The use of political assassinations against key leaders of liberation movements has had a major impact on the course of history in Africa and the Middle East. Not only have some of the greatest of Third World leaders been killed but so, too, has the hope for political change they embodied
Victoria Brittain
One
New York, spring 1958
Renault's "princess" — the 1956 Renault Dauphine sedan — made René Roccard proud of his native land. It was a feeling he shared with millions of his French compatriots who were also enthralled when the car rolled off the assembly lines. So, his co-workers were not surprised when he bought a Renault Dauphine from the first consignment to the United States. His delight in honking or waving at any Renault Dauphine and its driver whenever he drove past one became apparent from the first day.
The Frenchman’s reason for being carried away by the car was simple. The automobile proved that France was finally getting back on its feet after four years of a humiliating occupation by Germany during the Second World War.
Even so, René felt neither pride nor concern about the car that afternoon as he drove through the streets of New York. The expression of grim determination on his face relaxed a little as he left East 48th Street behind him and joined the crawl of traffic through Broadway, oblivious of the skyscrapers on both sides of the road. His mind was on his self-assigned mission, a preoccupation that almost made him hit the blue Ford Fairlane right in front of his car. He stepped hard on the brake pedal, forcing the car to jerk to a stop; and then hit the steering wheel repeatedly for no apparent reason.
“Merde…merde, les salopards!” he cursed and didn’t cease until the sound of cars hooting from his rear alerted him that he was lagging behind the flow of traffic.
René moved the car forward, in rhythm with the others ahead of him, and then looked at his left palm. It was damp with perspiration. A bemused expression crossed his face at the irony of his nervousness. The skin over the median part of his eyes folded slightly as he gritted and drove into 1st Avenue/United Nations Plaza; steering the vehicle through a variety of residential neighborhoods.
“Cette circulation est agaçante,” he hissed under his breath.
True he hadn’t anticipated the heavy traffic and never imagined the temperature could hit ninety-seven degrees Fahrenheit. René did not like the implication, afraid it would mess up his plans. He parked his car in the Turtle Bay neighborhood, got out, opened the trunk, and then pulled out a guitar case with hardly recognizable rifle parts inside. Then he locked the driver door and pocketed the key.
“You have a nice baby there,” a voice sounded from behind René, sending a chill up his spine.
He froze for a moment, turned around with a half-angry and half-surprised look on his face and regarded the man. “What did you say?” he asked with lips slightly corrupted by a sneer he could not shake off.
“It is a beautiful piece of machinery. Oh yes. And my wife is buying one tonight,” the smiling American with a Boston accent replied, and then ran his hand on the hood as if caressing it.
“Thank you, Sir. Believe me; your wife will love it. Excuse me; I must leave now,” René made no effort to disguise his thick Gallic accent. He did not even look at the man as he waved goodbye and hurried away.
He walked across the park in the direction of the Tudor City apartments with quick steps, conscious of the dampness on the back of his shirt.
“Ignore it,” he said in his effort to shake the mild irritation off his mind.
René increased his pace as he approached the apartment block situated directly opposite the United Nations Headquarters, right across First Avenue; and even covered the remaining twenty yards to the apartment door with half-running steps.
“What am I doing to myself?” he mumbled, mindful of his panting and the slight trembling of his hands.
He pulled out the bunch of keys from his trouser pocket, picked out an inconspicuous silver key, inserted it into the keyhole, and then opened the entrance door. Even so, his awareness of the state of his mind did not prevent him from muttering a torrent of curses under his breath as he stepped inside Giuseppe Matteotti’s two bedroom apartment, locked the door, and then hurried to the casement window. He had made acquaintance with the Italian painter in a bar, got his invitation to his apartment to see his paintings and decided to copy his key after the painter told him he would be away in his old country for half a year.
René took less than three minutes to assemble the sniper rifle and set aside fifteen minutes waiting for his target while his high adrenaline level subsided. But the target didn’t show up until forty-three minutes later; and he exited the United Nations building with a crowd.
Ruben Um Nyobé, the energetic six-foot leader of the Cameroonian Underground Organization fighting France in French Cameroun, appeared to be talking and gesturing to five men and a lone woman around him with an air of self-confidence and a smile on his face that triggered a flow of bile up René’s throat. He swallowed it back and licked his lips.
René’s heart skipped a beat as the diplomats walked with the French Camerounian away from the building. He felt an ache in his stiffened trigger finger as he focused his aim and waited for the moment to deliver the shot that would avenge the death of his brother. But suddenly, Ruben stopped, held the shoulder of one of the foreign diplomats, and then moved away, forcing René to gasp without intending to. Now, his target was hidden by the burly diplomat, a development that infuriated even René further, leaving his nerves more overwrought than before. The Frenchman bit his lip as he watched the other diplomats encircle Ruben and walk with him to the waiting car. Then the car drove away.
Rage swept over René, setting off a quivering fit that he made no effort to stop. He buckled under the weight of his failure, slumped to the floor, and then rolled over. A series of grunts escaped his lips as he hit his thighs with both fists. Then he leaned backwards on the wall and closed his eyes, all the while muttering barely audible curses.
René Roccard’s lip movement stopped for a moment; and he frowned deeply, an unconscious effort that created an impression of extreme rage on his face. Without even opening his eyes, he nodded to himself several times as if acknowledging an inner voice. Yes, it was his inner voice all right. He would try again for the third time, and if the next attempt turned out to be unsuccessful too, then he would have to go to French Cameroun and finish the job there.
René closed his eyes again and tried to shake off the haunting Monday, January 6, 1958 headline in the New York Times, but it kept imposing itself in his mind.
‘France Sends Troops to Crush Red-Led Uprising in Cameroons; Acts to Prevent New 'Algeria' in African Territory Where Rebels Burned 60 Villages.’
“Les idiots, les imbéciles!” he growled, paused for a moment with an expression of deep pain on his face, and then sighed.
The rebellion in our Cameroun isn’t different from the one in Algeria. That’s why Marc is dead. He told himself in an inaudible voice, and then closed his eyes.
A moment of silence ensued before René buried his head in his hands and wept.
He went to work the next day feeling disheartened, until news from Paris reached the consulate hours after, reporting the return to power of General Charles De Gaulle. The news brought a smile to René’s face.