Chapter 2
THE DILEMMA
Colonel Paul Le Clerq sits there vacantly behind his desk for a long time, unable to utter a single word. The lines on his weathered face have deepened, and his eyes are dull with fear and memory. His thin hands move convulsively over his face and neck, and then he fumbles again with a pencil here before him on the desk.
D’Arlan stands erect before the older officer. D’Arlan is not a tall man. He is rather short, but his shoulders are square, and although he is slight, a peculiar strength emanates from him. He is one of the most experienced fighters of the Sahara, and his achievements in almost impossible circumstances have become legendary in the great desert, among both the Legionnaires and the thousands of Arabs. “Monsieur Houdini,” his enemies have dubbed him, and he well deserves that nickname, for numerous times when the Arabs thought they finally had D’Arlan cornered, he slipped away from them again or outsmarted them in an unexpected manner.
“I cannot tell you how sorry and shocked I am about madame’s disappearance, mon Colonel,” says D’Arlan sympathetically. “If there is anything I can do, I would be honoured if you would give me the command.” Le Clerq slowly looks up at him.
“Thank you, D’Arlan,” says the old man, and there is a strange little smile around the corners of his mouth, for he knows that this slight, pale D’Arlan is one of the bravest soldiers of France. “Do you think, do you think they are going to kill her? Are they going to kill Antoinette, mon Capitaine?”
Le Clerq quickly stands up, goes to the window, and stares out over the desert, as he usually does when in a crisis. It almost seems as if he believes that the great sandy wasteland, which can be so cruel, can also be a benevolent God who can inspire you to solve your problems. It has now grown dark, and far outside the barracks, Le Clerq sees the first dim lights of the Hotel Afrique flicker.
“I do not think so, mon Colonel. I do not believe they will inflict any harm on madame,” says D’Arlan calmly.
Le Clerq swings around quickly where he stands. “D’Arlan,” he says loudly, the intimacy gone from his voice, “I know you as a soldier, not as a comforter!”
“Thank you, mon officier,” says the pale captain calmly. “My intention was not to console you. I expressed an honest military opinion.”
“Military opinion?” Le Clerq scoffs. “That witch El Karima has my Antoinette in her hands. Antoinette is not without significance. She is the wife of a commanding officer of Dini Salam. Why would they not kill her to deal me a blow, D’Arlan?” he then adds somewhat mournfully, “I cannot lose her. I must not lose her. We have had so few years together, and I love her deeply.”
“I understand that completely, mon Colonel,” says D’Arlan. “Would you not rather sit down? Then we can talk better.”
“I think I will,” says the colonel, and D’Arlan is certain he has never seen him so broken, not even the time his only son was killed by communist rebels in Indochina.
When Le Clerq is seated, D’Arlan says, “Mon Colonel, I am quite sure they will not kill madame. What purpose could it serve to kill one woman?”
“She is Madame Le Clerq, wife of the commander of Dini Salam,” says Le Clerq, and it seems to D’Arlan that he detects something of the old pride in the colonel again.
“That does not matter in this case, mon Colonel. El Karima is not mere
