Fouche / Haasbroek Footsteps to Death

A South African Hero's Struggle in the French Foreign Legion, Book 2
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-928498-62-9
Verlag: Pieter Haasbroek
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 130 Seiten

Reihe: Sahara Adventure Series

He broke the heart of a desert queen.

Now, she demands his life in exchange for an innocent woman's soul.

Sahara desert, 1940-1960. Legionnaire Teuns Stegmann is haunted by two things. The brutal Sahara heat and the memory of El Karima, the beautiful, merciless Arab leader he once loved and then betrayed. His past comes crashing down when El Karima kidnaps his commander's wife, offering a simple, savage ultimatum. Her life for his.

Teuns knows the death awaiting him is one of unimaginable torture, a public spectacle of vengeance for the woman he wronged. Yet, to refuse is to condemn an innocent woman to that same fate and force his commander into an impossible choice that will stain the honor of the French Foreign Legion forever. Every footstep in the sand could be his last.

A relentless classic adventure that unfolds with the heart-pounding tension of a modern thriller. This gripping tale of honor, impossible choices, and survival in the unforgiving Sahara will leave you breathless. Perfect for fans of Wilbur Smith's epic adventures and the classic suspense of Alistair MacLean.

Step into this unforgettable second Sahara adventure now!

Autoren/Hrsg.

Fouche, Meiring

Haasbroek, Pieter

Weitere Mitwirkende

Ai

Haasbroek, Pieter

Leseproben

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 merely a barbarian. She is also a strategist of the first water. She knows just as well as we do that she can achieve nothing by inflicting any harm on madame.”

“What then is the purpose of the abduction?” asks Le Clerq, and D’Arlan knows that his officer is incapable of thinking clearly about things in these circumstances, otherwise, with his analytical mind, he would long ago have realised what lies behind this action.

“The purpose, mon Colonel,” says D’Arlan, “is briefly and concisely to use madame as a hostage, to extort certain things from you. In exchange for her freedom, they will use madame to force certain concessions from you. They will use madame’s safety and freedom as the revolver at your head.”

“And I am quite sure that the demands will be such that they place me in an impossible position,” says Le Clerq.

“I think we can be sure that if a choice is presented to you, it will not be an easy one,” D’Arlan concludes, trying to say it as sympathetically as possible.

“Can we not save her?” Le Clerq inquires helplessly, pulling open the drawer of his desk where he keeps half a flask of brandy.

He also produces a small plastic glass, and then another.

“A little dram?” he inquires, but D’Arlan shakes his head. “Not now, thank you, mon Colonel. If I drink, I cannot think to save my life.”

Le Clerq knocks back a little neat brandy and then inquires again. “D’Arlan, can we not save Antoinette somehow?”

“Nothing is entirely impossible, mon Colonel,” the captain replies resignedly. “But it will not be easy. If we want to save her alive, we will have to be extremely careful.”

“Clearly, we cannot send an expedition. That would be futile,” says Le Clerq, pouring himself another half glass of brandy.

“That is out of the question. Another plan must be devised. I wonder if you would allow me a few hours to consider the position and speak with a few men...?”

“Of course, D’Arlan, anything. I, I am afraid that I cannot think very clearly. I am completely in a daze.”

“I understand that perfectly, mon Colonel. I can understand the tension and fear you are experiencing. It makes normal thinking quite impossible.”

“Do you already have a plan in mind, D’Arlan?” the colonel suddenly asks with interest.

“Not yet, mon officier, but if I reflect on the matter for a few hours, I hope to present something to you.”

“If only Algiers would listen to us,” Le Clerq then says with a helpless gesture. “If only they had allowed us back then to track down this white witch and put her to death. If only they had allowed us back then to destroy her capital Doetra, after you wiped out the garrison there. But no, considerations of humanity prevailed. The Doelaks have learned their lesson, the same old tune. And what do we have today? Doetra is once again the capital of this wretched woman, and I am quite sure she is busy again with her subversive and dangerous activities.”

“There is not the slightest doubt about that, mon Colonel. I think El Karima’s preparations for the next assault are already further advanced than we think.”

“What are we seeking in this Foreign Legion, D’Arlan?” Le Clerq suddenly asks sharply.

D’Arlan shrugs his square shoulders, smiles faintly, and replies, “Sometimes I myself do not know, mon Colonel. I think it is in our blood. One cannot shake it off. It stays with you.”

“If only Algiers would listen,” Le Clerq sighs deeply again, pressing the tips of his fingers to his temples. “I, I still cannot believe it, D’Arlan. I still cannot believe that Antoinette is gone. Think of the humiliation, of her fear. And she is so small and delicate. How will she survive in the desert?”

“You can be sure that they will take good care of her, mon Colonel,” D’Arlan says quickly. “They have a purpose with her, and to try to achieve that purpose, they will try to preserve and protect her.”

“Perhaps that is so, D’Arlan. Thank you for your consideration and sympathy. You can reflect on the matter here in my office. I think I will go to the hotel now. I want to find out a few things there. I will return later.”

“Qui, mon Colonel.”

D’Arlan’s words are barely cold when there is a loud knock on the door and the orderly enters. “There is an Arab to see you, mon Colonel,” says the man.

“Bring him in immediately,” snaps the command sharply from Le Clerq.

The next moment, the tall, slender Arab stands in the office, his hands hidden beneath the folds of his robe, his thin, dark face calm, and his eyes sparkling. The chin adorned with his goatee is thrust out defiantly.

“What is it you wish to discuss?” asks Le Clerq, who has sat down again in his chair.

The Arab fumbles under his white robe and pulls out a piece of paper. “A message from Her Highness, El Karima of the Doelaks,” he says, handing the piece of paper to Le Clerq.

“Her Royal Highness!” scoffs the colonel. “I will yet have her shot like an animal, the vixen!”

D’Arlan sees the thin smile on the Arab’s face. He knows that smile all too well. He has witnessed it on so many occasions. And he knows so well what it means. It is the smile of contemptuous hatred. It is the smile when an Arab knows full well that he has achieved a victory over his hated enemy, the Foreign Legion.

“El Karima is like the eagle. The falcons cannot catch her,” says the Arab proudly.

Like lightning, D’Arlan is on his feet. He is vaguely aware that Le Clerq is taking longer than necessary to read that note. The Arab is still smiling. “If you speak one more word in this office,” D’Arlan says threateningly, “I will personally smash your head in!”

“Qui, Capitaine,” says the Arab, bowing subserviently, but even that bow is a defiance.

“Where is Karima?” D’Arlan asks suddenly.

The Arab smiles that challenging little smile again, tilts his head, and just shrugs his shoulders.

At the military academy of St. Cyr, they taught D’Arlan in the old days how to deliver a silent, swift, deadly blow to an...