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
