Liberation Day (28 page)

If the destination was Nice, I’d just use the Cannes ticket and get off earlier. My tickets were still printing out as Hubba-Hubba came on the air. I could tell by the noise of traffic and his disjointed speech that he was walking fast. “Too much third party, I’m going complete. They are definitely on the Monaco side, definitely on the Monaco side.”

I double-clicked him as I went and checked the timetables. The Monaco train was due in ten minutes’ time, at twelve-forty-one.

It would take much longer to get to Monaco by road at this time of day than the thirteen minutes it took by train, but Lotfi was waiting for me to press the button. The plan was that he’d drive to the underground parking garage by the Palais de la Scala and be ready to receive the two Romeos if I screwed up on the follow and lost them, while Hubba-Hubba tried to catch up. I needed the latter here for the time being, just in case the Romeos changed direction after Lotfi had taken off for Monaco. I made my decision.

I ran my finger down the timetable like a puzzled tourist. “L?” I got two clicks. “Go now, go now. Acknowledge.”

I could hear the engine already turning over while his pressle was down.

“L is mobile.”

He’d have just twenty minutes to get there. I hoped he didn’t get caught behind a truck on the narrow road.

Hubba-Hubba kept it brief. He knew I was in the station, and might therefore be surrounded by people.

“H is complete and has the trigger on the station exit. Do not acknowledge.”

The timetable remained very interesting for a while as a middle-aged couple chatted with the guy at the newsstand, and played with the demented little dogs; then I turned my attention to some ads for sun-soaked vacations in Mauritius for something like seven hundred bucks a night, and decided that Cape Cod was more my kind of place.

The couple said their good-byes to the guy and cooed over his dogs one last time before moving over to the glass doors and clunking in their tickets. As they passed through to the platform, I could hear the train, right on time. The rumble on the tracks got louder and the dogs growled as the train stopped with a squeal of brakes. I clunked my ticket and waited by the validation posts until I could hear electric doors slide open and people say their French good-byes. Only then did I walk onto the platform, without looking left or right, and climb into the first train car I saw.

From my forward-facing seat, I could see the backs of the Romeos’ heads and the Slazenger bag on the rack above them through the interconnecting car doors. I sat and waited, ready to jump off again if they did. The doors closed and with a slight jerk the train started to pull out.

Hubba-Hubba came on the net. “Are the Romeos on the train?”

Click, click.

“Are you on the train?”

Click, click.

“H is mobile.”

His foot was probably flat to the boards as the Scudo screamed toward Monaco.

The railroad line followed the coast road, but there was no sign of Hubba-Hubba. It was going to be a nightmare for him to catch up; he’d just have to do the best he could.

There was no way I was going to walk into their car, in case we met in the aisle. One of them might be heading for the toilet, or simply moving away from where they’d gotten on, as I would in their position, to try to avoid surveillance.

I sat and watched the sea, and kept an eye on the vehicles we were overtaking on the road. With luck, Lotfi would be approaching the tunnels just short of Monaco.

As we neared Monaco, gracious old buildings with wooden shutters and ugly new ones blocked my view of the sea. Then we entered the tunnel that took us deep into the mountains. The train rattled on for a few minutes in darkness before emerging into the brilliant light of an immense underground station. The place looked like something out of a James Bond film, a huge stainless-steel and marble cavern.

The train slowed and a few people got up from their seats and gathered their bags and briefcases. I stayed put, looking out at the station. The platforms were clean and the marble highly polished; even the light fixtures looked like they came from Ikea.

Train doors opened, and people dressed for work rubbed shoulders with Japanese tourists sporting their Monaco Grand Prix sweatshirts and Cannes baseball caps as they got out onto the platform and headed toward the front of the train. I, too, stepped out and followed the herd, the brim of my cap well down as I checked around me.

I spotted them up ahead. Romeo Two still had his sunglasses on, and One had the bag over his shoulder. I got my shades out and put them on my nose as well. Maybe sixty or seventy yards ahead of me were sets of escalators that led up to a bridge. The herd was moving up them and left, across the tracks, to the ticketing hall. I caught another glimpse of the Romeos doing the same. Romeo Two took off his glasses as they crossed, looking at everything but hopefully seeing nothing, as smooth announcements floated over the loudspeaker system, and giant flat-screen TVs flashed train information.

We came into the ticketing hall: more acres of stainless steel and polished marble, still underground. All around me shoes squeaked and high heels clicked, to the accompaniment of coffee machines hissing and people jabbering to each other over espressos. The crowd was waiting for one of the many elevators to take them up to ground level. I didn’t want to join them, no matter how big a crowd the elevators could accommodate.

With my left hand holding down the fanny pack and the pistol grip of the Browning, I pounded up the steel stairs, turning back on myself every tenth step or so. It was farther than I’d expected, and I was starting to get out of breath. It hit me that I’d made a mistake: my chances of getting up there before the two collectors were slim. I could have gone faster if I’d held the handrail, but I didn’t want to leave any sign. I pumped my arms back and forth, and kept going for it.

At last I saw daylight above me. Three more flights and I was at ground level. I saw the four silver doors for the elevators and a small group of people waiting. I walked into the entrance hall gulping in air, trying to calm myself down as the back of my neck started to sweat. The glass and steel frontage of the small hallway looked out on a bus shelter on my side of a busy road. I could see we were high above the principality, as I was looking out onto the Mediterranean, but there was no port. It must have been below somewhere.

The breeze blew in from the sea as I headed for the bus stop. My eyes darted about, looking for the Romeos. They should be going left, to the de la Scala.

I saw them then, at a corner about fifteen yards away to my left. Romeo Two was checking a small map as One looked about nervously and got involved in a pack of Marlboros. I kept my back to them now, and walked directly to the bus stop, hitting my pressle. “Hello, hello, is anyone there? This is N, anyone there?”

There was nothing. I gave it just under a minute, then spun around to face the road, hoping to see them in my peripheral vision. They were walking down the hill toward the casino and the general area of the Palais. I set off behind them, and immediately spotted two CCTV cameras. I hated this place: it was like an extra-large, extra-rich version of the the Osbournes’ house.

I crossed to the right-hand side of the road, hoping to avoid them; the port was about three hundred feet below me. Huge gray clouds hung above us, cutting the tops off the mountains.

Hordes of trucks and motorbikes screamed up and down a road that had probably been built in the early 1900s for the odd Bentley or two.

The more we descended to the middle ground of the casino area, the taller the bank buildings became around us. Houses that had once been grand private residences were now plastered with brass plates. I could almost smell the big money deals going down behind their heavily blinded windows.

The Romeos consulted the map again before continuing on past the shiny Rolls-Royces, Jags, and Minis lined up in the British Motor Showrooms, as One dragged on his Marlboro, sending smoke up above him before it got taken by the wind. If they were heading for the de la Scala, they’d have to cross over soon and turn off to the right. I stopped, stepped into the doorway of a bookshop, and got very interested in a French cookbook with a picture of a big pastry on its cover.

They crossed. I hit my pressle again, smiling away like an idiot chatting on his cell phone. “Hello, hello, anybody there?”

They must be heading for the de la Scala. They were now on my side of the road and walking down Avenue Saint-Michel. I knew that because it was engraved expensively on a slab of stone just above my head, like all the street names here.

They committed to the right-hand bend of the avenue just fifty yards down the hill and became unsighted to me. Dead ahead of them now, about two hundred yards away, beyond manicured lawns, fountains, and frost-protected rubber plant things, was the casino and its Legoland policemen. But they still had about another fifty yards until the end of Avenue Saint-Michel, where once more they had a choice of direction.

I got on the net again as I started to follow. “Hello, hello, hello. Anyone there?” Still nothing.

33

I
didn’t want to stay behind them because I wasn’t being proactive. If I was going to be the only member of the team on the ground with the Romeos, I really needed to be doing Lotfi’s job now, waiting for them in the de la Scala for the meet with the
hawallada
. But that meant jumping ahead, and if they went somewhere else once they got to the end of the avenue I’d be in the shit.

I carried on down Saint-Michel and talked to my imaginary girlfriend with a big smiley voice. “Hello, hello, this is N.” Still nothing. Maybe they were caught in the traffic; maybe Lotfi was here but down in the parking garage. Whatever was going on, I had to make a decision.

I turned onto some steps that went directly downhill, to cut off the bend that they’d followed toward the casino. The steps led to an apartment building on the steep side of the road, and were well worn, which I hoped was going to prove it was a short cut.

I hurtled down them, past exotic plants and boring gray concrete blocks on each side of me, keeping my left hand on the fanny pack and Browning and checking traser, as if I were late for an appointment, until I reached the road below. The casino was to my half-left about a hundred and fifty yards away. Legoland policemen kept people moving so the Ferraris and Rolls-Royces had somewhere to park. The manicured lawns were being pampered by the sprinklers; directly left along the road, just under a hundred yards, was the intersection with the avenue. I turned right, not checking anywhere because the Romeos could already be at the intersection and heading my way. I continued to play looking at my watch as I hurried past fur-coated women and expensive stores.

By the time I rounded the corner to the de la Scala square, my neck was not just damp but drenched with sweat. There was no sign of Lotfi anywhere on the grass, listening to my follow so he could decide when the time was right to go into the mall and get a trigger on the meet. The only people in sight were the orange-jumpsuited, tree-cutting crew, having a coffee break on a bench. I tried again on the radio, but there was nothing. I’d just have to get on with it: I might be the only one here.

I started toward the glass doors of the mall, taking deep breaths to reoxygenate myself, pushed through with my shoulder as I wiped the sweat with my shirt cuffs, and headed straight for the café, past the reception and the Roman marble entrance. The same immaculately dressed dark-haired woman was operating the desk, and still gabbing on the phone. The same sort of people were at the café, too, talking discreetly into cell phones or reading papers. Some did both. I pulled up a chair to the rear of the outside tables and by the left-hand corner of the mall, so I was facing the reception but could also cover the exit by the dry-cleaner’s.

I started to worry a little as I flattened my wet hair on the back of my head. What if the Romeos had gone elsewhere? Hell, I was committed now. I’d just have to wait and see.

The waiter who took my coffee order was more interested in watching a woman crossing her stockinged legs at one of the other tables than he was in my sweaty face. I took off my glasses and just hoped that one of the other two was nearly here. I needed some backup desperately.

My
crème
turned up with a cookie and a small paper napkin between the cup and saucer to take the spills. I handed the guy a fifty-franc note, not wanting to wait for a bill later. I needed to be able to jump up and go, without being chased myself for doing a running off. The change emerged from his money-bag and smacked down on the table just as Lotfi burst onto the net. He was out of breath and, by the sound of it, on foot and moving fast. “Anyone, anyone, stand by, stand by. Anyone there? Stand by, stand by. They are in the square, Romeo One and Two in the square approaching the mall.”

I reached into my jacket as I took a sip from the napkin-wrapped cup.

The snarl of a chainsaw gave me a clue to his location. “That’s complete the building now, they’re inside.”

Click, click.

There was relief on the air. “Is that N?”

Click, click.

“Are you inside?”

Click, click.

“Okay, I’ll stay outside, I’ll stay outside.”

Click, click.

The Romeos appeared at the end of the hallway and looked around, getting their bearings: they obviously hadn’t been here before. They eventually walked up to the reception area and studied the board. They stood for ten or fifteen seconds before their eyes seemed to lock on to the address they wanted: Office 617, the Monaco Training Consultancy.

I took another sip of coffee and watched between the heads of two women who were babbling in Italian in front of me, smoking themselves and anyone nearby into an early grave. Romeo Two had his shades back on now. He took a pen from his inside pocket and used it to press the buzzer; I bet he’d used his shoulders to get through the door as well.