Liberation Day (38 page)

There was a gap while Hubba-Hubba worked it out.

Click, click.

“Roger that. That’s ten short, still on the right.”

I shut up now and waited for Hubba-Hubba to see them. They passed the last stall and had gone no more than three or four paces before he was back. “H has Romeo One, Romeo Two.”

Now I could drop back a little and let Hubba-Hubba take them into the shop. “That’s now fifty short, still on the right.”

I could still see the Romeos, but the fact that Hubba-Hubba had the trigger gave me the freedom to think about what I was going to do next. I just hoped that Lotfi got here soon.

“That’s twenty-five short, still on the right, checking numbers. They’re slowing down, they’re slowing down.”

I kept my head low as I listened, pretending to window-shop as the world passed by. There was no need to look directly at the targets. I was being told what was going on, and it would be a nightmare if we had eye-to-eye.

“That’s approaching the target. Wait, wait. That’s at the target, going complete…that’s complete the target. They’re talking to the white shirt. Wait, wait.” The cry of a baby and a flood of female Arabic burst over the net. I heard their chatter get weaker: he was walking away from it. “H is foxtrot, I can’t hold the trigger, I can’t hold the trigger.”

I quickened my pace.

“Roger that. N going for the trigger. You take the rear, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

As I got nearer I could see what the problem was. Hubba-Hubba was crossing from left to right over the road just past the target: he’d been lurking in a doorway, which two headscarfed women with long coats and a stroller were trying to get through.

He reached the intersection, which was two storefronts to the left of the target, and disappeared. His route would take him around to the rear of the stores and the wide alleyway.

Security was now definitely being sacrificed for efficiency as I stopped to have a look at the display outside a hardware shop. Ladders on the sidewalk leaned against the wall, and brooms and brushes sprouted between the rungs. No matter; at least I could see the store. “N has the trigger.”

Click, click.

I could also see the conversation that was happening between the unknown in the white shirt and Romeo One and Romeo Two. When that finished, they started to walk toward the rear of the dimly lit store. I had to take off my glasses so I could see inside clearly. It looked almost empty, with not much more stock than a few rolls of multicolored fabric lining the walls. They passed a long glass counter with lengths of cut material all over the place, then another man emerged from the rear internal door with a group who’d been standing in the shadows.

“Stand by, stand by. Unknowns on target.”

Then I realized they weren’t unknown. It was the man with the goatee I’d seen get out of the Lexus on Wednesday night in Juan-les-Pins, and go into the Fiancée of the Desert. His smaller, bald-headed driver was standing to his right, still looking bored.

Goatee leaned forward and spoke into Romeo Two’s ear without any greeting. I got back on the net. “That’s a possible Romeo Three. Tall, Arab, black on jeans, and goatee beard, with three or four unknowns.”

There was a little more movement in the gloom. My view was abruptly blocked as a truck rumbled between us. By the time it had passed, everybody was starting to pile back through the internal door.

“They’re heading to the back of the store,” I said. “That’s all three Romeos unsighted, could be coming your way. H, acknowledge.”

“Nearly there, I’m nearly there. Wait out.”

It had to be the
hawallada
. They were whispering the password.

I moved away from the hardware store. It was pointless being exposed to the white shirt, who had now returned to the glass counter. I could still keep the trigger from a distance. I turned back the way I’d come, making sure I could still see the place.

“Hello, this is L. Radio check, radio check.”

Relief wasn’t the word for it as I felt for the pressle and stopped by the door of an apartment, behind a newsstand. “N has the trigger on the shop. Where are you?”

“Approaching the target from the main.”

“Roger that. Wait.”

I kept my eyes on the store as a group of teenagers in the world’s baggiest jeans ambled past with Walkmans in their ears and cigarettes in their hands. It gave me time to think before I hit my pressle.

“L, sit rep. I have the trigger front. Romeo One and Romeo Two are complete the shop with a possible Romeo Three. Arab, tall, black on blue and a goatee. H is foxtrot and getting the trigger rear. Go static and stay complete in case Romeo Three goes mobile. L, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

As soon as that finished, Hubba-Hubba came on the net. “H has the trigger.” I heard him trying to control his breathing so he could be heard clearly.

“N, acknowledge. N, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

“That’s L static. First intersection past the market and can take in all directions. N, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

I guessed he was at the intersection facing the boulevard now, to be able to do that, so he could come onto the avenue and turn left, right, in all directions.

Hubba-Hubba started to give plate checks in case any of the vehicles behind the store went mobile with the possible
hawallada
. “White Mercedes van, Zulu Tango one-five-six-seven. Large scrape on the left-hand side. Blue Lexus, Alpha Yankee Tango one-three. Highly polished.”

I was right, it was him.

“Stand by, stand by—movement by the vehicles.”

The net stayed open for a few seconds and I could hear Hubba-Hubba’s labored breathing and the rustle of his clothes before it went dead. There was a long pause and I could feel my heart go up a gear as I waited for the next stand-by to say vehicles had gone mobile. Lotfi would be doing the same, and his engine would be running in preparation. The world just walked on past as we both waited on Hubba-Hubba.

The net crackled into life. “That’s an Arab, short, fat, brown wool on jeans. Foxtrot from the shop. Wait…He’s going to the Mercedes, he’s heading for the van. Wait…wait…no good, I think he’s seen me, he’s using a cell. That’s me foxtrot. Lost the trigger, lost the trigger.”

I hit the pressle with my eyes still on the front of the target. “H, go complete. Stand by to take anything that goes mobile. L, go—”

Two guys exited from the front of the shop. The expression on their dark-skinned faces said they were on a mission.

“Stand by, stand by. That’s two unknowns from the target front, both Arab and black leather. That’s right, toward the intersection. H, go complete, get out of there. H, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

Lotfi burst back on the net. “L is mobile.” His voice was tight with tension and I understood his concern.

The two guys from the shop had reached the intersection and turned right. I hit the pressle. “That’s the unknowns now right at the intersection, unsighted, toward the rear. H, acknowledge.”

Hubba-Hubba’s voice was a whisper. “H has the two unknowns, I can’t move yet. Engine on, engine on the van.”

He was close, I could hear it.

“That’s—”

The next sound was of Hubba-Hubba resisting and Arab voices shouting. There was lots of grabbing going on around the Sony as it crackled like a forest fire.

Fuck. It had gone noisy.

47

S
hit, shit, shit!

I sprinted across the road, not bothering to look out for traffic. My right hand forced the Browning down into my jeans to stop it falling out, and my left held the earpiece in place. My whole being was focused on that corner, two stores to the left of the target. I got that familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach, the same sensation that always came when shit was on. I’d had it even as a kid, running away from the bigger boys who wanted to beat me up and steal my lunch money, or from an angry storekeeper whose stuff I’d tried to shoplift. It was a horrible feeling: you know there’s a situation, you wish it wasn’t there, you know you’ve got to do something about it, but your legs just won’t take you fast enough.

I turned the corner but saw nothing except a few people standing maybe twenty yards farther down on the other side of the road. All eyes were turned to the alleyway. Screams still came over the net, mixed with shouts and the sounds of a struggle. Everything was in Arabic but none of it was from Hubba-Hubba. Then I heard him in the background. He was in pain, he was getting filled in, he was getting subdued.

My mouth was dry as I drew down and, alert to the third party, kept the weapon by my side. I turned the corner into the alleyway, not bothering to clear it. There wasn’t time.

I was too late. The Merc van was bouncing over the potholes away from me, with one of the unknowns trying to close the rear door. More Arabic commotion streamed over the net. Even if I’d spoken the language I wouldn’t have been able to understand what was being said—it was so confused and loud. But for sure Hubba-Hubba was in there. I caught a glimpse of his sneakers; he was fighting back as two guys climbed on top of him, trying to keep him down in the back.

The left door was already closed, the small window covered by black plastic. The second door was pulled shut from inside; that, too, was covered. I kept running toward the rear of the store.

The Lexus was still there. The back of the store was closed down. Shit, who to go after, Hubba-Hubba or the
hawallada
?

Lotfi swung into the alleyway like something out of
Hill Street Blues
. Somebody somewhere would be getting on a phone to the police. I motioned with my hand, trying to get him to slow down, to stop. The vehicle nearly somersaulted over its two front wheels as he hit the brakes. His eyes looked frenzied. The growing crowd on the road turned and gawped.

Jumping out, Lotfi had his pistol up, ready to fire.

“Keep it down, for fuck’s sake!” I pointed along the alleyway, which was now clear. “The van, black plastic covering the rear windows. He’s in the back. Go, go, take it.”

I turned to run back the way I’d come, shouting at him as he jumped back into the Focus. “I’ll give you directions at the boulevard, go to channel four, channel four. Go, go, go!”

I disappeared left around the corner, going back toward the boulevard. Fuck the third party now. People everywhere were stopping to rubberneck.

I got down to the corner and looked left. The van had slowed as the traffic hit the vegetable market. I turned the dial on the Sony to four and hit the pressle as I sucked in oxygen. “L, they’ve gone left, they’ve gone left toward the main. L, acknowledge, acknowledge.”

The Focus screamed into view at the junction, Lotfi still playing cops and robbers. He was going to have to slow down before he had a crash or ran somebody over. Either would stop him being able to take. He was looking frantically left and right, trying to see where the van had gone, then looking down, probably having just remembered to change channels. I kept on sending. “They’ve gone left, they’ve gone left toward the main.”

He didn’t reply, but he must have heard me because the Focus screamed around toward the market, braking hard as the horn screamed out at people trying to cross the road in front of him, then hurtled down toward the mass of fruit buyers.

I turned right and had gone maybe twenty yards up toward the Scudo when I got a blast of screaming and ranting in my ear. I couldn’t understand any of it. “Slow down, slow down! Say again.”

I got to the van and started to pull at the soft steel license plate at the rear, feeling for the key and fob taped behind it. Lotfi continued on trying to get the message across; he’d slowed down but the voice was still very high-pitched, he was really hyped up. “L has, L has! Past the market straight for the main. They’re going for the main. N, acknowledge, acknowledge.”

I double-clicked, not wanting to talk yet, in case he got more worked up.

By now I’d extracted the key fob and hit it to release the central locking. I jumped in and began turning the Citroën around so I could back Lotfi. A cluster of third party watched; at least two were on cell phones. This was a weapons-grade screwup.

Forcing the Scudo around into the traffic and driving down toward the market, I checked my decision to go for Hubba-Hubba. It must be right: Lotfi wouldn’t help me lifting Goatee. But deep down I knew we wouldn’t get Goatee either way; he would be truly going underground now. The job was destroyed, and I would be, too, if I got caught by the police. But what could I do about it? Abandon the two of them and just head for the airport? It was tempting. I instinctively moved my hand down to the fanny pack, making sure my docs were still with me. I could just turn around and drive straight to Nice airport, get the first plane out of here…

Lotfi had calmed down a bit when he came back on the net, trying hard to keep the speed and tension from his voice. “L still has, L still has. They are approaching the main, lights are green, lights are green. No indication. Wait, wait. They’re intending right, that’s now right on the main, toward the autoroute. Acknowledge, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

By now I was halfway down to the market. I couldn’t see Lotfi ahead of me and just hoped that he was still with them and hadn’t got held by the lights. I couldn’t guarantee it, because he was too worked up to give me a full commentary.

I tried to anticipate. The main drag went on for about a mile and a half, until it took a sharp left-hander at the bridge over the railroad tracks from the freight depot. If the van went that route, they’d eventually hit the feeder road that followed the river toward the autoroute at the north end of town, where the safe house was.

“L still has approaching the freight station.” Despite his efforts, he was still hyped up, talking an octave above his normal voice, but at least I could understand him now.

I reached the main road on red, getting right up close to the car in front in case it was a short light.