he notes that both have their legs tucked under them, as if perhaps they were kneeling before they died. A handful of flies attracted to the blood buzz fitfully as Pyotr searches the bodies – both of the men have strings of beads tucked in pockets, and one carries a small pocket knife.
Vidal yanks the prisoner up from the floor, and pushes him toward the door. Reaching the entrance again, he pushes the man down on his knees, facing him toward the wall, away from the door. The Arab’s pleas become more strident, imploring the legionnaire not to kill him, insisting on his innocence.
“Fermez la bouche!” Vidal orders sharply. Moving so that he can keep his eyes on the Arab, he approaches the transistor radio the shelf. It’s an
Oceanic Surcouf – he recalls seeing an almost identical radio belonging to one of the jumpmasters in the parachute barn in Blida, apparently a popular model. A makeshift antenna aerial extends out one of the windows. Flipping the switch reveals only static. Vidal shuts the radio off.
There’s a soft call,
“Take care, it’s David”, from just outside the door. There’s a pause, then Nedjar pokes his head in, looks over the prisoner, the guns, and the legionnaires.
“Kat wants us to clear that stable before it gets any darker. Find anything important?”
“I…I reckon so, sarge. Wouldn't wanna get in a fistfight just yet, but I should be alright to move around some. Damn I feel dumb, though.” Katsourianis looks Normand over, then jerks his head in the direction of the stairs.
“Let’s clear the first floor,” he replies.
“Follow me.” He glances back as the pair start up the stairs.
“And no grenades this time, understood?”
The two creep up to the landing as quietly as the creaking stairs will allow and carefully work their way from door to door, Kat leading and Normand covering. To the west are two bedrooms – one is clearly a young man’s room, from the décor of football pictures, trophies and ribbons. The other has two twin beds and pink floral wallpaper – dolls and a dollhouse, pinned-up fashion photos from
Paris-Match, and a dressing table with a large mirror and a collection of hair ribbons and combs. Neither room appears disturbed, allowing for the clothing on the floor in the girls’ room.
A linen closet and a bathroom are the next two rooms – in the bathroom the legionnaires find traces of blood around the wash basin, and on the floor are a pile of damp towels, once white but now stained pink.
Finally they enter the master bedroom to the east. Immediately Kat stops on hearing the crunch of broken glass beneath his feet and both men pause as they search the deepening gloom. The room is silent and at last they move forward and learn that the glass came from the shattered doors of a gun display case. The case is empty – only a few cartridges and shotgun shells remain, scattered about the floor. Satisfied that the rooms are empty, the pair returns downstairs, meeting Burhan Pamuk at the bottom of the stairs.
“The farmer and his family are dead. Throats cut.” the Turk informs them quietly. Kat nods and turns to Normand.
“Go get Sánchez and bring the truck up – he’s in the barn with Silvio. Keep your eyes open – that stable on the other side of the yard hasn’t been secured yet.” He turns to back to Pamuk.
“Where’s Babaye? And where’s my radio?”
"If I find the bastards who did this, Sergent..." Marcel pulls out another cigarette and puts it in his mouth, not even bothering to light it.
"What's going on out there? I heard gunfire; a shotgun?" Müller listens to Marcel without comment.
“Pamuk, search that body over there. We need to collect the weapons,” the German says. As the Turk moves into the dining room, Müller looks Marcel in the eye.
“I asked you to check on them so that when I’m debriefed for the after-action report I can say truthfully that my first action on discovering the bodies of the colons was to summon a medic.” His gaze bores into Marcel’s for a moment, then he looks away.
“As far as finding who did this - ” he tilts his head in the direction of the body on the floor in the dining room.
“That’s done. Even if it’s not. Understand?”
He glances out the window.
“Finding a couple of killers means nothing, Fortier. Four dead colons, three dead gendarmes, at least four wounded legionnaires, and for what? To kill three or four guys and recover a couple of machine pistols?” Müller shakes his head, a grim smile on his face.
“Not very good odds for us in the long run, is it?” He looks Marcel straight in the eye.
“This was a waste of time and good men, doc, nothing more.” he says flatly.
