Liberation Day (37 page)

I stayed put, smiled some more, and sat on the stone step. “N can take, N can take. L, where are you?”

“Nearly at the station, nearly there.” His voice merged with the passing traffic.

“H still has Romeo One and Two, at the archway…Wait…wait, that’s now crossing the road, toward me. They’re staying on this side of the wall.”

The radio went dead as I started down the stairs again into the square and right toward the archway. If they had a camera in the Renault, I bet it had been snapping away big-time.

45

I
got to the arch and waited for information. It wasn’t long before Hubba-Hubba came back on the air. “That’s Romeo One and Two in the parking lot, following the wall and unsighted to me.”

I went through the archway, turned left, and could see their backs immediately among the lines of vehicles.

“N has Romeo One, Romeo Two foxtrot. Halfway along the old wall, generally toward the train station. L, acknowledge.”

An out-of-breath Lotfi did just that. “L has the trigger on the station.”

“Roger that, L. Romeo One, black leather jacket on jeans, carrying the bag. Romeo Two, brown suede jacket on jeans. L, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

“That’s both Romeos now temporary unsighted.”

I moved to the right as I passed Hubba-Hubba’s blacked-out windows, trying to get a better view now they were hidden by some buses.

“Both Romeos still temporary unsighted, still generally toward the train station.”

There was nowhere else for them to go just now, unless they could walk through walls. Hubba-Hubba would be crawling his way under the pool-playing dogs now and moving out of the parking lot so there would be no delay when he needed to go mobile. He had better do it right. The van could see him from up there.

They appeared on the other side of the buses.

“Stand by, stand by. N has both Romeos approaching the end of the wall. No one acknowledge.”

I started to cut in left, toward the wall now, so I’d be more or less behind them when they hit the end of it, with freedom to go in any direction. Romeo One was clearly nervous.

I hit the pressle. “That’s at the end of the wall and still straight, generally toward the station. Approaching the first option left—they are aware. No one acknowledge.”

I was now behind them by about thirty yards as they passed boat supply and insurance shops before stopping at the intersection to let a vehicle out. “That’s held option left, still intending straight, toward the station.”

They continued on over once the vehicle had passed. “That’s now foxtrot still straight.”

Getting to the intersection myself, I overheard a voice that could have been Michael Gaine’s as a crew-cut thirty-something with a black nylon Docklands bomber jacket gabbed on his cell phone. “I don’t fucking care. What’s the matter wiv you, you deaf or somefink?” Farther down the junction a Brit-plated truck with pallets of goods was being unloaded for Geoffrey’s of London, a shop that seemed to supply baked beans and plastic cheese to the huge numbers of Brits who worked on the boats.

I got back on the net. “That’s Romeo One and Romeo Two still foxtrot, approaching the main before the station. L, can you at the main?”

The last leg of the route was uphill and they would be unsighted to me for far too long once they crossed the main street as it was higher, dead ground to me.

He could. “L has, L has. Romeo One. Romeo Two. At the main, they’re crossing, approaching the station.”

The Romeos were unsighted to me now as I moved uphill and the traffic screamed past in both directions above me. The station was on the other side of the main street. In front of it was a bay for taxis and a small parking lot.

“That’s H now complete. N, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

Lotfi kept up the commentary. “That’s approaching the station.”

I got to the main drag and also watched them while I waited for the green crossing signal and Lotfi kept talking on the net. “That’s both Romeos complete the station, unsighted to L.”

The green signal flashed, the bleeps cried out, and the traffic stopped reluctantly. I babbled and smiled as if I’d just heard a joke on the phone. “Roger that. N will take. H, go now, mate, go now. H, acknowledge.” I got a double-click and hoped I’d done the right thing by taking a chance and sending him straight on to Nice. This surveillance stuff wasn’t a science, and decisions had to be made on what you knew at the time. All I knew was that the traffic was horrendous and the train would get there far quicker than any road vehicle, and I needed someone else there to back me. If I’d made a mistake and they were going for Cannes, or anywhere else for that matter, Lotfi had better be able to fly in that Focus of his and keep up with the train.

The old station had undergone quite a renovation within the last couple of years. It had retained its original shape, but the inside looked very modern and clean, with glass everywhere, glass walls, glass counters, plate-glass doors. As I went in, the Romeos weren’t to the left by the ticket machines, or to the right where there was a small café and newsstand.

Four kids were smoking around one of the tables, listening to dance music on their radio. I could see a section of both of the platforms and the two tracks between. Time in recce is seldom wasted: I knew the platform nearest me would be going toward Cannes. What I was hoping was that both of the Romeos were going down into the tunnel to the left, and would emerge on the far-side platform, which would mean they were off to Nice.

I got on the radio as I checked the timetables. “That’s the Romeos on the platforms. L, can you see them?”

“L’s foxtrot.”

I waited in the cover of the station listening to an NRG Radio jingle booming out from the café area.

Lotfi came on the net. “Stand by, stand by. L has the two Romeos on the far platform. They’re static the tunnel exit. N, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

The framed and Plexiglas-covered timetable on the wall said the next train for Nice was at nine-twenty-seven, stopping at Gare Riquier, just seven hundred yards or so from the target shop on Boulevard Jean XIII. Maybe I’d made the right choice in sending Hubba-Hubba there, after all.

I waited near the timetable and listened to the high-caffeine breakfast show blaring from the radio. I didn’t want to move anywhere else now, because if I crossed the concourse toward the café the two Romeos would be able to see me.

Posters carried pictures of happy families going on trains and really enjoying themselves, all with unnaturally perfect teeth. I studied them for a couple of minutes before Lotfi came back on. “Stand by, stand by. Train’s approaching, no change on the Romeos. I’m going complete. N, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

The train entered the station from the direction of Cannes. The dirty blue and silver train cars squeaked to a halt. I ran out onto the platform, turned left, and headed for the tunnel. Through the grimy glass of the cars I followed the two Romeos’ dark faces as they waited to step aboard with the dozen or so others alongside them.

I raced down the steps and along the dimly lit tunnel, passing the people who’d just gotten off the train. It looked perfectly natural in this environment: who didn’t run to catch a train?

Taking the steps two at a time and making sure my brim was down low, I didn’t look at their car, but continued and entered the next one along. Taking my seat immediately to keep out of the way, I kept an eye on the tunnel just in case they’d changed their minds, or were putting in some antisurveillance. The train doors closed before it jerked forward and off we went as I tried to control my breathing. “L, we’re mobile. Go for it now, go! Acknowledge.”

Click, click.

He’d be hitting the coast road on his way to Nice, hot on the heels of Hubba-Hubba, who should have been at least a third of the way there by now.

I couldn’t see the Romeos through the glass of the connecting door this time, but I’d be able to see if they got out at one of the four or five stops on the way.

We emerged from the shade of the station building and the morning sun burnt through the glass, making me squint, even with my sunglasses and hat on. I just sat there and watched the Mediterranean go past as we traveled the twenty minutes toward Nice.

Gare Riquier wasn’t like the station at Antibes, an old building made new: it was still old, an unmanned pickup and drop-off point for commuters.

The two Romeos disembarked along with a woman in a big flowery dress, dragging a tartan shopping cart behind her. Both now with shades on, they walked out of the station and left toward the busy road, which was the main drag I’d used to get up to L’Ariane and the safe house. I followed them out. The main street was about forty yards away, and the noise of traffic was almost deafening. Trucks, cars, and motor scooters fought for space on the pavement in both directions as their exhausts hazed the air. The Romeos stopped about halfway, dug out a map from the side pocket of the bag, and got their bearings. If they were going to the target store, it would be left at the main road, straight on for about four hundred yards, then right onto Boulevard Jean XIII. I waited by a wall smothered in spray-painted graffiti in both French and Arabic. I imagined the good news was that they all fucked girls, but I couldn’t be sure.

The Romeos put away their map and turned left at the main road, under the railway bridge, before crossing over and heading north along the right-hand side of the street, maybe to keep in the shade, maybe because they should be turning right eventually anyway. Romeo One had the bag over his shoulder and was still looking like a cat on hot bricks as he checked left and right of him, still seeing nothing. They carried on past rows of low-end cafés, banks, and stores, everything that fed the east side of town, all very much the poor relations of their counterparts in Cannes or downtown Nice.

Smaller roads fed the main road from both sides and the odd tree stuck out along the sidewalk. But instead of grass around them, there was just mud and windblown McDonald’s cartons, dog shit, and cigarette butts. It was a lot easier to do the follow here than it had been in Monaco; one, because there was less CCTV to worry about, and two, because there were many more people moving around in all directions. Wherever they were heading, they were obviously late.

I tried a radio check but there was nothing from either Lotfi or Hubba-Hubba. I wasn’t expecting there to be, but it would have been nice if they’d been here somewhere to back me.

They crossed several small intersections on the right, then stopped at a larger one that had lights, waiting with the impatient herd, which was growing as vehicles hurtled past and air brakes hissed. There were a lot more brown and black faces here than in Monaco, and the two Romeos weren’t getting a second glance. They took the opportunity to check their map again, while I took particular interest in the range of mattresses in the window of a pine bed shop. They should be turning right at the next intersection, which was a crossroads, to get on to Jean XIII. From there the target store was roughly three hundred yards up the boulevard on the right.

46

R
omeo One still looked around as if he were expecting the sky to fall on his head. He lit up as Romeo Two went back to the map.

The signal turned green and they crossed. I gave another radio check before following behind. “Hello, anyone, this is N. Radio check, radio check.”

Nothing.

They turned on to Jean XIII and became temporarily unsighted. I quickened my pace and fought with the flow of pedestrian traffic to get eyes on again as French and Arabic music fought its way out of cafés and cheap clothes stores. It was risky to do so this early in the take, because of third-party awareness. No matter where you are, someone is always watching. But I had to get in there, I had to keep on top of them, being so close to the target and the
hawallada,
whom we still had to ID.

I started across the road at the junction with Jean XIII, taking chances with the traffic. A motor scooter had to swerve to get out of my way. The Romeos were still foxtrot toward the target, still on the right. I got to the other side, turned right, then had them once more. Being on the opposite side of the road gave me a better perspective of what they were up to than if I’d been directly behind them.

The stores were all selling pots and pans, kitchen garbage cans, and bundles of brightly colored plastic coat hangers, and the Romeos mingled well with the early shoppers who’d just stocked up on toilet cleaner and garbage bags.

The net burst into life. “That’s H turning onto the boulevard. Radio check, radio check.”

It was a relief to hear his voice. I hit the pressle on my Sony. “N has Romeo One and Romeo Two on the right on the boulevard. They’re at the Café Noir, on the right. H, acknowledge.” Just as I released the pressle, I saw his Scudo pass me.

“H has, H has. I’m going for the trigger.”

I double-clicked him as I continued taking the Romeos. Both of them were checking store numbers to the right and left of them. We came to a small street market selling fruit and veggies, and the Romeos disappeared now and again between bins of apples and melons.

I gave a running commentary for Hubba-Hubba and also, I hoped, for Lotfi, who at some stage was going to rejoin the net and would need to get up to speed on the situation. “N still has Romeo One and Romeo Two. On the right at the fruit market, still straight, toward the store. H, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

Ten seconds later he came back on the air. “That’s H static, thirty yards past the store on the right. The target is a fabric store, one old man, Arab, white shirt, buttoned up, no tie. That’s H foxtrot.”

I double-clicked him. The Romeos had stopped at a small intersection and were still checking numbers. Romeo One scanned the crowd of shoppers as Hubba-Hubba came back up on the net.

“H has the trigger. N, acknowledge.”

Great news. “Roger that. Romeo One, Romeo Two, still on the right, approaching the end of the market. Can you after the market?”