Liberation day

by Andy McNab

  The rather bored-looking Jaguar salesman sat behind the cars, at a white plastic garden furniture set, complete with parasol. He was surrounded by piles of shiny catalogues, but had his nose stuck firmly in Nice Matin. Perhaps he realized that November isn’t the time to buy cars; it’s the time to buy socks and slippers and Christmas stuff for your mom.

  First things first. I went to the sandwich shop and got myself a Brie baguette and a very large hot coffee, and took both with me to Le Cyberpoint. This wasn’t a store, but a collection of telephone-Internet stations, each with a conventional telephone, linked to a small touchscreen and metal keyboard, with a big steel ball for the mouse. There were eight of them, mostly being used by kids whose parents had dropped them off with a phone card to shut them up for an hour or so while they did the shopping.

  I put my coffee on top of the machine, to relieve my burning fingers and allow me to shove some crusty baguette into my mouth before pushing the phone card into the slot and logging on. Muzak played in the background, too low to hear and too loud to ignore, as Hotmail hit me with enough ads in French and English to fill a whole night’s TV viewing. There was nothing from George. He’d be waiting for the addresses that I’d give to Thackery at one o’clock, and he had nothing new to tell me.

  I closed down, and pulled out my phone card, which still had sixty-two francs left on it. As I picked up my coffee, I spilled some down the machine and jerked back to avoid any dripping on me. Visibly annoyed with myself, I gave the screen, keys, and mouse a good wipe-down with the napkin that they’d wrapped around the baguette, until I’d left no fingerprints. With a fistful of soggy paper napkin and a suitably apologetic look on my face, I left Le Cyberpoint and headed back to the car, stopping on the way to buy a roll of 35mm film and a red-and-yellow jester’s hat with bells.

  There was only an hour before the brush contact, so I turned the Mégane’s ignition key and hit Riviera Radio, then slipped on the latex gloves. I tipped the film out of its plastic canister, and replaced it with the rolled-up addresses.

  Marvin Gaye was interrupted by an American voice. “We now go to the BBC World Service for the top-of-the-hour news.” I checked traser on the last of the bleeps, and it was dead-on. A suitably somber female brought me up to speed on the bombing of Kabul, and the progress of the Northern Alliance. I turned it off, hoping that Thackery had been well trained and was doing exactly the same.

  At thirty-two minutes past the hour I checked the canister in my jeans, the Browning, my baseball cap, and fanny pack, and headed once more into Cap 3000. It was a lot busier now. The gourmet food hall was doing a roaring trade, and it looked as though the Jaguar sales rep had led the charge. He was still at the garden table, but sitting back with a glass of red wine and a filled baguette the size of a small torpedo. I headed left and through the first-floor perfume department of Galéries Lafayette. Menswear was directly above me, up an escalator, but going this way gave me time to check my back and make sure no one else was wanting to join us.

  I went into the book department to the right of the perfume counters, and started to check out the English-language guides to the area, not picking them up but tilting my head to scan the spines.

  When I’d satisfied myself that no one was taking more interest in me than was healthy, I walked deeper into the store, took the escalator up to the second floor, and worked my way back to the men’s section. I hit the bargain racks of cargo pants and took a pair, plus some jeans. Then I wandered along the coat rack and chose one in dark blue padded cotton. It would stop me freezing to death at the OP, and not make the noise that nylon would every time I shifted position.

  I moved from table to table, comparing prices, before picking up two sweatshirts. As far as I knew, you couldn’t leave fingerprints on fabric. The only thing I was doing differently from any other browser was snatching a look at traser whenever I could. I had to be on my start line at precisely twelve minutes past. The contact wasn’t exactly at one o’clock, but twelve minutes after. Surveillance teams are aware that humans tend to do things at the half, quarter, or on the hour.

  At the same time, I was also keeping a running total of my expenditure. I wanted to make sure I had enough cash on me to cover the cost of this stuff. I didn’t want any scenes at the checkout that people might remember later.

  At eight minutes past one I headed over to the maze of shelving in the underwear department. Calvin was doing a nice line in flannel pajamas and long johns this season, but they weren’t really my style. I moved on, glancing at the four or five other people in my immediate vicinity. None of them was wearing blue. I picked up four pairs of socks after sifting through the choices and checked traser. Three minutes to go.

  Still no glimpse of blue. I draped my purchases over my left arm as I agonized over a shelf full of T-shirts and fished the canister out of my jeans. A man brushed past me from behind, and gave me a big “Pardon.” That was okay: it gave me extra cover to check traser. Two minutes to go. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” was interrupted by somebody babbling over the loudspeaker about the bargain of the day.

  I was walking back toward my start line when I spotted a blue chunky turtleneck sweater ahead of me, no more than ten yards away. It was two sizes bigger than it needed to be, and making its way toward the other end of the socks and underwear aisle, the other start line. This wasn’t the sort of Thackery I’d imagined: this one looked straight out of a garage band. He was in his late twenties, with peroxide-blond hair, gelled up and messy. He, too, had a bag in his left hand. He was hitting the start line; it had to be him. One minute to go. I toyed with a selection of boxers on the edge of the underwear department, but my mind was focused on what was about to happen.

  Twenty seconds to go. Adjusting the clothes on my arm, I transferred the canister into my right hand as I started to walk down the aisle. Thackery was now about six yards away. Between us, an old man was stooped over a pile of thermals.

  There was another announcement over the loudspeaker, but I hardly heard it. I was concentrating completely on what needed to happen during the next few seconds.

  Thackery’s eyes were green, and they were looking into mine. The contact was on. He was happy with the situation; so was I.

  I headed straight along the aisle, aiming for the suits, but my eyes were on his hand. Two yards to go. I stepped around the old man, and relaxed my grip on the canister.

  I felt Thackery’s hand brush against mine, and the canister was gone. He carried on walking. He’d done this before.

  I decided against the suits, but had a quick look at the overcoats before heading to the cashier on the far side of the floor. I didn’t know what Thackery was doing, and didn’t care. My only job now was to pay up and get out, and that was exactly what I did.

  24

  A wrecked car was burning nicely in the square, dangerously close to one of the apartment buildings. Flames were licking at the second-floor balconies, but nobody seemed to care. An old mattress had been chucked onto the roof, its burning foam adding to the column of thick black smoke. I tossed the garbage bag containing all my crap onto the fire; it was too good an opportunity to miss and I stood against a wall and watched it turn to ash. Kids ran around the car like Indians around a wagon train. They threw on wooden pallets and anything combustible they could find, while their parents shouted at them from the windows above.

  As I approached the house, Hubba-Hubba’s garbage bag was exactly where it should have been, and the matches were under the door. Lotfi looked up from the couch by the coffee table as I entered the living room. Wearing a matching green shower cap and gloves, he muttered, “Bonjour, Nick,” with a very straight face, daring me to comment on his new hat. I just nodded extremely seriously as Hubba-Hubba threw the bolts behind me.

  As I bent down to get my own gloves out of my duffel bag, I saw Hubba-Hubba’s sneakers stop a few feet behind me. He gave me a cheery “Bonjour,” but I didn’t look up until I’d slipped on my new multicolored velvet jester’s hat
, then given a shake of the head for the full benefit of the bells. I tried to control my laughter, but failed as Hubba-Hubba moved into view. He was wearing a pair of joke glasses with eyeballs bouncing up and down on springs. Lotfi looked at us with a pained expression, like a father with two naughty children.

  We all took our places around the coffee table. Lotfi got out his beads, ready to start threading them through his fingers as he thought about his next conversation with God. Hubba-Hubba took off his glasses and wiped the tears from his eyes before playing mother with the coffee. I kept my hat on, but what I had to say was serious.

  “I’ve got the location of the boat in BSM from Greaseball. I’ve also got the three addresses from him, but he doesn’t know the names of the hawallada or the times of the collections.” I looked at the two of them. “You ready?”

  They both nodded as I tried the hot sweet coffee. Then they closed their eyes and listened intently as I gave them the Palais de la Scala address.

  They were immediately concerned. “I know what you’re thinking. I couldn’t agree more. It’s going to be a nightmare. But what can I say?”

  Well, I did know what to say: the address, three more times. I watched their lips moving slightly as they repeated it to themselves.

  I gave them the second address three times, then the third. They opened their eyes again once I’d finished, and I told them about the recces.

  On the buildup for the Algeria job, when we were in Egypt, sitting around a pot of coffee just like we were now but without the clown getup, I’d told them about the seven P’ s: “Prior planning and preparation prevents piss-poor performance.” They liked that one—and it was funny afterward, listening to Hubba-Hubba trying to get his tongue around them in quick time.

  “Okay, then, the Ninth of May is going to be parked at berth forty-seven, pier nine. Forty-seven, pier nine. That’s the second one up on the left-hand side of the marina as you look at it from the main road. Got that?”

  Lotfi turned to Hubba-Hubba and gave him a quick burst of Arabic, and for once, I understood the reply: “Ma fi mushkila, ma fi mushkila.” No problem, no problem. Hubba-Hubba waved his gloved hands around the room as he traced the outline of the marina and pinpointed the pier.

  I gave them the confirmatory orders for the stakeout, from placing the device to lifting and dropping off the hawallada.

  Lotfi looked at the ceiling and offered his hands and beads to his maker. “In’sha’allah.”

  Hubba-Hubba gave a somber nod, which looked ridiculous, given the way we were dressed. Lotfi’s beads clicked away as kids on motor scooters screamed up and down the street.

  “Okay, then. Phase one, finding the Ninth of May. Lotfi, what are the closing times for the places you looked at?”

  “Everything is shut by midnight.”

  “Great—and yours, mate?”

  There was a rustle of plastic as Hubba-Hubba moved in his seat. “Around eleven-thirty.”

  “Good.” I picked up my cup and took a gulp of coffee. “I’ll do the walk-past at twelve-thirty A.M. I’m going to put the Mégane in the parking lot up on the road, and walk down to the marina via the stores, check out the boat, then back to the OP via the garden and the “I fuck girls” bench, to clear the area in front of the OP.

  “If the Ninth of May is parked where it should be, the OP won’t have to change.” I looked at Lotfi and he nodded slowly as he leaned forward to pick up his coffee. I described the OP once more, the higher ground above the fuck bench, the hedge, and the path from the marina to the main road. I needed them to know my exact location so that if there was a situation they would know where to find me.

  Lotfi looked puzzled. “One thing I don’t understand, Nick. Why would anybody write that on a bench?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe he’s proud of his English.”

  Hubba-Hubba joined in gravely as he filled Lotfi’s cup. “I think that whoever wrote that has had a very tall glass of weird.”

  Lotfi’s eyebrows disappeared under his shower cap. “You’ve been watching too much American TV.”

  Hubba-Hubba grinned. “What else can I do while I wait for you to finish praying?”

  Lotfi turned to me with a look of exasperation. “What am I to do with him, Nick? He is a very fine man, but an excess of popcorn culture is not good for such a weak mind.”

  I started to go through the what-ifs. What if the boat wasn’t there at all? What if the boat was there, but in a different position and I couldn’t see it from the OP? What if I got compromised by a passerby in the OP? The answers at this stage were mostly that we’d just have to meet up on the ground to reassess. And if the boat didn’t make an appearance at all, we’d have to spend all night screaming up and down the coast, checking out all the marinas—and, of course, Greaseball.

  I swallowed the last of my coffee and Hubba-Hubba picked up the pot to give me a refill. There was a gentle click of beads as I continued. “Phase two: the drop-off and the OP setup. I want you, Hubba-Hubba, to walk along the main and past the OP at twelve-forty with the radios, the pipe bomb, binoculars, and insulin case. If the OP area is clear, I want you to place the bag in the OP, so it’s there when I get back from finding the Ninth of May. Leave a Coke Light can in the top of the hedge to give me a telltale, then move back to your car and get in position for the stakeout. Where exactly are you going to be?”

  Hubba-Hubba waved his arms about again to give me directions, as if I knew what was in his head and what he was pointing at. I was eventually able to establish that he’d found a place just past the marina, toward Monaco. “There are vehicles parked along the coast, mostly belonging to the houses on the high ground.” He checked inside the pot to make sure he had enough of the black stuff to keep us going. “The radio should work—I’ll be no more than four hundred yards away.”

  “Good news.” I had a brainstorm. “Wrap all my OP gear up in a large dark beach towel, will you?”

  He looked puzzled, but nodded.

  “Once I’ve found the boat I’ll move back to the OP the same way that I walked in, but not before twelve-forty, so the gear drop can take place. Once I’m settled in the OP I’ll radio-check you both. Where are you going to be, Lotfi?”

  He’d gone for the parking lot five hundred yards back into the town, on the other side of the marina from the OP. “The one that looks over some of the marina,” he said, “so the radio should work from there too—I’m in line of sight with you.”

  It was a good position: in the dark it would be very difficult to see him, as long as he sat perfectly still and left a window open a fraction to stop condensation forming and giving the game away. I’d told both of them to practice this when we first met up in-country. They’d spent a couple of nights not getting noticed in supermarket parking lots, so they were well up to speed.

  “Call signs are our initials—L, H, and N. If I don’t hear anything from you by one-thirty, or you don’t hear from me, you’d better move position and try to get comms. Come in closer if you have to. This job’s going to be a nightmare with these radios, but it would be even worse without them.

  “Once we’ve established comms I’ll tell you if anything’s changed—like, the boat isn’t there—and we can reassess. Once we’ve done the radio check, and everything’s fine, the OP is set, and no matter what happens we must never lose the trigger on the Ninth of May. Not even for a second. Lotfi, I want you to radio-check us every half hour. If somebody can’t speak, just hit the pressle twice and we’ll hear the squelches.”

  I moved on to phase three. “While we’re all hanging around and getting bored, I’ll be working out when to go down to the boat and place the device. I won’t know when I’m going to do it until I see what’s happening on the ground. And I won’t know where I’m going to place the thing until I know what the boat looks like. It might not happen tonight—they might have a rush of blood to the head and invite their pals around for a barbecue on deck, or decide to sleep under the stars. Or the boat next door migh
t be throwing a party. But as soon as I’m ready, here’s what I want you both to do.”

  I covered all the angles, and finished by telling them what I had in mind if there was a situation, so we could get away quickly and, with luck, make it look like nothing more significant than an aborted robbery. We didn’t want to put the collectors off their mission.

  Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba were absolutely silent now. Even the beads were still. It was time for the difficult part.

  “Okay, phase four, triggering the collectors away from the boat. We can’t afford to lose them. We think we know the first location, but it means nothing—we’re going to have to take them. I’m calling them Romeo One and Romeo Two, and so on as we ID the hawallada. I’ll give them their numbers when I first see them. If they go toward Monaco, this is how I want to play it…”

  I covered the details of the take of the collectors to the Palais de la Scala. Then I went through the actions-on in the event that they went toward Nice or Cannes, and finished my coffee before confirming the major points.

  “Remember that radio contact is vital, especially if I’ve had to follow them onto a train. If we have this all wrong and they go toward Nice and Cannes, I want you, Lotfi, to head straight for the Cannes location. Hubba-Hubba, you work your way into the city and take Nice. That way, hopefully, one of you will be at the collection point to back me up—if I manage to stay with them.

  “If they go somewhere else altogether and we get split and lose comms, I’ll have to assess the situation, see if I can do the job myself. Whatever happens, we’ll meet back in our BSM positions again by 0030 Saturday morning. I’ll radio-check at 0100. If there’s been a fuck-up, we’ll meet up on the high ground and sort ourselves out. Any questions?”

  They shook their heads again, and Lotfi got cracking with the beads.

  “Phase five: lifting the hawallada, and the drop-off. Getting the Special K into him is going to be difficult. I doubt if he’ll take the injection lying down. Just remember, no matter what, he has to be delivered alive. When and how we do this is going to have to be decided by whoever is on the ground at the time.”