by Andy McNab
They continued on over once the vehicle had passed. “That’s now foxtrot still straight.”
Getting to the intersection myself, I overheard a voice that could have been Michael Gaine’s as a crew-cut thirty-something with a black nylon Docklands bomber jacket gabbed on his cell phone. “I don’t fucking care. What’s the matter wiv you, you deaf or somefink?” Farther down the junction a Brit-plated truck with pallets of goods was being unloaded for Geoffrey’s of London, a shop that seemed to supply baked beans and plastic cheese to the huge numbers of Brits who worked on the boats.
I got back on the net. “That’s Romeo One and Romeo Two still foxtrot, approaching the main before the station. L, can you at the main?”
The last leg of the route was uphill and they would be unsighted to me for far too long once they crossed the main street as it was higher, dead ground to me.
He could. “L has, L has. Romeo One. Romeo Two. At the main, they’re crossing, approaching the station.”
The Romeos were unsighted to me now as I moved uphill and the traffic screamed past in both directions above me. The station was on the other side of the main street. In front of it was a bay for taxis and a small parking lot.
“That’s H now complete. N, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
Lotfi kept up the commentary. “That’s approaching the station.”
I got to the main drag and also watched them while I waited for the green crossing signal and Lotfi kept talking on the net. “That’s both Romeos complete the station, unsighted to L.”
The green signal flashed, the bleeps cried out, and the traffic stopped reluctantly. I babbled and smiled as if I’d just heard a joke on the phone. “Roger that. N will take. H, go now, mate, go now. H, acknowledge.” I got a double-click and hoped I’d done the right thing by taking a chance and sending him straight on to Nice. This surveillance stuff wasn’t a science, and decisions had to be made on what you knew at the time. All I knew was that the traffic was horrendous and the train would get there far quicker than any road vehicle, and I needed someone else there to back me. If I’d made a mistake and they were going for Cannes, or anywhere else for that matter, Lotfi had better be able to fly in that Focus of his and keep up with the train.
The old station had undergone quite a renovation within the last couple of years. It had retained its original shape, but the inside looked very modern and clean, with glass everywhere, glass walls, glass counters, plate-glass doors. As I went in, the Romeos weren’t to the left by the ticket machines, or to the right where there was a small café and newsstand.
Four kids were smoking around one of the tables, listening to dance music on their radio. I could see a section of both of the platforms and the two tracks between. Time in recce is seldom wasted: I knew the platform nearest me would be going toward Cannes. What I was hoping was that both of the Romeos were going down into the tunnel to the left, and would emerge on the far-side platform, which would mean they were off to Nice.
I got on the radio as I checked the timetables. “That’s the Romeos on the platforms. L, can you see them?”
“L’s foxtrot.”
I waited in the cover of the station listening to an NRG Radio jingle booming out from the café area.
Lotfi came on the net. “Stand by, stand by. L has the two Romeos on the far platform. They’re static the tunnel exit. N, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
The framed and Plexiglas-covered timetable on the wall said the next train for Nice was at nine-twenty-seven, stopping at Gare Riquier, just seven hundred yards or so from the target shop on Boulevard Jean XIII. Maybe I’d made the right choice in sending Hubba-Hubba there, after all.
I waited near the timetable and listened to the high-caffeine breakfast show blaring from the radio. I didn’t want to move anywhere else now, because if I crossed the concourse toward the café the two Romeos would be able to see me.
Posters carried pictures of happy families going on trains and really enjoying themselves, all with unnaturally perfect teeth. I studied them for a couple of minutes before Lotfi came back on. “Stand by, stand by. Train’s approaching, no change on the Romeos. I’m going complete. N, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
The train entered the station from the direction of Cannes. The dirty blue and silver train cars squeaked to a halt. I ran out onto the platform, turned left, and headed for the tunnel. Through the grimy glass of the cars I followed the two Romeos’ dark faces as they waited to step aboard with the dozen or so others alongside them.
I raced down the steps and along the dimly lit tunnel, passing the people who’d just gotten off the train. It looked perfectly natural in this environment: who didn’t run to catch a train?
Taking the steps two at a time and making sure my brim was down low, I didn’t look at their car, but continued and entered the next one along. Taking my seat immediately to keep out of the way, I kept an eye on the tunnel just in case they’d changed their minds, or were putting in some antisurveillance. The train doors closed before it jerked forward and off we went as I tried to control my breathing. “L, we’re mobile. Go for it now, go! Acknowledge.”
Click, click.
He’d be hitting the coast road on his way to Nice, hot on the heels of Hubba-Hubba, who should have been at least a third of the way there by now.
I couldn’t see the Romeos through the glass of the connecting door this time, but I’d be able to see if they got out at one of the four or five stops on the way.
We emerged from the shade of the station building and the morning sun burnt through the glass, making me squint, even with my sunglasses and hat on. I just sat there and watched the Mediterranean go past as we traveled the twenty minutes toward Nice.
Gare Riquier wasn’t like the station at Antibes, an old building made new: it was still old, an unmanned pickup and drop-off point for commuters.
The two Romeos disembarked along with a woman in a big flowery dress, dragging a tartan shopping cart behind her. Both now with shades on, they walked out of the station and left toward the busy road, which was the main drag I’d used to get up to L’Ariane and the safe house. I followed them out. The main street was about forty yards away, and the noise of traffic was almost deafening. Trucks, cars, and motor scooters fought for space on the pavement in both directions as their exhausts hazed the air. The Romeos stopped about halfway, dug out a map from the side pocket of the bag, and got their bearings. If they were going to the target store, it would be left at the main road, straight on for about four hundred yards, then right onto Boulevard Jean XIII. I waited by a wall smothered in spray-painted graffiti in both French and Arabic. I imagined the good news was that they all fucked girls, but I couldn’t be sure.
The Romeos put away their map and turned left at the main road, under the railway bridge, before crossing over and heading north along the right-hand side of the street, maybe to keep in the shade, maybe because they should be turning right eventually anyway. Romeo One had the bag over his shoulder and was still looking like a cat on hot bricks as he checked left and right of him, still seeing nothing. They carried on past rows of low-end cafés, banks, and stores, everything that fed the east side of town, all very much the poor relations of their counterparts in Cannes or downtown Nice.
Smaller roads fed the main road from both sides and the odd tree stuck out along the sidewalk. But instead of grass around them, there was just mud and windblown McDonald’s cartons, dog shit, and cigarette butts. It was a lot easier to do the follow here than it had been in Monaco; one, because there was less CCTV to worry about, and two, because there were many more people moving around in all directions. Wherever they were heading, they were obviously late.
I tried a radio check but there was nothing from either Lotfi or Hubba-Hubba. I wasn’t expecting there to be, but it would have been nice if they’d been here somewhere to back me.
They crossed several small intersections on the right, then stopped at a l
arger one that had lights, waiting with the impatient herd, which was growing as vehicles hurtled past and air brakes hissed. There were a lot more brown and black faces here than in Monaco, and the two Romeos weren’t getting a second glance. They took the opportunity to check their map again, while I took particular interest in the range of mattresses in the window of a pine bed shop. They should be turning right at the next intersection, which was a crossroads, to get on to Jean XIII. From there the target store was roughly three hundred yards up the boulevard on the right.
Chapter 46
Romeo One still looked around as if he were expecting the sky to fall on his head. He lit up as Romeo Two went back to the map.
The signal turned green and they crossed. I gave another radio check before following behind. “Hello, anyone, this is N. Radio check, radio check.”
Nothing.
They turned on to Jean XIII and became temporarily unsighted. I quickened my pace and fought with the flow of pedestrian traffic to get eyes on again as French and Arabic music fought its way out of cafés and cheap clothes stores. It was risky to do so this early in the take, because of third-party awareness. No matter where you are, someone is always watching. But I had to get in there, I had to keep on top of them, being so close to the target and the hawallada, whom we still had to ID.
I started across the road at the junction with Jean XIII, taking chances with the traffic. A motor scooter had to swerve to get out of my way. The Romeos were still foxtrot toward the target, still on the right. I got to the other side, turned right, then had them once more. Being on the opposite side of the road gave me a better perspective of what they were up to than if I’d been directly behind them.
The stores were all selling pots and pans, kitchen garbage cans, and bundles of brightly colored plastic coat hangers, and the Romeos mingled well with the early shoppers who’d just stocked up on toilet cleaner and garbage bags.
The net burst into life. “That’s H turning onto the boulevard. Radio check, radio check.”
It was a relief to hear his voice. I hit the pressle on my Sony. “N has Romeo One and Romeo Two on the right on the boulevard. They’re at the Café Noir, on the right. H, acknowledge.” Just as I released the pressle, I saw his Scudo pass me.
“H has, H has. I’m going for the trigger.”
I double-clicked him as I continued taking the Romeos. Both of them were checking store numbers to the right and left of them. We came to a small street market selling fruit and veggies, and the Romeos disappeared now and again between bins of apples and melons.
I gave a running commentary for Hubba-Hubba and also, I hoped, for Lotfi, who at some stage was going to rejoin the net and would need to get up to speed on the situation. “N still has Romeo One and Romeo Two. On the right at the fruit market, still straight, toward the store. H, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
Ten seconds later he came back on the air. “That’s H static, thirty yards past the store on the right. The target is a fabric store, one old man, Arab, white shirt, buttoned up, no tie. That’s H foxtrot.”
I double-clicked him. The Romeos had stopped at a small intersection and were still checking numbers. Romeo One scanned the crowd of shoppers as Hubba-Hubba came back up on the net.
“H has the trigger. N, acknowledge.”
Great news. “Roger that. Romeo One, Romeo Two, still on the right, approaching the end of the market. Can you after the market?”
There was a gap while Hubba-Hubba worked it out.
Click, click.
“Roger that. That’s ten short, still on the right.”
I shut up now and waited for Hubba-Hubba to see them. They passed the last stall and had gone no more than three or four paces before he was back. “H has Romeo One, Romeo Two.”
Now I could drop back a little and let Hubba-Hubba take them into the shop. “That’s now fifty short, still on the right.”
I could still see the Romeos, but the fact that Hubba-Hubba had the trigger gave me the freedom to think about what I was going to do next. I just hoped that Lotfi got here soon.
“That’s twenty-five short, still on the right, checking numbers. They’re slowing down, they’re slowing down.”
I kept my head low as I listened, pretending to window-shop as the world passed by. There was no need to look directly at the targets. I was being told what was going on, and it would be a nightmare if we had eye-to-eye.
“That’s approaching the target. Wait, wait. That’s at the target, going complete…that’s complete the target. They’re talking to the white shirt. Wait, wait.” The cry of a baby and a flood of female Arabic burst over the net. I heard their chatter get weaker: he was walking away from it. “H is foxtrot, I can’t hold the trigger, I can’t hold the trigger.”
I quickened my pace.
“Roger that. N going for the trigger. You take the rear, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
As I got nearer I could see what the problem was. Hubba-Hubba was crossing from left to right over the road just past the target: he’d been lurking in a doorway, which two headscarfed women with long coats and a stroller were trying to get through.
He reached the intersection, which was two storefronts to the left of the target, and disappeared. His route would take him around to the rear of the stores and the wide alleyway.
Security was now definitely being sacrificed for efficiency as I stopped to have a look at the display outside a hardware shop. Ladders on the sidewalk leaned against the wall, and brooms and brushes sprouted between the rungs. No matter; at least I could see the store. “N has the trigger.”
Click, click.
I could also see the conversation that was happening between the unknown in the white shirt and Romeo One and Romeo Two. When that finished, they started to walk toward the rear of the dimly lit store. I had to take off my glasses so I could see inside clearly. It looked almost empty, with not much more stock than a few rolls of multicolored fabric lining the walls. They passed a long glass counter with lengths of cut material all over the place, then another man emerged from the rear internal door with a group who’d been standing in the shadows.
“Stand by, stand by. Unknowns on target.”
Then I realized they weren’t unknown. It was the man with the goatee I’d seen get out of the Lexus on Wednesday night in Juan-les-Pins, and go into the Fiancée of the Desert. His smaller, bald-headed driver was standing to his right, still looking bored.
Goatee leaned forward and spoke into Romeo Two’s ear without any greeting. I got back on the net. “That’s a possible Romeo Three. Tall, Arab, black on jeans, and goatee beard, with three or four unknowns.”
There was a little more movement in the gloom. My view was abruptly blocked as a truck rumbled between us. By the time it had passed, everybody was starting to pile back through the internal door.
“They’re heading to the back of the store,” I said. “That’s all three Romeos unsighted, could be coming your way. H, acknowledge.”
“Nearly there, I’m nearly there. Wait out.”
It had to be the hawallada. They were whispering the password.
I moved away from the hardware store. It was pointless being exposed to the white shirt, who had now returned to the glass counter. I could still keep the trigger from a distance. I turned back the way I’d come, making sure I could still see the place.
“Hello, this is L. Radio check, radio check.”
Relief wasn’t the word for it as I felt for the pressle and stopped by the door of an apartment, behind a newsstand. “N has the trigger on the shop. Where are you?”
“Approaching the target from the main.”
“Roger that. Wait.”
I kept my eyes on the store as a group of teenagers in the world’s baggiest jeans ambled past with Walkmans in their ears and cigarettes in their hands. It gave me time to think before I hit my pressle.
“L, sit rep. I have the trigger front. Romeo One and Romeo Two are compl
ete the shop with a possible Romeo Three. Arab, tall, black on blue and a goatee. H is foxtrot and getting the trigger rear. Go static and stay complete in case Romeo Three goes mobile. L, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
As soon as that finished, Hubba-Hubba came on the net. “H has the trigger.” I heard him trying to control his breathing so he could be heard clearly.
“N, acknowledge. N, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
“That’s L static. First intersection past the market and can take in all directions. N, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
I guessed he was at the intersection facing the boulevard now, to be able to do that, so he could come onto the avenue and turn left, right, in all directions.
Hubba-Hubba started to give plate checks in case any of the vehicles behind the store went mobile with the possible hawallada. “White Mercedes van, Zulu Tango one-five-six-seven. Large scrape on the left-hand side. Blue Lexus, Alpha Yankee Tango one-three. Highly polished.”
I was right, it was him.
“Stand by, stand by — movement by the vehicles.”
The net stayed open for a few seconds and I could hear Hubba-Hubba’s labored breathing and the rustle of his clothes before it went dead. There was a long pause and I could feel my heart go up a gear as I waited for the next stand-by to say vehicles had gone mobile. Lotfi would be doing the same, and his engine would be running in preparation. The world just walked on past as we both waited on Hubba-Hubba.
The net crackled into life. “That’s an Arab, short, fat, brown wool on jeans. Foxtrot from the shop. Wait…He’s going to the Mercedes, he’s heading for the van. Wait…wait…no good, I think he’s seen me, he’s using a cell. That’s me foxtrot. Lost the trigger, lost the trigger.”
I hit the pressle with my eyes still on the front of the target. “H, go complete. Stand by to take anything that goes mobile. L, go—”
Two guys exited from the front of the shop. The expression on their dark-skinned faces said they were on a mission.
