That Devil's Madness (14 page)

Behind cheap wooden partitions that were more symbolic than effective, bureau chief Mike Davies opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of cognac and three paper cups. He half-filled the cups, then, moving the photograph of a much younger version of himself shaking hands with Churchill to one side, placed a cup in front of Steven and Nicolette.

‘I suppose you want to organise your own driver again,' he said to Steven.

‘I'd rather.'

The bureau chief nodded. He rose, went to the radiator beneath his window and felt it, then kicked it a couple of times.

‘Nothing ever works in this town,' he said to Nicolette by way of explanation. He picked up his cup. ‘Can't say I'm sorry to see you back, Morris.' He drank a mouthful and looked at Nicolette. ‘No offence, girly, but have you any experience with these people?'

‘I grew up here.'

‘Did you now? Well, you might want to keep that under your hat – shouldn't make a difference, but won't hurt to be careful. The wounds are still pretty fresh, and the mood can turn. They can be pretty volatile at times.'

‘I can handle it,' Nicolette said, and to prove it, she took up her paper cup and copied the chief's action, but the alcohol made her eyes water. She smothered a cough. Steven ignored her, and as Mike Davies watched her and waited for her to settle, the corners of his mouth twitched.

‘Yeah, I reckon maybe you can. Got your own darkroom? No, didn't think you would. Ok, there's one of sorts on the floor below – if you can get passed everyone else using it. The UPA, Reuters, and Agence France-Presse guys aren't too bad – most have their own portable – it's everyone else you'll have to fight for space. If it's not urgent, you might be better off giving your film to one of the support staff – they'll do it in a couple of hours for you, but if something big breaks, you better be prepared to fight your way in there. Anyway, let's hope it's all over before Christmas and we can all go home.'

‘Before Christmas,' Steven said, draining his cup. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and picked Nicolette's camera bag off the floor. ‘Come on, kiddo,' he said as he handed her the bag, ‘let's go.'

#

Steven let the voice of the official drone on and watched Nicolette. She'd been very quiet since leaving Davies' bureau, and he could almost hear her brain ticking over about the darkroom. If anything was to show her up as an amateur, this was it, and she wouldn't be happy about it. Anyone who'd been in the game for five minutes made sure they always carried the basics to process a film and make prints, anytime and anywhere, as long as there was access to water. Hell, he even knew someone who'd hijacked a public toilet once.

Nicolette was concentrating on every word the official said, as if she really believed him. Boumedienne was doing as well as could be expected. His family was with him. There was no change.

Steven saw Nicolette taking notes – he never did. He preferred getting his information from his own sources. He looked around the room; it was like every other press conference. The younger ones were concentrating, the old hands were just filling in time and planning their next story. He recognised most of the faces. The few other women in the room had been in this game for a long time. They were sitting together, a tough elitist little group. He saw one glance at Nicolette then immediately dismiss her. The official finished his spiel. Chairs scrapped back, people moved out.

‘Morris – when d'you get in, man?'

Steven and Nicolette turned to the man grinning behind them.

Steven smiled and shook the man's hand.

‘DJ. I thought it was you up front. Late last night. Good to see you.'

‘So who's this?'

‘My offsider, Nicolette de Dercou. Nicolette, DJ Lloyd, from
The New York Times.
'

Nicolette shook hands. DJ appeared to be around Steven's age, and wore his hair in a ponytail. She noted the camera bag over his shoulder.

‘Hey, did you see Jean-Paul? Where're you guys staying?'

‘No, not yet. Is he here? The usual – Lesage's.'

DJ shuddered. ‘Creepy woman, that one. Listen, we're at the
de Genève.
And I've got a bottle. Coming?'

‘Why not? Come on, Nicky.'

‘Shouldn't we…'

‘What?'

‘I dunno. Check the place out? Talk to people. Get a street map maybe? A guidebook?'

‘Hmm… A guidebook. Now that's a good idea.' Steven looked at DJ, who rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

‘A guidebook, huh? Yup, I'd say that'd be a wise move.'

Nicolette looked from one smiling man to the other.

‘Okay. What did I say? What's wrong with a guidebook? Okay, maybe not a guidebook. But a street directory would be handy…'

‘Nothing's wrong with a guide book,' Steven reassured her, ‘Let's get you your guidebook.'

‘Street directory.'

‘Ok, street directory. I know just the place. Let's go.'

He took her by the arm and led her past street vendors and children begging, DJ following close behind. They crossed streets crowded with buses, cars and donkeys, past tightly packed cafés where waiters flitted like swallows, until at last they reached a small shop with the sign
Office de Touristes
. Nicolette entered, followed by Steven and DJ.

‘I'd like to buy a street directory,' she said in French to the smiling young man behind a counter.

The man looked beyond her to Steven and DJ leaning against a shelf, watching. Steven nodded to the man, and he turned his attention back to Nicolette.

‘Where does your husband want to go, Madame?' he asked.

‘My husband? Oh, no. It's me.
I
want a street directory.'

‘Your husband is looking for a hotel? How much does he want to pay?'

‘No. No hotel. A street directory. And no husband, either.'

‘No husband? Oh. I see. Where do you want to go? I will tell you how to get there.'

‘I don't want to go anywhere in particular. I want—'

‘You don't know? How do you not know? How can I be of help if you do not know where you want to go? Where is your husband? Why are you here?'

Nicolette turned to Steven. He smiled at her and shrugged; he was enjoying this. DJ was trying hard not to laugh. Nicolette turned back to the man behind the counter.

‘A street directory. Do you have one? A book that shows me the streets?'

‘A street directory? No. No street directory. Tell me what you want to do and I will tell you how to get there. How much money do you have? Do you want to see the ruins of—'

‘Never mind. Thank you.' As she walked past them out of the shop, Steven bowed low and DJ burst out laughing.

‘Very funny,' Nicolette said when they were once more on the pavement.

Steven took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and laughed. He pulled one out and threw the packet to DJ, then lit his smoke. ‘Just a bit of fun.' He ruffled her long hair into her eyes. ‘Come on, woman. Your
husband
wants a drink.'

‘Husband my arse,' Nicolette mumbled as she followed.

#

DJ's hotel room was packed. It seemed to Nicolette that half of those who had been at the press conference were now here. DJ's bottle had long emptied, and more had appeared. She sat on the floor nursing her third glass of
pastis
and water, her back against the bed, with the small wiry Frenchman introduced as Jean-Paul next to her.

‘Thick as thieves,' she said, indicating Steven and DJ across the room.

Jean-Paul nodded. ‘There's a lot of history with those two. Been through a lot together.'

‘Oh?'

‘So tell me, what were you doing before this?'

‘Nothing very interesting. Tell me about Steven and DJ.'

Jean-Paul shrugged. ‘I don't know all of it. I know they were in ‘Nam together. And I know
that
because they were the ones who got me out of there when Saigon fell.'

‘You were there?'

‘Weren't we all?'

‘But hang on. The French…'

‘I wasn't military. I lived there. With my wife and son.'

‘In Vietnam?'

Jean-Paul nodded and drained his glass. ‘Ke-lee was Vietnamese. We had this little house up on stilts by the river, and the jungle all around us. Our own little piece of paradise.'

‘What happened?'

‘What happened? Same as happened to everyone else happened… But I need a drink. Top up?'

Nicolette nodded and watched Jean-Paul weave his way around people to the hand basin that had become a temporary bar.

#

No one noticed Steven and DJ leave the room. They hurried away from the hotel and hailed a taxi. Steven told the driver to go to 2 Boulevard Colonel Amirouche. While DJ waited in the taxi, Steven entered the
Crédit Populair d'Algérie
, opened an account in the name of Frank Taylor, and deposited $50 in US currency. A few moments later they were heading back to the hotel.

#

Nicolette watched one of the other women in the room, a correspondent whose experience showed in every wrinkle, walk up to Jean-Paul and say something to him. He smiled and turned, looking at Nicolette, then said something to the woman who shook her head and patted his cheek like a teacher to a child. Jean-Paul shrugged, the woman moved on. For an instant his gaze met Nicolette's and his smile wavered, but only for an instant. He came back with a couple of drinks, looking awkward.

‘What was that all about?'

‘Nothing important.'

‘Something about me, wasn't it?'

‘Don't worry about it. Some of the old hands get a bit funny when a new face shows up. Forget about her.'

Nicolette looked around the room. ‘Steven's gone. DJ too.'

‘They'll be back.'

‘So what is it with those two? You didn't end up explaining.'

‘How much do you know?'

‘Nothing, actually.'

‘That would be about right – they're like closed books. I don't know that much myself. I know Steven was some sort of Military Advisor for the Australian Special Forces. DJ was just regular US Army – or I'm pretty sure he was. But somehow they got together. DJ helped him with something.'

‘What?'

‘No idea. I know Steven was working closely with the Vietnamese to help them fight the Viet Cong. Some say helping them fight the Yanks as well…'

‘How d'you mean?'

‘Just rumours. Doesn't like invaders, our Morris.'

‘And?'

‘That's all I know. It's not like he'd tell me what he was doing. I just picked up bits here and there. I do know he was all over the country. Associated with the brass a fair bit too, though if you believed the rumours, there was no love lost there. All I know is if it weren't for them, my bones would be lying in a ditch somewhere. So I owe them one. Simple.'

‘Fair enough. What about his personal life? Is he married?'

‘Who, Morris? No. But what are you thinking? You're not falling for the guy, are you?'

‘No! Of course not.'

‘Good, because he'd eat you alive.' He noticed her blush. ‘I mean it, Nicolette. Get those ideas out of your head.'

‘There
are
no ideas,' she said. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the mattress behind her so that Jean-Paul would not continue along this train of thought. Okay, maybe Steven was attractive – in an arrogant, overly confident sort of way – but she wasn't so stupid as to start anything. For a start, she wasn't ready for another relationship, and even if she was, it wouldn't be with someone like Steven. She let her mind drift; the alcohol combined with the sudden change of climate and time zones that were still taking their toll, but even so, she really didn't feel like she was on assignment. This felt more like when she was still a teenager, and they'd gather in someone's room to plan their next protest march.

#

‘Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Time to go home.'

Nicolette opened her eyes. ‘I wasn't asleep.' She looked around the room; it was nearly empty. Jean-Paul was stretched out on the bed behind her, snoring gently.

‘Where've you been?' she asked.

‘Getting us a driver. Come on, get your gear. He's outside.'

#

When Nicolette first saw Amoud, she thought Steven was playing another joke on her. This driver – and Steven assured her he really was their driver – looked about twelve years old. He jumped out of the car as soon as he saw Steven, and opened the back door of the Citroën for Nicolette, repeating over and over
Bonsoir, Mademoiselle, bonsoir.
He wore no shoes, and Nicolette noticed two fingers of his right hand were missing. But as Steven had promised, he knew how to drive and, unlike most of his countrymen, did not feel the need to use the horn continuously. As Nicolette stared out of the window of the car into the night, she wondered why Steven would choose such a boy.

13

The first year of the new century was an important one for Louis and Imez. Imez was now old enough to wear the
tidjelmoust,
the indigo veil of the Tuareg men that would protect him from evil spirits entering his body through his nose or mouth, because men did not know the secret of life as women did, and so were not immune. He was to wear it constantly and never show his face to anyone, even when eating, but secretly he sometimes removed it when in Louis' company. And with the wearing of the
tidjelmoust,
so too came the responsibility of re-joining his father, so as to take his place amongst their tribe.

For Louis, the first year of the new century was equally important. It was the year he fell in love.

It happened on the twenty-eighth of May. Honoré Bertin, an ardent amateur astronomer, had invited Marius and Louis to his house, to lunch and to observe the total eclipse of the sun that was due that afternoon. Louis, more interested in spending his time with Imez and old Merzoug than being in Monsieur Bertin's dining room, refused the invitation, much to his father's exasperation.