Liberation day

by Andy McNab

  Was the alarm going to bring the police? If so, how quickly? There was still talking and movement beneath me. It was an ideal time to get the job done. If I was wrong, and people saw me, I’d soon know about it. I got to my knees and wiped up what had fallen out of my mouth with my sleeve. Then I pushed the device under the covering and into the channel where the back of the seat met the backrest. I peeled back the insulation tape tab, and gave the fishing line a steady pull until the clothespin jaws released the strip of plastic and the two thumbtacks connected. The circuit was complete; the device was armed. I pushed the cylinder in as far as my arm could reach.

  The strobe was still going ballistic and I could hear people on other boats talking animatedly. It was starting to feel like some sort of yachting rave out there. I lay by the seats, not moving an inch, worrying about whether the gear at the OP would be found if the police decided to have a good look around. Biggest worry of all, though, was how to get off this thing before the gendarmes showed up.

  About fifteen seconds later I knew it was too late. Two sets of blue flashing lights were heading down from the town. They arrived at the marina and turned right, toward the strobe. Below me, Curly started calming the Arabs down. “They’re just checking out the shop. Everything is cool.”

  I watched as four uniforms got out of their patrol cars and inspected the storefront, silhouetted in their headlights and flashing blues.

  They were joined almost immediately by another set of headlights. The driver got out and waved his arms about, jabbering away full steam. Probably the owner, working himself up to a big insurance claim.

  The police stayed for another twenty minutes, then the voices faded and lights started to go out all around the marina. Things went quiet in the cabin below me. At least they wouldn’t be leaving without me knowing; this must have been the closest OP in OP history.

  I lay there for another hour, glad of my new quilted jacket as I felt my extremities start to chill. I sat up slowly and checked around me. The marina was asleep once more. The tabac lights were on; it looked like the owner was guarding it for the night. I made sure that the vinyl covering of the couch looked exactly as it had when I arrived, then went back into Spiderman mode.

  Less than fifteen minutes later I was walking along the pier toward the parking lot and Lotfi’s Ford Focus.

  I turned left, toward my Timberlands, and hit the pressle.

  “L, stay where you are and keep the trigger. There’s a change of plan. I’ll let you know what later. Acknowledge.”

  Click, click.

  “H, check?”

  Click, click.

  “Meet me at my car.”

  Click, click.

  I got back to the garbage bin to retrieve my Timberlands. As I headed back to the OP, I offered up a prayer to the god of wrong numbers that no one got through to the pager by mistake. At least, not until the three on the boat had done their job.

  29

  I had just started moving toward the stone steps when Hubba-Hubba came on the net. “Stand by, stand by. Vehicle toward you. N, acknowledge.”

  Click, click.

  Not that I needed him to tell me. The unmistakable sound of a VW camper thud-thud-thudded its way around the edge of the marina. I sat halfway up the concrete steps and waited for it to park, before moving toward the OP.

  I followed the pathway until it reached the main drag, and turned right toward the Mégane.

  Lotfi came on the net. I couldn’t see Hubba-Hubba but I knew he was around somewhere. He wouldn’t show himself until he saw me.

  As I drew level with the car, I spotted him farther up the road. I waited for him to join me, and we crouched in the shadows behind the hedge. “What did you do that for?” I said. “Getting the police down here could have been an absolute nightmare.”

  He grinned. “It stopped those people seeing you, didn’t it?”

  I nodded: he had a point.

  “In any case, I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  I nodded again: so had I. “What did you use to smash the window?”

  “One of the metal weights they use to keep the parasols in place. Those windows are quite tough, you know.”

  “I need to ask you something.” I wiped my running nose. “Is there anywhere in your area where I can send an e-mail right now? It might be important. One of the guys on the boat was with Greaseball last night. He’s a Brit, early to mid-thirties, skinny, long black curly hair. Looks like the guitarist out of Queen, you know who I mean?”

  He ignored the stupid second question and thought for a few seconds about the first. “The main train station in Nice. They have some of those cyberpoints. There are maybe four or five of them. I think they lock the station at night, but I’m not sure. There are definitely two outside.”

  I briefed Hubba-Hubba on what I had seen inside the boat, and told him to pass it on to Lotfi while I went to Nice. “Tell Lotfi to keep a trigger until I get back. And if they move before that, you two just have fun!” I slapped him on the shoulder. I checked the sidewalk for people, then stepped out and went back to the Mégane.

  Driving past the entrance to the marina and on up toward Lotfi’s position, I listened in as Hubba-Hubba briefed Lotfi on the net, then I started to work out the code words I was going to need in the e-mail.

  I drove along the coast toward Nice. At this time of the morning the city was dead. A few cars passed me, and the odd loving couple or lost soul wandered among the brightly lit storefronts.

  The main station was a grand nineteenth-century building, with plenty of modern steel and glass now complementing huge blocks of granite. The area around it was filled with the usual array of kebab stalls, sex shops, newsstands, and souvenir shops.

  Hubba-Hubba had been right: the station was closed, probably to prevent it becoming a homeless refuge at night. The two cyberpoints he’d mentioned were among a cluster of maybe six or seven brightly lit glass phone booths to the left of the main entrance. The only cameras I saw were focused on the entrance. I continued driving past and squeezed into the only space I could see, down a side road.

  The cyberpoint was exactly the same as the one in Cap 3000. I slipped on my latex gloves, inserted my phone card, got on to e-mail.

  I started to tap out with two fingers, gradually getting faster.

  It was good to see you yesterday. Guess what? I think you had better move a lot faster if you want to get together with Susanna. There’s this guy I’ve just seen her with. I don’t know his name, but you might know him, he’s got long, dark, curly hair. In his mid-thirties and English. Do you know him? Anyway, he’s getting about quite a bit. I also saw him and Jenny together last night, which looked a bit suspicious as they obviously know each other very well, and it certainly seems that this guy tells Jenny everything. Did you know about this or is Jenny keeping that a secret from you? Sorry if this is sad news, but I just thought you’d like to know. Is there anything you want to tell me? If so I can come around after work tomorrow night. I would say have a nice day, but maybe not.

  P.S. I gave your present to Susanna, she loves red.

  I closed down and pulled out my phone card. If George had anything new to tell me, or if I needed to change the plan, I’d pick it up at the DOP tomorrow night.

  30

  T here was a sudden burst of static in my ear for the eight A.M. check. “Hello, hello—radio check.” As I reached inside my jacket, I heard, “H?” followed by two clicks. Then, “N?” I hit the pressle twice.

  “That’s all okay.”

  The radio went dead. I brought my hand out of my pocket and pulled up the zipper. The coat had done its job well through the night, and a couple of times I’d even had to undo the top a little.

  My face was greasy and my eyes stung, but my job was to keep the trigger on the target boat and that was what I’d done. There’d been no sign of life, outside or in.

  First light was a bit later today because of the cloud cover, and for the last hour or so a gentle breeze
had been coming off the sea and rustling the vegetation around me. It was going to be a dull, gray, miserable day, not one that the postcard photographers would be rushing to capture.

  The traffic was starting to make its presence felt behind me, and a store’s shutter rattled open below. I bet the tabac was going to get one now.

  The first thing I’d done on my return from Nice last night was fold the towel and use it as a cushion under my ass. It hadn’t turned the OP into a hotel room on the Croisette, but it had made me quite comfortable. All my Snickers bars had gone, and I’d had a dump in the plastic wrap. Lying next to it was my water bottle, full of urine.

  I brushed my hair back with my hands and rubbed my eyes awake. Now wasn’t the time to slack off. I could hear labored breathing: someone running, coming down the road to my left. He took his time to get to me, and I was amazed when he finally did: the wheezing and scraping of feet made it sound like he was about to have a heart attack.

  There was general movement around the marina now, with quite a few bodies moving out of their boats. The crew of a garbage truck were emptying champagne bottles and caviar tubs out of the two wheeled bins. I made a mental note to really find out who my biological parents were one day—I wouldn’t mind finding out I belonged in a place like this, maybe even getting served in the Boston yacht club instead of just being able to work in it.

  Birdsong had piped up around me. I tipped over onto my side and supported my head with my right arm, stretching out my legs as I tried to restore some sort of feeling in them. I had a better view of the VW camper now. It was yellow and white, one of the newer, squarer-shaped ones, and all the windows were covered with aluminum folding blinds. They must have laid their heads down as soon as the wheels stopped turning.

  With just one eye on the binos, because I couldn’t be bothered to sit up and use both, I watched the couple on the boat to the right of the Ninth of May emerge on deck. Hair sticking up, much the same as mine probably was, they did some boat stuff around the deck, their fleece jackets protecting them from the breeze. There was still nothing coming from the Ninth of May: the black blinds still covered the front window and the two on the side facing me. I ran the binos over the plastic covering on the top deck couches and the driving station. It was buckling a little under the breeze, but didn’t look as if it had been disturbed.

  I thought about what might be going on behind those blinds. Maybe they were already up, all three of them, just waiting to go and collect, lying in their bunks with time to kill, or memorizing street maps and bus and train timetables. Whatever it was, I wished they’d hurry up and get on with it. The longer they stayed there, the more chance I had of being compromised.

  A very small, narrow Japanese van pulled into the parking lot and the old gardener I’d seen yesterday got out: he was dressed in the same baggy green overalls and rubber boots. He seemed more concerned about the camper than about his plants right now; he dragged himself toward it, looking like he was about to start an incident. Maybe campers weren’t welcomed as energetically as everyone else was, according to the marina entrance sign.

  When he got there, he shouted and banged on the side panel. One of the blinds went up and he carried on shouting and waving his arms as if he were directing traffic. He obviously got a satisfactory answer, because he went back to his vehicle with a bit more spring in his step. He opened the sliding door to reveal forks and spades and a wheelbarrow. The tools came out one by one, clanging as they hit the ground. I just hoped he hadn’t woken up at three in the morning determined to deal first thing with that V-shaped palm up behind the fuck bench. Whatever he was planning, it wasn’t going to happen yet. He looked as if he were going to take the first break of the day.

  Lowering himself onto the sill of the sliding door, he tapped a cigarette out of a pack. The smoke was picked up and dispersed quickly by the breeze.

  “Radio check. H?”

  I unzipped.

  Click, click.

  “N?”

  Reaching in, I double-clicked the pressle.

  “Everything okay. Time to change batteries.”

  He was right: we should start the day with fresh power, and I had to get it done before Mr. McGregor dragged himself up here and started digging where he wasn’t welcome.

  I took the radio from my jacket, tugged the batteries off the duct tape, pulled off the battery cover, and replaced them. I checked the display to make sure the power supply was on and I was still on channel one, then tossed the Sony back inside my jacket.

  It wasn’t that long before the sliding door to Mr. McGregor’s van was closed and he wheeled his way toward the concrete steps before disappearing into the dead ground below me at the start of the stairway. There was nothing I could do but stay where I was and just get on with the job.

  The morning commute gathered pace on the main drag, and it wasn’t long before Mr. McGregor wheelbarrowed past me and the fuck bench, looking down at the camper and grumbling to himself. Maybe he hadn’t been as firm as he’d thought. I soon heard metallic noises to my right as his tools were pulled off the wheelbarrow, and he started to dig in the sun-dried soil. If he saw me, I’d just have to play the bum and let him chuck me out. I could walk down to the marina entrance and maybe sit at the bus stop; at least I’d still have an OP on both exits. Then all three of us would have to take turns keeping that trigger until the Romeos moved. It would be a nightmare, but there was nothing I could do about it.

  “Hello, hello—radio check.”

  I put my hand into my jacket. It must be nine o’clock.

  “H?”

  Click, click.

  “N?”

  Click, click.

  “That’s all okay.”

  The next three and a half hours were a pain in the ass. Mr. McGregor seemed to spend more time smoking than he did gardening, which was fine by me because he took his breaks at the far end of the garden. Down in the marina, people wandered off their boats and returned with baguettes or bags of croissants; delivery vans arrived and did their stuff at the stores; cars drove into the parking lot and men with tool kits and overalls went to work on decks, rigging, and other boaty stuff. I could hear a bit of music now and again from the restaurants, and the occasional loud voice or burst of laughter from customers in the tabac, punctuated by the smashing of more glass. The window-replacement boys must have been on site.

  A small electric cart loaded with garbage cans and brooms whined its way out of the dead ground in front of the stores and toward the wheeled bins where I’d hidden my Timberlands. Mr. McGregor shouted down at the driver, who stopped and dismounted with a drag on his cigarette and a wave. His stomach looked about the same weight as the vehicle, which was probably feeling relieved to be rid of him. The garbage cart driver cupped an ear toward the high ground of the gardens as the old boy gave him some verbal broadband, then turned back toward the camper with a determined nod.

  The garbage cart driver closed in on the VW, and repeated the performance.

  There was a lot of thumping on the side of the van and what I supposed was the French for “Get the fuck out of here, this isn’t a campsite.”

  The door slid halfway open and a woman with short dark hair and a black leather jacket appeared in the gap.

  Words were exchanged, but whatever was said stopped the cart man in his tracks. He walked away from the camper as the sliding door closed.

  My heart beat a little bit faster. This didn’t feel right.

  Mr. McGregor called to him, wanting to know what was happening. The cart man beckoned him down the steps.

  I hit my pressle. “All call signs, this is N. There could be a problem. The yellow-and-white VW van that came in last night might contain another surveillance team. Roger so far, L.”

  Click, click.

  “H?”

  Click, click.

  “I’ll explain more later. Nothing changes for us. Just remember your third-party awareness. If I’m right, there might be others out there. Acknowledge,
L.”

  Click, click.

  “H?”

  Click, click.

  The woman had been fully dressed. Was that so she could get out of the camper fast if the shit hit the fan, and still have her weapon and radio concealed?

  Either way, we still had our job to do. If they were after the hawallada, we just had to get there first. I reckoned George would be able to wring what he needed out of them a lot quicker than any law-enforcement agency.

  The engine fired up on the camper. It headed toward the marina entrance, with a man at the wheel.

  “Stand by, stand by. That’s the van now mobile, two up. A man with a dark ponytail and a woman with short dark hair and a black leather jacket.” The van went out of sight, following the line of the storefronts. “That’s now unsighted toward the marina exit.”

  They both acknowledged with a double-click, and it was no more than a minute before Lotfi came on the net with the van’s progress. “L has the Combi toward BSM, still two up. Now unsighted.”

  I tried to convince myself that I’d been wrong about what I’d seen. But only for about three seconds.

  Mr. McGregor shuffled his way back up the hill and started digging away to my right as I got another radio check. It was twelve o’clock on the dot. “Hello, radio check. H?”

  Click, click.

  “N?”

  At almost the same moment, my eyes were sucked toward the rear deck of the boat. There was movement: a body appeared. It was Curly, still in his T-shirt and jeans, having a look around as he let down the gangway.

  “N, radio check.”

  Click, click, click, click.

  There was a pause. He would only have been expecting two. “Is that a stand-by, N? Is that a stand-by?”

  Click, click.

  He got the message. “Stand by, stand by.”

  31

  C urly had finished pushing out the gangway, still in bare feet, as the Romeos I’d almost dribbled on last night appeared on deck. I couldn’t radio Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba, as Mr. McGregor was just a bit too close for comfort as he scraped about in the earth with his spade no more than four or five yards away. But Lotfi knew what to do. “N, is there movement?”