Liberation Day (16 page)

I could hear an exchange of rapid and aggressive French from the apartments behind me. The comforter-shaker was giving someone inside her state-of-the-nation address. I checked that the first telltale was in position. It was: a new black garbage bag, half-filled with newspaper, had been placed by the gate inside the fence. That meant Hubba-Hubba was in the house, hopefully sponsoring the RV. A glance at traser told me it was four minutes to four. All being well, Lotfi would also be in position.

When Hubba-Hubba had arrived he’d have put out the garbage bag for Lotfi and me to see as we made our approach. Hubba-Hubba would have gotten here about three; Lotfi thirty minutes or so later.

If the garbage bag hadn’t been there, I’d have just kept walking and gone to the emergency RV in twenty-four hours’ time—Cannes at McDonald’s, or McDo as it was called down here. The place was always packed with schoolkids and office workers, much to the disgust of the French food police. If any one of us failed to show, we’d be in the shit, but the job would still go on. We had no choice: there was too much at stake for it not to.

I went through the gate with my bag over my left shoulder, leaving my right ready to react with the Browning, and walked up the pathway.

As I reached the door of the farthest cottage, I checked again that I wasn’t about to be jumped on as I took off my sunglasses. I looked for the two match heads that should be protruding from the bottom of the door. They had to be where I could see them without adjusting the angle of my head as I approached; I didn’t want to make it obvious that I was looking for something.

They were exactly where they should be, one sticking out an inch from the right-hand corner of the door, and the other on the left, by the frame. That told me that both Hubba-Hubba and Lotfi were inside; the door hadn’t been opened and closed without the telltales being replaced.

I knocked on the door and watched. After a few seconds, the spyhole darkened. I lowered my eyes, but kept my face in line with it, to indicate that everything was okay, that nobody was against the wall and out of view with a weapon aimed at my head. Eyes are a good telltale; they can’t be seen from a distance, so nobody can see what’s going on.

The matches disappeared from view, four bolts were pulled back, and the handle turned. The door opened and three rubber-coated fingers appeared around its edge as it was pulled inward. I walked in without any greeting, and it was closed behind me. The bolts were slid back into place.

I took two steps over the wooden floorboards of the cramped hallway and onto a worn, Persian-style rug. I followed the smell of freshly brewed coffee into the dimly lit living room, past furniture draped in doilies and faded black-and-whites of kids with gummy smiles gathered together on a sideboard in cheap chrome frames. Lotfi was standing by a wooden-armed couch, part of an ancient, flower-patterned three-piece set. It was covered in clear plastic sheeting, which reflected the few beams of light that managed to defeat the shutters behind him. The coffee stood on a low table in front.

He wore jeans and a cheap striped cotton shirt, the sort where the pattern fades after just a few washes, but that wasn’t what made me want to grin. He was also wearing pink Rubbermaid gloves, and a dolphin-patterned shower cap over his heavily gelled hair. Hubba-Hubba knew that the boy was taking his personal security very seriously, but had ragged on him mercilessly the last time we’d all met.

I put my bag on the rug and got out my own gloves, the clear plastic ones I’d picked up from a gas station.

Lotfi watched me as I put them on and muttered,
“Bonjour,”
in a low voice. I knew he was waiting for my face to break into a smile.

I unzipped my bag, removed my Nike cap, and replaced it with the hammerhead baseball cap I’d bought at the marina. Then I stood smartly at attention, trying to keep a straight face as I pulled down on the string.

Lotfi watched impassively as the hammer moved up and down on the peak and I heard Hubba-Hubba try not to snigger by the door. “This is serious, Nick.” He pointed behind me. “Please, do not be a fool like him.”

I turned. Hubba-Hubba was sporting a plastic Groucho Marx big-nose-mustache-and-glasses set. The two of us snorted with laughter, like a couple of kids. We couldn’t help it. It really had been a boring four days, and I was feeling pretty glad to see them again.

Hubba-Hubba held up his hands, to give me the full benefit of his ridiculous pink gloves, and that only made things worse.

Behind their disguises, both of them still had very neat hair and mustaches. Hubba-Hubba had broken out slightly and not shaved for a few days. His teeth gleamed in the murky light as we enjoyed our moment of stupidity, and Lotfi tried not to understand why it was so funny.

After a moment or two, I decided that kindergarten was over. We had things to do. “Is the escape clear?”

Hubba-Hubba nodded, and the Groucho Marx gear slid down the bridge of his nose. That started me off again, and this time even Lotfi joined in.

The escape route was into the cellar via the kitchen, then through the next-door cottage. A mat had been glued over the trapdoor, so that when it was closed it would be concealed. Apparently it was a leftover from the Resistance in the Second World War.

We sat down around the coffee table to the sound of crumpling plastic sheeting that Hubba-Hubba had bought from a hardware store. We couldn’t afford to leave behind anything like hair or clothes fibers that might be used against us. The sheeting and our other precautions wouldn’t do a one hundred percent job, but you can only do your best.

“I’m afraid we may have a problem, Nick.” Lotfi nodded toward Hubba-Hubba, his expression serious. “I’m getting worried about him. He’s turning into a weird beard.”

“A what?”

“Weird beards—you know, Talib. He’s turning into Taliban.”

Hubba-Hubba took off his big nose and glasses, shaking his head as he poured the coffee into three blue flower-patterned cups. “We have to make allowances, Nick. He doesn’t get out much these days.” He gave me a theatrical wink.

I sipped my coffee. This was nothing instant from a jar, it was hot, sweet Arabic stuff. It always tasted to me like perfume, but it was good all the same. I could hear kids running around on the road, and mopeds buzzing past, sounding like turbo-charged sewing machines.

“We’re operational from tomorrow,” I said, in a low voice. “The boat’s going to park at Beaulieu-sur-Mer sometime tomorrow night. I don’t know yet where the collections are going to happen, or precisely when, but I’m told there are going to be three of them; one a day, starting Friday. I’ve got another source meet tonight, and hopefully I’ll get the collection addresses then.”

Lotfi was silent for a moment, digesting this information. Finally, he spoke. “Dock, Nick.” He smiled. “You dock a boat.”

I smiled.

“Dock, okay. I’ll try to remember that one.”

“And the French don’t have marinas,” Hubba-Hubba added. “They have
ports
.”

17

I
watched the two of them drop enough sugar cubes into their cups to make their spoons stand up. I decided to treat myself to one. Then I pulled out the camera from my bag, together with the postcards and maps I’d gotten from the newsstands, and a couple of sets of wires. I nodded at Hubba-Hubba. “Okay, smartass, let’s see if you can spark up Auntie’s TV….”

He stood up and pressed the On button. After a minute or so there was an electronic squelch and a picture appeared: some high-octane Italian quiz show with everyone’s arms flying everywhere. They looked as though they’d be getting their stuff off any minute. I went around the back and rigged up the connecting wires so we could have a good look at the pictures I’d taken, instead of having to crowd around the digital display on the back of my camera like teenage boys with a copy of
Penthouse
.

I took another sip of coffee as I marshaled my thoughts. “Okay. These are orders for the stakeout of Beaulieu-sur-Mer, and the take of the collectors from the target boat, the
Ninth of May,
to the
hawalladas,
then the
hawalladas
’ lift and drop-off. We’ll just call the marina BSM from now on, okay?”

They both nodded, probably pleased to be spared my bad pronunciation. Their French, of course, was perfect.

I held out my now-empty cup to Hubba-Hubba, who was already doing refills. “Okay, then, the ground…” I fiddled with the buttons on the back of the camera to bring up one of the pictures of the marina. “BSM—I know you’ve been there, but I’m going to give these orders as if you haven’t so we all know where we stand.” I explained the layout of the town, the main coast road, train line, station, bus stops, and phone booth.

Lotfi got out his prayer beads and started to feed them, one by one, between his right thumb and forefinger. It sounded like the ticking of a clock.

“Before I carry on,” I took a breath, “the source is the man we left behind in Algeria, the runner from the house. The Greaseball.”

They exchanged glances and their faces fell.

“That’s obviously why no one else in the house was to be touched.” I paused, knowing very well what was going through their minds. “I thought you should know, that’s all.”

It felt good wiping some of his slime off me, spreading the shit around a little.

The two of them looked at each other again and I could sense they, too, felt contaminated.

“As I said, I don’t know the locations or timings of these collections, but I have another Greaseball meet tonight, so hopefully we’ll know then.

“Okay, let’s have a look at the target area in detail—the marina, the port, whatever you want to call it.” I threw a glance at Lotfi. He managed a smile as I flashed up the entrance sign, and showed them the pictures I’d taken of the way that the piers, the shops, and the OP were positioned. “It will make more sense when you go down there to see it again for yourselves. Any questions?”

They had none. Or maybe, as they studied the postcards and maps, sitting on plastic sheeting and trying to pick up the small coffee cups with rubber-gloved fingers, they had other things on their mind, apart from Lotfi’s shower cap.

“Okay, situation so far: the
Ninth of May
is coming in tomorrow night, Thursday. All I know about it is it’s a white pleasure boat, quite large.

“There will probably be three of them on board; one will always stay on the boat, while the other two collect. They’re planning one collection a day for three days, starting Friday, and aiming to leave for Algeria with the money on Sunday sometime after the last collection. So, we should be getting out of here by Monday, and by then Friday’s
hawallada
should already have had everything he knows dragged out of him. By the time we’re flying into the sunset Monday night, the first of the ASUs could already be having their doors kicked in by the FBI as they sit down to watch Jerry Springer.”

Lotfi lifted his head toward heaven.
“In’sha’allah.”

I knew what it meant, and smiled. “If God wills it.”

Lotfi came down from the sky and looked at me as if I should be replying, so I dusted off some lousy Arabic.
“As-salaam alaykum.”

I wasn’t too sure I’d used the right reply, but it got me a smile and a
“Wa alaykum as-salaam”
in return as he looked over to Hubba-Hubba. I turned to him and caught him smiling back.

“Hey, I think my Arabic’s getting pretty good, these days. What do you reckon?”

Hubba-Hubba gave a slow nod. “It’s better than your English.”

They laughed and took sips of coffee as I joined them, thinking they were probably right. I got back to the orders before they took me down even more. “The collectors will use public transport—trains and buses. Possibly taxis, but unlikely. Any questions?” I looked at each of them in turn, but they stayed silent. “Okay then, enemy forces—as normal, everyone and everything. During my recce today, the police came into the marina with dogs for what looked like a drugs search. It wasn’t targeted at specific boats, but it’s something we should be aware of.

“Friendly forces—basically, that’s us. There’s probably just a handful of people on board the warship who know what’s happening, but you know they won’t help us. If we’re in the shit, don’t expect any help.”

They gave each other a knowing nod.

“The mission.” I paused. “The mission is in two parts. One, identify the
hawalladas
and deliver them to the DOP. Two, ensure the money never makes it to Algeria.” The mission is always repeated so there is no doubt, even though I kept having the feeling that these two were way ahead of me. “The mission. One, identify the
hawalladas
and deliver them to the drop-off point. Two, ensure the money never makes it to Algeria.”

I knew by the look on Lotfi’s face that I’d messed up.

“What’s wrong?”

“
Hawallada
. Not
hawallada
s. It is uncountable, both singular and plural—there is no
s
.”

Hubba-Hubba nodded his agreement.

“
Hawallada
it is. But I get to keep
parked
and
marina,
right?”

They thought that was a reasonable trade.

“Okay, then, let’s have a look at how we’re going to do it.” I looked them both in the eye: fun time had ended, and they understood. “I see this happening in five phases. Phase one, the OP on the
Ninth of May
. Two, placing the device. Three, taking the collectors to the
hawallada
. Four, the hit and drop-off at the DOP. Finally, phase five, preparing for the next day. Any questions?”

I paused for a few seconds to let that sink in. They drank a little more coffee.

“Phase one—the OP.” Hubba-Hubba refilled as Lotfi got back to work on his beads. I showed them the pictures of where my car would be parked on the road behind the hedge. They would find somewhere within comms (communications) distance when they did their own recces tomorrow. “I want you, Lotfi, to get in position on the town side of the marina. Check out the closing times of those stores.”