Читать книгу The Dictator's Last Night - Yasmina Khadra - Страница 7

I rejoin my loyal servants on the ground floor. General Abu-Bakr Yunis Jabr, my defence minister, has a face that makes me think of a flag at half-mast. A week ago he was thumping the table and swearing that we were going to turn the situation to our advantage, that the rebel hordes would be swept aside in no time at all. Using staff maps to back up his argument, he identified the weak points in the traitors’ strategy, placing heavy emphasis on internal conflicts that would eventually undermine their alliance, lauding the thousands of patriots joining us in droves, engaging with the enemy relentlessly to strengthen the battlements of our final bastion.

My son Mutassim nodded as he listened, a fierce look on his face.

I listened with one ear, keeping the other one open for the commotion I could hear in the city.

The general’s enthusiasm was short-lived, and has been replaced by mounting doubts. A number of my officers have deserted from our ranks; others have been captured, lynched there and then, their heads put on spikes and their bodies tied to the backs of pickups and dragged through the streets. I have seen some of the heads myself, displayed like macabre trophies on the tops of walls.

For the last three days, as the rebels have taunted us from the neighbouring district, Abu-Bakr has been silent. His face has turned into a papier-mâché sculpture. He refuses to eat and in private he sulks, unable to command his officers. And this was a man whose orders once boomed out louder than cannon fire.

I do not know why, despite his loyalty, I have never been completely convinced by him. He was my classmate at the Benghazi Academy, at my side in the coup d’état in 1969, one of the twelve members of the Revolutionary Command Council. Not once has Abu-Bakr disappointed me or been disloyal, yet I only have to look into his eyes to see no more than a startled fawn, a pet more desiring of my protection than the favours I have bestowed on him.

Abu-Bakr fears me like a curse, certain that at the slightest suspicion I would eliminate him just as I liquidated without a qualm my comrades-in-arms and makers of my legend when they began, in secret, to challenge my legitimacy.

‘What are you thinking about, General?’

He lifts his chin with an effort.

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you sure?’

He shifts on his chair without answering.

‘Do you want to clear out too?’ I ask abruptly.

‘It hadn’t crossed my mind.’

‘So you think you have one?’

He frowns.

‘Relax,’ I tell him, ‘I am teasing you.’

I want to take the tension out of the atmosphere, but my heart is not in it. When I play to the gallery, everyone takes me seriously. The general more than anyone. A Guide has no sense of humour. His references are commands, his jokes warnings.

‘You think me capable of running out on you, Rais?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Where to?’ he grumbles crossly.

‘The enemy. Plenty of ministers have surrendered. Moussa Koussa, whom I appointed to lead the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, has asked the British for political asylum. Abdel Rahman Shalgham, my standard-bearer, has become my sworn double-crossing traitor, representative at the UN Security Council, mandated by renegades and mercenaries …’

‘I have never been on those men’s side. They were no more than racketeers, ready to sell their mothers for a scrap of privilege. I love you with my whole being. I shall never abandon you.’

‘So why did you leave me alone upstairs?’

‘You were at prayers. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

I have no suspicions whatever about Abu-Bakr. His loyalty to me is equalled only by his superstition. I know he regularly used to consult fortune-tellers to reassure him that my trust in him was still intact.

I was bullying him out of irritation.

I did not like the fact that he stayed seated in my presence.

In the past he would click his heels whenever he heard my voice on the phone. He sweated buckets every time I hung up on him.

This damned war! It not only turns our customs upside down, but relegates them to pointlessness. If I choose to overlook the general’s sloppiness, it is because, with defections taking place on the grand scale they are now, I need to hear someone tell me he will never abandon me.

‘What is that bruise on your jaw?’

‘Perhaps I walked into a wall or knocked it on the corner of my bed. I don’t remember.’

‘Let me see it.’

He turns the bruised side of his face towards me.

‘It looks nasty. You should see a doctor.’

‘It’s not worth it,’ he says, rubbing his jaw. ‘In any case it doesn’t hurt at all.’

‘Any news from Mutassim?’

He shakes his head.

‘Where is Mansour?’

‘He’s resting through there.’

I gesture to a soldier to fetch the commander of my People’s Guard.

Mansour Dhao appears in a disgraceful state. His flies are undone, he is unshaven, and his hair is all over the place; he has difficulty standing. He tosses a vague fixed smile in my direction and moves across to the wall to stop himself falling. I know he has not closed his eyes for many days and nights. His expression is almost as empty and shrouded in gloom as the abyss.

‘Were you asleep?’

‘I should very much like to drop off for a couple of minutes, Rais.’

‘Do you think you are awake now?’

He attempts to pull himself together a fraction, without success.

His shirt is a rag, his corkscrewed trousers flap around his legs. I notice he has tightened his belt by several notches.

I grip him by the shoulders and wait for him to lift his head so that I can look him straight in the eye.

‘Do not let yourself go, Mansour,’ I tell him. ‘We are going to come out of this, I promise you.’

He nods his head.

‘What was that bomb just now?’

He shrugs.

I feel like slapping him.

Abu-Bakr turns away. He knows that the attitude of the commander of the People’s Guard is as intolerable to me as the machine guns rattling in the distance.

‘Any news from Mutassim?’

Mansour shakes his head, on the point of crumpling up and collapsing.

‘And Saif?’

‘He’s assembling his troops in the south,’ the general says. ‘Probably around Sabha. According to our sources, he is on the point of launching a vast counter-offensive.’

My brave Saif al-Islam! If he were at my side now, he would rid me of these defeated faces. He has learnt from me the implacable meaning of a true oath of loyalty and contempt for danger. In fact I have few worries on his account. He is cunning and fearless, and when he makes a promise he keeps his word as a matter of honour. He promised me he would reorganise my army, scattered by the NATO air strikes, then decisively halt the rebels’ advance. Saif has charisma. He is a great leader of men. He would make short work of those turncoats.

A lieutenant arrives to make a report. His appearance leaves a great deal to be desired, but his fervour is intact. He addresses the minister.

‘Our scouts signal that enemy infantry and reconnaissance units have begun withdrawing, General.’

‘They’re not withdrawing,’ Mansour objects, exasperated. ‘They’re taking cover.’

‘Meaning?’ I say.

‘They’ve started to evacuate the positions they took this afternoon. To isolate us. My bet is that we’re about to find ourselves on the wrong end of a massive bombing raid.’

I demand that he elaborate.

Mansour requests that the lieutenant leave the room and waits till the three of us are alone.

‘My signals specialist has intercepted coded comms. Everything points to coalition aviation targeting District Two. The bloody insurgents withdrawing confirms the probability.’

‘Where is Mutassim?’

‘Gone to requisition vehicles,’ Abu-Bakr says, getting to his feet. ‘We can’t stay dug in here any longer, waiting for some happy surprise to save us. We’re running out of food, ammunition and options. Our units have been knocked out or neutralised. Sirte is practically blockaded. The noose is tightening by the hour.’

‘I thought Mutassim had gone to reinforce his garrisons. Why the sudden turnaround?’

‘It was you yourself who decided to break out, Rais.’

‘What? Are you saying my memory is playing tricks on me?’

The general frowns, taken aback by my forgetfulness. He starts to explain.

‘There won’t be any reinforcement, Rais.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because Saif al-Islam is too far south of us. We need to evacuate Sirte as fast as we can. That will give us a chance to reach Sabha, which the insurgents have abandoned, to reorganise ourselves and, with Saif’s support, move up and encircle Misrata. The southern tribes are still loyal to us. We’ll take our supply lines through them.’

‘Since when have your plans changed, General?’

‘Since this morning.’

‘Without informing me?’

The general’s eyes widen as he again looks dumbfounded by my question.

‘But, Rais, I’m telling you, it was you yourself who suggested evacuating Sirte.’

I do not remember having suggested such a perilous manoeuvre. In order not to lose face, I nod.

Mansour crouches down with one hand on the floor, the other to his forehead. He looks as though he is about to puke his guts up.

‘Colonel Mutassim still has dependable men in the sector,’ the general tries to mollify me. ‘He is putting a substantial convoy together. At 4 a.m. exactly we’ll aim to break through enemy lines. The rebels’ withdrawal is a stroke of luck. It gives us a small window, at last. The militias have lifted their roadblocks at points 42, 43 and 29. Probably to take cover, as the signals operator said. We’ll retreat southwards. If Mutassim has been able to put together forty or fifty vehicles we’ll have a chance of getting through. Any skirmishes, we disperse. It’s chaos in the city. No one knows who commands who any more. We’ll exploit the confusion to get out of Sirte.’

‘Why not now?’ I say. ‘Before the bombing raids start.’

‘It will take Colonel Mutassim several hours to round up the vehicles we need.’

‘Are you in contact with him?’

‘Not by radio. We’re using runners.’

‘Where is he exactly?’

‘We’re waiting for the reconnaissance patrols to come back and tell us.’

Mansour lets himself slide down the wall to sit on the floor.

‘A little decorum,’ I shout at him. ‘Do you think you are resting on your mother’s patio?’

‘I’ve got an appalling migraine.’

‘No matter. Get a grip on yourself, and do it fast.’

Mansour gets to his feet. His face is scored with deep lines across his cheeks, giving him the look of an animal in agony. Abu-Bakr pushes a chair in his direction. He declines it.

‘Do you really believe they are about to bomb us?’ I ask him.

‘It’s obvious.’

‘Perhaps it’s a diversion,’ Abu-Bakr suggests, more to show himself on my side than from conviction.

‘They wouldn’t order their ground troops to evacuate their advance posts if they weren’t going to.’

‘You think they know where we are?’

‘No one knows where you are, Rais. They strike at random and wait for us to give ourselves away.’

‘Very well,’ I tell him. ‘I am going to rest. Let me know as soon as there is anything to report.’