by Andy McNab
It wasn’t long before the five-star shopping areas and hotels and palm trees gave way to freight depots, grime-covered warehouses, and dirty cream, rectangular, sixties or seventies apartment buildings built far too close to each other.
I followed the road around a sharp left-hand bend and over the train tracks, then hit the maze of high-speed feeder roads to the autoroute. I drove beside the river. At this time of the year it was just a hundred-yard-wide stretch of sandstone-colored rock and rubble, in the center of which a trickle of water wound its way down toward the sea.
Beautiful nineteenth-century houses that had once lined the banks were now towered over by hardware stores and warehouses. There were no palm trees around here, that was for sure. There were no shiny buses, either.
Autoroute 8 appeared ahead of me now as I crossed the river. It ran along a viaduct, a couple of hundred feet high, that straddled this part of the city before disappearing into a tunnel in the direction of Monaco.
It would have been a lot quicker and easier if we’d allowed ourselves to use the autoroute, but that wasn’t going to happen unless the shit really hit the fan. The toll booths had cameras and, besides, the police always hung around these places checking car tax and insurance. For all we knew, the booths might also have face-recognition technology on the cameras.
All three of us had to avoid leaving sign. We were careful to pick cafés and stores with automatic doors, or ones we could push open with a shoulder. Even drinking coffee was a major challenge, as it had to be done without leaving prints, and every attempt had to be made to prevent leaving DNA. It wasn’t so much what they could do with any of the information we might leave in our wake right now, it was what it could tell them later: this stuff stays on computer forever.
I remembered a job I’d been on with the Regiment (SAS) in Northern Ireland, when we were trying to get some fingerprints to connect a suspect with a bombing campaign. This guy was so good, he wore gloves most of the time, and when he didn’t, he took care to remove all print traces.
In the end, we risked everything to follow him, just waiting for him to slip up. He went into cafés several times and had a cup of coffee, but wiped the cup and the spoon every time before he left. If it was a paper cup, he took it home with him. And he didn’t just throw stuff like that out with his household rubbish, he burnt it in his backyard.
It took weeks, but we got him in the end. One day he used a teaspoon, stirred his coffee, put it down, and forgot to wipe it. The moment he left, the team was straight in.
There was no way I was going to make the same mistake. Everything I touched I wiped, or if the prints weren’t wipable, I’d keep it with me and destroy it later. Even taking cash from an ATM was a chore. All three of us had had to do it a lot, since we paid cash for everything. When we took money out, we did so from the same area — I used Cannes — so that no pattern of movement could be established. I never used the same ATM twice; I wasn’t giving anyone a known location to stake out and lift me. The only routine I followed was that I always got money out at night, varying the time and slipping on a hat and sunglasses and standing an arm’s length to the side so the ATM camera didn’t get me. Even then, I had to make sure I didn’t leave a print. It was the same when it came to buying stuff from a shop or café—it was vital not to go to the same place twice. It was all a major pain in the ass, but if things went noisy, I wanted to leave the French police as few pieces of our jigsaw puzzle as possible. I knew that prison-visiting wasn’t high on George’s list of priorities.
I drove under the viaduct, past the huge concrete funnel that belched smoke from the city’s incinerator. I was now in L’Ariane, very near the safe house.
Areas like these, Hubba-Hubba had told me, were called banlieues, the suburbs. That word had always conjured up the image of nice three-bedroom split-levels with lawns near the commuter station. But here it meant ghetto; high-density tower blocks where les immigrés, mostly North African, had taken refuge. L’Ariane had the reputation of being one of the most deprived and violent banlieues in France, after those that ringed Paris. Hubba-Hubba had told me plenty of his aunt’s horror stories; it was a no-go area for the authorities, out of bounds even to ambulance crews and firemen, who didn’t dare set foot in the place without police protection — and just one glimpse of a gendarme was all it took to spark a riot. I couldn’t think of a better place for a safe house.
I passed a burnt-out car that hadn’t been there three days ago. Apart from that, everything else looked the same — a grim, rat-infested, litter-strewn warren of graffiti-sprayed concrete and satellite dishes.
I took the first turn left into the housing project and parked outside the kebab-dry-cleaner’s-pâtisserie-laundry. I got out of my car immediately so it looked as if I had a reason to be here — which, in fact, I did, though it wasn’t one I wanted anyone to know about. I worried about the Mégane; the roads were packed with vehicles, but mine was four or five years newer, and still had its plastic hubcaps.
I’d only been here twice before: when we’d gotten together on the twentieth to sort out the recces and divide the areas, and again earlier today, to deliver the equipment I’d picked up from the DOP.
Chapter 16
I ’d tucked my pistol into the front of my jeans. I worried about having just one mag with me, but then again, if I needed more than thirteen rounds to protect myself, I was beyond help and should probably be serving beer at the yacht club.
As I closed the door, a young Muslim woman appeared, eyes lost in the shadows of her headscarf, shoulders drooping under the weight of two plastic shopping bags full of cans and breakfast cereals.
I went to the trunk and got out my duffel bag, locked up, and headed straight for the entrance to the nearest apartment building on my side of the road. The mosaic tiles decorating the front of the building had crumbled away long ago. The concrete underneath was now decorated with a blend of French and Arabic graffiti that I didn’t understand.
The security locks and intercom system had been trashed years ago. The entrance hall stank of piss, the floor was littered with cigarette butts. Shouts came from the floor above me, and a barrage of loud French rap. At least I was out of sight of the road. Anyone watching would assume I was visiting someone in the building, and since I was a white stranger, that probably meant I was there for drugs. Because I was alone and without armed backup, I couldn’t be a policeman.
I headed straight out of the back door and into a courtyard flanked by four identical buildings. It had probably looked wonderful when it was full of shiny little Matchbox cars in the architect’s model. I could still make out the markings of a parking lot, but now the place looked more like a storage area for the incinerator next door than the front lot of a Citroën dealership. It was littered with burnt-out cars and rotting food that seemed to have been flung out of the upper-story windows. Windblown garbage was heaped in drifts against the walls of every building and, for some reason I couldn’t work out, dead pigeons seemed to be lying everywhere. Maybe someone was shooting them from a window with an air rifle, or perhaps they’d eaten some of the food. A couple of seriously macho rats darted from bird to bird.
I strode purposefully across the courtyard, putting in an antisurveillance route to make sure I wasn’t being followed.
I entered the next building to the blare of music and kids screaming upstairs. There was a strong smell of cooking. Two guys who looked as though they’d just gotten off the bus from Kosovo were in the entrance hall ahead of me, surrounded by kids with ski hats and baggy jeans. The kids were in the process of paying for whatever it was these guys were selling them. The men froze, the foil packets in their hands, and stared me out, waiting to see my next move. The kids couldn’t have cared less, they just wanted the packets.
It was pointless turning back. I just acted as if I belonged, didn’t give a shit what was going on, and walked past. The moment they realized I wasn’t concerned they carried on with the deal. I pushed open a door and hit t
he road.
I worked my way through a maze of small alleyways. Hollow-eyed men in hoodies and jeans hung out on every corner, smoking and occasionally kicking a stray ball back to their kids, who looked like smaller versions of their dads. These people had no work, no prospects, no future. It didn’t matter what color they were, in this part of town everyone was burnt-out, just like the cars.
I turned toward the last building. On my first visit I’d thought it had been condemned; the place had scorch marks licking up from every window. Cinder blocks filled the window frames on the first few floors. This was my last checkpoint before heading for the RV; I was clear, nothing behind me, and everything looked normal, or as normal as anything could look around here. A Muslim woman came out onto a landing above me and gave the family comforter a good shake.
I crossed the debris-covered road and headed for the RV, one of the three farmworkers’ cottages that crouched in the shadows of the housing project. I imagined the owners sitting here fifty years ago, minding their own business, watching their chickens and sheep go down to the river for a drink. Next thing they knew, they were living in the middle of a trash can of a housing project, as the city swallowed them up and introduced them to the brave new world of high-rise living. The far one now belonged to Hubba-Hubba’s aunt. He’d paid for her and her husband to go back to North Africa for two months and see their family before they died, so the house was ours for the duration.
I checked the position of the Browning; I really wanted to check chamber as well, but couldn’t. In a place like this there would be eyes everywhere.
I made my way along a stretch of dried mud that might once have been grass. The cottages had been painted dark beige many years ago. The faded green shutters on the farthest one were closed, the windows covered with metal grates. Litter blown from the road had piled up against the bottom of the rusty, sagging chain-link fence that surrounded them. Beyond it was a concrete path and a dilapidated chicken coop that had last seen an egg in the fifties.
I could hear an exchange of rapid and aggressive French from the apartments behind me. The comforter-shaker was giving someone inside her state-of-the-nation address. I checked that the first telltale was in position. It was: a new black garbage bag, half-filled with newspaper, had been placed by the gate inside the fence. That meant Hubba-Hubba was in the house, hopefully sponsoring the RV. A glance at traser told me it was four minutes to four. All being well, Lotfi would also be in position.
When Hubba-Hubba had arrived he’d have put out the garbage bag for Lotfi and me to see as we made our approach. Hubba-Hubba would have gotten here about three; Lotfi thirty minutes or so later.
If the garbage bag hadn’t been there, I’d have just kept walking and gone to the emergency RV in twenty-four hours’ time — Cannes at McDonald’s, or McDo as it was called down here. The place was always packed with schoolkids and office workers, much to the disgust of the French food police. If any one of us failed to show, we’d be in the shit, but the job would still go on. We had no choice: there was too much at stake for it not to.
I went through the gate with my bag over my left shoulder, leaving my right ready to react with the Browning, and walked up the pathway.
As I reached the door of the farthest cottage, I checked again that I wasn’t about to be jumped on as I took off my sunglasses. I looked for the two match heads that should be protruding from the bottom of the door. They had to be where I could see them without adjusting the angle of my head as I approached; I didn’t want to make it obvious that I was looking for something.
They were exactly where they should be, one sticking out an inch from the right-hand corner of the door, and the other on the left, by the frame. That told me that both Hubba-Hubba and Lotfi were inside; the door hadn’t been opened and closed without the telltales being replaced.
I knocked on the door and watched. After a few seconds, the spyhole darkened. I lowered my eyes, but kept my face in line with it, to indicate that everything was okay, that nobody was against the wall and out of view with a weapon aimed at my head. Eyes are a good telltale; they can’t be seen from a distance, so nobody can see what’s going on.
The matches disappeared from view, four bolts were pulled back, and the handle turned. The door opened and three rubber-coated fingers appeared around its edge as it was pulled inward. I walked in without any greeting, and it was closed behind me. The bolts were slid back into place.
I took two steps over the wooden floorboards of the cramped hallway and onto a worn, Persian-style rug. I followed the smell of freshly brewed coffee into the dimly lit living room, past furniture draped in doilies and faded black-and-whites of kids with gummy smiles gathered together on a sideboard in cheap chrome frames. Lotfi was standing by a wooden-armed couch, part of an ancient, flower-patterned three-piece set. It was covered in clear plastic sheeting, which reflected the few beams of light that managed to defeat the shutters behind him. The coffee stood on a low table in front.
He wore jeans and a cheap striped cotton shirt, the sort where the pattern fades after just a few washes, but that wasn’t what made me want to grin. He was also wearing pink Rubbermaid gloves, and a dolphin-patterned shower cap over his heavily gelled hair. Hubba-Hubba knew that the boy was taking his personal security very seriously, but had ragged on him mercilessly the last time we’d all met.
I put my bag on the rug and got out my own gloves, the clear plastic ones I’d picked up from a gas station.
Lotfi watched me as I put them on and muttered, “Bonjour,” in a low voice. I knew he was waiting for my face to break into a smile.
I unzipped my bag, removed my Nike cap, and replaced it with the hammerhead baseball cap I’d bought at the marina. Then I stood smartly at attention, trying to keep a straight face as I pulled down on the string.
Lotfi watched impassively as the hammer moved up and down on the peak and I heard Hubba-Hubba try not to snigger by the door. “This is serious, Nick.” He pointed behind me. “Please, do not be a fool like him.”
I turned. Hubba-Hubba was sporting a plastic Groucho Marx big-nose-mustache-and-glasses set. The two of us snorted with laughter, like a couple of kids. We couldn’t help it. It really had been a boring four days, and I was feeling pretty glad to see them again.
Hubba-Hubba held up his hands, to give me the full benefit of his ridiculous pink gloves, and that only made things worse.
Behind their disguises, both of them still had very neat hair and mustaches. Hubba-Hubba had broken out slightly and not shaved for a few days. His teeth gleamed in the murky light as we enjoyed our moment of stupidity, and Lotfi tried not to understand why it was so funny.
After a moment or two, I decided that kindergarten was over. We had things to do. “Is the escape clear?”
Hubba-Hubba nodded, and the Groucho Marx gear slid down the bridge of his nose. That started me off again, and this time even Lotfi joined in.
The escape route was into the cellar via the kitchen, then through the next-door cottage. A mat had been glued over the trapdoor, so that when it was closed it would be concealed. Apparently it was a leftover from the Resistance in the Second World War.
We sat down around the coffee table to the sound of crumpling plastic sheeting that Hubba-Hubba had bought from a hardware store. We couldn’t afford to leave behind anything like hair or clothes fibers that might be used against us. The sheeting and our other precautions wouldn’t do a one hundred percent job, but you can only do your best.
“I’m afraid we may have a problem, Nick.” Lotfi nodded toward Hubba-Hubba, his expression serious. “I’m getting worried about him. He’s turning into a weird beard.”
“A what?”
“Weird beards — you know, Talib. He’s turning into Taliban.”
Hubba-Hubba took off his big nose and glasses, shaking his head as he poured the coffee into three blue flower-patterned cups. “We have to make allowances, Nick. He doesn’t get out much these days.” He gave me a theatrical wink.
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I sipped my coffee. This was nothing instant from a jar, it was hot, sweet Arabic stuff. It always tasted to me like perfume, but it was good all the same. I could hear kids running around on the road, and mopeds buzzing past, sounding like turbo-charged sewing machines.
“We’re operational from tomorrow,” I said, in a low voice. “The boat’s going to park at Beaulieu-sur-Mer sometime tomorrow night. I don’t know yet where the collections are going to happen, or precisely when, but I’m told there are going to be three of them; one a day, starting Friday. I’ve got another source meet tonight, and hopefully I’ll get the collection addresses then.”
Lotfi was silent for a moment, digesting this information. Finally, he spoke. “Dock, Nick.” He smiled. “You dock a boat.”
I smiled.
“Dock, okay. I’ll try to remember that one.”
“And the French don’t have marinas,” Hubba-Hubba added. “They have ports.”
Chapter 17
I watched the two of them drop enough sugar cubes into their cups to make their spoons stand up. I decided to treat myself to one. Then I pulled out the camera from my bag, together with the postcards and maps I’d gotten from the newsstands, and a couple of sets of wires. I nodded at Hubba-Hubba. “Okay, smartass, let’s see if you can spark up Auntie’s TV….”
He stood up and pressed the On button. After a minute or so there was an electronic squelch and a picture appeared: some high-octane Italian quiz show with everyone’s arms flying everywhere. They looked as though they’d be getting their stuff off any minute. I went around the back and rigged up the connecting wires so we could have a good look at the pictures I’d taken, instead of having to crowd around the digital display on the back of my camera like teenage boys with a copy of Penthouse.
