Liberation day

by Andy McNab

  The parking lot was virtually empty, and not a VW camper to be seen. Not that I expected to see it: if the police were here, they certainly wouldn’t be using the same vehicle. Keeping a constant speed, I checked out the parking lot hours before turning left, back into the old town, parking in the first space I could find.

  If there was a French trigger on the Ninth of May, they’d spot me as well if I used the parking lot. Just like the Romeos, I always wanted to be behind them, out of their field of view. I’d abandoned my jacket and cap after the gang fuck at the marina and cleaned myself up a bit before putting on the new green baggy sweatshirt I’d bought at Cap 3000 during the brush contact yesterday.

  Before getting out I checked the Browning and the fanny pack for the umpteenth time before following the wall town-side back toward the port. To my right was a line of small restaurants and cafés in the shadow of the massive blocks of granite or whatever it was. They were closed for the night, their outside furniture stacked, wired, and padlocked to the ground.

  I headed past the archway toward the stone steps up to the ramparts, so that I could get a better view of the boats.

  Once through an alleyway between the wall and a closed-up bar, I emerged into a small, cobbled, tree-lined square that had made many a postcard photographer’s day. As I started up the steps, I looked at the sky. The clouds had gone and stars were out, twinkling as best they could against the man-made stuff thrown up from the town and harbor.

  I stopped about four steps before the top to check out the ramparts. Along each side of the wall was a three-foot-high parapet, which must once have run its entire length. Now, it was blocked in both directions, leaving quite a large area for people to use as a viewing platform. To the left, the wall over the archway was blocked by a rusty wrought-iron gate and railings, and to my right it had been made into a small parking lot. How they got up here was a mystery, but I saw three empty cars and a Renault van. The van was a dark color, and had been reversed against the parapet. Its rear windows looked down over the port.

  I moved back down the stairs a little, into dead ground, and sat on the steps. A dog started to yap somewhere in the old town and a moped rattled along the cobblestones below.

  There was only one way to find out if the van was occupied or not. I stood up and climbed to the viewing area. The van had a sliding door on its passenger side, so I kept to the right-hand side of it, in case it suddenly opened to reveal a bedraggled, short-haired woman in a damp leather jacket.

  As I approached, I could see that the driver’s area was blocked off from the rear, screening the interior. I’d have expected a vehicle like this to be full of old newspapers and soda cans, even an air-freshener hanging off the mirror, but there was nothing.

  I got on the right side of it, between the flush body panel and a BMW, before standing still, doing my open-mouth trick, and waiting.

  The dog started up again. Still I waited, and maybe three or four minutes passed before there was movement. The steel creaked just a little; maybe they were changing over the trigger; but enough to tell me there were people inside.

  I moved forward, closer to the parapet, but not beyond the line of the rear windows, to look down at the quay. I couldn’t help but smile as my eyes followed the line of boats below me. There, tied up next to the first of a whole row of bigger boys, a fifty-foot monster called the Lee, was the Ninth of May, looking as if it were hiding behind its mother’s skirts.

  Like the owners of plenty of other small craft here, Curly had made the place look just like home. The quay behind boasted an array of very weathered garden furniture.

  I studied the couch cover on the top deck, and it looked much the same as when I’d left it. There were no lights on board and the blinds were down.

  I turned slowly, walked back to the steps and down into the square, leaving the police to it as I thought through potential exit points for the Romeos. They’d have to come along the quay, past the fishing boats and stalls, until they got to the road through the archway. They could then go straight, following the wall on either side until it stopped, then uphill, out of the old town, toward the railway station. The other option was to turn left through the archway and head for the bus station through the old town. Neither was more than ten minutes’ walk away.

  According to traser it was three-fifty-eight. I still had time to do a more detailed recce of both, and work out how I was going to get a trigger in on the boat without getting spotted by the police. I crossed the archway, staying out of sight on the town side of the wall, and went to check out the rail option first. I thought about the two, maybe three people inside the Renault. Chances were, they had a camera mounted, ready to take pictures of the boat as soon as there was movement on board. Like me, any food they had with them would have been removed from its original noisy packaging, and wrapped in Saran wrap or a plastic bag. Their bathroom arrangements would be a little better than mine, though: they might even have managed plastic jerrycans. The inside of the van would be protected to cut down on noise. Maybe the floor was covered with soft gym mats and the wall padded with foam. They’d certainly be wearing sneakers or soft shoes.

  But even so, at night, with hardly any ambient noise to drown their gentle movements, thank fuck I had heard them.

  42

  I t was six-thirty-three when I arrived in Hubba-Hubba’s parking lot, three minutes late. The other two vehicles were already there, parked together, with no one else around. It was far too dark to walk the dog, and the sex would have happened hours ago.

  Once I’d closed down the Mégane, I started toward Hubba-Hubba’s Scudo. The front windows were slightly open, and the engine was off. I heard a gentle click behind me as Lotfi closed the door of the Focus. We approached the van together and as we climbed in through the side door the ribbed steel floor buckled gently under our combined weight. Hubba-Hubba turned around in the driver’s seat to face us both. I slid the side door back so it closed gently, and before anybody said anything I gave them a thumbs-up in the dull light of the glove compartment bulb. “We’ve got the boat back. Greaseball gave it to me and I have checked, they’re in Antibes.” Two very relieved people gave big sighs and babbled to each other in Arabic. “But we do have a problem: the police are there.”

  I described the boat’s exact location, then the position of the Renault van, and the layout of the surrounding area. “The only way I can see us getting a trigger on the target is by having someone in the back of this thing.” I looked at Hubba-Hubba as they exchanged more Arab stuff and sounded puzzled. “Where are the blankets to cover the hawallada?”

  He tapped the rear of his driver’s seat. “Under here.”

  “Good, I think it’ll work. Basically, one of us needs to get in the back of this van, and stay there all day if necessary, watching the quay by the fishing boats and the archway so we can trigger the Romeos away. We need to play around with the back of this thing a little bit, but the first thing we need to do is choose the right man for the job. Hubba-Hubba, congratulations.”

  He didn’t make any sounds of concern.

  “Don’t look so happy. You’re just about to find out what it’s like to be holed up in the back of one of these things all day, looking through a small aperture waiting for the target, knowing that if you take your eyes off the trigger for just a second, you could miss what you’ve been waiting hours to see.”

  Lotfi leaned forward and shook Hubba-Hubba’s shoulder, obviously pleased it wasn’t him. “That’s not a problem for this man. He’s the smallest, of course he should do it.”

  Hubba-Hubba said something back that didn’t sound too pleasant. I couldn’t do anything but smile because I didn’t know what Lotfi was going on about. To me they looked like they’d both come out of the same mold.

  I took a breath to gather my thoughts. “Okay, then, first things first.” I was waiting for Lotfi to get his beads out and, sure enough, I heard a click. “Ground—you’ve just had it. Remember that the bus and the train statio
ns are a lot closer to the boat than they were yesterday. That’s good for us, as it’s easier to take them, but it’s bad if they’ve decided they can trim their timings and get there just in time to jump on and go. So we’ve got to be on the mark and right on top of them.

  “The boat is in exactly the same condition as when we last saw it: the blinds are down, everything is buttoned up on the device. There’s no reason to believe it’s been moved, or that the Romeos have gone.”

  Lotfi’s mind was elsewhere. “What about the police, Nick? What about what happened to you? Do you think they have made a connection between you and the boat?”

  “I really don’t know. We just have to focus on what we’re doing. Nothing has changed for me. We have a job to do, an important job. The police are at Vauban—so what? They’re here for the boat, we’re here for the hawallada and the cash. If we do our job properly they won’t even know we exist. When, or if, they do, that’s when I’ll start worrying. It’s a tall order, but we don’t have a choice.”

  Lotfi gently tapped his brother’s arm once more. “But Nick and I, we are taller.”

  He was clearly very pleased not to be going into the back of the Scudo.

  “Situation. Greaseball and the int from the recycling bins both said the police presence could just be routine, because Curly’s used the boat to smuggle heroin.

  “And because it’s moved about quite a bit these last few days, the police have taken an interest. It went from its normal parking place in Vauban to Marseille to pick up the Romeos from the Algiers ferry, then back home to Vauban, then to BSM. I reckon they moved back because of the alarm last night. The Romeos were spooked big-time, and I think Curly used it as an excuse to scurry back home.”

  Hubba-Hubba adjusted himself in his seat. “But why use a boat that is known to the police? That’s crazy….”

  “Fuck knows, mate. I asked Greaseball and he said the Romeos didn’t know the boat was known, and laughed. Maybe he and Curly were so desperate to make a few dollars they just forgot to tell them that the Ninth of May had a record. Who knows, who cares?”

  Lotfi did. “Why, if they are getting paid for helping the Romeos, does Greaseball become the source?”

  “That I don’t know. What I do know is that he’s protected, so he probably has no choice—and maybe he thinks he’ll get to keep some of the money.”

  Neither of them could keep a straight face as Lotfi gave out a low, “Booooom.”

  I grinned too. I couldn’t agree more. “It’s just a shame that Greaseball won’t be on board when we make that call.”

  Hubba-Hubba looked as disappointed as I felt.

  “So, I reckon that if they don’t know the police have eyes on them, we’ve got to assume that everything from the collectors’ point of view is still going according to plan, and they’re off to Nice tomorrow.”

  I pressed on. “Enemy forces. We now have Curly on the list and, of course, the police. Also, don’t forget our last enemy. Watch your third-party awareness….

  “Execution general outline. Phase one is getting this van in position, which has to be pretty soon, before the parking lot fills up, so we’ve got time to maneuver you into a good spot before it gets busy. Phase two, triggering the collectors and taking them to Nice, or wherever they’re going to go. Phase three, the lift of the hawallada, and the drop-off. Phase four, setting up for the last collect in Cannes.”

  I saw Lotfi’s fingers getting ready for the next few clicks. “Phase one, positioning the van.” I explained that I needed the Scudo to nose-park in one of the spaces near the archway so that the rear door windows faced the fishing boats, with Hubba-Hubba already in the back and Lotfi driving. “You guys need to meet up somewhere near the train station.” I pointed at Lotfi. “Leave your car there, then drive Hubba-Hubba into position. The parking lot barrier comes down at six, so make sure you leave the parking ticket in the front with some cash. Work out where you’re going to leave it in the vehicle, but leave it out of sight. And remember, there could be eyes looking at you from inside that Renault.”

  I turned to Hubba-Hubba. “For the same reason, just be careful and don’t rush coming out of the back of here. You can have a practice later. Make sure you have the trigger on the quay, and be able to give direction if the Romeos are foxtrot (on foot) or even mobile (in a vehicle) at that archway. Who knows? Curly might have a car and give them a lift.”

  Hubba-Hubba nodded intently.

  “So then, phase two, triggering the collectors. On the stand-by from Hubba-Hubba, I want you, Lotfi, to cover the train station. You don’t have to be on it physically all the time; you can be hovering about having a coffee somewhere, doing whatever you want to do, but make sure you have eyes on it within a minute. And, of course, make sure your car is nearby so you can react to whatever the Romeos do. I’m going to be doing the same, but at the bus station.

  “Phase three, taking the collectors to the hawallada. We’re going to have to do exactly the same as we planned before, and that’s why Hubba-Hubba needs to be in the back here, because I want us all in our own vehicles today. Does that make sense?”

  Hubba-Hubba nodded at Lotfi, pleased there was a tactical decision behind my choice.

  I ran through all the RV drills if we got split during the take. They were the same as yesterday’s, but I covered them anyway.

  “Any questions?”

  None.

  “Phase four, the lift and the drop-off. Same as yesterday. We don’t know where the hawallada is going to be, we’ve just got to think on our feet. If there’s one of us, if there’s three of us, it doesn’t matter. Whoever’s there will just have to improvise. The most important thing is, we must get these people. I’ve got two cartridges left for my pen, so I’m going to need a spare from one of you. We can redistribute the stuff tomorrow.”

  Lotfi fished in his jacket pocket.

  “Any questions? All right, service and support. Remember the radio frequency change at midnight. Remember fresh batteries. Remember full fuel tanks. Remember the pager number. And please, Lotfi, put in a good word with God for us again.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “There is no need. I already have.”

  “Then ask him if he wants to give us a hand sorting out the arrangements.”

  Hubba-Hubba piped up. “We are going to prepare it here?”

  “Why not? It’s as a good a place as any. Besides, it won’t take more than half an hour. All we have to do is use one of the blankets to cut off the rear from the front, and make a small aperture through the paint on one of the back windows. Easy.”

  We sat in the dark now that Hubba-Hubba had closed the glove compartment.

  “But the problem there is,” I poked Hubba-Hubba in the shoulder, “no matter how small the aperture, there is always the risk of compromise. Kids are a nightmare: they always seem to be exactly the same height as the aperture. And when they’ve thrown a wobbler at their mother, they’ll always stop and turn just in time to notice half an eye looking out at them from a hole in the van parked next to them. That normally freaks them out and they scream—which, of course, pisses the mother off even more, and she doesn’t believe the kid’s story of eyeballs looking at them and drags them away.”

  Hubba-Hubba conferred with Lotfi. He looked confused. “Nick, what is a wobbler?”

  “A tantrum.” He still didn’t get it.

  Lotfi babbled off some Arabic as Hubba-Hubba nodded intently.

  I leaned forward and poked him in the same spot once more. “And that’s the least you’ll be wanting to throw after a few hours staring out of the back of this thing.”

  43

  W e all exited the Scudo.

  “Lotfi, I need you to keep a lookout on the road while I sort out the back with Hubba-Hubba, okay?”

  “Of course.” He walked to the parking area entrance as we put the van space light back in place to see what we were doing, and started to use duct tape to fix up one of the dark-patterned, furry nylon blankets Hubba
-Hubba had bought so that it hung from the roof just behind the two front seats.

  Hubba-Hubba was leaning in from the left, and me from the right, as he whispered questions about his new job to the sound of duct tape being pulled away from its reel. “Won’t my eyes be seen from outside if I’m looking through the aperture?”

  “No, mate, it doesn’t work like that if we do it correctly. It’ll be pitch-black inside here if we seal the blanket down the sides. You just need to keep your head back a bit, especially if there’s a kid throwing a wobbler next to you.”

  “What about noise? What if I have to move, what if I get a cramp?”

  “That is a problem, mate, because if you move too fast the wagon can rock. The slightest movement can be detected. Even when these things are custom-built inside a van. If you have to, just do it really slowly. You must keep the noise down in there.

  “Normally these vans would be lined with foam, stuff like that, to absorb the noise. But for you there is going to be jack shit. You’ll just have to take your boots off and lay out the spare blanket.”

  “Jack shit…Jack shit. Yes, I like this saying.”

  “And talking of shit, don’t. Sorry. No food, just water, you can’t afford to need a dump.” I explained the logistics. “Make sure you take some empty bottles to piss into. Shitting is going to make too much noise, too much movement, and you won’t be able to keep the trigger. And you can’t just shit in your jeans, because you need to get out and join in the take.”