Liberation Day ns-5

by Andy McNab

  “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.”

  I was silent for a minute to let them take it in. “Right, let’s go through the DOP again.”

  They knew where it was and how it worked, but I didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding. “Remember the telltale for the hawallada in position — the Coke Light can to the right and just under the recycling bin. Whoever is picking up the hawallada will remove it so it’s clear for the next drop the following night.”

  Lotfi started to pour everyone more coffee. I waved it away. I hated it when my pulse raced: there was going to be enough of that tomorrow, for sure.

  “We have until four in the morning to make the drop-offs. I want to get rid of each one as soon as we’ve lifted him. That will give us time to get clear, and sort ourselves out for the next lift.

  “We’ll use frequency one for Friday, frequency two, Saturday, three on Sunday — just as well this job is only three days, we only have four frequencies.”

  It got no more than a polite laugh from the two of them.

  “We’ll change frequencies at midnight no matter what is happening, even if we’re still playing silly fools trying to lift the first hawallada. Remember, keep the radio traffic to a minimum and, please, no Arabic.”

  Lotfi piped up. “Is it okay to come up on the net if we need to correct your English?”

  I laughed. “Okay, but only in the event of split infinitives.”

  They gave each other another squirt of Arabic, and both smiled. When Lotfi turned back to me, I knew what was coming. “On second thought,” he said, “we won’t be carrying enough batteries….”

  “Very funny.” I reached over. “Split this.” I gave him a smack on the back of the shower cap. “Have I missed anything?”

  We sat quietly, running everything through our heads, before I wound things up. “I need you both to go and check out the other two hawallada locations before getting on the ground at BSM tonight. Get down to Nice, get down to Cannes, familiarize yourselves. But leave Monaco. I think we should only be going in there when we have to.”

  As I went through all the timings again, I fished around in my fanny pack and got out my phone card. They did the same. “Zero four nine three.” I pointed at Hubba-Hubba.

  “Four five.”

  I nodded at Lotfi, who did his part too. We went around and around with the telephone number until it was burned even deeper into everyone’s memory.

  We started to play the address game, exactly the same as we’d done with the pager number. I started off with the Cannes address, stopped halfway through and handed the baton to Lotfi, who finished it off, then started on the Nice address, pointed at Hubba-Hubba, who carried on. We played the game until we heard sirens in the distance — probably a fire engine and police escort about half an hour too late to sort out the burning car or maybe one of the apartments by now.

  “This is now going to be the most dangerous period for us.” I leaned forward, elbows on thighs, as the plastic crumpled and my hat bells gave a gentle ring. “Up to now we’ve sacrificed a lot of our efficiency for security. From now on it’s going to be the other way around. We’ll have radios beaming out our intentions; we’re going to have to meet up without a safe house; we’ll be on the ground, vulnerable, and open to discovery. Not only from the Romeos and the hawallada but from the police and the intelligence services as well.” I pointed to the shuttered window. “Not to mention that bunch, the third party.” The kids screamed with excitement as they taunted the fire crew. It must be tough trying to hook into a hydrant while you’re being pelted with dead pigeons. I wondered if they ever got used to it. “They’re the ones who’ll be watching every minute we’re out there. But if we’re careful, by Tuesday morning we can all be back where we belong.”

  I stood up and pulled the plastic away from my jeans as static tried its hardest to keep it there. Lotfi continued to watch me. “And where do you belong, Nick? Maybe this is the biggest question.”

  I somehow couldn’t shake off his gaze, even though he still looked ridiculous in his shower cap.

  “I mean for all of us.” He paused, choosing his words with care. “I have been thinking about God, and hoping that he doesn’t want us to die here, because it is for my family that I do these things. I’d rather be with them when he decides it is my time. But what about you, Nick?”

  Hubba-Hubba rescued me. “Take no notice. It’s been this way with him since we were children.”

  I sat back down to the jingle of bells and looked at each of them in turn. “Of course — brothers. I should have realized…”

  One thing I did realize was that we were moving into dangerous territory here. Standard operating procedure said that each of us should know nothing more about the others than we had to. Then I thought, fuck it. We were in dangerous territory already. “How did you both get into this, then? I mean, it’s pretty weird for a family man, isn’t it? Is it an Egyptian thing, you all stupid or something?”

  Hubba-Hubba smiled. “No, I’m here to become an American. This time next month my family will be living in Denver.” He punched his brother on the arm in celebration. “Warm coats and ski lessons.”

  Lotfi looked indulgently at his brother.

  “What about you?” I asked him.

  Lotfi slowly shook his head. “No. I’m going to stay where I am. I’m happy there, my family is happy there.” He touched Hubba-Hubba on the shoulder. “And he isn’t doing this for warm coats and skiing lessons. He is a little like you: he likes to cover hurtful things with humor.”

  Hubba-Hubba’s smile evaporated. He glared at Lotfi, who just gave a reassuring nod. “You see, Nick, we have an older sister, Khalisah. When we were all children she was whipped and kicked in front of us by the fundamentalists.” He cut the air with his right hand. “Her crime against Islam? She was licking an ice-cream cone. That’s all, we were just having ice-cream.” He had the mixture of hatred and grief in his eyes that only comes from seeing your own family hurt.

  Hubba-Hubba rested his elbows on his legs and shifted his gaze to the floor.

  Lotfi’s face crumpled under his shower cap as he relived the experience. “The fundamentalists shouted at her, screaming that it had lewd connotations. Our twelve-year-old sister was whipped with sticks — there, in the street, in public, then kicked until she bled.” He rubbed his brother’s back between the shoulder blades. “We tried to help, but we were just small boys. We were swatted away like flies, and forced into the dust while we watched our beautiful sister beaten. She still has the scars on her face, to remind her, every day of her life. But the scars inside are worse….”

  Hubba-Hubba gave a low groan, and rubbed his face with gloved hands. He was breathing hard through his fingers as Lotfi rubbed his back some more, and comforted him with a stream of soft Arabic.

  I didn’t really know what to say. “I’m sorry….”

  Lotfi looked up at me, acknowledging my words. “Thank you. But I know that you, too, have your sadness. We all need a reason to continue, and this is our reason for being here. We made a pact that day. We promised ourselves, and each other, that we would never again just lie there in the dust if one of us was being hurt.”

  Hubba-Hubba gave himself a shake, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, and sat up as Lotfi continued. “He will be leaving
me soon for Denver. A new start for his family, and Khalisah — she is going also. But I am staying at home, at least until this evil is driven out. The fundamentalists, they are guilty of shirk — you remember what that is?”

  I nodded.

  “So you also remember I have a duty to perform for God?”

  Lotfi fixed me again with his penetrating look. Not for the first time, he gave me the impression he could see right through me, and no amount of silly hats was going to stop him. A new start. Where had I heard that before?

  Chapter 25

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 00:19 HRS

  The fourways flashed as I hit the key fob of the Mégane and walked away from the parking space behind the OP. As I continued on down the road toward the marina entrance, I zipped up the front of my new jacket and shoved my hands into my pockets. There were several Snickers bars in each for later on, sealed in Saran wrap to cut down on noise.

  A set of headlights swept the high ground ahead of me, on the other side of the marina as they left town, then cut into the night sky in the area of the parking lot where Lotfi’s Ford Focus was going to be positioned. The vehicle continued down the slope, passed the marina entrance, then came uphill toward me, still on high beam, dipping briefly as it climbed past me. It was Hubba-Hubba’s silver Fiat Scudo. He’d drawn the short straw for the sort of small van an odd-job man would use. It had a sliding side door, plus two at the rear; on my instructions he’d had to spray out the windows in the rear doors with matte black car paint, and we would have to scrape it off again before the van was returned to the rental company. We couldn’t be sure of making a definite ID on the hawallada if we encountered a group of people handing over the cash, so we might have to lift a bunch of people, bundle them into the van, and let the warship figure it out. I bet they’d be able to sort the problem out in no time at all.

  I couldn’t see him behind the steering wheel because of the headlights, but I could read the first four digits of the rear plate as Hubba-Hubba went by. Tucked under that plate, as with all our vehicles, would be his spare key.

  Silence returned, apart from the sound of water slapping against very expensive hulls and the clicking and clacking of pieces of metal and ropes and all sorts of other stuff as they rocked rhythmically at their moorings. A few lumpy clouds blocked out the stars now and then as they scudded across the sky.

  I turned left at the mini-traffic circle, and walked past the shopping promenade toward the parking lot. There was still a light shining in the rear of one of the fancy restaurants, and the flickering glow of a TV set escaped from the gaps around the blinds of a cabin directly opposite, but apart from that everyone else in marinaland had thrown in their towels for the night.

  I turned right at the parking lot and headed for pier nine, which was the second one on the right. In the dull glow of the overhead lamps that lined the edge of the marina, a sign told me I couldn’t fish from here, and that the spaces were numbered forty-five to ninety.

  From either side of me came the slap of water and the click of electricity meters as I passed the backed-in boats. I was sure there was a better way of saying it, but Lotfi wasn’t around to put me right. In my head, I ran through my reason for being here. I was looking for my girlfriend. We’d argued, and I knew she was on a yacht here somewhere — well, here or in Antibes, I wasn’t too sure. But I was unlikely to be challenged: even if somebody saw me, they’d be much more likely to assume I was going back to one of the boats than getting up to bad things in the night.

  A TV blared out of a white fiberglass motor launch the size of a small bungalow, gleaming in the darkness to my left. A satellite dish on the pier was collecting what sounded like a German program, with aggressive voices barking out. People in the studio and inside the boat were laughing.

  As I neared parking space forty-seven on my right, I found what I was looking for. The Ninth of May was a bigger and more upmarket version of the fishing boat from Jaws. Her name was painted on the rear in flowing, cursive writing, as if it had been done with a fountain pen. She was registered in Guernsey, Channel Islands, and had a red ensign hanging off the back of a small sort of patio area. A diving deck jutted out over the propellers, with a folding ladder for swimmers to climb in and out of the water.

  A short aluminum gangway, hinged at the back of the boat above the diving deck, was lifted clear of the pier by a pair of divots, as if they wanted a little bit of privacy.

  A set of blacked-out floor-to-ceiling doors, with matching windows on either side of them, preserved the anonymity of the main cabin. To their right was an aluminum ladder with handrails that led to the upper deck. From what I could see as I wandered past, there were two couches up there, facing forward, and a console, all covered with custom-made heavy white plastic tarps. I supposed they’d whip these off for summer driving.

  I concentrated for the time being on trying to take in as much information as I could without stopping or turning my head too obviously toward the target. I had to go to the end of the pier, glance at my watch, look a bit confused, then turn around and walk back. There was no other way to get off. The second time I caught the left-hand side of the boat, and saw light leaking from the two cabin windows. As I got closer there was still no noise but, then again, there wasn’t a satellite dish and no TV cable running from the plastic casing on the quay; just water and electric.

  It was twelve-thirty-eight when I approached the stores. Hubba-Hubba should be nearing the OP. I decided to wait a few minutes to give him time to check the position and drop off my gear, before I moved up the concrete steps and checked out the front of the OP for myself on the way back to the road.

  I stood against one of the louvered doors of one store and listened to the gentle hum of a generator, feeling the heat seep through the slats as I had a good look at the top of the Ninth of May and worked out how I was going to get the device on board.

  At twelve-forty-three I walked up the stone steps to the flat roof and the fuck bench, following the pathway that led to the main drag. Once on the main road I turned right, and saw a lone figure on my side of the road, heading toward Monaco. I knew it was Hubba-Hubba because he took small, jerky strides, almost as if he were wearing a pair of punk bondage pants.

  By the time I was past the Mégane he had disappeared into the darkness. I spotted the Coke can sticking out of the hedge, and, picking it up as I passed, I moved along the hedge about four or five yards before climbing over at what I thought was the same point I’d come out of on Wednesday.

  Scrabbling on my hands and knees, feeling in front of me, I got to the bundle. I made sure I had eyes on the boat as I unknotted the towel. The Ninth of May was packed in among all the other boats like a sardine, but even in the gloom it was easy enough to spot, simply because I knew it was there.

  The priority was to sort out comms; nothing was going to happen without them, apart from a fuck-up.

  I wished we could have just used one of those antennae sticking out of the warship as a relay board. With that sort of help, we could have communicated safely and securely with anyone, anywhere in the world, even George. But you don’t have that kind of luxury when you’re deniable: you have to rely on e-mails, brush contacts, and the Sony Corporation.

  I turned the volume dial to switch on the radio, then peeled back the strip of duct tape that covered the illuminated display, to check it was on channel one. The channel dial was also covered with duct tape, to ensure it didn’t move. Hubba-Hubba would have checked all this before leaving the safe house, but it was now my radio, and time to check again. I slipped it into the inside pocket of my jacket, and put on the earpiece of the hands-free set. The next item I retrieved and checked was the insulin case, before it went into my fanny pack.

  A truck thundered past, heading east toward Monaco, as I checked the spare radio and the pipe bomb. It was still in its garbage bag, to keep it sterile. Then I made myself as comfortable as I could against the hedge, making sure I could see the target through the V-shaped palm i
n front of me before getting a Snickers bar down my throat and checking traser. There were six minutes to go before the first radio check.

  I watched the boat and generally sorted myself out by shuffling left and right to make a small dip in the earth. It was going to be a long night. Then, checking the time once more, I unzipped my jacket and hit the radio pressle. “Morning, morning. Radio check, H.” I spoke in a low, slow, normal voice. These radios weren’t like military sets, which are designed to be whispered into. I’d only end up repeating myself, as the other two tried to work out what the mush in their ear was all about. I’d be wasting power and time on the air.

  I let go of the pressle and waited until I heard a voice. “H. Okay, okay.” Then it went dead. I hit the pressle. “That’s okay to me. L?”

  “I can hear you perfectly.”

  “Good, good. Okay, then. Everything is how it should be, the OP is set. I’ll call you when I’ve worked out what I’m going to do. H, have you got that?”

  I got two clicks.

  “L?”

  Click, click.

  “Okay.”

  I zipped up my jacket and looked out at the boat, thinking hard about my options. It didn’t take me long to work out that I really only had one. Swimming would be more covert on the approach, but once on the boat I would leave sign, and I couldn’t guarantee it would evaporate by the morning. They might even come out during the night and see it. So it looked like the towel was out of commission tonight, which was good. I hadn’t been looking forward to a dip anyway.

  I decided simply to walk to the back of the boat, climb on board, and go for the padded seats on the top deck. At this time of year they wouldn’t be used: the weather, and the reason for the visit, would encourage the Romeos to keep a low profile. The position wasn’t perfect: the inside of the boat would contain the pressure wave of the high explosive as it detonated, just for a nanosecond, before it ripped its way out, shredding the superstructure, and whoever was on board, into thousands of tiny pieces. Even so, planting the device on the top deck would be good enough to take out the whole of the cabin, and the driver’s seat below. If the blast didn’t kill them, the shards of wood, metal, and fiberglass flying through the air at supersonic speed would. I wasn’t sure it would do enough damage to sink her, but no one inside would survive and the money would be shredded — and with it my fantasy of it washing ashore at my feet.