Liberation Day ns-5

by Andy McNab

  He walked past me, not giving the Audi a second glance, and as he waited for a line of cars to pass before opening his door, I wrote myself a mental Post-it to find a way of thanking him.

  Chapter 36

  The Audi and the Focus merged with the traffic as we flicked on our lights to drive through the tunnel. Two Legoland police and three more in riding boots, astride their machines, were on duty at the traffic circle on the other side, checking vehicle tax and insurance discs as the traffic filtered past them. The flow speeded up now, as most of the traffic turned up to the A8, wanting to get straight home rather than waste time winding along the coast. I was trying to think what to do now that there was an extra vehicle in the plan.

  It was starting to get dark, so the headlights stayed on. Pinpricks of light were scattered all over the populated slopes to our right, but as the mountains got higher, they thinned out.

  It wasn’t long before we arrived at BSM and passed my Mégane behind the OP and then the marina entrance. I knew I wouldn’t be able to see the Ninth of May from the road, but couldn’t resist a look anyway before checking the rearview mirror for the hundredth time to make sure Lotfi was still behind me. I got on the net. “H, radio check, radio check.”

  I got two low and crackly clicks.

  “You are weak. Have you checked the drop-off?”

  The clicks were still crackly.

  “Okay, change of plan, change of plan. I still want you to cover me, but in my car, cover me in my car. Roger so far.”

  Click, click.

  “I need you to get rid of the Audi after the drop-off. Lotfi will back you, and take you back to your car afterward. H, acknowledge.”

  Click, click.

  “L, acknowledge.”

  Click, click.

  “Roger that. Just carry on now as planned. Do not acknowledge.”

  I continued on along the coast road, Lotfi still behind me; I could see his dimmed lights in my rearview, but I had no idea where Hubba-Hubba was. It didn’t matter: we were communicating. We eventually reached the intersection that led to Cap Ferrat, and then, no more than two minutes farther on, rounded a sweeping right-hand bend and the bay of Villefranche stretched out below us. The warship was lit up like a Christmas tree about a mile offshore, and a dozen yachts twinkled away at their moorings. I didn’t have long to take in the picture-postcard view before stopping at the intersection that took us to the DOP. I waited with my indicator flashing for Lotfi to overtake, then followed him up an incredibly steep series of hairpin bends. The road narrowed, with room for two cars just to inch past each other. Lotfi’s taillights disappeared ahead of me every now and again as we wound our way up the hill, past the walls and railings of large houses perched on the mountainside, then steel guardrails to stop us driving over the edge.

  Our destination was Lou Soleilat, an area of rough brush and woodland, situated around a big parking lot/picnic area lined with recycling bins, where the Coke Light marker was going to be placed to show that there was a hawallada ready for collection.

  The pickup team, probably embassy or naval personnel, would drive past the picnic area from the opposite direction, from Nice. If the Coke can was in position, they’d throw it away with the rest of the crap they’d be dumping for cover, and continue downhill about five hundred yards to the DOP, pick up the hawallada, and continue to follow the road down to Villefranche and the warship.

  The picnic area had been cut into the woods and laid with gravel. Wooden benches and tables were sunk in concrete for those Sunday afternoons with the family. I supposed the bottle bins were just there so the local fat cats could drive up in their overpowered 4x4s and dispose of a week’s worth of empty champagne bottles, and feel they were doing something for the environment.

  We continued on until we were about four hundred yards short of the drop-off point, then I turned off into a small parking area while Lotfi headed on beyond the DOP to the picnic area. There was room for about six vehicles; it was used by people during the day while they took their dogs for walks in the woods, and at night by teenagers and philandering businessmen for a different kind of exercise altogether. There were enough used condoms scattered around the place for an army of dogs to choke on. Whatever, it was too late for dogs and too early for any backseat stuff, so I was alone.

  As Lotfi disappeared into the darkness I hit the lights on the Audi, letting the engine turn over. My head fell back onto the headrest for a few seconds. I was beat: my brain hurt just thinking about what I was going to do next.

  Lotfi’s job at the picnic area was to warn me if anything came from his direction as I dumped off Gumaa, and to leave the Coke Light marker once the job had been done. Hubba-Hubba would be joining me here soon, and he would cover me from this direction.

  It wasn’t long before Lotfi came on the net. “That’s L static in the parking area. There are two other vehicles, with a lot of movement in a Passat. The occupants are being very energetic with their map-reading. The Renault next to it is empty.”

  I double-clicked. I’d obviously been wrong: it wasn’t too early for that sort of stuff. Maybe they’d just wanted one more for the road before they went home to their respective partners.

  While I waited, I got out the pen, hoping that whoever was picking up Gumaa would be driving past at intervals during the night, and not only just before first light. It wouldn’t be good if he woke up in a tarpaulin thinking, What the fuck am I doing here with this pin in my mouth?

  I couldn’t hear any movement from him yet, but he was going to need another burst of Special K to keep him floating, or whatever he was doing in the back there.

  Headlights approached from down the hill and turned into the parking area. As they bumped over the gravel I recognized the Mégane. Hubba-Hubba pulled up level with me and powered down the window. I did the same and leaned over my passenger seat to talk to him. He looked eager for instructions.

  “Would L’Ariane be a good place to burn this thing?”

  It needed to be somewhere that wouldn’t arouse too much attention, not for three days anyway, and the housing project seemed a safe bet.

  He thought for a moment, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “I think it would be, but I need to wait until much later. It’s too busy there at the moment. Maybe past midnight sometime. Is that okay?”

  I nodded. All I wanted was to make sure there were none of my prints or DNA, or anything else, to connect us to this job. I said, “Make sure you lose the plates as well, mate.”

  Hubba-Hubba smiled just enough for me to make out the whiteness of his teeth. “Of course. I’ll give them to you as a souvenir.” He jerked his head at the rear of the Audi. “How is he?”

  “Haven’t heard a word. He’s going to get the good news with the pen right now, just in case he’s got a long wait.” I felt for the trunk-release catch and got out into the fresh and rather nippy air. The light came on as I opened the lid, and there was a heavy smell of exhaust as the engine turned over. I could just make out his face from the trunk light, and it was obvious the movement of the car, or maybe his own efforts, had done him no favors. The diaper pin had ripped some of his lip and tongue. He was still breathing; blood was bubbling from the corner of his mouth and onto the handkerchief that had slipped down his face, and one glazed and dilated eye was open.

  I pulled his eyelid down and pushed the handkerchief up over his eyes once more before turning him over a bit. I pressed the pen against his ass and pushed down the trigger. He was going to wake up thinking someone had implanted a golf ball in his cheek. Not that he’d be worrying about it that much when he saw he was in the steel hull of the warship with a roomful of very serious heads bearing down on him.

  I shut the trunk, packed away the pen as I coughed out the exhaust fumes from my lungs, and walked over to Hubba-Hubba. “What did you say to him earlier on? You know, to get him into the garage.”

  He smiled even more, pleased that I had asked. “I told him I wanted to go back to where
he’d just come from. He asked me why, and I told him I wanted the money. He said he didn’t know what I was talking about. So I insisted.”

  “How?”

  “It was easy. I introduced you as the man who cuts off the heads of the hawallada, and promised that if he didn’t hand over the money you’d do that to him. I told him that we all have very thin skin.”

  No wonder he hadn’t been too keen to shake hands.

  Hubba-Hubba finished the story. “At first he kept saying he had no money. I knew that — he had just handed it to the Romeos. I just wanted to get him off the street so we could lift him. But then he started to say that I could have the money, that he had it in his car. It was pretty good, no?”

  “For a beginner…” I grinned back at him. “Listen, thanks for getting us all out of the shit this afternoon. It was really quick thinking.”

  He took his hands off the wheel momentarily in surrender. “It was nothing. He had to be stopped. Besides, it was you that was going to cut his head off, no?”

  Now there was something he wanted to say. “About the money…” He touched the lump in his chest. “What are we going to do with it?”

  “Split it three ways. Why not?”

  He didn’t like that. “We can’t, it’s not ours. We must put it with the body and it’ll be taken to the ship. If we keep it, it’s stealing. Lotfi would agree with me.”

  If we handed it back, it would be lost in the ether. I shook my head. “Tell you what, keep hold of it and we’ll decide what to do on Sunday. You never know, there might be a lot more of this to worry about in the next two days.”

  Before he could say anything more, I explained how I was going to carry out the Gumaa drop-off.

  Hubba-Hubba had something else on his mind. “We got away with it, didn’t we?”

  “One down, two to go. I’m going to check the recycling bins later in the morning to see if they’ve shed any light on the Greaseball and Curly connection. It’ll be about five-ish and I’ll need Lotfi to take the trigger, same place as this morning, when I’m ready. You never know, you might get your chance to sort out Greaseball after all.”

  That made him happy.

  “Make sure Lotfi knows what’s happening, and tell him we still need that God of his for another couple of days. After that we’ll be in the clear, so he can have the rest of the week off.”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  “Good. Come on, give me a hand.”

  We lifted Gumaa out of the Audi and replaced his wallet before transferring him into the trunk of the Mégane. It took about two or three minutes for us to duct-tape his hands and feet, then join all four limbs together. I then taped his eyelids down correctly as Hubba-Hubba gave Lotfi a sit rep before going back to the Audi with a new phrase to add to his list. “One down, two to go,” he said, and gave a quiet chuckle as I got into my Mégane.

  “That’s N mobile to the DOP. L, acknowledge.”

  Click, click.

  I took the money out of my sweatshirt and placed it under the driver’s seat, hoping that maybe a little might find its way back to the U.S. with me.

  Chapter 37

  With the brake and backup light cut off, I reversed into the road with just a gentle red glow of the rear lights. There was no white backup and no bright red as I put on the brakes to change into first before heading uphill.

  The DOP was about four hundred yards to my left, at the end of a small grassy track that went in about eight yards before being chained off. It looked as though it had been that way for years. Just on the other side of the chain, old refrigerators were piled on top of each other as the ground sloped downhill, and there were enough bulging garbage bags to feed the incinerator by the safe house for a year.

  Lotfi came on the net. “Stand by, stand by. There is movement between the cars. Engines on. N, acknowledge.”

  I double-clicked and slowed.

  “Both cars are mobile. Wait, wait…at the main…wait…one left, one right toward you, N, toward you. Acknowledge.”

  I double-clicked again, hit the brake and clutch, and waited for the headlights to get to me. As long as no one else was coming from behind I’d be okay. Within seconds, twin beams swept over the high ground, then hit me full on as the vehicle crested the hill. Whoever was in the car would never be able to make out whether I was static or not, and it saved me having to pass the drop-off, turn around at the picnic area, and try again.

  I saw the faded, hand-painted sign nailed to the tree. It probably said the driveway was private property and dumping was illegal, so get lost. I didn’t much care. It was my marker to turn my lights off and take my time in the dark. Foot on the brake continuously, I drove slowly over the hard mud ruts up to the chain.

  “That’s N static. No one acknowledge.”

  They knew where I was and I wanted to cut down time on the air and get on with the job. The track was lined with fir trees and thornbushes, plastered with windblown refuse.

  There was no time to mess around.

  With the engine and hand brake on I climbed out and opened the trunk, making sure the Browning was tucked well into my jeans and the fanny pack was done up.

  Gumaa was a lot heavier than he looked, when only one person was doing the lifting, and I banged him about some as I tried to loop him over my shoulders. I eventually got his taped and trussed body into a sort of fireman’s lift.

  Once I’d gotten my legs over the drooping chain, I moved out of the line of sight from the driveway and in among a couple of ripped-open garbage bags, an old mattress with protruding springs, and a very ancient tarpaulin. I dropped Gumaa on the canvas tarp and pulled him onto his side so he could breathe easier. Finally I checked that he was still alive, before wishing him well on his connecting flight with Ketamine Airways and folding the decaying canvas over his body to keep him warm.

  I reversed the Mégane back out onto the track, and turned downhill. “That’s drop-off complete. H, acknowledge.”

  Click, click.

  “L, don’t forget the marker.”

  Click, click.

  Passing Hubba-Hubba’s parking area, I got back on the net once more. “That’s N now clear. Refuel, get some food. And remember to change channel. If I don’t hear anything before one-thirty, I’m going to move my car into position, and check out the boat, Okay? L, acknowledge.”

  “Yes, mother hen.”

  “H?”

  “Cluck cluck.”

  One down, two to go. I could almost hear Hubba-Hubba repeating it to himself, and having another little chuckle.

  As I turned the first of the string of hairpins that led back down to the glittering patchwork of Villefranche, I threw the muffin wrapper and all the other crap I’d been collecting during the day into the passenger footwell. On the main drag, I headed right, toward Nice, stopping to fill up and buy two egg salad baguettes, a can of Coke Light, some bottled water, and a few more Snickers bars for the OP.

  Curiosity got the better of me as I neared Villefranche. I still had time to kill before returning to the Ninth of May, so I parked for a while in a line of vehicles tucked into the side of the road, still facing toward BSM and just short of the DOP junction. The baguettes were Saran-wrapped and sweaty, and the Coke was warm. It looked like they hadn’t seen a fridge all day.

  As I munched, I watched the lights of the warship glittering on the water below me. It was just after eight when I’d finished, and the road was still fairly busy. I settled back, feeling greasy, full of Coke Light, damp bread, and not-too-fresh egg. My eyes were stinging, but once I’d pushed the seat all the way back things started to get more comfortable. Checking that the doors were locked, and the Browning secure, I eased the hammer away from the patch of raw skin on my stomach where it had been rubbing, and made sure that my window was open a fraction to let out condensation, then closed my eyes and tried to doze.

  My head jerked up again less than a minute later as a car heading toward me seemed to slow as it neared the intersection, but went s
traight on.

  Next time I looked, traser told me it was eleven-forty-eight. A very noisy Citroën had made its way down from the high ground and was waiting to join the main road. The streetlight just short of the intersection illuminated an old man hunched over the wheel with a cigarette in his mouth. He wasn’t too sure when to move out, even though there wasn’t much traffic. When he finally went for it, I saw why. With a grinding of gears and a flapping of fan belts, he labored his way toward BSM. I wondered how he was ever going to make it back up the hill. I’d seen flashier motors used as chicken coops.

  I changed batteries on the Sony, momentarily peeled off the duct tape and switched to channel two. I’d watch the intersection until about one o’clock, then go back to the marina, get into position, and wait for the other two, who’d be at least another couple of hours.

  My bacteria takeout was starting to make its presence felt; the atmosphere in the Mégane smelled like gorilla’s breath. I hoped I’d be needing a dump before I got into the OP, rather than after.

  At twelve-fifty-six, I saw headlights coming downhill. A small, dark-colored Renault van, the sort a tradesman would use, came into view. It was two up, and I was sure I knew the head behind the wheel.

  They checked the main road and turned right, no indicators, toward me and Nice. As they passed under the streetlight I got a better angle from my semiprone position, and spotted the driver. He’d had a different top on the last time I’d seen him, but it was definitely my pal Thackery. I didn’t get to see his companion that close, but he, too, was young.

  As soon as they’d passed, I popped my head up and watched them turn left, down toward the bay. I didn’t envy Gumaa what was going to happen next.

  I jumped out of the Mégane and crossed the road, watching the van’s headlights bounce off the houses along the narrow streets, sometimes losing them altogether as the van continued downhill. Eventually it reached sea level, and disappeared into one of the buildings by the water’s edge.