NINETEEN

 

Bella, flanked by four FLN bodyguards, walked through the stadium tunnel. Both the French and the MNA had raised the bounty on Bella’s head and there had been multiple attempts to collect it. All had failed. The tunnel was swarming with futbol fans like bees going in and out of their hive. It was hard to tell between friend and foe even though he considered this friendly territory.

Bella and his bodyguards entered the stadium. The crowd cheered. The home team goalie had deflected a shot at the net. Futbol was the one thing in Algiers that seemed to have no politics behind it. Appearances were deceiving. He studied his ticket and looked for his seat. He spotted Saadi and Si Larbi sitting together about halfway up in the pied-noir section. The seats around them were occupied by more FLN bodyguards. Bella wondered why the seats were in the pied-noir area of the stadium but decided now was not the time to scold Saadi. It was a simple mistake and Saadi had a lot on his mind.

Bella climbed the stair and took his seat between the two soldiers. They watched for several minutes in silence. It’s nice, thought Bella. Getting together like this and watching a game. It had been a long time since he had done anything that remotely resembled fun. He imagined it was the same for Saadi and Si Larbi. He took a moment to consider his words and said, “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Our loss,” said Saadi.

“They were very brave.”

“Yes, but impatient. They did not listen. Too young, I think,” said Saadi.

“Too pretty, I think,” said Si Larbi. “The pretty ones are overconfident. Find some ugly ones next time. They’ll do fine.”

Saadi turned and grabbed Si Larbi by the shirt and said, “Shut the fuck up, boy. Nobody asked you.”

“Remove your hands or lose them, Baker,” said Si Larbi.

“Knock it off, both of you,” said Bella. “You’re drawing attention.”

Saadi released Si Larbi and smiled as he straightened Si Larbi’s shirt.

“How long will it take you before you are ready again?” said Bella.

“I’m ready now,” said Saadi.

“No. I don’t want you delivering packages. It’s too risky.”

“As you say then. It will take weeks, maybe a month to find and train new girls.”

“All right. One month. Si Larbi, what about you and your men?”

“The French have taken their toll. I have more wounded and missing than soldiers available to fight. Their helicopters are maddening. They drop troops wherever they want whenever they want. We’re lucky to escape.”

“I though the idea was to fight, not escape,” said Saadi.

“Like you said, Baker… shut the fuck up.”

“Neither of you is being productive,” said Bella growing angry. “I would just let you kill one another but I don’t have the time to find your replacements. Now, answer my question, Si Larbi. How long before you and your men are ready to strike again?”

“It depends on the French. If we can get some time to reorganize without being attacked… maybe three weeks.”

“You will have your time.”

“How?”

“A distraction.”

“By whom? You?”

“No. Not me. A friend.”

Si Larbi and Saadi exchanged a look. Why was Bella being so mysterious with them? Had they lost his trust? “Have faith. Help is on the way,” said Bella. “Si Larbi, I want your forces ready to move at a moment’s notice once you’ve reorganized.”

“Move where?”

“Just have them ready. The council has decided a change in strategy is in order.”

Si Larbi nodded.

“We must go. There is much to do,” said Bella.

“Wait just a moment,” said Saadi pulling an English-style picnic basket from under his seat.

“What’s that?” said Si Larbi.

“A message from the fallen,” said Saadi pulling a pair pliers from his shirt pocket.

Saadi opened the bag. Inside were three metal tea biscuit boxes stacked one on top another. He opened the lid on the top box and crimped the English pencil detonator with the pliers until he felt the glass acetone vial inside crack. He closed the lid and pushed the bag back under the seat. “Can we go now?” said Bella.

“That would be a good idea,” said Saadi.

They and their bodyguards left the stadium just as the referee blew his whistle to signal the end of the match. The home team had won. The fans stood and cheered.

The explosion killed fifty-two and seriously wounded over two hundred more. Most of the fallen were pied-noir. Some were Algerian. One of the home team forwards that was signing autographs would lose his leg to shrapnel wounds. The FLN considered it a victory.

 

 

It was a cloudless morning in Paris. Brigitte and Coyle sat enjoying their coffee and croissants on the patio of a café near her apartment. It had been three weeks and no bombings anywhere in Paris. There had been a bombing in an Algerian futbol stadium but that seemed a world away. Coyle was happy to see Brigitte smile and even laugh at one of his jokes. She seemed relaxed which was unusual for Brigitte. “I’m taking the day off,” said Brigitte.

“Really?”

“Why not? I deserve it.”

“You’re not going to get any argument from me.”

“Besides, things have calmed down. There’s not as much to write about.”

“You could take another shot at your book?”

“Did you need to remind me?”

“Sorry. I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Yes. And that is why I love you. You’re always looking out for me.”

“I do my best.”

They sat quietly for a moment. “I wonder how Bruno is doing? I was pretty harsh the last time we met.”

“I think it’ll take more than harsh words to take down Bruno,” said Coyle. “Do you think it’s over? The war?”

“I doubt it,” said Brigitte. “More like a lull.”

“The calm before the storm?”

“Let’s hope not. I’m not sure how much more storm France can take.”

“She’s a pretty tough broad from what I’ve seen.”

Brigitte cringed at Coyle’s metaphor and shook her head in mock disgust. “Americans,” she said.

 

 

Bruno finished his raw onion breakfast in a seaside park along the Mediterranean. Even he had to admit it was disgusting and he had to force down the last two bites. He thought about stopping by his favorite Algerian bakery and picking up some bread and a coffee after his run. He used a bench to stretch his legs. As he aged he noticed he was more prone to cramps. Not enough salt, he thought.

He took it easy the first two kilometers. He let his muscles warm up and stretch out before pushing them to their limit as he always did. He noticed a woman kneeling next to her bicycle repairing a flat tire on the side of the path. She was young and attractive. It was hard to tell her nationality but she dressed like a European. He thought about stopping and offering to help her until he tested his breath in the cup of his hand. He decided he would be doing her a favor not to stop.

He ran past her without saying a word or even looking down. She rose, pulled out a pistol and shot him three inches to the left of the center of the back, right where his heart would be. Bruno fell forward and slid across the gravel. He couldn’t believe it. He was angry that he had been so careless to get shot again. He wanted to get up and fight. He willed his body but nothing moved. He found it hard to breath and even harder to focus. He heard the woman walking toward him, the gravel on the path crunching beneath her shoes. She stopped next to him. He could not see her but he could feel her. A coup de grace, he thought. It is what I would do. A thorough job. He heard a police whistle and heard footsteps running away from him and another set of heavier footsteps running toward him. The policeman has chased off the assassin before she can finish the job, he thought. I am saved.

It was getting even harder to breath and it felt like the air around him was getting colder. His lips were dry. He felt a shiver ripple through his body. “Brigitte,” he whispered as everything went black.

 

 

Five thousand civilians died in the Café Wars.

 

Almost one million Algerians died during the War for Independence.