Nicolette tried to move her leg but the pressure increased until she thought the bone would break. The muscle at the back of her calf pressed into the rough rock and she could feel the tendons behind her knee and ankle pull tight. She whimpered. With her free leg, she tried to kick him off.
His blow bounced her head against the rock and her vision blurred. When he took his foot off her shin she bent her knees, tucking her legs beneath her.
‘Name?’
‘Nicolette de Dercou.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘The Hera—’
The next blow landed on her ear.
‘Who do you—’
The sound of an engine echoed towards them. The guard at the cave entrance said something and both men walked out.
She lay curled on the cave floor, eyes closed. Her ear burned and her head throbbed with a constant ache. The relentless drone of an engine idled somewhere close by. She’d bitten her tongue. Voices shouted, men hurried. The engine revved up. The vehicle departed. Silence. Still she lay.
#
A cool breeze caressed her face. Nicolette opened her eyes. The walls of the cave were covered with glistening beads of moisture. Outside a weak sun shone, the rock wall across from the path a sculpture of light and shade. A man was sitting on the ground at the entrance of the cave, smoking, a Kalashnikov across his lap.
She thought of Steven and Amoud. Wondered where they were being held. Wished she was with them. A small black scorpion scurried in and out of crevices towards the entrance, its tail curled forward over its back, its sting resting on its carapace. It came to where sunlight met shadow and stopped, seemingly afraid of the light. Raising its claws, it snapped at the sunlight as if trying to capture it. Then, reassured of its benignity, continued its journey.
The rocky floor pressed on Nicolette’s hipbone. She pulled her legs up to her chest, then rolling forwards, manoeuvred herself upwards. Even in this kneeling position she felt dizzy. She closed her eyes, willing this light-headedness to pass. Breathed deeply. Her hands throbbed. Slowly, painfully she rose. Her light-headedness increased and she quickly sat on her rock-seat, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
Small waves of warm air blew towards her, smelling of damp rock and juniper. Her guard appeared to be dozing. She stood, walked to the cave wall and licked it, hoping to get enough moisture to quench her thirst. She heard her guard clear his throat and turned towards him. Without turning his head to look her way – or even changing his position – he’d picked up his firearm and casually pointed it into the cave. She went back to her seat.
The buzz of insects was the only sound she could hear. An occasional bird hovered the air currents. She hadn’t had food or water for over a day now, but wasn’t hungry. Her lips were cracked, and she had trouble producing saliva to moisten them, but strangely, she felt less thirsty today than the previous day.
She thought of the journalists back at the hotel in Algiers. Would any of them notice their absence? Try and find them? Probably not. She wanted to hope, but hope was such a dangerous emotion.
A flash of movement, golden orange against the rock face beyond, caught her attention. A fox. She watched it make its way over and around boulders until it disappeared from her line of vision. The sky became overcast. She slid down to the ground and rested her back against the rock-seat. The afternoon wore on.
#
By the light outside the cave she judged it to be evening. She could hear voices outside, arguing, laughing. She sat up, alert. Many more than yesterday. She smelt wood burning, food cooking. Her inquisitor and his aid entered her cave.
‘Well, Mademoiselle, ready to talk?’
She was pulled back up onto her rock-seat.
‘Now. First question. Who are you working for?’
‘The Herald.’
The punch to her belly doubled her over, retching. He walked behind her, pulling her upright again.
‘It’s no use lying to us, you know. Your partner has told us everything – you are spying for the government. No use denying it. Now, who are you wor—’
‘My name is Nic—’
An explosion of pain engulfed her head as both her ears were struck simultaneously with open palms. She fought against the darkness that offered her sanctuary. Warm liquid trickled out of an ear, down her neck. The sides of her face burnt. Her head was jerked back once more. She could see her inquisitor talking to her, but couldn’t hear anything. She tried to focus on his face, to fight unconsciousness. His face was close enough to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath, see the pores of his skin. He released her head and she slumped forward.
She was lost in a cocoon of pain and fear and silence. She felt him move away from her. Looked up and saw him lighting a cigarette with the lighter Steven had given her. The smell of cigarette smoke inundated the cave. The second man stood behind her and pulled her backwards, holding her head to his belly, one arm pressing around her neck.
The man in charge stood astride of her legs, inhaling deeply of the cigarette between his lips. He took it out of his mouth and looked at its tip, talking all the while, glancing at her, then back at the cigarette, back at her. And though she could hear a voice, it seemed far away and she couldn’t make out the words. He waited, one eyebrow raised. Then slowly brought the cigarette close to her face, close enough for her to feel its heat. She struggled, but the hands holding her tightened their grip. She screamed a silent scream as the glowing end lightly touched her skin, then lifted, only to come to rest a little lower than before. The stench of burnt flesh mingled with the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke.
She fell to the ground. Curled up tight, mewing in terror and pain, oblivious to those around her. Someone touched the bindings around her wrists and she cringed, expecting more pain, but instead felt the ropes being untied. Hands turned her onto her back and slid under her head to lift it slightly. She felt something cold next to her lips, then the trickle of water.
When she dared open her eyes her tormentor was no longer there. Instead, another man was holding a bottle of water to her lips, while talking to two others standing nearby. She still couldn’t hear well, but she could tell that he was angry. She drifted into semi-consciousness, but this man wouldn’t allow her this luxury, shaking her and forcing her to drink. She felt dizzy but forced herself to focus on his face. He was talking to her, nodding his head as one does to a child being good. She parted her lips and a little of the water trickled into her mouth. She swallowed. Another trickle, another swallow. He smiled and something deep in her memory stirred, but was gone again before she could grasp it. He lowered her head gently back onto the ground. As she gave herself up to the darkness she felt the rough wool of a blanket envelop her.
#
‘Rafiq, wait for us. Wait, Rafiq.’
Nicolette laughed as she ran down the dirt track that led to the caves below the Berber quarter. Her blonde curls bounced in the sun, the skirt of her dress riding high over her legs as she jumped over rocks, pulling Jamilah by the hand, her school bag on her back, her white socks and sandals now brown with dust. Rafiq turned.
‘Well hurry up. We’re nearly there. And be quiet or you’ll scare her.’
Nicolette and Jamilah slowed to a fast walk.
‘Do you think she’ll still be there?’
‘She’ll be there. Come on, this way.’
The three children veered off the track, climbing over rocks, heading towards the caves that were barely visible in the intense afternoon light.
Rafiq stopped. Signalled to the girls to squat. ‘Over there, see?’ He pointed to the closest cave. ‘We can get closer, but you must be quiet.’
Both girls nodded, eyes wide.
‘They’re so beautiful,’ Nicolette whispered. She looked at the vixen lying at the entrance of the small cave, two small bundles of fluff suckling, pawing her belly. ‘How old are they?’
‘Just a couple of weeks.’
Jamilah grabbed Nicolette’s hand
and squeezed it in delight.
‘She’s not frightened of us.’
‘She knows me,’ said Rafiq, straightening with pride. ‘I’ve brought her food – she knows I won’t hurt them.’ He smiled, one corner of his mouth as always just a little higher than the other.
Nicolette gazed at Rafiq. To her, he seemed so wise. His manner was always gentle, and he could answer anything she asked. He knew everything.
‘When I grow up,’ she said to him, suddenly serious, ‘I’m going to marry you.’
Rafiq blushed and walked away.
‘You can’t do that,’ Jamilah giggled.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re French, of course.’ She stood to follow her brother who was striding back to the track, hands deep in his trouser pockets. ‘Now he’s angry,’ she told Nicolette. ‘Come on.’
#
The cave was dark. For just a second Nicolette was confused, unsure of where she was. She moved, and the sleeping serpent of pain awakened and slithered over the familiarity of her body. She heard a soft rustling sound outside the cave. She remembered the silence and raised her hand to her ears, covering each in turn – she could only hear from one. The other had bled and was now sticky and tender, and felt hot under her fingertips. She felt the blanket covering her. Remembered the evening. The punches. The cigarette. Someone had stopped the pain. Given her water. She remembered a smile.
25
It snowed the next day and Nicolette huddled against the cave wall, the blanket wrapped tightly around her. Her whole body hurt and her mind still had trouble accepting the position she now found herself in. She’d heard of people being taken hostage in various countries, but it was a rare occurrence as far as she knew, and she’d never thought it would happen to her. In spite of her pain, she forced herself to think logically.
They had accused her of being a spy. Why would they think that? She knew Steven had confessed no such thing – it was a trick. Even if there had been something to confess, Steven never would. They had taken her wallet, her lighter, her cigarettes. Surely by now they would have gone through her things and seen her letter of accreditation from The Herald, her correspondent’s pass. She had to think this through. But the pain in her ear was worse than any she’d had before, the ear was still oozing, and thinking was difficult. Tough. Forget the pain and think.
Okay. Someone must have realised by now they were missing. Who? Not Lesage. She’d know they’d gone to Constantine, but they’d have to be missing for days before she wondered about their absence, and even then, would she do anything? Nicolette doubted it; Lesage didn’t strike her as the type of person who’d bother.
What about the journalists back at the hotel? Jean-Paul would have, but he’d be back in France by now. DJ and the others had probably gone back home too by now, or to wherever the next story was. But what about Mike Davies? Would he look for them, or just assume they were chasing a story?
So if she got out of this, it would either be that they let her go, or that she escaped.
She rose painfully and went to the entrance of the cave, keeping to the shadows. The guard posted outside her cave was missing, and the whole area seemed unusually quiet. Outside, the snow had stopped falling. Everything seemed peaceful. Closer to the entrance she looked out and saw the guard warming himself by a campfire. He saw her and snatched up his rifle, and Nicolette quickly retreated, her back against the wall, her breathing rapid. She listened, expecting to see him any second, but the seconds passed and no one came. She hadn’t seen anyone else. Of course, they may very well be in one of the other caves, but the point was that there were definitely times when less people were in the immediate vicinity.
She heard voices and returned to the entrance. Her guard was talking with another man, who turned slightly and Nicolette felt a nudge of recognition – the man who’d given her water. He’d stopped the violence. Why? What authority did he have? She would have to work out how many were here, who was in charge, what their capture was really all about.
Back in the warmest corner of the cave Nicolette evaluated her position. So far, no one had retied her wrists. It could be an oversight, but she doubted it. Either someone had ordered it, or they would come retie them soon. Maybe if she did nothing to antagonise them, they would leave her hands free.
The broken skin where the rope had cut her wrists was scabbed over and would heal in time. The cigarette burns on her face were sore but she had to consider them as minor. Her ear was no better, and she still couldn’t hear from it. Her knee, cut on the rock, was hot and swollen and she suspected it had become infected. She felt weak, damaged. She wanted to lie down and wrap herself in a cocoon of oblivion. But another part of her insisted she keep thinking, planning. Maybe if she could work out why she was here – it had to be political. She went through what she knew of the current situation. Boumedienne was dead, and Rabah Bitat – the interim president – was in power for the next forty-five days, during which time Boumedienne’s successor would be determined. Nicolette knew the Berber/Arab problem might intensify during this time, but how did that have anything to do with her and Steven? Was it money? Did they want to ransom them for money to fund their struggle?
The guards came back into the cave and retied her hands in front of her. Then they went to stand just outside the entrance, talking.
The idea of using her and Steven for money seemed possible, but improbable. And what about Amoud? Surely they didn’t think they’d get anything for him? Whom would they ask?
What, then?
She had to work this out.
They had accused her of being a spy. Did they really believe that? It was common knowledge in the industry that the CIA had been using journalists as spies since the early fifties. Those of the New York Times and CBS were favourites – they worked in Africa, Russia, Vietnam. Many believed they were helping keep the free world safe from communism. But after attitudes changed regarding Vietnam, and Berstein’s exposé in Rolling Stone last year, everyone now denied they ever had anything to do with the CIA. In any case, as far as she knew, the CIA used American reporters, not Australians … didn’t they?
All day Nicolette fluctuated between wanting to curl up in a corner and trying to find answers. A wind sprung up, thunder rumbled into the gorge. Rain replaced the morning’s snow and her guard moved to just inside the entrance of the cave, but she was left alone. From the activity outside, something more important was going on. Jeeps came and went, the number of voices fluctuated.
She paced the cave, restless one instant, despairing or lethargic the next. She convinced herself Mike Davies was looking for them this very instant. She hadn’t filed her latest pictures – he had to know they were missing. She imagined him on the phone to contacts, diplomats, journalists, causing what he called ‘motion and commotion’. The Herald in Melbourne would have been notified and would be applying pressure from their end. Every idea and lead would be examined and acted upon. Soon, very soon, they would be freed. There would be cheering at the pressroom. They would walk in and someone would produce bottles of champagne. There would be smiles. Hugs. Tears.
Or not.
Attempts at rescue would antagonise her captors. They would refuse to negotiate. They would become angry. Panic. Nicolette and Steven would be killed. Amoud also.
Night fell and still it rained. She was taken at gunpoint to relieve herself once more. The ground had turned to slush and rivulets of muddy water gurgled down the gorge walls and across the path. This time, she took note of her surroundings, but no moon shone and in the darkness she could only see the immediate area. Someone brought her a tin plate with food – a mishmash of meat, onions and chickpeas – and a Coke bottle filled with water. It was the first sustenance she’d had in two days. By the light of a candle she ate the food with her fingers, her tied wrists hindering her movements. She hid the empty glass bottle in a fissure in a dark corner, but her captor noticed it missing and demanded it back. He rewarded her with a backhanded slap. N
icolette cursed her stupidity. Hiding the bottle had angered him – something she couldn’t afford to do.
She remembered the Muslim fundamentalists at the market. Were these fundamentalists? Maybe if she acted meek and humble, they would relax their surveillance – think she’d given up. It might give her a chance to just step outside a little further in daylight, see where she was, where Steven and Amoud were being kept. Steven must also be planning their escape. If she could only let him know exactly where she was. Tomorrow. She’d have to do something so he’d know. The camp outside settled but still she couldn’t sleep. All night she shivered, thought up plans, rejected them. And still the rain fell.
#
The next morning it was still raining, the clouds low in the sky. Nicolette went to her guard, her arms pressing against her belly as if in pain.
‘I need to go to the toilet.’
He ignored her and she repeated her request. He indicated for her to walk ahead of him. A few steps outside the cave Nicolette stopped and bent over double, as if her belly cramped. The guard pushed her in the back with his rifle, hurrying her along.
‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ she said, her voice louder than necessary. She hoped Steven had heard her, then, afraid of the guard’s reaction, quickened her step.
The camp was half way down a gorge. Behind the cave where Nicolette was being held, a steep rocky wall rose to meet the road they had travelled. Water gushed down and around rocks like miniature waterways, sometimes clean, sometimes muddy. The camp was effectively hidden by a wide ledge jutting out in a zigzag fashion. On the other side of the track the gorge continued, less steeply than above, less rocky.
It was on returning to the cave that she saw something that gave her hope. Some distance away the gorge levelled out and a small forest of pines covered the area; from this distance the trees appeared to be growing densely. She’d imagined the gorge to be as deep and rocky as the one immediately surrounding Constantine, but this one was much shallower. For the first time since she had been captured, escape seemed a possibility.
That Devil's Madness Page 25
