Café Wars

by David Lee Corley

  “I want the film your men took,” said Brigitte.

  “I am afraid it has been misplaced in all the commotion,” said Trinquier. “I would see that the men that lost it reimburse your photographer for the cost of the film if you wish.”

  “The people will know what you have done here. This will not stand,” said Brigitte.

  “Of course,” said Trinquier considering her choice of words. He watched with amusement as Brigitte was escorted out of his office by the two paratroopers.

  Brigitte stayed silent on her trip in the jeep to the airport at Constantine. She boarded the plane to Paris without putting up an argument with the two paratroopers escorting her.

  It was a connecting flight through Nice. When the plane landed in Nice, Brigitte exited the plane with some of the other passengers. She entered the terminal and bought a ticket for the earliest flight to Algiers. She refused to go back to Paris without answers to her questions. It was too important.

  It was early morning when the helicopter carrying Bruno and his command staff approached at the French Army airfield. He was surprised to see Brigitte standing on the edge of the field. She looked cold, like she had been waiting there all night.

  When the helicopter landed he jumped out and trotted over to greet Brigitte with a smile on his face. “This is a nice surprise. What are you doing here?” he said.

  “What happened at El-Halia, Bruno?” said Brigitte.

  Bruno was taken aback by the seriousness of Brigitte’s tone and even more by the mention of El-Halia. “Let’s go inside and get some coffee. You look cold,” said Bruno.

  “I’m fine. Tell me what happened, Bruno.”

  “Coffee first. Then we’ll talk. I promise.”

  Bruno and Brigitte sat for a long time without talking. Brigitte knew this would be tough for Bruno and she waited patiently as he composed his explanation. This was a courtesy for a friend. Normally she would not wait and press her interviewee until her questions were answered. But this was Bruno. A man that had saved her life more than once. A man who was once her lover. She felt she owed him time to think. She had to admit that she hoped what Trinquier had alluded to wasn’t true but Bruno’s silence suggested otherwise. Bruno took at long sip of coffee before he started, “It was after Philippeville. Trinquier asked me to take a platoon up to investigate a fire at the mines of El-Halia. To be honest I knew he was planning something at Philippeville and I wanted to get as far away as possible before it happened.”

  “You knew he was going to massacre all those people?”

  “No. I had no idea he would go that far but Trinquier had a reputation for being harsh with the Vietnamese villagers and I had no reason to believe this would be any different. You must understand, Brigitte. I was there as an observer. I had no power over Trinquier and his men.”

  “So why did he ask you to accompany the platoon?”

  “I imagine he wanted me out of the way. He didn’t want any high-ranking witnesses. But I didn’t come to that understanding until later after the affair was over.”

  “Affair?”

  “You know what I mean, Brigitte. I am not good with words like you.”

  Brigitte nodded, “Go on.”

  “When we arrived in El-Halia the streets were empty. It was like a ghost town. The Muslims were hiding in the hills. They had good reason to suspect the French Army would retaliate. They had killed dozens of pied-noir families. Men, women, children… even babies. Anyone they could find they killed in a most vicious manner. Over one hundred and twenty in all.”

  “Why would they do that? They must have had a reason.”

  “They did. There was a fire at the mine. Eighteen pied-noir miners were killed. The pied-noir believed the Muslims had set the fire. They rioted and attacked the Muslim community near the mine. Over thirty Muslims died. The pied-noir were also very vicious. The Muslims retaliated. They outnumbered the pied-noir and their vengeance was swift.”

  “So what happened when you got there?”

  “I suggested to the officer in charge of the platoon that military trials were in order. He and his men rounded up one hundred and fifty Muslim men. Each was given a trial and…”

  “And what, Bruno?”

  “And hanged… in the village square where all could see.”

  “You murdered one and fifty Muslims?”

  “No. We murdered no one. They were tried and found guilty. They were punished according to the law.”

  “French law?”

  “Military law.”

  “They were civilians.”

  “They were terrorists and mass murderers.”

  “So were the pied-noir.”

  “I was not sent to judge the colonists.”

  “Then you agree. You were given orders to single out the Muslims.”

  “Not orders per se. There was an understanding. I knew what needed to be done and I did it. That’s what being in command means. Doing the hard things.”

  “Except you weren’t in command.”

  “I will not hide behind a technicality.”

  “I didn’t imagine you would. Those men listened to the great Bruno Bigeard, hero of Dien Bien Phu.”

  Bruno stayed silent. The point had been made.

  “Did Massu know?”

  “I will not blame my commander for my decisions.”

  “Of course not. You’ll just fall on your sword because that’s the honorable thing to do.”

  “And what is wrong with honor?”

  “One hundred and fifty civilians dead. That’s what’s wrong with honor.”

  “They had to be shown that France will fight for what is hers.”

  “Tell me. When does it stop, Bruno? When does an eye for an eye stop?”

  “When everyone is blind, I suppose.”

  “I used to think you were the bravest man alive. Turns out you’re just a bully with a reputation.”

  Bruno remained silent but she knew her words stung. She knew Bruno better than he knew himself. She rose and left the building.

  Brigitte sat in Damien’s office as they finished the last of the brandy. “So, what are you going to do?” said Damien.

  “I don’t know,” said Brigitte. “If I write the truth the reputation of a man I once loved will be in ruins. Even if the generals don’t court martial him, his military career will be over. He’ll never recover.”

  “I could get someone else to write the story.”

  “Thanks, but no. If it’s going to be written it should be me that writes it.”

  “You don’t think you are too close to it?”

  “I’m a professional. I’ll do my job.”

  “You could wait.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said yourself that you’re not sure who is really behind it or how far up the ladder it goes. So… find out.”

  “Bit of cop out, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe not. I don’t want to put the magazine’s reputation on the line for a half-baked story.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really. Quit whining and do your job, Friang. Find the truth. All of it.”

  Brigitte smiled. She got up from her chair, walked over and kissed Damien on his bald spot. “Tell your wife she’s a lucky woman,” said Brigitte. “And if she don’t want you, I’ll take you.”

  “Perish the thought,” said Damien.

  Brigitte laughed and walked out.

  EIGHTEEN

  Brigitte had her arms full of groceries when she returned to her apartment. Bottles of wine were cheap at the grocery store and she had decided to stock up on her favorites – the dry style of Semillon from the Bordeaux region, the deep Pinot Noirs grown in the Burgundy region and the Grenache from Southern France. She would save the best for when Coyle was with her and they spent the evening together. He didn’t know too much about wine but she enjoyed teaching him. They needed hobbies together. It was strange to love someone so much but to have so little in common with them.

&nb
sp; The elevator was out of service again and she had to hike up the flight of stairs carrying the two heavy bags. She pushed the bags against the door and used the weight of her body to hold them in place while she fished for keys in her purse. She noticed someone at the end of the hallway. The hallway bulb was out, making it darker than usual and she couldn’t see the person’s face. She supposed it was a man by the size and the bulky overcoat. The person stared a moment as if considering what to do. Is he wondering if he should help me or is it something else, she thought. Brigitte didn’t like the feeling it gave her. She found her keys, shoved the apartment key in the lock and turned it without thinking what would happened next. She just wanted to get inside.

  When the door swung open the bags of groceries came crashing down. One of the bottles of Pinot Noir shattered and soaked the vegetables she had purchased with red wine. “Fuck,” she said.

  She heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the end of the hallway. Instinct told her not to turn and look but to get her ass inside and close the door. She followed her instinct. She kicked the groceries on the hallway floor inside, slammed the door shut and threw the deadbolt. She stepped back and watched the door knob. It was motionless and she sighed with relief. She was being foolish and it had cost her a bottle of wine. Even though she was laughing at herself, something kept her eyes transfixed on the door knob… and she watched it move. She held her breath. It occurred to her that it might be Coyle. He could have forgotten his key and was waiting at the end of the hallway. Why he hadn’t waited in the lobby below she wasn’t sure. But it was a possibility. “Tom?” she said.

  The door knob snapped back into its previous position and stopped moving. She listened for foot falls but heard none. Whoever was outside her door was still there. She wasn’t sure what to do but figured she had better arm herself. She picked up the neck of the shattered wine bottle and waited. It was a wooden door and could be easily kicked in by a large man. You’ve faced worse, she thought. Keep your head and don’t stop fighting if it comes to that. And scream. Screaming is good. Screaming gets attention. Rape is a good scream word. Fire is better. Everyone will come at the sound of the word fire.

  She waited by the door for seven minutes and nothing happened. She moved into the kitchen and retrieved a better weapon – a carving knife. She grabbed a dish towel and moved back out to the door. She sopped up the wine that had now stained the white grout in her tile floor. “Double fuck,” she said starring at the red stained grout.

  Brigitte called the airbase in Algeria were Coyle was stationed. She wasn’t sure what she would say to him. If she told him the truth and that she was frightened he would drop everything and come home to her. That’s what she wanted but didn’t want to admit it to herself. She would figure this one out on her own. The officer on duty informed her that Coyle was unavailable at the moment and that perhaps she should call back tomorrow. That meant he was on a mission. He was doing what he did best and she wanted him to continue doing it. She asked the officer to leave Coyle a note and tell him that there was a gas leak in the apartment. She was going to spend the night in a hotel and call him in the morning. The officer agreed. She hung up.

  The man still could be waiting outside the door, she thought. I need to get past him. She considered the situation for a moment. She picked up the phone and called a taxi. She asked the driver to come up and help her with her luggage. She said her suitcase was heavy so it should be a driver that was big and strong. She hung up.

  She grabbed her biggest suitcase from the bedroom and brought it into the living room. She filled the suitcase with the unbroken wine bottles weighing it down. She grabbed a change of clothes and her toiletries. She placed them in the suitcase and closed it. She thought for a moment. She reopened the suitcase and placed the carving knife inside. She retrieved a smaller knife from the kitchen and waited by the door.

  A few minutes later there was a knock. She placed her foot sideways several inches back from the door and opened it so that her foot only allowed the door to open a couple of inches. A large man was standing in the hallway. “You called for a cab?” he said.

  “Yes. Can you help me with my suitcase?” she said.

  “Of course,” said the man. “You’ll need to let me in.”

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, opening the door.

  She stayed near the open door as the man entered and picked up the suitcase. She wasn’t sure about him. He wasn’t wearing a uniform and he could have heard her conversation while listening through the door. She kept the small knife hidden against her wrist in case she needed it. He exited the apartment. She grabbed her purse and locked the door behind her. “I’m sorry. The elevator is out. You will have to use the stairs,” she said glancing back down the opposite direction to ensure they were not being followed or attacked from behind. The hallway was empty and someone had repaired the light.

  “Yes. Yes. I noticed when I came in,” he said. “It is fine. It’s not so heavy. I used to operate a beer delivery truck. Two kegs of beer on the shoulders. Now those are heavy.”

  They moved down the stairs and out the front door. Brigitte kept watch the entire time. The driver loaded her suitcase in the trunk of his taxi and heard the bottles inside clank. Brigitte climbed in the backseat, closed the door and locked it. The driver climbed in and said, “The airport or train station?”

  “Oh. Ah… neither. I want to go to a hotel,” she said.

  “Which hotel?”

  “I don’t know. Can you recommend one?”

  “The Hotel Champ Ceramic is small but nice. Tourists like it because it’s by the Arc de Triumph.”

  Brigitte liked the idea of being near a lot of tourists and said, “I’m sure that will be fine.”

  The drive pulled out into traffic and drove away. Brigitte watched out the back window. She saw nothing suspicious in front of the apartment building and wondered if she was imagining things.

  Brigitte sat on the edge the bed in her hotel room. She felt emotionally exhausted but her mind was still racing. She needed to relax. She looked over at their suitcase and thought for a moment. She walked over, opened it and pulled out a bottle of white wine – the Semillon. She picked up the phone and it connected to the front desk. She asked the receptionist to send up a bucket of ice, a corkscrew and a wine glass to her room.

  Behind the front desk in the hotel lobby, the receptionist, a man in his late forties, agreed to Brigitte’s request and hung up the phone. He repeated Brigitte’s request to Saadi standing next to him holding a Webley top-break revolver leveled at the man’s chest. “Take off your jacket,” said Saadi.

  The man removed his jacket and handed it to Saadi. Saadi laid the jacket on the counter and removed a stiletto-style switchblade from his pant pocket. He whipped around opening the knife as he turned and cut the receptionist across the throat. Blood flowed and the man collapsed to the floor behind the desk. Saadi plunged the knife into the man’s heart to end his suffering. Saadi was not without compassion and had no desire to see people suffer if it served no purpose. Stopping the man’s heart also stopped the bleeding. Saadi did not relish the idea of standing in a pool of blood. He put on the receptionist’s jacket.

  Ludmila appeared through a back room doorway. She was holding a housekeepers uniform. Saadi told her to put the uniform on and retrieve the items that Brigitte had requested from the hotel kitchen along with a serving cart covered with a table cloth. Ludmila nodded in obedience.

  Ludmila wheeled a cart down the hallway and stopped in front of Brigitte’s room. She looked down both sides of the hallway to ensure that nobody was watching. She knelt and lifted up the table cloth to reveal a stack of three towels on the second shelf of the cart. She opened the middle towel to reveal a bomb. She pulled out her pair of pliers and crimped the pencil detonator. She noted the time on her watch. It was a 5-minute detonator which should give her and Saadi plenty of time to escape before the bomb went off. She closed the towel and let the edge of the table cloth
drop back over the shelf.

  She knocked on the door and waited. Ludmila had questioned why she was not allowed to just shoot Brigitte when she came to the door as Saadi had done with the receptionist. Saadi reminded her that a bomb had much more social impact than a bullet. Brigitte’s assassination would draw international headlines and the fact that a bomb was used would achieve the desired effect on the public. Ludmila didn’t understand nuances of propaganda but she was obedient and did as Saadi instructed.

  Brigitte opened the door two inches and looked out through the crack. “The ice and glass you ordered, Mademoiselle,” said Ludmila.

  “Great. Come in,” said Brigitte.

  Ludmila wheeled in the cart and set it in the middle of the room as she had been instructed by Saadi. She turned to leave and Brigitte said, “Would you mind putting the bottle of wine on the bed in the ice?”

  “Of course not, Mademoiselle,” said Ludmila turning back around, picking up the wine bottle and placing it in the bucket.

  Again Ludmila turned to leave and Brigitte said, “Go ahead and uncork the bottle. I’d like it to breathe a few minutes before drinking it.”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle,” said Ludmila again turning back and opening the bottle with the corkscrew. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No, I think that’s it. Thank you,” said Brigitte.

  Ludmila moved toward the door. “Oh, wait. I almost forgot,” said Brigitte moving to the bedside table.

  Ludmila glanced at her wristwatch. Saadi had explained that while the pencil detonators were very reliable their mechanism was chemical and therefore not exact. Ludmila knew she was cutting it close. Brigitte opened her purse and handed Ludmila a tip. Ludmila curtsied and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Coyle entered the hotel lobby and approached the front desk. Saadi considered just shooting him in the face but Ludmila had not returned yet and Saadi did not know how long Coyle’s body would be lying in the middle of the lobby. Even if he moved Coyle’s body there would surely be a large blood stain on the carpet. He was also concerned that the gunshot might alert Brigitte and ruin the mission. He decided to buy himself some time and see what the approaching man wanted. “How may I help you, Monsieur?” said Saadi.