Liberation Day (36 page)

“They were all I could get in time…” He giggled as he realized how stupid it looked, and I couldn’t help but join in.

I forced myself to get serious. “Where’s your spray paint?”

“In the passenger door compartment.”

“Okay. You need to seal off just a little more down your side.”

I climbed out of the van and walked around to the right-hand door, to the sound of ripping duct tape as he got to work. By the time I had gotten around to the back again, Hubba-Hubba was sitting on the side door sill.

“What we need to do now, mate, is scrape a small hole at the bottom of the right-hand window, in the left-hand corner. That way the aperture is roughly in the center of the rear, and you’ll get a better perspective.”

I shook the paint can and the ball bearing mixer inside rattled about. “Keep it in the back in case you need to make it smaller once you’re in position.”

Less than five minutes later, and with the use of Hubba-Hubba’s thumb nail, it was done: a nice little scrape, an inch long, ran along the bottom of the right-hand window.

“Once you’ve triggered the Romeos, just crawl under the blanket, check first it’s clear, and climb out. You’ve got the Renault to think about, and we might as well keep the blanket in position seeing as it’s so interesting.”

Hubba-Hubba stayed in the back as I got out and slid the side door shut, and the interior light died. I moved to the driver’s seat and could hear him moving about inside.

I opened the glove compartment for some light. “Okay, mate, have a go at getting out.”

He started to worm his way under the blanket, trying to keep low. When he was halfway, he stopped and fished down the front of his shirt, pulling out his charm. “It keeps doing this.” He lay where he was, checking the clasp.

“H, can I ask you a question?”

He looked up, surprised, and nodded.

“I think I understand Lotfi, but,” I indicated his little beaded palm, “where does this fit in? Are you religious—you know, a paid-up Muslim?”

He concentrated once more on his repairs. “Of course, there is only one God. To be a true Muslim doesn’t mean we all have to be like Lotfi. Salvation is attained not by faith but by works.” He took the charm to his teeth, biting down on the metal before fiddling with it some more.

“You see, when I die I will be able to say the Shahada with the same conviction as he will. Do you know what I am talking about?” He raised his head again. “You heard the old guard say it in Algeria.
‘La ilaha ill-Allah, Muhammad-ur rasul-ullah.’
For you, that means: ‘There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the apostle of Allah.’ That is the Shahada, the first and greatest teaching of Islam. I just said that to you with true sincerity, and that is what makes me just as good a Muslim as him.” He fastened the chain, and gave it an experimental tug.

“When my book of destiny is weighed, it will show God that I was also a good man, and my reward will be the same as his, crossing the bridge to Paradise. Our Paradise is not like yours—a cloud to sit on, a harp to play—it is a perfumed garden of material and sensual delights, surrounded by rivers and fountains playing. Sounds good, yes?” He put the charm back around his neck. “Lotfi would be able to tell you what Suras that is in. But before I get there, I have to live this life.” The charm was now securely back on and he lifted it up for me to see. “And this gives me all the help I need.”

He replaced the chain around his neck before finishing his crawl up into the passenger seat.

“What does Lotfi think of all that?” I was puzzled. “How come you two are so different? I mean, you with the charm and him with the Qur’an?”

He smiled as he fought with the seat, jerking himself forward, trying to get the thing to move as he pressed down on the seat adjuster, so there was more room to crawl into the cab. As the seat finally gave in, I could see where he had hidden the cash from Gumaa. “We were both at a Muslim school together—you know, sitting there cross-legged on the floor, learning to recite the Qur’an from memory. I would have been like him, if it wasn’t for the fact that the words just fell out of my head as quickly as they tried to put them in. So I was thrown out of school and our mother taught me with my sister. Our father had died of TB, years before.” He looked directly into my eyes. “You see, going to a religious school is not just about faith. For a family cursed by poverty, it is a way out—boys are fed and cared for. Our mother saw it as the only way for us to survive.”

“But how did you learn English? I mean, most people in your shoes are still—”

He laughed gently to himself. “You know, the first pair of shoes I ever had were from Lotfi. They were given to him at school.” His smile turned to an expression of infinite sadness. “Our mother died a few months after Khalisah was beaten. She never was the same after that—none of us were.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “But we stayed together, Nick. That is because the inheritance our mother left us was love for each other. We are a family first, no matter what disagreements we may have, no matter what pain we may suffer. Because we have love.”

I thought a bit about my inheritance, but decided to shut the fuck up.

He tapped his chest. “He hates this. He says I will not go to Paradise, but to Gahenna, hell, instead. But he is wrong, I think.” His eyes sparkled. “I hope…”

He paused for a moment, but I kept silent. These boys were making a habit of saying stuff that came a bit too close for comfort.

“Lotfi is not right about everything, but neither am I. And it was Lotfi who gave up what he had to take us both to Cairo, to our aunt, and to school. That’s why I speak English. We are a family, Nick. We learned long ago to meet in the middle, because otherwise the family is lost. And we had a promise to keep, that we made as children.”

He dug into his jeans pocket before pointing a clenched fist at me.

“What is it?”

“Ketamine, you needed some more, no?”

44

T
he square was near the bus station in the new part of Antibes. I sat in my car in a roadside parking space with my hat and sunglasses on and listened to the two of them as they put the Scudo in place, Hubba-Hubba giving Lotfi instructions as he maneuvered the wheel. “Back, back, back, stop, stop.” I’d asked them to communicate in English so I knew what was happening. Finally everything was to Hubba-Hubba’s satisfaction. “H has the trigger. I can’t see the target, but I will be able to give a stand-by as soon as they move along the quay, and can give direction at the archway. The Renault is still on the wall. It’s dark blue. N, acknowledge.”

I put my left hand down to my jeans belt and hit the pressle. “Roger that, that’s N foxtrot. L, be careful.”

“Roger that. That’s L, foxtrot to check the obvious.” He was on his way to confirm the
Ninth of May
was still there. Just because the police were, it didn’t automatically mean the boat was. The only way for him to do that was to go up on the wall where the van was, or hug the port side of the wall so he was in dead ground to the van along the quay. But that would take him in direct line of sight to the boat. He opted for the wall and brassing it out. He wouldn’t be there for more than a minute, and it had to be done.

I got out of the Mégane and bought myself a twenty-four-hour parking ticket. The last thing I wanted was to come back here and find the car had been towed away. I had also learned a lesson yesterday when I should have prebought tickets in both directions in case the timings were tight for the Romeos when they caught the train, and there wasn’t enough time to get a ticket without them seeing me. I wasn’t making the same mistake today: both Lotfi and I had paid a visit to the station earlier this morning.

I left the parking ticket on the dashboard and glanced down at traser: seven-forty-seven. Dodging the dog shit, I headed across the square in search of a café. I was ready for some coffee and croissants. It was going to be a sunny day; the birds were singing in the morning’s first light, traffic was moving, people were going to work, most with sunglasses on, and a lot with small dogs in tow.

Several of the cafés were open, their canvas or plastic awnings out to shade the handful of customers who were already getting involved in the coffee and newspapers.

I walked over the square toward a large corner café that was all glass front, with huge patio doors and wicker chairs outside, and ordered a large
crème
along with a couple of croissants, paying for it there and then in case I got a stand-by. It was time just to sit and relax in the shade until Hubba-Hubba gave us the hurry-up.

Lotfi came on the net just as the croissants were put on the table. He was walking: I could hear French conversation and the beep of a motor scooter in the background. “This is L. The obvious is still static, blinds down, gangway up. H, N, acknowledge.”

I put my hand down on the Sony and waited to hear the double-click from H before I gave mine.

Lotfi came back. “I’m going for coffee. H, what would you like—cappuccino?”

There was no reply to that—or, at least, not on the net.

Cars trundled around the large grass- and tree-covered square. The sore on my stomach was trying hard to scab but the hammer on my Browning wasn’t going to let it. No matter, two more days and the weapon could go into the sea. I felt into my hairline above my forehead; at least a scab had sealed the headbutt split.

I drank coffee and watched doorsteps being washed, and rat dogs being walked by their owners and having a dump everywhere they could. I could sit here for an hour or so and no one would see it as anything out of the ordinary.

I started to think about the police but cut away quickly. If they planned to do anything we would know about it soon enough. And there was nothing we could do about them in the meantime.

I stretched out my legs under the table, and thought about Hubba-Hubba cramped up in the back of the small van. Although Lotfi and I were covering the two stations, we also had to make sure we were close enough to give him support if someone wanted to get their hands on a new van for minimal outlay. We’d have to get in there quick, mainly to help Hubba-Hubba, but also to salvage the operation.

The sun rose gradually over the buildings and began to warm the right side of my face. I took another sip of coffee and dunked the end of a croissant.

Lotfi was exactly on time with the eight o’clock call. “Radio check. H?”

Click, click
.

I could hear a dog barking in the background. That was all they seemed to do around here, bark and crap. I hadn’t seen one chase after a stick.

“N?”

I reached under my new green Cap 3000 sweatshirt and double-clicked on my belt, then sat back, stabbed at the croissant crumbs on the napkin with a coffee-wet finger and waited for the stand-by.

Another twenty-seven minutes passed and I was waiting for Lotfi to start the next radio check. Hubba-Hubba came on the net, his voice agitated. “H has lost the trigger…There’s a truck in the way. H has lost the trigger. N, L, acknowledge.”

I hit the pressle. “Roger that. N’s going for the trigger. L, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

I got up and started to move as I wiped my cup and took the napkin. Nearly running through the old town, I climbed the stone steps in the small, cobblestoned square. As my head got level with the concrete between the two sides of the ramparts, I saw the Renault, still reversed against the wall, now with another car parked to its right.

Two other people were up there with me, old men chatting with each other by the rampart overlooking the port, where the wrought-ironwork met the stone. I hit the pressle before I got too close as I took the last few steps up onto the wall.

“N has the trigger. N has the trigger. H, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

I got up top and looked out over the port, between the van and the other car. I gave myself some time to admire the effect of the dazzling sun bouncing off the water around so many hulls. If Hubba-Hubba had any sense, he’d be using the time to rest his eyes.

I checked that the blinds and gangway were still the same, then down over the wall and left, into the dead ground, to make sure the Romeos hadn’t decided to move out in the minute or so it had taken to regain the trigger and weren’t walking along the quay. I could see the Scudo, reversed into a space so that the rear blacked-out windows faced toward me. The vehicle blocking Hubba-Hubba’s view was a small, refrigerated van picking up crates of fish from the boats. I got my eyes back on the
Ninth of May
as a passionate conversation was developing on the other side of the police van, and saw movement on the bigger
Lee
. Three kids, aged from ten to twelve, were doing boaty jobs on the deck. Two adults, whom I presumed were their parents, were in chairs at the back, drinking coffee.

Still playing the tourist, I stared out at the fort overlooking the mass of masts and glittering hulls. In less than five minutes the fish van was on its way back through the archway. I moved back toward the steps. “Hello, H, that’s the truck clear. Acknowledge.”

I stayed up top, waiting for Hubba-Hubba to take over as the two old men sauntered past behind me, their arms flying around as they put the world to rights. They disappeared down the stairs with their dogs in tow. I suddenly felt naked, with my back to the van and no one else here.

“H has the trigger. N, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

I’d finished my bit of tourism and headed back to the steps, wondering where I’d go now for another coffee.

Three paces down I got
click, click, click, click
in my earpiece. I smiled, slowed down, and hit the pressle. “Is that a stand-by from H?”

Click, click.

Shit, they were early.

“Are they both foxtrot?”

Click, click.

“Are they dressed the same as yesterday?”

Nothing.

“Are they carrying a bag?”

Click, click.

Then he came on the net. “Romeo One has the same bag. It’s full. They’re both wearing jeans.” The net went dead momentarily. “That’s approaching the archway.”