Liberation Day (25 page)

I breathed through my mouth, because my nose was starting to block up again, and heaved myself onto the ledge. I hooked my little finger into the earpiece and pulled it away from my head, blocking the outlet in case one of the boys started to jabber on the radio. I needed both ears from now on. My throat was dry, but I wasn’t going to do anything to moisten it just yet. It was more important to listen for a while.

There was no sound at all coming from this boat, apart from the gentle lapping of water against its sides. I could still hear the Germans’ muted laughter. I replaced the earphone and raised my head, inch by inch, until I could see over the back of the boat. The patio doors were just a few feet away.

It’s basic fieldcraft never to look over something if you can avoid it; always around or, even better, through. You should never cut a straight line, like the top of a wall, or the skyline, or the side of a boat. The human eye is quick to detect broken symmetry. My hands gripped the fiberglass as I raised my head, painfully slowly, hoping that the movement was disguised against the background of divots and the raised gangway. There was nothing: it was still clear.

I checked the device, Browning, and fanny pack one more time, then got slowly and deliberately to my feet, lifted my right leg over the back of the boat and tested the ribbed decking with my toes to make sure I wasn’t about to step on something like a glass or a plate. I put the rest of my foot down, gradually shifting my weight until my left leg was able to follow. I took my time, concentrating on the job at hand, not worrying about being seen through the patio doors. If I had been, I’d know about it soon enough. Better to spend time and effort on the job than worry about what might happen if things went wrong. If they did, that was when I’d start to panic.

Moving to the right of the patio area, I eased myself up onto the right-hand walkway that led around toward the front of the boat, and to the ladder that would take me over the cabin and onto the upper deck. I was concentrating so hard that the rustle of my gloves sounded to me like a bush being shaken. I reached the ladder and placed my right foot on the first of the three rungs, applying pressure very slowly on the aluminum. The cabin window was no more than six inches to my right. I didn’t want to use the handrail, to avoid strain on the rivets.

There was a metallic creak as I lifted my left foot onto the next rung. My mouth was open so I could control the sound of my breathing; my eyes were straining to make sure I didn’t bump into anything. I kept moving, slowly and deliberately, all the time checking that the fanny pack, device, and weapon weren’t going to bounce onto the deck.

I eased my weight onto the third rung, then got my hand on the fiberglass deck and heaved myself upward.

I found myself on all fours, on the top deck, as two vehicles came from the direction of Monaco and lit up the main road, then vanished into the town. I got slowly to my feet, so there’d only be two points of contact above the sleeping people. It took me six slow, deliberate steps to reach the seats. Once there, I lowered myself onto my knees, and tried to find out how the covers were held down. There was a Velcro fastening down along the sides. Undoing that would be a big no-no, this close to the enemy.

I heard the sound of sliding doors, a burst of laughter, then German voices.

Lotfi got on the net. “Foxtrots! We got foxtrots.”

I couldn’t do anything but hug the deck, then inch my way, on my stomach, toward the protection of the seats forward of the driving console. I ended up over a sort of sunroof, a clear sheet of Plexiglas that would have looked directly down into the cabin if it wasn’t for the blinds.

I rested my face on the Plexiglas and tried not to think about what would happen if the blind was opened. I heard the doors slide shut, and the sound of footsteps on the pier behind me. Then came the whimper of a dog, followed by a sharp, Germanic rebuke from its owner.

There was nothing I could do but wait where I was for the all-clear from Lotfi. I stuck my free ear to the Plexiglas to check for noises from below. There were none, and it was still dark on the other side of the blind.

I lay perfectly still, mouth open, breath condensing on the Plexi. Car doors slammed and engines fired up in the parking lot.

I stayed where I was, nothing moving but my eyeballs and the dribble spilling from the corner of my mouth, as I watched the vehicles leave in the direction of Nice.

I got a low whisper from Lotfi. “All clear.”

I didn’t double-click him in response: that would just create movement and noise. He’d see me move soon anyway. There was still no sound from below, but I wanted to get off this sunroof. Having nothing more than a sheet of clear plastic and a venetian blind between me and a bunch of al-Qaeda was not my idea of fun.

I began to raise myself on my toes and the heels of my hands.

“More foxtrots, more foxtrots!”

I couldn’t see what he was going on about, but that didn’t matter. I flattened myself once more. Then I could hear mumbling from somewhere along the pier. It sounded like more German.

“Two bodies on deck, smoking.”

I reached down slowly for my Sony.

Click, click
.

We’d have to wait this one out. There was nothing I could do now but hope I wasn’t seen.

I stayed exactly where I was, ears cocked, nose blocked, the left side of my face cold and wet. The mumbling was definitely German. I even got a whiff of pipe tobacco as Hubba-Hubba now got on the net. “Stand by, stand by. That’s four foxtrots toward you, L.”

I heard a double-click from Lotfi as Hubba-Hubba gave the commentary. “That’s at the first pier, still foxtrot, still straight. They must be going for pier nine. N, acknowledge.”

I double-clicked gingerly. He was right, there was nowhere else to go, apart from one of the cars.

Lotfi got on the net. “N, do you want me to stop them?”

What the fuck did he mean, stop them? Shoot them?

If they were aiming for any of the boats near me, I’d be seen. I could hear their footsteps now and the mumbles of a foreign language. They were definitely heading my way.

I reached for the Sony and clicked twice, and Hubba-Hubba came on the net immediately.

“H will stop them.”

There was a crash of breaking glass from the vicinity of the shops. A microsecond later, a high-pitched two-tone alarm split the night.

28

I
froze.

A bright yellow strobe light near the
tabac
began to bounce around the marina. There was nothing I could do but hug Plexiglas, my pulse racing. The four foxtrots sparked up loudly in French, sounding surprised, while the Germans shouted urgently to each other.

I heard a rush of Arabic in the cabin below. Furniture was being knocked into. A glass was smashed. Lights went on. Through a tiny gap at the edge of the blind, I found myself looking straight down onto a stretch of highly varnished wood below the front window. A hand grabbed at things I couldn’t see, and disappeared. A blue-shirted back came into view. They were already dressed down there. They’d probably been ready to make a run for it. There was more babbling. They were panicking, thinking that whatever was going on outside was meant for them.

I heard an English voice, male and educated, very calm, very in control. “Just let me check, just wait.
Let me check
.”

I saw a mass of curly black hair, and a wash-stained, once-white T-shirt. The hair was flatter on one side, probably from the way he’d been sleeping; its owner was peering under the front blind toward the stores.

There was movement in other boats, too, and lights coming on. A few people were venturing out to see what the commotion was all about. The strobe was still going for it big-time, and I kept rigid, my eye glued to the gap, trying to see through the condensation and dribble between me and the Plexi.

The man below me turned, and his face was highlighted by the flashing strobe. It was Curly, for sure, the man at Juan-les-Pins and in the Polaroid; now I definitely knew where Greaseball was getting his information. George needed to know about this.

He was very skinny. His shoulder blades poked through his T-shirt as if he had a coat hanger in there. His big hair made his head look totally out of proportion to his body. He hadn’t shaved for a while, and his slightly hooked nose and sunken eyes made him look as if he’d jumped out of a Dickens novel. He’d be the one giving Oliver Twist a hard time.

“It’s okay,” he said, smooth as silk. “It’s just a burglar alarm. Things are cool….”

There was another flurry of Arabic. He was definitely the voice of reason. “No, an alarm—it’s just being robbed. You know, someone’s breaking into the shop to steal, that’s all it is, it’s okay.” He moved back from the window and his face disappeared.

Was the alarm going to bring the police? If so, how quickly? There was still talking and movement beneath me. It was an ideal time to get the job done. If I was wrong, and people saw me, I’d soon know about it. I got to my knees and wiped up what had fallen out of my mouth with my sleeve. Then I pushed the device under the covering and into the channel where the back of the seat met the backrest. I peeled back the insulation tape tab, and gave the fishing line a steady pull until the clothespin jaws released the strip of plastic and the two thumbtacks connected. The circuit was complete; the device was armed. I pushed the cylinder in as far as my arm could reach.

The strobe was still going ballistic and I could hear people on other boats talking animatedly. It was starting to feel like some sort of yachting rave out there. I lay by the seats, not moving an inch, worrying about whether the gear at the OP would be found if the police decided to have a good look around. Biggest worry of all, though, was how to get off this thing before the
gendarmes
showed up.

About fifteen seconds later I knew it was too late. Two sets of blue flashing lights were heading down from the town. They arrived at the marina and turned right, toward the strobe. Below me, Curly started calming the Arabs down. “They’re just checking out the shop. Everything is cool.”

I watched as four uniforms got out of their patrol cars and inspected the storefront, silhouetted in their headlights and flashing blues.

They were joined almost immediately by another set of headlights. The driver got out and waved his arms about, jabbering away full steam. Probably the owner, working himself up to a big insurance claim.

The police stayed for another twenty minutes, then the voices faded and lights started to go out all around the marina. Things went quiet in the cabin below me. At least they wouldn’t be leaving without me knowing; this must have been the closest OP in OP history.

I lay there for another hour, glad of my new quilted jacket as I felt my extremities start to chill. I sat up slowly and checked around me. The marina was asleep once more. The
tabac
lights were on; it looked like the owner was guarding it for the night. I made sure that the vinyl covering of the couch looked exactly as it had when I arrived, then went back into Spiderman mode.

Less than fifteen minutes later I was walking along the pier toward the parking lot and Lotfi’s Ford Focus.

I turned left, toward my Timberlands, and hit the pressle.

“L, stay where you are and keep the trigger. There’s a change of plan. I’ll let you know what later. Acknowledge.”

Click, click.

“H, check?”

Click, click.

“Meet me at my car.”

Click, click.

I got back to the garbage bin to retrieve my Timberlands. As I headed back to the OP, I offered up a prayer to the god of wrong numbers that no one got through to the pager by mistake. At least, not until the three on the boat had done their job.

29

I
had just started moving toward the stone steps when Hubba-Hubba came on the net. “Stand by, stand by. Vehicle toward you. N, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

Not that I needed him to tell me. The unmistakable sound of a VW camper thud-thud-thudded its way around the edge of the marina. I sat halfway up the concrete steps and waited for it to park, before moving toward the OP.

I followed the pathway until it reached the main drag, and turned right toward the Mégane.

Lotfi came on the net. I couldn’t see Hubba-Hubba but I knew he was around somewhere. He wouldn’t show himself until he saw me.

As I drew level with the car, I spotted him farther up the road. I waited for him to join me, and we crouched in the shadows behind the hedge. “What did you do that for?” I said. “Getting the police down here could have been an absolute nightmare.”

He grinned. “It stopped those people seeing you, didn’t it?”

I nodded: he had a point.

“In any case, I’ve always wanted to do that.”

I nodded again: so had I. “What did you use to smash the window?”

“One of the metal weights they use to keep the parasols in place. Those windows are quite tough, you know.”

“I need to ask you something.” I wiped my running nose. “Is there anywhere in your area where I can send an e-mail right now? It might be important. One of the guys on the boat was with Greaseball last night. He’s a Brit, early to mid-thirties, skinny, long black curly hair. Looks like the guitarist out of Queen, you know who I mean?”

He ignored the stupid second question and thought for a few seconds about the first. “The main train station in Nice. They have some of those cyberpoints. There are maybe four or five of them. I think they lock the station at night, but I’m not sure. There are definitely two outside.”

I briefed Hubba-Hubba on what I had seen inside the boat, and told him to pass it on to Lotfi while I went to Nice. “Tell Lotfi to keep a trigger until I get back. And if they move before that, you two just have fun!” I slapped him on the shoulder. I checked the sidewalk for people, then stepped out and went back to the Mégane.

Driving past the entrance to the marina and on up toward Lotfi’s position, I listened in as Hubba-Hubba briefed Lotfi on the net, then I started to work out the code words I was going to need in the e-mail.