Monday, February 8, 2016

Mortal Friends "An Excerpt of "Flash of the Sun", the Forerunner of "Triple Agent, Double Cross"


An Excerpt of Flash of the Sun



 

Jean-Pierre approached the reception desk at the Military Headquarters in Bafoussam with pursed lips. The brunette secretary in military fatigue behind the desk did not get up from her seat as she looked up at him and smiled. “Whom are you here to see, Monsieur?”

“I am Dr. Jean-Pierre Ribery from Banganté,” he said and flashed his card just long enough for her to see his name, “And I am here to see Lieutenant-Colonel René Roccard.”

“Are you here for an appointment with him?”

“No. It is urgent, and it is a family matter. Tell him so.”

The young woman bent her head, her face contorted in deep thought. Then she looked up with wide eyes and relief flushed through her face. Jean-Pierre turned around to find René about fifteen yards away, approaching him with quick strides and an expression on his face that only a medical professional could see was sickly.

“Jean-Pierre, I see you are here to see me,” he said as he closed the distance separating them.

Oui, Mon Colonel! He arrived a few minutes ago and insisted on seeing you right away. I was about to come over and tell you about it.”

“It is okay, Meryl. I am going home now, and he is coming with me,” René said, shook Clement’s hand and then beckoned him over.

“We need to talk, René,” Jean-Pierre hissed as he trailed his childhood friend.

“We have all day. You came at the right time. I need your medical opinion on some problems.”

“I am not here to talk about medicine.”

“We will talk about whatever you have in mind at my home. I am famished; I am feeling unwell, and I feel like banging my head against the wall. Spare me further worries for now. Drive after me,” René said, got into his jeep, and gave the signal for his chauffeur to drive off.

Jean-Pierre hesitated for a moment before he got into his car and went after the jeep. A lot was on his mind as he narrowed the half-mile distance to René’s abode. He thought René’s personality had changed a lot since he returned to the land almost four years ago. His childhood friend’s first foray into the palace of the king of Banganté led to the deaths of so many civilians, and the traumatic treatment that Gavin and Clement suffered in his hands had troubled him enormously. But that event paled in comparison with his behavior in reaction to Rachel’s death. His supposed good friend had shown up at the funeral all right, but all he got from the military man was a nod, which was his twisted way of expressing his condolence. Even so, the action that finally tipped off the scale was his recent foray into Banganté while he was away, a foray that resulted in the death of Joseph Njike’s first son. And now, the indications that René was sick seemed to be confirming some of his fears.

It is my duty if not as a friend, then as a doctor, to let him know that this must end, Jean-Pierre thought as he pulled his car to a stop in front of René’s living quarters.

Jean-Pierre watched René for a moment as he jumped off the jeep and approached his car. Then he stopped midway for no apparent reason, raised his hands in the air and waved them repeatedly. Jean-Pierre got his intention. René wanted him to hurry up. He hesitated for a moment, his natural reaction towards being rushed around, but then opened the driver’s door just as René turned around and started walking towards the house.

Food was already on the table and René sat down in his chair hardly a minute after they got there. “Sit with me, Jean-Pierre. I have no time to waste,” he said, indicating a chair, in front of which was a table mat on the table with a plate, a glass, and cutlery on it.

“Thank you,” Jean-Pierre said and sat down.

“Make yourself at home.”

Jean-Pierre did not reply. And he barely took a few mouthfuls, as he spent most of the time watching René eat instead. At length, the soldier emptied his glass of wine and looked up at his guest.

“I am done. Do I wait for you, or do we talk now?”

“Here?”

“No! In the room over there,” René said, pointing at an opened door, behind which stood a work desk, chairs, and a cupboard full of books.

A timid knock on the door interrupted their conversation, taking their attention away from one another to the source of the sound. Just then, the chauffeur stepped slowly into the sitting room. He looked unsure of himself and was about to say something when René got up from his chair suddenly.

“What do you want, Sergeant?”

“You asked me to come in after you are done with your lunch.”

“Yes, I did. Go to Benoit’s and pick up the items I ordered. Stop after that at DeSaulnier’s shop and pick up the brandy and wine too.”

“What about…” the chauffeur drawled.

“I am fine. He is like one of the family.”

An awkward moment of silence reigned between René and Jean-Pierre as they watched the young man disappear behind the door. It stayed unbroken for about a minute or more before Jean-Pierre said in a monotone. “We can talk now.”

“Let’s go,” René said and walked away.

Jean-Pierre took a quick look around the room the moment he got inside. René shut the door behind them, walked behind the desk, unbuckled his holster, and threw it carelessly on the desk. Then he settled into the chair behind it.”

“I used this place to write, but I have not been doing so lately. My doctor said I could be suffering from brain inflammation.”

“You are having difficulties writing, you said. Any usual tiredness?”

“Yes.”

“Poor memory too?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“I feel down. It has only been recently though. And I don’t like the frequency of the feeling. Could it be that I am sliding downhill into a depression? And I also have pains. I get up in the morning with them and can’t survive the day without painkillers.”

“Have you had an infection lately?”

“Yes. Several times. I took some antibiotics. They were prescribed by my doctors.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“On and off for more than a year now.”

“Go on.”

Jean-Pierre was silent as René talked and talked for more than ten minutes, moving his hands in the air, gesturing to the right and to the left with his head, and holding his head from time to time with both hands like someone with a severe headache. Then he stopped abruptly and looked at the doctor with a lost look on his face. “What do you think?” he stuttered finally.

“Let me make this clear to you, René. You are sick. You are developing cognitive impairment, depression, fatigue, and chronic pain, all triggered by inflammation that has persisted for quite some time now, creating a pathology of its own. It messed up your autoimmune system and it is degenerative. You need treatment that you cannot get here in Cameroon. I need to take a better look at you in my clinic. Now, I understand what has been going on. All the same, I need your cooperation.”

“Cooperation on what.”

“Quit this war.”

“You are crazy. They need me here.”

“Not when Max Briand and Lamberton are hovering around with special plans of their own. Not with the thousands of our boys from Algeria and Indochina beefing up our army and Ahidjo’s boys here. Not when our military has increased its gadgets several times over. You have done your job, whatever it was. Yes, René! You played a major role in stopping the partisans from taking over before we gave the country to Ahidjo to manage. Don’t hang around with the war criminals who are planning a genocide here.”

“I am still useful here.”

“You are sick, René. And it is degenerative. Go home.”

“Marc.”

“His killer is dead. My friend told me who it was and why he killed your brother. Your brother killed his brother. Bartholomew, the Anglo is dead; you know that. Besides, you killed his cousin and your men raped and tortured his son.”

“I must stay. You don’t understand.”

“Then take a sick leave and I will send you to the best doctors that treat neuro-inflammation in France.”

“No, I am staying here. All I need is for you to prescribe me the treatment.”

Jean-Pierre got up and locked the door, then turned around and faced René again. “Listen to me and listen to me well. I didn’t come here to talk to you about your health, but I am doing so now because I am a doctor. I am also doing so because I am a loyal friend, and you are not yet someone to turn away from. The real reason I am here is to talk to you about your recent actions in Banganté that went out of hand. Your men caused my good friend extreme grief. Joseph Njike has lost his oldest son and his beloved son is traumatized too from your actions and the death of his brother. But I know you are sick: I know your continuous stay here will only make matters worse. Get this straight: the longer you stay here, the greater the chances become that I may end up losing you as a friend.  You may take this as my sentimental weakness for you, but who cares. I will tell you all the same: You are not like the others. You and I grew up together in Cameroun. You have a girlfriend who is expecting your child, a child that is going to be a Cameroonian and a French, albeit a French child that the right-wingers would never accept as an equal. And something else. You are not a homosexual or a bisexual. You don’t have sex with men, and you detest those who have sex with men just to control them.”

“Stop, Jean-Pierre.”

“I won’t, René. Something else I know about you that you probably thought I didn’t. You have made fortunes here. You have stashed away enough gold, diamonds, valuable artifacts, and other items worth a great deal of money. Put together, all of these items you have taken from this land will make you rich for the rest of your life.”

“I said, stop,” René growled, held his head with both hands and shook it repeatedly.

Non, Mon Frère! I won’t. I want you to turn away from the damnation of your soul; I want you to take your girlfriend home with you. She would be by your side as you get the treatment, and she would even nurse you until you are well again. Help her get an education, nurture the new family you are about to have and be human again.”

“You don’t understand,” René said, still holding his head, but with his elbows perched on his desk.

“What is there to understand?”

“They will regret it if I am not around.”

“I remember I told you the story of Marcel shooting Bruno to save him from getting himself killed at the Battle of Bir Hakeim. I remember doing so at the party for Marcel’s son at my Yaoundé home.”

René sat up suddenly and was shocked to find out that his own gun was aimed at him. But then the expression on his face relaxed and he started laughing. “Jean-Pierre, Jean-Pierre! You never fail to amaze me. What are you doing now? What do you think you are doing?”

 “I am tempted to do the same thing to you, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Perhaps I am a coward, or perhaps it is because I don’t love you enough anymore after finding out that a substantial part of you has been corrupted. Go home, René; leave the management of this war to those who have already crossed the line of madness and evil. Go home before this war transforms you into a monster like them.”

“Give me the gun, Mon Frère,” René said as he got up from his seat behind the desk.

“Stay where you are.”

“I want my gun back, Mon Frère,” René persisted with an edge to his voice and then started taking steps towards Jean-Pierre.

It must have been after the fifth step that the gun went off and René fell to the floor, followed immediately by cartridges dropping on the floor. Silence reigned in the room for a moment, then there was a burst of laughter. René held his leg, blood oozing out of his thigh, creating a widening stain on his pants. “What do you think you are doing?” he asked, still laughing.

“I did it for your sake, Mon Frère. Go home. The war is over for you.”

“You are just as crazy.”

René had hardly finished his sentence when they heard pounding on the door, followed by the voices of the chauffeur and the cook asking if they were all right.

“I am fine. My gun went off and I got a scratch,” René shouted, “Give me the gun, Doctor. Then go ahead, open the door, come back, and tend to my wound. You never had anything to do with this, Mon Frère; do you hear me?” he said to Jean-Pierre in a whisper.

Jean-Pierre nodded and handed René the gun, their eyes locked together in a long second of eternal trust. Then with an expressionless face, Jean-Pierre turned around, walked to the door, and opened it.

When René left Cameroon for the treatment of his bullet wound and neuro-inflammation in France, the record in his file stated that he was wounded from an unfortunate accident that occurred while he was unloading his pistol and that he was treated on the spot by the ace Dr. Jean-Pierre Ribery who happened to be with him at the time of the unexpected and undesirable mishap.....



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