Liberation day

by Andy McNab

  The row of three rectangular gray plastic cases, each about seven inches long and three wide, contained enough anesthetic to send an elephant to sleep. They were disguised as diabetics’ insulin kits. I opened one to check the thin green autopen, sunk into its hard plastic recess. It was already loaded with a needle and cartridge. Also embedded into the plastic were another three needles that simply clicked onto the bottom of the pen, and another three cartridges. Once you had it against the target’s skin, you pressed the trigger, and the spring inside would shoot the needle forward and inject the drug, which in this case wasn’t insulin but ketamine. Alongside them was a card holding six diaper pins, with big pink plastic caps. The hawallada wouldn’t be too worried about the color: the pins were to prevent their tongues falling down their throats and choking them. Depressed ventilation was a side effect of this stuff, so their airway had to be kept clear at all times.

  I started to check the other two insulin kits, making sure that each also contained a scratched and worn steel Medic Alert bracelet as cover, warning anyone who was interested enough to check that we were, strangely, all diabetic.

  Ketamine hydrochloride—street name “Special K” or “K”—is still used as a general anesthetic for children, persons of poor health, and small furry animals. It is also a “dissociative anesthetic,” separating perception from sensation. Higher doses, the sort we were going to give, produce a hallucinogenic effect. It can cause the user to feel very far away from his or her body. They enter what some people call a “K-hole”; it has been compared to a near-death experience, with the sensation of rising above one’s body and finding it difficult to move. I had that feeling most mornings, but the amount these hawallada would be getting, they’d be waving through the space shuttle window.

  In powder form, ketamine looks a little like cocaine; street users snort it, mix it in drinks, or smoke it with marijuana. Our hawallada were going to be getting it in liquid form, jabbed into the muscle mass of their ass where there was little risk of us hitting a blood vessel and causing permanent damage.

  The three sets of green binos were small x8, the sort that fits into a coat pocket. We needed them in case we couldn’t close in on the boat for the trigger and had to get eyes on the target from a distance.

  All these items were important, but none more so than the dark blue plastic cylinder that lay at the center of the blanket. About eighteen inches long and three in diameter, it came apart if you twisted it in the middle. A length of fishing line had been fed through a small hole that we’d burnt with a hot skewer just by the join, and was held in position by a strip of insulation tape on the outside of the casing, which had been folded back on itself to make a tab for easy removal.

  The cylinder looked like it had come from a stationery shop, and was normally used for storing rolled-up drawings. Now it was full of some very exotic HE (high explosive) taken from a consignment made in Iran and sent to GIA in Algeria, but intercepted by the Egyptians on the way. I’d collected it at the same time as the insulin kits from the DOP, when I first got in-country.

  Like everything else on this job, the components from which the pipe bomb was constructed were normal everyday items that could be bought cheaply and without raising eyebrows. Hubba-Hubba had bought all the supplies he needed from hardware stores: wooden clothespins, emery paper, thumbtacks, a small soldering set, wire, superglue, insulation tape. The last item on the shopping list had come from a phone shop.

  I felt a little guilty about giving Hubba-Hubba this task instead of doing it myself. I got on well with these people, yet here I was, jeopardizing his security by making him buy all the supplies and build the device. But that was just how it was; as team commander I wasn’t going to compromise myself if I didn’t have to, and he knew the score.

  I heard footsteps behind me as the praying continued above, and saw Hubba-Hubba’s sneakers coming down the ladder. He still had his gloves on, and the cuffs of his rolled-up sleeves were wet. He came and knelt down beside me.

  “No offense, mate,” I tapped one of the radios with my right index finger, “but you understand that I have to check everything.”

  He nodded. He was a professional; he understood the mantra—check and test, check and test. “You had better take a look at this, then. One of my best, I think.”

  He carefully untwisted the cylinder and pulled it apart at the center. The inside was packed with eight pounds of the mustard-colored high explosive, with just enough space in the center for the pager and initiation circuit, which were glued onto a rectangle torn from a cornflakes box. The pager was glued facedown, so that with the back cover removed, the two AA batteries and the rest of the workings were exposed. He laid the opened device back on the blanket.

  The sweet, almost sickly candy assortment smell of the HE hit my nostrils. “Where did you make it?”

  Hubba-Hubba moved his head back to try to avoid the smell. “In a motel, just off the autoroute. People only stay for the night and move on, so it was a good choice. It only took me two hours to make, but the rest of the night to get the smell out of the room!”

  His smile didn’t last long. “Nick…the source, Greaseball. I don’t like it, why are we using such a man? Afterward maybe we should—”

  “Time to stop thinking about that, mate. I feel the same way, but the sad fact is, he’s worth more alive than dead. Just think of the int he’s given us so far. He’s the one who’s getting us to the hawallada. And that’s what we’re here for, aren’t we?”

  He looked down at the equipment, his eyes scanning each item on the blanket as he nodded in grudging agreement.

  “Listen—assholes like that? It’s not worth getting worked up about. I’m sure when he’s no longer any use he’ll be history. There’ll be quite a line.”

  Hubba-Hubba’s brow creased. “Do you have children, Nick?”

  I dodged the question. “I understand, believe me. His day will come.” I pointed at the pager with a plastic-covered finger. “Come on, take me through this thing.”

  He explained that the power to initiate the device would be generated when the bleeper notified the owner he had a message, hopefully from us. “This pager either bleeps or vibrates, depending on the user’s choice. I have diverted the notification power by rewiring it, so that when it receives our call the power is sent to the detonator instead of making the thing beep or vibrate.”

  It didn’t have to be a pager; anything that generated enough power to initiate the detonator could have been used. Psions or Palm Pilots do the job, especially if you know the exact date and time you want the device to initiate—someone making a speech next month, say, or even next year. All you have to do is set the alarm on the schedule program for the time and day, place the device, leave it, and when the notification sparks up, boooom, as Lotfi would say.

  I could see the two thin wires coming out of the end of the pager, one disappearing into the PE where the det was buried. The other was glued along the top jaw of the wooden clothespin, which was, in turn, glued down next to the pager. I knew what it was doing there but waited for Hubba-Hubba to explain. It was his fireworks party.

  “Four kilos is a lot of high explosive, Nick, but it is not going to turn the boat into a Hollywood fireball—unless you can locate it to ignite the fuel, of course.”

  He was right. It would all depend on where I could place the thing.

  “The clothespin, Nick, that’s the circuit breaker, your safety catch. To stop you going bang.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at his understatement as I checked the two AA batteries. Between the nipple of the top battery and its connection in the pager was a sliver of clear plastic cut from the pager’s packaging, in case someone called a wrong number while I had this thing stuck under my sweatshirt. It would stay there until just before I went to place the device. I wouldn’t want to waste time opening the cylinder and messing about with pieces of plastic when I got on the boat: I’d want to just get on board and get this thing hidden and armed as
quickly as possible.

  Hubba-Hubba picked up a splinter of wood and used it to trace the circuit, following the det wire glued along the top of the clothespin and tucked under the top jaw.

  “I wrapped the wires around the thumbtacks and soldered them. It is an excellent connection.”

  The wire leading from the thumbtack in the lower jaw disappeared into the PE.

  For the time being, these two tacks were separated by another piece of plastic, to which Hubba-Hubba had fastened the other end of the fishing line. He let me admire the circuit for a few more seconds. “It is good, yes?”

  I nodded. “Did you sand the tack-heads?”

  He raised his hands in a gesture of disbelief. “But of course! As I said, it is an excellent connection. Before moving to the boat, you take out the battery breaker and close the device, okay? After checking this safety catch is in place, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, once you have placed the device, gently pull on the fishing line. Once the tack-heads make contact, the circuit will be complete and it is time for you to leave the boat with quick feet!”

  Any one of us three could shove our phone card into a call box, call the pager number, then tap in ten digits. Once contact had been made, we’d get “Message bien reçu,” which I supposed was the French for “Bang.” And that would be that; the boat, the people, the money, gone. I only hoped I’d be the one in the phone booth outside the marina by the bus stop, watching the boat leave. I’d detonate as soon as the Ninth of May was safely in open water and, with any luck, some of the millions would be washed ashore at my feet.

  There was one question we didn’t yet know the answer to: how far out to sea would the pager initiate?

  Hubba-Hubba gave his handiwork one more check. “It is all yours now.”

  I twisted the cylinder back together as carefully as he’d undone it, and left it on the blanket. Upstairs, Lotfi was still praying at warp speed. Hubba-Hubba leaned down to put the device back in line and I checked the rest of the equipment.

  “Still warding off that evil eye thing?” I nodded at the pendant, which was swinging by his chin: the small, beaded hand with an unblinking blue eye in its palm.

  “Of course. I’ve had it since I was a baby. In Egypt, many children have charms pinned to their coats as protection. You see, Westerners think nothing of saying about a child, ‘Hasn’t he grown?’ or ‘Isn’t he looking so healthy?’ But these things are taboo where we come from. That is because the evil eye could make the child sick. That is why we only give compliments related to character, things you cannot easily measure, and even then only in a way that shows there is no malice or envy intended.”

  “So the evil eye can’t hear, right?”

  “Something like that. For instance, someone might see me driving later tonight and feel envious, and if they had the evil eye they could cause me to crash, maybe even die. But this,” he tapped his chest, “this has stopped such things happening to me for over thirty years. You should get one. In this world, they are more practical, perhaps, than that….” He looked upward as the sound of Lotfi’s prayers drilled their way through the floor.

  I stood up. “On this job,” I said, dusting myself off, “I reckon we can use all the help we can get.”

  Lotfi was just dotting the i’ s and crossing the t’ s with God as I got my duffel bag and Hubba-Hubba went to the door to check the spyhole. I heard a bolt being drawn back as I pulled off my gloves and stuffed them into my bag. “Right, I’ll see you later.”

  Hubba-Hubba nodded “Au revoir” before checking the spyhole once more. He gave me a thumbs-up, and I walked out into the darkness. I heard a dog barking off a balcony somewhere.

  I retraced my earlier route, with the bag back over my left shoulder and my right free for the Browning. There were no streetlamps, and the only light came from the windows above me. Behind them, adults and kids hollered at each other, music blared, more dogs barked.

  I got to the door of the last block of apartments, but made no attempt to stop and look out. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I walked straight out, keeping my head down and my eyes up as I hit the key fob and the Mégane’s indicators flickered. I locked myself in and drove off immediately, as you would in this part of town.

  Two consecutive right turns got me back onto the main road. I wasn’t worried about antisurveillance yet as they wouldn’t be following me around here. They’d wait at the exits from the project.

  Once on the main road, I kept my speed normal and drove into the city center, heading for the coast and the Promenade des Anglais. There was still plenty to do. I needed to get something to eat, get back to Greaseball, and with luck, get the addresses, then go and see exactly where they were.

  I saw the bright yellow lights of a Shell gas station as I approached the city center, and drove up to the pump. Whenever there is an opportunity to fill up, no matter how little fuel is needed, it must be taken. Watching the vehicles drive past, I went through the extra routine of filling up with a plastic glove on, to stop the horrible gasoline smell on my delicate skin. I messed about with the gas cap, making mental notes of passing cars, their plates, make, and color, and number of passengers, hoping that I’d never see them again. French license plates comprised a group of numbers, then two or three letters, then another group of numbers. The easiest way to try to register them was just to take note of the letters and the last set of numbers.

  As the unleaded flowed, I continued moving my eyes about to see if there were any cars parked with people inside, looking, waiting for me to move out of the station. But it was just the normal evening commuter crowd, trying their hardest to get home to whatever French people did in the evening—which, as far as I knew, was just eat.

  Filling up with exactly fifty francs’ worth, and with my hat and head down for the security cameras, I paid cash and didn’t have to wait for change. Then, driving over to the air and water section with a new batch of gloves, I checked for any devices that might have been placed while I was at the safe house.

  I hit the coast road toward Cannes, and was nearly blinded by oncoming headlights and flashing neon as I drove along the Promenade des Anglais. Near the airport, the first of the happy-hour hookers had started her shift, complete with leopard skin bomber jacket, sparkly silver skin-tight pants, and the world’s highest white platform boots. At least, I thought they were the world’s highest until I saw one of her colleagues, leaning against the wall in a long black coat and huge black vinyl platforms. She was chatting away on her cell phone, maybe taking a booking from someone in one of the business hotels that satellited the airport. A couple of days earlier, Riviera Radio had reported that the French girls had complained to the police about East Europeans taking all their trade, when they had no visas and no right to be here. The police had responded by rounding everyone up, and the commissioner said he was embarrassed as a Frenchman to have to report that the East European girls were considerably better-looking than their French counterparts, and that was probably the reason there’d been complaints.

  Leaving the airport behind me, I hit more neon at Cap 3000 and carried on along the coast toward Juan-les-Pins, deciding to pick up a pizza on the way to Cannes. The place was a seasonal beach town, living off its past glory from the sixties and seventies, when Brigitte Bardot and the jet set used to come down on the weekend for a cappuccino and a pose. It still had its moments, but right now three-quarters of the shops were closed until Easter or whenever the season started again. Restaurants were being refurbished and bars were getting repainted.

  19

  I cruised around the sleepy town. Strings of Christmas lights twinkled across the streets, but there was nobody at home to enjoy them. A few bars and cafés were still serving a small number of customers, but the majority of the hotels looked dead. Several stores had whitewashed windows, like bandages across next season’s facelift.

  I drove down a tree-lined main street, looking for a takeout pizza place t
hat was open, and did a double-take at the two men walking toward me. For a moment I even wondered if I was hallucinating, but there was no doubting who it was in the long leather coat, smoking and chatting as he went.

  I jerked my head down instinctively so that the brim of my cap hid my face. I didn’t know if Greaseball had seen me, and I didn’t want to check. There was no reason why he should have: my headlights should have blinded him temporarily anyway.

  I took the next right and threw the Mégane up onto the curb, then made my way quickly back to the main road on foot. I looked up to my left and they were still in sight, walking away from me. They were the only other people around; cigarette smoke drifted behind them in a cloud. Greaseball’s pal was taller than him, maybe six foot, and had a bush of dark curly hair, cut just above the shoulder. He was wearing a dark, three-quarter-length coat over what looked like jeans. I couldn’t see that much of him from behind, but would have bet good money on him being the man I’d spotted in the Polaroids back at Greaseball’s flat. They talked quietly and earnestly to each other as they moved up the road.

  They stopped and Greaseball turned toward the curb; I could see the glow of his cigarette. He took one last drag as he nodded to his companion, then threw the stub into the gutter. The other man was definitely Curly from the Polaroid. He took something from his coat pocket, checking around him as he did so. It must have been small, because I couldn’t see a thing. They shook hands and quickly hugged before parting; whatever it was, it was being mailed. Maybe this was who gave Greaseball his fixes. Curly turned immediately left, down a side road, while Greaseball continued another few yards up the street, before disappearing into what looked like a restaurant or bar. A sign hung on the wall outside, but it wasn’t illuminated.