Two Testaments (32 page)

When David came to, he was afraid to open his eyes, afraid to see Moustafa’s lifeless body beside him. He was aware of a terrible throbbing in his head. His mouth was gagged with a cloth, his throat parched. Through blurred vision, he took in his surroundings. He was lying on the floor in a basement, his hands secured behind him, his feet bound tightly.

Eventually his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He heard the heavy breathing of someone who slept. He tried to turn onto his side, and a piercing pain shot through the same shoulder that had received a bullet wound in March.

Cold fear overpowered him. Were the hooded men here too, waiting for him to wake up so they could torture him? That could be the only reason for leaving him alive. His mind was foggy. He couldn’t think.

Even darkness is not dark to Thee.
At once the debilitating fear left. He was not alone. Trust. With the psalmist’s words in his mind, David fell back asleep.

The faintest light of predawn broke through a small barred window near the ceiling of the room. Moustafa blinked his eyes, hoping to shut out the nightmare, but this was real. He was sitting in the same dingy basement where he had spent five weeks with Anne-Marie last fall. He wanted to cry out, but the sob stayed in his throat, held in place by the thick handkerchief secured in his mouth.

David Hoffmann lay stretched out uncomfortably on the floor nearby. Moustafa watched him intently. Yes, he was breathing. Relief flooded through him. Together there was hope.

He rolled over awkwardly and caught his breath. They were not alone. An older man, unshaven and wearing a white T-shirt and suit pants, slept, his head resting against the cement wall. His hands and feet were bound, as were Moustafa’s and David’s.

Somehow Ali had caught up with them. How? Moustafa knew the answer immediately. Fatima. The girl had not shown up for the boat. She was the only other person who knew where the meeting was to take place. And if Fatima had led Ali to them, then what about Hussein?

He swallowed hard. Now it all made sense. Hussein showing up, begging, leaving in the trunk and then abandoning it at the port.

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. Moustafa lay flat on his stomach and felt his tears form a small wet patch on the ripping mattress. A low moan echoed in his soul.

Anne-Marie. Anne-Marie.

When David woke again, the room was bathed in gray shadows brought on by a single barred window. Moustafa lay on a mattress nearby. Their eyes met, and they read each other’s thoughts: sorrow and relief. They were both alive.

Moustafa motioned with his head toward a corner of the room. A man sat with his back against the wall, still asleep. David scrutinized him carefully. His legs were tucked up against his chest, bound.
He must be very tall
, David thought. His forehead was bent forward, resting on his knees. His hair was peppered with gray.

David scrambled to sit up, and the noise caused the older man to stir. Slowly he lifted his head, blinking his eyes.

David could not cry out. Only his eyes registered his terrible surprise. Sitting across from him, ten feet away, was his father.

What was his father doing in Algeria, in the hands of whom? The FLN? Was it another level of Ali’s sadistic revenge? The madman had won. His last victory would be for David to watch his father die. Then Moustafa. Was that the plan?

David felt tears in his eyes, and they surprised him. This man he had hated, this distant father, sat weak and helpless before him, gaunt and unshaven. David did not want to feel sympathy. He did not want that part of his heart exposed. But with arms and legs tied, unable to move or speak, unable to control his emotions, he sat and let the tears fall down his cheeks.

He swallowed hard.
We are going to die here together, and I’ve never once heard you say you care about me.
But in that pitiful gaze from his father he read something, perhaps not love, but concern. He brought his head to his knees and wiped his face on his pants. Still the tears came.

Roger Hoffmann, bound and gagged in the same manner, stared at him with an expression of deep sorrow. One tear, then another. A wet gleam in his eyes. It trickled down his cheek.

David heard Mother Griolet’s words.
Your father wept.
Perhaps it was true after all. Perhaps his father had cried when he had found him at the orphanage all those years ago. The tears on his face at this moment suddenly made anything possible.

Rémi had worked frantically through the night, but light was coming too soon. Now his little band of men raced through the Casbah, looking for the building where he had seen Moustafa and David imprisoned in the night. The tiny white bits of material he had left on signposts had been the only way he could possibly retrace his steps in the labyrinth of the Casbah. He whispered a prayer of thankfulness that it had worked.

Now Abdul and Amar, his friends and farmhands, stood panting beside him. Their Arab faces would be accepted in the Casbah if dawn broke before they could free the prisoners. Rémi admired their courage, their willingness to risk their lives for him. That was the Algeria he knew and loved. Friendship, not betrayal.

Each man carried a rifle over his shoulder. After one last turn into a tiny alleyway, they reached the building where the prisoners had been enclosed.
Let them still be there
, Rémi prayed. Abdul and Amar climbed with Rémi onto a low roof beside the building. From his perch, Rémi peered into the barred window. Three men, bound and gagged, sat in the room. Abdul dropped to the ground and tried the door. It was bolted with a lock. They would have to use the small explosive to free the men, and quickly.

Rémi tossed a small stone through the window. Immediately three pairs of eyes looked toward him. Pressing his face against the bars, he whispered, “We’re going to have to blow it open. Move back, and be ready.”

The men nodded, relief in their eyes. But before he had taken the explosives from their bag, Abdul climbed up beside Rémi. “Someone’s coming,” he whispered.

Rémi felt a sinking in his heart. Four men approached in the predawn light. What should he do? Shoot them now? But that would awaken the whole neighborhood. They crouched out of sight, hearing their own hearts pounding in their ears.

The tallest man, older than the others, inserted a key in the locked door and threw it open, motioning to his men to follow him inside. Then the door closed behind them, and Rémi watched the scene through the window, dizzy with fear.

The tall man slapped David across the face, then rammed his head with the butt of his gun and laughed. “So, David Hoffmann! At last you are here.” His voice was soft and seething. “It could not have worked out better for me. You are all here. Our dear Moustafa—”

He nodded to one of the men, who kicked Moustafa in the stomach.

“Easy,” the tall, angry Arab muttered. “Don’t kill him yet. I want them to know every last grisly detail.” He turned back to David, who was crumpled on the floor, blood seeping from his head. “And your estranged father, Roger Hoffmann. Brilliant to have you all here together. You will watch him die slowly, painfully, as my father did. This will be my final revenge.

“No one has escaped. Not one. Have you not guessed? Could you not read the mind of my prodigy, Hussein? Of course not! We are too smart! He is even now accomplishing his task in Castelnau at the little orphanage.” He laughed madly. “The timing! The incredible timing! Today I have word that Hussein has successfully completed his little task. He has eliminated your friends.”

Moustafa stirred, crying from within the gag, but it was only a muffled sound. Rémi saw the anguish in his glare.

So this was Ali Boudani. Rémi had heard them talk of the revenge-obsessed man. Everything they had said was true.

Ali was snickering, “Not only Anne-Marie, mind you. Her daughter! Yes, her daughter was the first to go. And then the redhead. And all the children. They are all gone. Explosions in the night in both dormitories. Nothing left of that place but an old nun, and she will die soon enough as it is.” He paced gleefully around the room as the three bound men turned their eyes down and wept.

The sun was rising over the stack of buildings in the Casbah. Soon people would awake. Rémi sensed that it was now, while Ali Boudani was momentarily distracted by his own sickening pride, or never. With a quick whispering, the men were ready.

Abdul and Amar dropped to the ground without a sound. They kicked open the door and fired. Several bullets sprayed forth, hitting two of Ali’s henchmen, who fell to the ground, stunned and wounded. Rémi fired from the window, and his shot lodged in the back of the Arab who held Moustafa.

Enraged, Ali turned his gun toward the window and fired twice. The bullets ricocheted off the stone. He turned his gun on Moustafa and fired two more times. Moustafa screamed and fell to the ground. Amar came at Ali. From close range, Amar’s bullet hit Ali in the gut. Ali cursed, clutching his stomach and dropping his gun. Abdul started cutting furiously at the prisoners’ ropes.

“Hurry, run!” Rémi urged.

Ali lay dazed beside Roger Hoffmann. He reached for his gun, while the older American struggled to stand. Rémi fired another shot. Ali never reached his pistol.

Supporting the prisoners, the three rescuers half ran, half stumbled into the streets. Doors opened; people screamed.

Abdul looked at Moustafa. “Can you get us out of here?”

Moustafa was losing blood, but he managed to reply. “Yes, I know the way.”

“Good,” Abdul said. “I’ll stay behind and divert them. No one will know I am not an inhabitant of the Casbah myself.”

“Thank you, friend,” Rémi said. “Be careful. God be with you.”

In broad daylight the men fled through the streets of Bab el-Oued and piled into Rémi’s car.

Rémi sped like a madman out of the city and to his farmhouse outside of Algiers. There, a friend of his, a pied-noir who had practiced medicine in Algiers for thirty years, came at his summons to examine the wounded men.

He quietly addressed Rémi. “I can remove the bullets from the Arab here. It will be painful, but there is too great a risk in taking him to the hospital. Do you have any alcohol?”

Rémi nodded.

“Get him drunk then. It is the only way he will stand the pain.”

Two hours later Moustafa floated in and out of consciousness. Through persistence Rémi had gotten half a bottle of whiskey down his throat. The doctor was ready to begin.