The Fourth Man

I was on my third drink and headed towards blessed oblivion when the door of the bar opened and three men walked in. They stopped just inside the door, each scanning the corners of the room as though expecting a German patrol to be hiding in the shadows. Their eyes slid over me as though I didn't exist. Just as well, I thought.

A brief stop at the bar and a quick command to the proprietor produced a bottle and three grimy glasses. They sat at a battered table in the back of the room, poured out a round, and lifted their glasses in a silent toast.

These men puzzled me. They brought the desert in with them – sand, heat, and blazing sun imprinted like an afterimage on the mind's eye. Yet they were wearing dress uniform, unusual in North Africa where uniforms were a rather haphazard affair. I pitied the German who looked at them over the business end of a gun. It was likely the last sight he ever saw.

After the first round had been tossed back, a second was poured. They talked little. Most of their communication was couched in silent signals, sent with a telepathy that develops among men who depend on each other often in dangerous situations.

When the bottle was finished, they stood to leave, throwing a handful of money on the table. As they passed me, their asymmetrical formation gave me the answer to something that had been nagging at me. An empty space between them was almost tangible. A fourth man belonged in this group.

They pushed open the screen door leading into the street. As the last man walked out, he held the door open behind him for a few seconds, as if unconsciously expecting someone else to appear. Then he slammed it shut behind him and the men disappeared into the darkness.