That Devil's Madness (33 page)

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. Nicolette 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.

All day she planned ways of escaping, but no matter what she thought of, she realised almost immediately why it wouldn't work. She needed Steven to talk this through with – to help her plan. She sat on her rock-seat, staring at the rain outside, barely aware by now of the guard sitting the entrance. She realised it was New Year's Day – January 1
^st
1979.

In Melbourne, her friends would have been celebrating. While she'd lain on a cave floor, beaten into semi-consciousness, they would have laughed and drunk wine and kissed at midnight. Would probably spend today recovering. In Adelaide, her mother would have gone to the neighbours for the yearly lunchtime barbecue, drunk too much wine and spent the evening on her own, maudlin in her memories.

She shivered. She was cold – so cold.
No, don't think about it. Walk around to warm up. New Year's. Think about New Year's.

The thing Nicolette remembered most about New Year was Grandpa Louis. For every year of her childhood that she could remember, he would wake her up just before midnight and take her outside to look at the stars, and he would ask her
what's been good this past year?
and she would think and tell him all the good things that had happened in her life.
And what hasn't been good?
he'd ask her then, and she would think of all the bad things that had happened. And somehow, he always managed to remember other things that had been good that she'd forgotten about, so that in the end the good list was always much longer than the bad.
It's been a good year then,
he would say,
and now a brand new one is just beginning.
And they'd sit outside together and look at the stars for a while longer, before he took her back to her bed. He was eighty-six when he'd died, just two months after her eighteenth birthday, and by then she'd been the one still awake at midnight, the one who would wake him from the chair he often dozed in, when she came home from partying, to look at the night sky and play their good-year-bad-year game. And years later, she had done the same thing with Willow, even though Willow had been too little to understand.

Don't think about Willow. And don't think about Grandpa Louis either. You'll just end up breaking down completely.

And she must stop thinking about escaping – at least for a while. She'd thought about it too much these past couple of days, so that she could no longer think clearly, her thoughts going round and around and around the same ideas, not coming up with anything new. A good way to send herself crazy. Still she paced the cave. She needed to think of something else. Something neutral that will give her brain a rest. Just for a little while…