The Dictator's Last Night. Yasmina Khadra

deteriorate is hard to bear. I need my closest supporters to display a certain amount of restraint. There is no difference between a man who surrenders and a man who refuses to fight. I would go so far as to say that if the first has the courage of his cowardice, the second lacks any courage at all.

      This man in the throes of giving up, this human derelict, utterly adrift, disgusts me. I consider him the dregs of humanity.

      In the room we are using as our crisis centre, General Abu-Bakr Yunis Jabr is studying a staff map, with broad patches of sweat on his shirt and under his arms. It is clear to me that he is merely going through the motions in a role he is no longer capable of performing. From time to time he clears his throat, pretends to study intently some detail on the map, leans his whole body across the table, his cheek resting on his hand to show me how much he is concentrating. His little show lacks all credibility, but he has the excuse of not wanting to exasperate me.

      All three of us are looking out for Mutassim’s runner. Without news of the colonel we are unable to stop ourselves falling apart. Every minute that passes takes away another piece of ourselves.

      My nerves are hypersensitive. To be cut off from the world, stuck here like a vegetable waiting for a sign from my son who cruelly refuses to show himself, is intolerable. My fate rests on the throw of a coin that hangs suspended in the air, as sharp as a guillotine blade.

      Mansour stops inspecting his nails. He looks right and left, seeking who knows what, then wriggles in his chair, apparently asking himself where he is. When he finds his bearings, he buries himself in his seat again, holding his temples with thumbs and middle fingers, shaking his head enigmatically. Then, slowly emerging from a long inner turmoil, he turns his attention back to the general, commenting in a sarcastic voice, ‘Do you see anything in your crystal ball?’

      ‘What crystal ball?’ the general grunts, not turning round.

      ‘Your map. You’ve been stroking it for the last half-hour; it must have given you the answer by now.’

      ‘I’m studying the various possibilities for a withdrawal southwards.’

      ‘I think we’ve known the route since this morning. Put it another way, south is south, and it’s the only way we’ve got now.’

      ‘Yes, but the enemy’s centre of gravity changes by the hour. According to our reconnaissance units—’

      ‘You mean those two or three patrols we’ve got? They’re just yomping about in the dark, if you want my opinion.’

      ‘You can keep your opinion to yourself. You’re not going to teach me my job.’

      Mansour goes back to contemplating his nails, which he gnaws incessantly. His head hunched between his shoulders, he grumbles, ‘We shouldn’t have left the palace.’

      ‘You don’t say,’ the general answers him.

      ‘We were all right in the bunker. We had places to sleep and food to eat and we were protected from air raids and artillery. Look where we are now. A single chopper could wipe us out.’

      The general puts his pencil down on the edge of the table. He has guessed that the commander of the People’s Guard is seeking to provoke him and so is doing his best to avoid confrontation. It was his plan to evacuate the palace. He did not need to persuade me; it was what I thought too. Every residence where I was supposed to have taken refuge was destroyed by coalition air strikes, including my relations’ houses and my children’s. In this vile manhunt NATO had no hesitation in dropping its bombs on my grandchildren, shamelessly murdering them, without remorse.

      ‘We ran the risk of getting trapped underground,’ the general argues, momentarily impressively calm.

      ‘You think we’re safe here?’ Mansour insists.

      ‘At least no one has pinpointed us here. We also have greater room for manoeuvre in case of an attack. If we’d stayed underground at the palace, all the rebels would have had to do is break through the reinforced concrete with a pneumatic drill or a digger, run a pipe through the hole and switch on a generator to gas us.’

      ‘Better than being torn to pieces, though.’

      I am a hair’s breadth from leaping on the commander of the People’s Guard and stamping on him till his body is ground into the floor. But I am tired.

      ‘Mansour,’ I say to him, ‘when a man has nothing to say, he shuts up.’

      ‘The general is being overtaken—’

‘Mansour,’ I repeat in a hollow voice that betrays the fury beginning to well up inside me, ‘yazik moï vrag moï,1 as the Russian proverb says. Do not make me rip yours out with pincers.’

      Suddenly a powerful explosion reaches us from a long way away.

      The general wheels round, white as a sheet.

      ‘The NATO strikes are starting!’

      Mansour gives a short snigger.

      ‘Calm down, my friend. You’re getting ahead of yourself.’

      ‘Who says?’ the general snaps crossly.

      ‘Even so,’ the Guard’s commander persists, ‘not to be able to tell the difference between a bomb exploding and a shell bursting is a bit tragic for a general.’

      I am itching to draw my pistol and shoot the insolent Mansour at point-blank range. His impassiveness dissuades me.

      ‘What is it then, in your view?’ I ask him.

      Mansour answers with an offhandedness that makes me regret that I left my weapon in my room.

      ‘It’s just Mutassim. He’s blowing up the local ammunition dump so that it doesn’t fall into the rebels’ hands.’

      ‘How do you know?’ the minister grunts.

      ‘It was you who tasked him with the operation yourself, General,’ Mansour says with disdain. ‘I suppose in the panic you can’t remember the orders you’re handing out right, left and centre.’

      ‘Shut up,’ I order the Guard’s commander, simultaneously maddened by his attitude and relieved to discover that it is a false alert. ‘I forbid you to show such a lack of respect to my minister. If he is being overtaken by events, he is nevertheless straining every sinew to keep up with them, while you continue to wind us up with your mood swings.’

‘At least I’m looking at things soberly. The rebels have turned themselves into arms dealers. They’re flogging our arsenals to AQIM2 and company. According to the latest information, the squads of revolutionaries whom we instructed, gave shelter to, financed and equipped for years on our home soil are now joining forces with the Islamists.’

      ‘Propaganda! Those revolutionaries are my children. They are being hunted down by the renegades. Saif al-Islam is striving to bring them together to launch a gigantic counter-offensive that in less than a week will sweep aside this puppet army being manipulated by the Crusaders as they please.’

      Mansour flaps his hand as he gets to his feet and leaves the room, scowling.

      ‘We shouldn’t blame him,’ Abu-Bakr says to me. ‘He’s depressed.’

      ‘I do not like people being depressed in front of me. Fifteen minutes with that defeatist is as bad as a year’s hard labour. He simultaneously bores and maddens me.’

      ‘I know what you mean. But he’ll get a grip on himself. It’s just a bad day.’

      ‘I shall have him shot as soon as we stabilise the situation …’ I promise Abu-Bakr. ‘All right, I am going to my room. Send Amira to me.’

      As I leave I place my finger on the general’s chest.

      ‘Watch Mansour