o stony ground above it. Moving into a possible OP site from the front was something that I would never normally do: it leaves sign in the very place you are trying not to draw people's attention to. But it didn't matter here; there was enough human and dog sign about already. I scrabbled up the bank and into the bushes, settling behind a large palm bush that branched into a perfect V at about head height. The field of view wasn't bad; I could see the whole of the marina, and the binos would get me right on to the Ninth of May, wherever it parked. I could also see all three exit points. The vehicles by the roundabout were now deserted and the jumpsuits had split into two groups, each with a hyperactive spaniel on a lead. I watched as the dogs scurried about the piers as if they were demented, darting, stopping, pointing their noses towards the backs of the boats. It had to be drugs; they were carrying out spot checks or looking for some kit that had been smuggled in. I sat and thought about the three million dollars US that was headed towards the Ninth of May, a vast amount of US bills that would be contaminated with drug residue, as most US cash is. Tens of thousands of them bundled together would send even a half-bored sniffer dog crazy. Was that what they were aiming for now? Were they checking for the cash? No, they couldn't be. They would be more proactive, there would be a lot more support. This looked like a routine operation. I let them get on with it, and stood up to take a look over the four-foot-high hedge. There was a tarmac pavement, and beyond that a narrow strip of garden on the level ground before the road, and, maybe fifteen metres downhill, about ten nose-in parking spaces. Just over a hundred metres further was the marina's main entrance. I took off my sun-gigs and sat back in the OP, taking a few pictures of the target area before checking traser. There was plenty of time before the safe house meet to stay static and tune in to the place. Could I be seen, for example, from the pavement above or the path in front if somebody walked past? I listened to the traffic, which was constant but not heavy, and started to visualize what I wanted the other two to do when I triggered the collectors off the boat. I looked down at the jumpsuits and dogs as they worked their way round the marina, and wondered if French intelligence were on to the collectors as well. Their External Security Service hadn't messed about in the mid-eighties when Greenpeace's Rainbow Warrior had parked up for the night in Auckland, New Zealand, as it campaigned against French nuclear testing in the Pacific. DGSE's Operations Division, using divers from their Swimmer Combat Command, just blew up the boat, no fucking about. I was glad these people weren't allowed to operate on French soil but then again, we weren't either, and these were strange times. Fifteen. I continued to play about with ways we could take the collectors from the boat to wherever they were going to pick up the money. I needed a half-decent plan I could present to the other two at the safe house. We needed a structure, orders that would be the template for the operation. It would change as more information was gathered or the collectors did something we didn't expect, but at least we would have something to guide us. A few old women gossiping at warp speed in high-pitched French were walking behind me with their dogs. I could hear claws scratching the tarmac as they moved past. I sat for nearly an hour as the police dogs wagged their tails and sniffed like mad things down in the marina. The old guy was still digging his way downhill, unperturbed by the activity going on below us. I wasn't worried; he shouldn't see me, and if he did, so what? I'd just pretend to have a piss and hope he wouldn't be back to tend this part of the garden for another three days. When I checked traser again it was one forty-seven. The safe house was no more than an hour away, so I'd stay a little longer. Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted. A bit of a wind had got up, and the boats were swaying from side to side now. The cry of a seagull took me straight back to the Boston yacht club, and the thought that I could be working there now, pulling pints of Samuel Adams in a place where the dogs weren't allowed to shit, and I wouldn't have to spend all day in a bush. Just after two o'clock, a while since the jumpsuits had gone, I decided to make a move, thinking it was a shame that the gardener hadn't made it this far along. It would have been a good test of the position. Not wanting to destroy the very bit of vegetation behind me that was hiding me from the road, I moved right, along the hedgerow about four or five metres, and, after checking the other side, climbed over. I pulled the peak of my cap down some more and replaced my gigs as I followed the pavement back to the marina entrance. Once at the roundabout, I turned left, past the shops and cafe on the way to the car. I played the tourist as ever, taking a lot of interest in the boats and how wonderful they were, looking around and enjoying myself as some more Kronenbourgs were being summoned from the tab ac The boys were going to have to wait a while before they kicked some al-Qaeda butt. I drove back towards Nice. Hubba-Hubba and Lotfi would both have checked their emails at one-ish, and be on their way to the safe house. Each of us had no idea where the other was staying, and, just like on the Algerian job, we didn't know what names we were using as cover. We'd come into France at different times, but had been operating as a team for the last four days. I alone knew how to contact George. Anything they didn't need to know I wouldn't be telling them, just in case they ended up hanging upside down as a nice man read them their horoscopes with a length of two by four on the soles of their feet. Even though I hardly knew these guys, I couldn't help liking them. It was obvious that they knew each other well, and they made me feel as if I'd been sort of adopted by them. But operational security was something we all understood and, fuck it, I'd never see them again after Sunday, so we weren't exactly aiming to be friends for life. In preparation for this job I'd cut the TAOR [tactical area of responsibility] into three areas, allocating one for each of us to familiarize himself with in depth, or at least as much as we could in such a short time. Then we had a day in each other's areas. Hubba-Hubba had to recce the area from Monaco to the west side of Nice, ending at the airport. I took over from there to the west side of Cannes, and Lotfi took from Cannes down to St-Raphael, about twenty Ks along the coast. We'd now read enough guidebooks and travel information on our TAOR to start our own holiday company. But it had to be done; from the moment the boat arrived, we needed to be able to operate as if we'd lived in this part of the world for years. We could have done with a few more weeks to bed in properly, but as usual we were victims of life's two fuckers: not enough information, and not enough time. We now had to learn how the buses and trains worked here, even down to the fare structure. If Greaseball was right, it was highly likely that we'd find ourselves following these people on public transport. At the very least, we'd need to have the correct change or tokens ready so as not to draw attention to ourselves. To operate successfully, a team like ours had to achieve three goals. The first was to establish efficient communication and information flow within the unit, and then separately between the unit leader and the command structure. The second was to limit the chances of discovery by outsiders, by minimizing the number of communication links between the members. That meant no phone calls, no meetings other than at the safe house, and even then only when operationally necessary. There had to be no other communication other than my contacting them by their individual email, and no marked road maps, in fact nothing on paper. Everything had to be committed to memory. The less of a trail we left, the better our chance of survival. The third goal was to limit the damage that might be done if one member of the team was discovered and removed from the network, which meant minimizing the number of direct links with each other, and only sharing information on a need-to-know basis. That was why we had split up and done our own thing so far: if one of us got lifted, he didn't know where the other two were, he didn't know their full names, he didn't know anything apart from my Canadian email address. Working within these constraints had meant that we had to sacrifice efficiency in communications, intelligence gathering and planning, but it kept us alive. Now, as the job started kicking off, we had no choice but to operate more visibly as a team, which made us more effective, but more vulnerable to discovery. My route took me back into Nice along the Promenade des Anglais. I reached the centre of town and turned right, away from the beach, heading north. I flicked on Riviera Radio and got the same boring voice I'd heard at the marina. He was waffling his way through a badly worded commercial for easily fitted security shutters for the home and office. Then there was a review of the American newspaper headlines. It was all doom and gloom and people dying of anthrax. For about the hundredth time since I'd left, all I could do was hope that no one I knew was affected. 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 blocks built far too close to each other. I followed the road round a sharp left-hand bend and over the railway lines, then hit the maze of high-speed feeder roads to the motorway. I drove beside the river. At this time of the year it was just a hundred-metre-wide stretch of sandstone-coloured rock and rubble, in the centre of which a trickle of water wound its way down towards the sea. Beautiful nineteenth-century houses that had once lined the banks were now towered over by DIY super stores and warehouses There were no palm trees round 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 cafes and shops 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 for ever. I remembered a job I'd been on with the Regiment 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 cafes 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 garden. 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 pain. 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 cafe it was vital not to go to the same place twice. It was all a major pain in the arse, 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-bed semis with privet hedges near the commuter station. But here it meant ghetto; high-density tower blocks where les immigres, 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 auntie'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 turning left into the estate and parked outside the kebab-cum-cleaner's-cum-patisserie-cum-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 Megane; 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 got together on the twentieth to sort out the recces and divide the areas, and again earlier today, to deliver the kit I'd picked up from the DOR Sixteen. 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 pulling pints 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 carrier bags full of cans and breakfast cereals. She was blending in here a lot more easily than I was. I went to the boot and got out my bag, locked up and headed straight for the entrance to the nearest block of flats 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 block, and since I was a white stranger, that probably meant I was there for drugs. Because I was alone and without armed back-up, I couldn't be a policeman. I headed straight out of the back door and into a square flanked by four identical blocks. It had probably looked wonderful when it was full of shiny little Dinky-toy vehicles in the architect's model. I could still make out the markings of a car park, but now the place looked more like a storage area for the incinerator next door than the forecourt of a Citroen dealership. It was littered with burnt-out cars and rotting food that seemed to have been flung out of the upper-storey windows. Windblown rubbish was heaped in drifts against the walls of every block 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 body to body. I strode purposefully across the square, putting in an anti-surveillance route to make sure I wasn't being followed. I entered the next block 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 got off the bus from Kosovo were in the entrance hall ahead of me, surrounded by kids with bobble 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 wraps in their hands, and stared me out, waiting to see my next move. The kids couldn't have cared less, they just wanted the wraps. 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 the road. I worked my way through a maze of small alleyways. Hollow-eyed men in shell-suit tops 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 colour they were, in this part of town everyone was burnt-out, just like the cars. I turned towards the last block. On my first visit I'd thought it had been condemned; the place had scorch marks licking up from every window. Breeze 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 on to a landing above me and gave the family duvet 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 estate. 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 dustbin 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 furthest one were closed, the windows covered with metal grilles. 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 flats behind me. The duvet shaker was giving someone inside her state-of-the-nation address. I checked that the first tell-tale was in position. It was: a new black bin liner, 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 bin bag for Lotfi and me to see as we made our approach. Hubba-Hubba would have got here about three; Lotfi thirty minutes or so later. If the bin liner 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 furthest cottage, I checked again that I wasn't about to be jumped on as I took off my sun-gigs. 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 tell-tales being replaced. I knocked on the door and watched. After a few seconds, the spy hole darkened. I lowered my eyes, but kept my face in line with it, to indicate that everything was OK, that nobody was against the wall and out of view with a weapon aimed at my head. Eyes are a good tell-tale; 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 inwards. 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 on to 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 settee, part of an ancient, flower-patterned three-piece suite. 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 Marigolds, 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 taken the piss out of 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 filling 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 to 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-moustache-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 sort of all right to see them again. Hubba-Hubba held up his hands, to give me the full benefit of his ridiculous flower-patterned gloves, and that only made things worse. Behind their disguises, both of them still had very neat hair and moustaches. 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 kit 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 into the next-door cottage. A mat had been glued over the trap-door, 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 that Hubba-Hubba had bought from a DIY store. We couldn't afford to leave behind anything like hair or clothes fibres that might be used against us. The sheeting and our other precautions wouldn't do a one hundred per cent job, but you can only do your best. I'm afraid we may have a problem, Nick." Lotfi nodded towards 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. 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 up at Beaulieu-sur-Mer some time 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. "Berth, Nick." He smiled. "You berth a boat." I smiled. "Berth, OK. I'll try to remember that one." "And the French don't have marinas," Hubba-Hubba added. "They have ports." Seventeen. I watched the two of them drop enough sugar cubes in 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 got from the news-stands, and a couple of sets of leads. I nodded at Hubba-Hubba. "OK, smart arse let's see if you can spark up Auntie's telly ..." 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 kit off any minute. I went round 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 schoolboys with a copy of May fair. I took another sip of coffee as I marshalled my thoughts. "OK. These are orders for the stakeout of Beaulieu-sur-Mer, and the take of the collectors from the target boat, the Ninth of May, to the hawalladas, then the hawalladas' lift and drop-off. We'll just call the marina BSM from now on, OK?" They both nodded, probably pleased to be spared my bad pronunciation. Their French, of course, was perfect. I held out my now empty cup to Hubba-Hubba, who was already doing refills. "OK, then, the ground ..." I fiddled with the buttons on the back of the camera to bring up one of the pictures of the marina. "BSM - I know you've been there, but I'm going to give these orders as if you haven't so we all know where we stand." I explained the layout of the town, the main coast road, railway line, station, bus stops and phone box. Lotfi got out his prayer beads and started to feed them, one by one, between his right thumb and forefinger. It sounded like the ticking of a clock. "Before I carry on," I took a breath, 'the source is the man we left behind in Algeria, the runner from the house. The Greaseball." They exchanged glances and their faces fell. "That's obviously why no one else in the house was to be touched." I paused, knowing very well what was going through their minds. "I thought you should know, that's all." It felt good wiping some of his slime off me, spreading the shit about a bit. The two of them looked at each other again and I could sense they, too, felt contaminated. "As I said, I don't know the locations or timings of these collections, but I have another Greaseball meet tonight, so hopefully we'll know then. "OK, let's have a look at the target area in detail the marina, the port, whatever you want to call it." I threw a glance at Lotfi. He managed a smile as I flashed up the entrance sign, and showed them the pictures I'd taken of the way that the piers, the shops, and the OP were positioned. "It will make more sense when you go down there to see it again for yourselves. Any questions?" They had none. Or maybe, as they studied the postcards and maps, sitting on plastic sheeting and trying to pick up the small coffee cups with rubber-gloved fingers, they had other things on their mind, apart from Lotfi's shower cap. "OK, situation so far: the Ninth of May is coming in tomorrow night Thursday. All I know about it is it's a white pleasure boat, quite large. "There will probably be three of them on board; one will always stay on the boat, while the other two collect. They're planning one collection a day for three days, starting Friday, and aiming to leave for Algeria with the money on Sunday some time after the last collection. So, we should be getting out of here by Monday, and by then Friday's haivallada should already have had everything he knows dragged out of him. By the time we're flying into the sunset Monday night, the first of the ASUs could already be having their doors kicked in by the FBI as they sit down to watch Jerry Springer." Lotfi lifted his head towards heaven. "In-sha'allah." I knew what it meant, and smiled. "If God wills it." Lotfi came down from the sky and looked at me as if I should be replying, so I dusted off some ropy Arabic. "As-salaam alaykum." I wasn't too sure I'd used the right reply, but it got me a smile and a "Wa alaykum as-salaam' in return as he looked over to Hubba-Hubba. I turned to him and caught him smiling back. "Hey, I think my Arabic's getting pretty good, these days. What do you reckon?" Hubba-Hubba gave a slow nod. "It's better than your English." They laughed and took sips of coffee as I joined them, thinking they were probably right. I got back to the orders before they took the piss out of me even more. "The collectors will use public transport trains and buses. Possibly taxis, but unlikely. Any questions?" I looked at each of them in turn, but they stayed silent. "OK then, enemy forces as normal, everyone and everything. During my recce today, the police came into the marina with dogs for what looked like a drugs search. It wasn't targeted at specific boats, but it's something we should be aware of. "Friendly forces basically, that's us. There's probably just a handful of people on board the warship who know what's happening, but you know they won't help us. If we're in the shit, don't expect any help." They gave each other a knowing nod. "The mission." I paused. "The mission is in two parts. One, identify the hawalladas and deliver them to the DOR Two, ensure the money never makes it to Algeria." The mission is always repeated so there is no doubt, even though I kept having the feeling that these two were way ahead of me. "The mission. One, identify the hawalladas and deliver them to the drop-off point. Two, ensure the money never makes it to Algeria." I knew by the look on Lotfi's face that I'd fucked up. "What's wrong?" "Hawallada. Not hawalladas. It is uncountable, both singular and plural there is no S." Hubba-Hubba nodded his agreement. "Hawallada it is. But I get to keep "parked" and "marina", right?" They thought that was a reasonable trade. "OK, then, let's have a look at how we're going to do it." I looked them both in the eye: fun time had ended, and they understood. "I see this happening in five phases. Phase one, the OP on the Ninth of May. Two, placing the device. Three, taking the collectors to the hawallada. Four, the hit and drop-off at the DOR Finally, phase five, preparing for the next day. Any questions?" I paused for a few seconds to let that sink in. They drank a little more brew. "Phase one the OP." Hubba-Hubba refilled as Lotfi got back to work on his beads. I showed them the pictures of where my car would be parked on the road behind the hedgerow. They would find somewhere within com ms distance when they did their own recces tomorrow. "I want you, Lotfi, to get in position on the town side of the marina. Check out the closing times of those shops." He nodded. "Hubba-Hubba, I want you to check out the other side's timings and find a lie-up position towards Monaco. I'll need the shop closing times when we meet tomorrow for the confirmation orders." It had been more important for me to find an OP position than spend time in the target area looking at shop signs. I went through how I saw the OP being checked out tomorrow night and, of course, what we were going to do if anything went wrong. "Questions?" I took a couple of sips of coffee as Lotfi's beads clicked away in his hand and Hubba-Hubba's cup made gentle contact with the table. They both shook their heads. "Phase two placing the device on the boat. I'm probably going to have to approach it from under the pier, or just walk straight on, but I won't decide until I know exactly what the boat looks like, and where it's going to be parked. If I can't get it in place tomorrow night, I'll keep trying until I do." I nodded at Hubba-Hubba. "You need to run me through the device after this." Lotfi grimaced. "You are a very brave man, Nick. Do you really think it was a good idea for him to play with explosives? He can only just tie his shoelaces. Even that I had to teach him." He slapped Hubba-Hubba across the back of the head. "Boooom." "OK, then, phase three taking the collectors, who we will call Romeo One and Two, to the hawallada. Nothing should happen until about six a.m. Friday at the earliest. There aren't that many buses or trains until around that time anyway. If the Romeos are moving around they'll want to use pedestrian traffic as cover and before six it's going to be a bit thin on the ground." I told them how we were going to take the Romeos, by bus, train and taxi, even a hire car in case Greaseball was wrong. Hubba-Hubba checked the coffee pot as I continued. "As I said before, it's unlikely they'll use taxis, so we need to make sure we know the drill for getting a bus or a train. Make sure you'vegot the right change. Find out how you get a ticket, and how it all works down here." They looked disappointed, but then I realized it was because the brew had run out. "No matter how we take the Romeos, at least one of us has to be there when they meet up with the hawallada. Otherwise there's going to be no lift, and we fail. Any questions? "OK, then, let's have a look at how we're going to carry out the lift. We don't know what languages they speak, if they're young or old, or where we're going to be able to do it. It will be think-on-our-feet time. If there is only one of us in a position to hit the hawallada, it's going to be tough. And remember, even after injection they could be kicking about for another couple of minutes." We all gave this some thought. A car horn honked and was joined by several others. The noise got louder as the vehicles came up the road towards us. We jumped to our feet, un peeling ourselves from the plastic. I immediately started to erase the pictures from the camera. "What the fuck's that?" Lotfi gathered up our brew kit and moved with it down into the escape. Hubba-Hubba was at the shutters as I went to the back of the TV and pulled out the wires. He raised his Marigolded hand. "It's OK, it's OK ... Calm." Lotfi came back into the room and I went with him to the window. A parade of six- or seven-year-old Mercedes and Renaults was moving slowly along the road, decorated with ribbons and bouquets. Lotfi laughed. "A wedding." I couldn't see a bride or groom, but felt glad that somebody in this shit-hole was having a good time. We got back to business on the settee. "Once the hawallada is in the DOP, the ready-for-pick-up marker is put in place are we OK with that?" There was more nodding. Hubba-Hubba sat back into the plastic, spreading it over the back of the settee. Lotfi just played with his beads. "Good. Phase five. Once the first hawallada is left at the DOP,we split up, refuel, feed our faces, and get back in position to wait for the next collection. The timings will depend on when we get the hawallada to the DOP. We should try to do it as soon as it's dark, so we have more time to prepare for the next day. But who knows? We could spend all night trying to lift him, and if we don't succeed, I'll decide whether we stay with him on day two, or go and get the trigger on the boat and take the Romeos to the second hawallada. That way, at least we have two IDs instead of just one. Questions?" They shook their heads. "OK, then, support. Radios?" I pointed at Hubba-Hubba. "Yes, I have laid everything out for you to check, and I now have more batteries. More batteries than I'm shaking a stick at." Lotfi laughed. "More batteries than you can shake a stick at..." He turned to me, his eyebrow raised. "You see, Nick? This boy needs help." I gestured at Hubba-Hubba. Thanks, mate. I'll go down and do a final check of the kit after this. In the meantime, do you both remember the phone number? I'll start zero four." Hubba-Hubba went, "Ninety-three, forty-five." Lotfi picked it up for the four numbers after that. "Great. Phone cards?" I reached into my bum-bag and pulled out my wallet and phone card, and they produced theirs. The phone booths here worked on cards that you could buy anywhere, and ours were all worth a hundred francs. "OK, last thing, insulin pens?" Hubba-Hubba nodded. "Downstairs." "Good. After we've finished here, I want you two to go and do your recces of BSM. Hubba-Hubba, make sure you finish by ten tomorrow morning. Lotfi, you go between eleven thirty and one thirty, because I want us all clear of the area before the boat comes in. We will meet back here tomorrow at nineteen hundred unless you hear from me online before sixteen, telling you otherwise. Can you make email at that time of day?" They nodded. Lotfi sparked up. "I will pray before leaving. It could be the last time for a few days, or for ever. Who knows these things but God?" I watched him shove the coffee table to the side of the settee while Hubba-Hubba went into the kitchen to start on the washing-up. I leant against the wall while he prepared himself, watching as he took off his trainers. "Ramadan started on the sixteenth of November, right? So how come you're working, eating and drinking -I thought someone like you would have stopped by now." He placed his trainers neatly beside him. To a Muslim, saving life is mandatory. If he or she does not have strength to do so without food, then it is mandatory to break the fast. Saving life, that is what we are doing, no? Do you think Muslim doctors stop work?" It made sense to me. "If they did, most of the hospitals across Europe would close down." He started to adjust his shower hat. "By the way, I read that article in the Tribune you told me about. I didn't realize the Virgin Mary gets more mentions in the Qur'an than she does in the Bible." He tucked in two rogue strands of hair. "Jesus is also revered in the Qur'an." "I've never really had much time for him. I could never be arsed to get out of bed on Sundays." He rewarded my glibness with a quiet smile. "So what gives you conviction, morals, fulfils your life?" I hated being asked questions by people who were so squared away. "I guess I just get by day to day, you know how it is." "No, I don't know. That's a sad thing, Nick. I feel sorry for you. There is so much you have missed." He gave me a stare so penetrating that I found myself looking away, checking on Hubba-Hubba behind me. "It must be painful being so empty inside.. ." "I like to keep things simple, just seems better that way." I was starting to wish I hadn't opened my mouth. "Simplicity is good, Nick. Emptiness is not." His expression softened again. "But there is always time to learn, time to fill yourself. You know, both the Bible and the Qur'an trace a common lineage back to Abraham and Adam. There really is a lot we all can learn from them. Maybe you should read them one day, they have made many people whole." I smiled. He smiled back, knowing there was more chance of me being struck by lightning. He turned his back to me so that he was facing east, in the direction of the TV. As he went down on his knees, I couldn't resist asking, "Is that why the world's so full of justice, mercy and compassion?" "I see you took your time reading that article, didn't you?" He didn't look back, but I could see the fuzzy reflection of his face in the TV screen. "Justice, mercy and compassion, that would be perfect, don't you think? But when I think of people like the ASUs in America, who use my religion as a vehicle for their own selfish anger, I see no justice, and find it difficult to feel mercy and compassion. But God has helped me overcome these things. You see, these people, these ASUs, they call themselves Muslims. But they are not truly so. In associating their acts with the will of God, they are guilty of shirk. This is the most unforgivable sin. So it is my duty as a true Muslim, someone who really has submitted himself to God, to send those who are sinning in his name before his angels, for their book of destiny to be weighed." I thought he and George should get together one day over a coffee. They'd have plenty to talk about. "At this time, God will decide what becomes of them. He decides everything, all our destinies." That's Kismet, right?" He turned back towards me as a car with a dodgy exhaust rattled past the window. "What do you know of Kismet, Nick?" "Not much." I grinned. "I saw the film when I was a kid. Loads of your mates flying around on magic carpets, that sort of stuff." "You make jokes to cover up so many things, don't you?" I shrugged, fighting back another stupid remark. "Kismet, justice, mercy and compassion. You have been studying a little bit more than that article since we last spoke, haven't you? Here is something else for you to think about." He turned back to the TV, sat on his heels and rocked slightly from side to side to adjust himself. He looked completely ridiculous in his shower cap, but spoke with such dignity I found myself hanging on his every word. "In Sura 28:88, the Qur'an says: "And cry not unto any other god along with Allah. There is no god save Him." "Now where have we heard these words before? We sound the same, and we are the same, in so many ways, except that the Bible has stories about our God written by many people, sometimes hundreds of years after the event, while the Qur'an holds God's very words, spoken directly to the Prophet. That's why one in five people on the planet is a Muslim, Nick. We feel closer to God." I shifted myself away from the wall. "Well ask him to keep an eye on us over the weekend, will you? We might need a hand." "Of course. But you know true believers are always triumphant over non-believers, in the end. Maybe you will be able to put a good word in yourself, one day." Eighteen. I went into the kitchen. Hubba-Hubba was rubber glove deep in washing-up suds as he cleaned the brew kit. "See you down there." He nodded as he tackled a stubborn coffee stain. His auntie would have been proud of him. The sounds of Lotfi at prayer floated in from the living room as I lifted the trap-door and went down the wooden ladder into the musty coolness of the cellar. It wasn't that big, maybe three metres by three, but high enough to stand up in. In the far corner was a coarse green blanket laid out with all our equipment in very straight lines. Hubba-Hubba really did like order. Squared up with the edge of the blanket were our radios, binoculars, and the drug packs we'd need to subdue the hawallada. I knelt in the dust of the stone floor and checked the radios first. They were small yellow Sony walkie-talkies, the sort of things designed for parents to keep track of their kids on ski trips or in the mall. We had two each, one on our bodies, one as a back-up in the boot of each car. If there was a drama with anyone's radio, they could either get their own spare or go to another vehicle, take the key hidden behind the rear licence plate, and help themselves to a replacement. The Sonys only had a communications distance of about a Kand a half, virtually line of sight. It would have been better to have a longer distance set in case we got split up during the follow, but at least it meant we couldn't be listened to out of that range. Taped to the bottom of each were eight AA batteries: two lots of stand-by power. Attached to a socket was a mobile phone hands free with a plastic ear clip The jack was taped firmly in place so it didn't fall out when someone was sending, because sod's law dictated that that was exactly when it would get pulled out, and we'd be in loud time, treating the world to a running commentary on what we were up to. The row of three rectangular grey plastic cases, each about seven inches long and three wide, contained enough anaesthetic to send an elephant to sleep. They were disguised as diabetics' insulin kits. I opened one to check the thin green auto pen sunk into its hard plastic recess. It was already loaded with a needle and cartridge. Also bedded into the plastic were another three needles that simply clicked on to the bottom of the pen, and another three cartridges. Once you had it against the target's skin, you pressed the trigger, and the spring inside would shoot the needle forward and inject the drug, which in this case wasn't insulin but ketamine. Alongside them was a card holding six nappy pins, with big pink plastic caps. The hawallada wouldn't be too worried about the colour: the pins were to prevent their tongues falling down their throats and choking them. Depressed ventilation was a side effect of this stuff, so their airway had to be kept clear at all times. I started to check the other two kits, making sure that each also contained a scratched and worn steel Medic Alert bracelet as cover, warning anyone who was interested enough to check that we were, strangely, all diabetic. Ketamine hydrochloride street name "Special K' or "K' is still used as a general anaesthetic for children, persons of poor health, and small furry animals. It is also a 'dissociative anaesthetic', separating perception from sensation. Higher doses, the sort we were going to give, produce a hallucinogenic effect. It can cause the user to feel very far away from their body They enter what some people call a "K-hole'; it has been compared to a near death experience, with the sensation of rising above one's body and finding it difficult to move. I had that feeling most mornings, but the amount these hawallada would be getting, they'd be waving through the space shuttle window. In powder form, ketamine looks a little like cocaine; street users snort it, bung it in drinks, or smoke it with marijuana. Our hawallada were going to be getting it in liquid form, jabbed into the muscle mass of their arse where there was little risk of us hitting a blood vessel and causing permanent damage. The three sets of green binos were small x8, the sort that fits into a coat pocket. We needed them in case we couldn't close in on the boat for the trigger and had to get eyes on the target from a distance. All these items were important, but none more so than the dark blue plastic cylinder that lay at the centre of the blanket. About eighteen inches long and three in diameter, it came apart if you twisted it in the middle. A length of fishing line had been fed through a small hole that we'd burnt with a hot skewer just by the join, and was held in position by a strip of insulation tape on the outside of the casing, which had been folded back on itself to make a tab for easy removal. The cylinder looked like it had come from a stationery shop, and was normally used for storing rolled-up drawings. Now it was full of some very exotic high explosive taken from a consignment made in Iran and sent to GIA in Algeria, but intercepted by the Egyptians on the way. I'd collected it at the same time as the insulin kits from the DOP, when I first got in-country. Like everything else on this job, the components from which the pipe bomb was constructed were normal everyday items that could be bought cheaply and without raising eyebrows. Hubba-Hubba had bought all the kit he needed from DIY stores: wooden clothes pegs, emery paper, drawing pins, a small soldering set, wire, super glue insulation tape. Thelast item on the shopping list had come from a phone shop. I felt a little guilty about giving Hubba-Hubba this task instead of doing it myself. I got on well with these people, yet here I was, jeopardizing his security by making him buy all the kit and build the device. But that was just how it was; as team commander I wasn't going to compromise myself if I didn't have to, and he knew the score. I heard footsteps behind me as the praying continued above, and saw Hubba-Hubba's trainers coming down the ladder. He still had his gloves on, and the cuffs of his rolled-up sleeves were wet. He came and knelt down beside me. "No offence, mate," I tapped one of the radios with my right index finger, "but you understand that I have to check everything." He nodded. He was a professional; he understood the mantra check and test, check and test. "You had better take a look at this, then. One of my best, I think." He carefully untwisted the cylinder and pulled it apart at the centre. The inside was packed with eight pounds of the mustard-coloured high explosive, with just enough space in the centre for the pager and initiation circuit, which were glued on to a rectangle torn from a cornflakes packet. The pager was glued face down, so that with the back cover removed, the two AA batteries and the rest of the workings were exposed. He laid the opened device back on the blanket. The sweet, almost sickly pick 'n' mix smell of the HE hit my nostrils. "Where did you make it?" Hubba-Hubba moved his head back to try to avoid the smell. "In a Formula One motel, just off the autoroute. People only stay for the night and move on, so it was a good choice. It only took me two hours to make, but the rest of the night to get the smell out of the room!" His smile didn't last long. "Nick ... the source, Greaseball. I don't like it, why are we using such a man? Afterwards maybe we should ' "Time to stop thinking about that, mate. I feel the same way but the sad fact is, he's worth more alive than dead. Just think of the int he's given us so far. He's the one who's getting us to the hawallada. And that's what we're here for, aren't we?" He looked down at the kit, his eyes scanning each item on the blanket as he nodded in grudging agreement. "Listen arse holes like that? It's not worth getting worked up about. I'm sure when he's no longer any use he'll be history. There'll be quite a queue." Hubba-Hubba's brow creased. "Do you have children, Nick?" I dodged the question. "I understand, believe me. His day will come." I pointed at the pager with a plastic-covered finger. "Come on, take me through this thing." He explained that the power to initiate the device would be generated when the bleeper notified the owner they had a message, hopefully from us. This pager either bleeps or vibrates, depending on the user's choice. I have diverted the notification power by rewiring it, so that when it receives our call the power is sent to the detonator instead of making the thing beep or vibrate." It didn't have to be a pager; anything that generated enough power to initiate the detonator could have been used. Psions or Palm Pilots do the job, especially if you know the exact date and time you want the device to initiate someone making a speech next month, say, or even next year. All you have to do is set the alarm on the schedule programme for the time and day, place the device, leave it, and when the notification sparks up, boooom, as Lotfi would say. I could see the two thin wires coming out of the end of the pager, one disappearing into the PE where the det was buried. The other was glued along the top jaw of the wooden clothes peg, which was, in turn, glued down next to the pager. I knew what it was doing there but waited for Hubba-Hubba to explain. It was his fireworks party. "Four kilos is a lot of high explosive, Nick, but it is not going to turn the boat into a Hollywood fireball unless you can locate it to ignite the fuel, of course." He was right. It would all depend on where I could place the thing. The clothes peg, Nick, that's the circuit breaker, your safety catch. To stop you going bang." I couldn't help but smile at his understatement as I checked the two AA batteries. Between the nipple of the top battery and its connection in the pager was a sliver of clear plastic cut from the pager's packaging, in case someone called a wrong number while I had this thing shoved up my jumper. It would stay there until just before I went to place the device. I wouldn't want to waste time opening the cylinder and messing about with bits of plastic when I got on the boat: I'd want to just get on board and get this thing hidden and armed as quickly as possible. Hubba-Hubba picked up a splinter of wood and used it to trace the circuit, following the det wire glued along the top of the peg then tucked under the top jaw. "I wrapped the wires around the drawing pins and soldered them. It is an excellent connection." The wire leading from the drawing pin in the lower jaw disappeared into the PE. For the time being, these two pins were separated by another piece of plastic, to which Hubba-Hubba had fastened the other end of the fishing line. He let me admire the circuit for a few more seconds. "It is good, yes?" I nodded. "Did you emery the pinheads?" He raised his hands in a gesture of disbelief. "But of course! As I said, it is an excellent connection. Before moving to the boat, you take out the battery breaker and close the device, OK? After checking this safety catch is in place, of course." "Of course." "Then, once you have placed the device, gently pull on the fishing line. Once the pinheads make contact, the circuit will be complete and it is time for you to leave the boat with quick feet!" Any one of us three could shove our phone card into a call box, ring the pager number, then tap in ten digits. Once contact had been made, we'd get "Message bien re cue which I supposed was the French for "Bang'. And that would be that; the boat, the people, the money, gone. I only hoped I'd be the one in the phone box outside the marina by the bus stop, watching the boat leave. I'd detonate as soon as the Ninth of May was safely in open water and, with any luck, some of the millions would be washed ashore at my feet. There was one question we didn't yet know the answer to: how far out to sea would the pager initiate? Hubba-Hubba gave his handiwork one more check. "It is all yours now." I twisted the cylinder back together as carefully as he'd undone it, and left it on the blanket. Upstairs, Lotfi was still praying at warp speed. Hubba-Hubba leant down to put the device back in line and I checked the rest of the kit. "Still warding off that evil eye thing?" I nodded at the pendant, which was swinging by his chin: the small, beaded hand with an unblinking blue eye in its palm. "Of course. I've had it since I was a baby. In Egypt, many children have charms pinned to their coats as protection. You see, Westerners think nothing of saying about a child, "Hasn't he grown?" or "Isn't he looking so healthy?" But these things are taboo where we come from. That is because the evil eye could make the child sick. That is why we only give compliments related to character, things you cannot easily measure, and even then only in a way that shows there is no malice or envy intended." "So the evil eye can't hear, right?" "Something like that. For instance, someone might see me driving later tonight and feel envious, and if they had the evil eye they could cause me to crash, maybe even die. But this," he tapped his chest, 'this has stopped such things happening to me for over thirty years. You should get one. In this world, they are more practical, perhaps, than that..." He looked upwards as the sound of Lotfi's prayers drilled their way through the floor. I stood up. "On this job," I said, dusting myself down, "I reckon we can use all the help we can get." Lotfi was just dotting the Is and crossing the "Is with God as I got my bag and Hubba-Hubba went to the door to check the spy hole I heard a bolt being drawn back as I pulled off my gloves and stuffed them into my bag. "Right, I'll see you later." Hubba-Hubba nodded "Au revoir before checking the spy hole once more. He gave me a thumbs-up, and I walked out into the darkness. I heard a dog barking off a balcony somewhere. I retraced my earlier route, with the bag back over my left shoulder and my right free for the Browning. There were no street lamps, and the only light came from the windows above me. Behind them, adults and kids hollered at each other, music blared, more dogs barked. I got to the door of the last block of flats, but made no attempt to stop and look out. I didn't want to draw attention to myself. I walked straight out, keeping my head down and my eyes up as I hit the key fob and the Megane's indicators flickered. I locked myself in and drove off immediately, as you would in this part of town. Two consecutive right turns got me back on to the main road. I wasn't worried about anti-surveillance yet as they wouldn't be following me around here. They'd wait at the exits from the estate. Once on the main, I kept my speed normal and drove into the city centre, heading for the coast and the Promenade des Anglais. There was still plenty to do. I needed to get something to eat, get back to Greaseball and, with luck, get the addresses, then go and see exactly where they were. I saw the bright yellow lights of a Shell garage as I approached the city centre, and drove on to the forecourt. Whenever there is an opportunity to fill up, no matter how little fuel is needed, it must be taken. Watching the vehicles drive past, I went through the routine of filling up with a plastic glove on, to stop the horrible petrol smell on my delicate skin. I messed about with the petrol cap, making mental notes of passing cars, their plates, make and colour, and number of passengers, hoping that I'd never see them again. French number plates comprised a group of numbers, then two or three letters, then another group of numbers. The easiest way to try to register them was just to take note of the letters and the last set of numbers. As the unleaded flowed, I continued moving my eyes about to see if there were any cars parked up with people in, looking, waiting for me to move out of the forecourt. But it was just the normal evening commuter crowd, trying their hardest to get home to whatever French people did in the evening which, as far as I knew, was just eat. Filling up with exactly fifty francs' worth, and with my hat and head down for the security cameras, I paid cash and didn't have to wait for change. Then, driving over to the air and water section with a new batch of gloves, I checked for any devices that might have been placed while I was at the safe house. I hit the coast road towards Cannes, and was nearly blinded by oncoming headlights and flashing neon as I drove along the Promenade des Anglais. Near the airport, the first of the happy-hour hookers had started her shift, complete with leopards king bomber jacket, sparkly silver spray-on pants, and the world's highest white platform boots. At least, I thought they were the world's highest until I saw one of her colleagues, leaning against the wall in a long black coat and huge black vinyl platforms. She was chatting away on her mobile, maybe taking a booking from someone in one of the business hotels that satellited the airport. A couple of days earlier, Riviera Radio had reported that the French girls had complained to the police about East Europeans taking all their trade, when they had no visas and no right to be here. The police had responded by rounding everyone up, and the commissioner said he was embarrassed as a Frenchman to have to report that the East European girls were considerably better looking than their French counterparts, and that was probably the reason there'd been complaints. Leaving the airport behind me, I hit more neon at Cap 3000 and carried on along the coast towards Juan-les-Pins, deciding to pick up a pizza on the way to Cannes. The place was a seasonal beach town, living off its past glory from the sixties and seventies, when Brigitte Bardot and the jet set used to come down for a cappuccino and a pose of a weekend. It still had its moments, but right now three-quarters of the shops were closed until Easter or whenever the season started again. Restaurants were being refurbished and bars were getting repainted. Nineteen. I cruised around the sleepy town. Strings of Christmas lights twinkled across the streets, but there was nobody at home to enjoy them-. A few bars and cafes were still serving a small number of customers, but the majority of the hotels looked dead. Several shops had whitewashed windows, like bandages across next season's facelift. I drove down a tree-lined main, looking for a take away pizza place that was open, and did a double-take at the two men walking towards me. For a moment I even wondered if I was hallucinating, but there was no doubting who it was in the long leather coat, smoking and chatting as he went. I jerked my head down instinctively so that the peak of my cap hid my face. I didn't know if Greaseball had seen me, and I didn't want to check. There was no reason why he should have: my headlights should have blinded him temporarily anyway. I took the next right and threw the Megane up on to the kerb, then made my way quickly back to the main. I looked up to my left and they were still in sight, walking away from me. They were the only other people around; cigarette smoke drifted behind them in a cloud. Greaseball's mate was taller than him, maybe six foot, and had a bush of dark curly hair, cut just above the shoulder. He was wearing a dark, three-quarter-length coat over what looked like jeans. I couldn't see that much of him from behind, but would have bet good money on him being the man I'd spotted in the Polaroids back at Greaseball's flat. They talked quietly and earnestly to each other as they moved up the road. They stopped and Greaseball turned towards the kerb; I could see the glow of his cigarette. He took one last drag as he nodded to his companion, then threw the stub into the gutter. The other man was definitely Curly from the Polaroid. He took something from his coat pocket, checking around him as he did so. It must have been small, because I couldn't see a thing. They shook hands and quickly hugged before parting; whatever it was, it was being posted. Maybe this was who gave Greaseball his fixes. Curly turned immediately left, down a side road, while Greaseball carried on another few metres up the street, before disappearing into what looked like a restaurant or bar. A sign hung on the wall outside, but it wasn't illuminated. I crossed the street, to get a better view of the place, and checked the road Curly had gone down. As I closed in, I could see that the sign showed a belly-dancer with a veil and low-cut bikini top. There was no sign of Curly, and it looked as though Greaseball was now being entertained by the "Fiancee of the Desert'. The outside of the building looked as if someone had gone berserk with a truckload of plaster, flinging handfuls at the wall to make it look ethnic. Ornate grilles covered two small windows each side of the door, through which I could just make out shadows bobbing about in the glow. I went back across the street, head down, checking left and right. There was no traffic, just a mass of tightly parked cars. I tried to see what was going on inside, but couldn't make out much through the small, square window. I couldn't see Greaseball anywhere. Carrying on past the solid wood door, I peeped inside the next window as casually as I could. I still couldn't see anything but low light and tablecloths. It looked as if a pizza would have to be binned for a few hours. I went to the top of the street, and stopped in a doorway on the opposite side. Three scooters screamed past with their engines at bursting point. The riders looked about fourteen. The street lights and decorations cast a haphazard pattern of shadows, so it was easy to find a corner to lurk in, in the doorway of a lingerie shop. It was probably the best place not to arouse any suspicion in this country; if Greaseball could get away with wearing a pashmina, I could probably wear this kit without anyone batting an eyelid. Diners finished their meals. Groups and couples kissed, laughed and went their separate ways, but still no sign of Greaseball. After two hours I was quite an expert on basques and suspenders. The only people on the street now were old men and women taking their dogs out for a last dump before bedtime. Only the odd vehicle came in either direction. A Lexus glided up the road from my left and stopped outside the restaurant. The alloy wheels and body work were so highly polished you could see the Christmas decorations in them. The driver stayed put with the engine running as his passenger finished off a telephone call. When he finally got out, I could see he looked like a dark-skinned version of George Michael, with a goatee beard and flat, short hair. As he slid into the restaurant, the car moved further along the road and parked up. The driver, also dark, had a shaved head that gleamed as impressively as the Lexus. I could tell that he was already bored with waiting. Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and Greaseball emerged into the glow of the Christmas lights. He turned towards me and I moved back into the shadows. If he got level with me, I'd have to sit down, hide my face and pretend to be pissed. But it would be difficult for him to see me over the parked cars from the other side of the road. I waited for him to pass, then came out on to the pavement and followed. The Lexus was still there, waiting for George Michael to stop filling his face. The driver had the interior light on, trying to read a paper; this probably wasn't his idea of the perfect night out. Greaseball turned left, heading for the taxi rank at the railway station. I watched as he got into the back of one and moved out on to the main, towards Cannes. I checked traser: nine thirty-seven, not long to go before the meet. He must be going home. It was pointless rushing back to my car since I was pretty much certain where he'd be at eleven. Besides, I didn't want to scream around after him and get stopped by the police for jumping a red. I headed back in the direction of the Fiancee of the Desert. At ten forty-five, having finally grabbed something to eat, I turned the Megane up boulevard Carnot and made my way past Greaseball's apartment block. I took a few turns, methodically checking out the area for people sitting in cars or lurking in shadows before parking outside Eddie Leclerc's. I moved into an alleyway behind the shop and waited to see if anyone was following me up the hill. I just stood as if I was having a piss between two large skips full of cardboard boxes, and let ten minutes go by. I could still hear vehicles on the main drag as I walked up the hill, but at this time of night it was no longer a constant drone. Otherwise, there was just the occasional burst of music from a TV, or a dog barking. There were lights on in a couple of the apartments on Greaseball's floor. I checked traser. I was a couple of minutes early, but it didn't really matter. I hit the bell with the cuff of my sweatshirt over my thumb. I heard crackling, and a rather breathless "Hello, hello?" I moved my face nearer the small grille and said, "It's me, it's eleven." There was a buzz at the door. I pushed it open with my foot, then pressed the intercom again. The door buzzed once more and the intercom crackled again. Tush the door," he said. I gave the handle a rattle, but didn't move. "Nothing's happening. Come down, I'll wait here." There was a moment's hesitation, then, "Oh, OK." I slipped into the hallway and closed the door gently behind me, then moved to the side of the lift, by the door to the stairs, and drew down the Browning, making myself feel better by checking chamber before packing it back into my jeans. The lift rattled its way up the shaft. I eased open the door to the stairs and hit the light plunger with my elbow, just in case he had friends waiting to move in behind me once I'd got up to the apartment. The stairwell was empty. I closed the door as the light went out and waited where I was for the lift to come back down. It stopped and Greaseball walked out, expecting me to be at the front door. There were no keys in his hand. How did he plan to get back into his flat? I drew down in preparation, and whispered, I'm here." Greaseball spun round. He could see the weapon down at my side and his eyes flickered in alarm. I said, "Where are your keys?" He looked confused for a second, then smiled. "My door is open. I rushed down to meet you." He looked and sounded genuine enough. Is anyone with you?" "No, non." He gestured. "You can see." "No. Is there anyone with you upstairs?" "I am alone." "OK, let's go." I ushered him into the lift and, just as before, stood behind him in a cloud of aftershave and alcohol. He was dressed as he had been earlier in the day, except for the pashmina, and still had his leather jacket on. He wiped his mouth nervously. "I have the I have the ' "Stop. Wait until we get inside." The lift stopped and I moved him out. "Off you go. You know what to do." He headed for Flat 49, with me three paces behind, the weapon held alongside my thigh. Twenty. He hadn't lied: the door was still open. I touched him gently with the pistol on the side of his arm. "In you go, and leave this as it is." He did as he was told, and even opened the door that led into the bathroom and the bedroom, to prove the place was deserted. I stepped inside and it was immediately obvious that the magic cleaning fairy hadn't paid any surprise visits since this morning. I turned the light off above me with the Browning's muzzle, then pushed down the button that released the dead-bolt so I could close the door with my heel. I raised the Browning, ready to go into the room. The moment the door was shut, I reactivated the deadlock. I didn't want anyone making entry with a key while I was clearing the apartment. He was standing by the table. "I have the addresses ..." He had to force his hand into his jeans, which were straining to hold in his gut. "Turn the light out." He looked confused for a second, then understood. He reached for his Camels before moving to the switch; then we were plunged into darkness. A street light across the road glowed against the old man's garden wall. Greaseball was nervous the lighter wouldn't keep still as he tried to direct the flame towards the tip of his cigarette. The shadows that flickered across his face made him look even more like something out of the Hammer House of Horror than he normally did. I didn't want the darkness for dramatic effect. I just didn't want anyone to see a silhouette waving a pistol about through the net curtains. "Now close the shutters on these balcony windows." I followed the red glow in his mouth as he pulled down on the canvas strap that controlled the wooden roller shutters, and began to lower them. "I really do have ' Wait, wait." Once the shutters were down I watched the glow of ash move back towards the settee, and listened to him wheezing as he tried to breathe through his nose with a mouth full of cigarette. He knocked into the table and I waited for the sound of him sitting down. "You can turn the light back on now." He got up and walked past me to hit the switch. I started to clear the flat, with him in front of me as before. I glanced at the wall unit for another look at Curly. The Polaroids weren't there. A dog barked its head off on the balcony above us as we entered the bedroom. It looked as if he had decided against tennis, after all. The bags, along with the syringes, had gone from under the bed. The flat was clear: there was no one here but us. As I moved towards the living room, I pushed the Browning back into my jeans and stood by the door. He collapsed back on to the settee, flicking his ash at an already full plate. "You have the addresses?" He nodded, pushing himself to the edge of his seat and reaching over the coffee table for his pen. "The boat, it will be at Pier Nine, berth forty-seven. I'll write it all down for you. I was right. There are three collections, starting Friday in Monaco ' I lifted my hand. "Stop. You've got the addresses in your pocket?" "Yes, but but... the ink's bad. I'll write them again for you." "No. Just show me what you've got in your pocket." His excuse sounded too apologetic to be true. He managed to squeeze his hand back into his jeans, and produced an A5 sheet of lined paper that had been torn from a notebook and folded three or four times. "Here." He leant towards me with the sheet in his hand, but I pointed at the table. "Just open it up so I can read it." He laid it down on top of yesterday's Nice Matin, and turned it round towards me. It wasn't his writing, unless he'd been to neat lessons since this morning. This was very even and upright, the sort that schoolgirls in my comprehensive used to practise for hours in their exercise books. And it belonged to a Brit or an American. The first address contained the number 617; the one didn't look like a seven, and the seven didn't have a stroke through it. Monaco was marked "Fri'. Nice marked "Sat'. Here in Cannes was labelled "Sun'. "Who gave you these?" He shrugged, visibly annoyed with himself, and probably shaken because he knew he'd fucked up when he flapped at the beginning and got too eager to give me the addresses so I would go away. "No one, it's my ' This isn't your handwriting. Who gave it to you?" "I cannot... I would be ' "All right, all right, I don't want to know. Who cares?" I did, really, but there were more important things to worry about right now and, besides, I thought I already knew. "Do you know the names of the collectors or the hawallada?" He shook his head and sounded breathless, probably because of the amount of nicotine he was inhaling. He couldn't have been more than forty years old, but he'd be dead of lung cancer long before sixty. "What about the collection times?" "This is all I was able to find out." "How do I know these are correct?" "I can guarantee it. This is very good information." I went over to crazy-threat mode. "It had better be, or you know what I will do to you, don't you?" He leant back in the settee and studied my face. He wasn't flapping now, which surprised me. He smiled. "But that's not really going to happen, is it? I know things. How do you think I've survived so long?" He was absolutely right. There wasn't a thing I could do about it. These people can screw you about as much as they want. If they provide high-quality intelligence, nothing can happen to them unless people like George want it to. But what sources often fail to understand is that they're only useful while they can provide information. After that, nobody cares. Apart from Hubba-Hubba and Lotfi; I was sure they would continue to care a great deal. He studied me for a long time and took another drag of his cigarette. The smoke leaked from his nostrils and mouth as he spoke. "Do you know what slim is?" I nodded. I'd heard the word in Africa. That's me slim. HIV positive. Not full-blown Aids yet. I pump myself with antiretrovirals, trying to keep the inevitable from happening, but it will come, unless.... Well, what do I care what you do to me? But I used to wonder about Zeralda. I used to wonder if he had slim ..." He was trying to hide a smile but couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from turning up. "Who knows? Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. Maybe he did, but didn't know it. Slim has a way of doing that. It just creeps up on you." He flicked some ash angrily on to the plate. "Maybe you should have a check-up yourself. There was a lot of blood, wasn't there?" Taking more nicotine into his lungs, he sat back and crossed his legs. He was enjoying this. I didn't let him know that I wasn't that fussed by Zeralda's splashed blood. I knew that I had about the same risk of contracting the disease from it as being struck by lightning on the same day I won the lottery. I stared back at him. "If you don't care about dying, why were you so scared in Algeria? And why were you scared earlier?" He started to smoke like Oscar Wilde on a bad day. "When I go, my friend, I plan to go how do you people say? with a bang. Let me tell you something, my friend." He leant forward and stubbed out his second butt end. "I know there is no hope for me. But I do plan to end my life the way I wish to, and that certainly isn't going to be at a time of your choosing. I still want to have a lot more living before slim really gets me then bang!" He clapped his hands together. "One pill and I'm gone. I don't want to lose my figure as you can see I'm still the prettiest boy on the beach." I picked up the newspaper and folded it around the notebook page, making sure it was nice and secure, then rolled it up, as if I was on my way to the building site. "If you're lying about these addresses, I'll get the green light to hurt you bad, believe me." He shook his head, and extracted another cigarette. "Never. I'm too valuable to your bosses. But you, you worry me, you have been out of your kennel too long." He jabbed a nicotine-stained finger at me. "You would do it of your own accord. I felt that in Algeria." There was the single click of his lighter and I heard the tobacco fizz. "I know you don't like me, and I suppose I can understand that. But some of us have different desires and different pleasures, and we cannot deny ourselves our pleasures, can we?" I ignored the question. I opened the door and he got to his feet. I left with the newspaper in my hand, wanting to get out of there quickly so I could resist the overwhelming urge to splatter him against the wall. Twenty-One. I dumped the newspaper, still with the piece of paper inside, in the foot well of the passenger seat, and took one of the pairs of service station clear plastic gloves from the glove compartment and put them on. Then, bending down into the foot well I fished out the piece of paper and read the addresses, holding it by just one edge. The first was Office 617 in the Palais de la Scala, at place du Beaumarchais, Monaco. I remembered the building from my recce. It was just to the side of the casino and the banking area, not that that meant much: the whole of Monaco was a banking area. The de la Scala was Monaco's answer to the shopping mall, with real marble pillars and bottles of vintage champagne that cost the same as a small hatchback. It was also next to the Hotel Hermitage, the haunt of rock stars and fat-cat industrialists. The Nice address was on Boulevard Jean XIII, which a quick check of the road atlas told me was in an area called La Roque, near the freight depot that I had passed to get to the safe house and with a railway station, Gare Riquier, no more than seven hundred metres away. The last one, I knew very well. It was along the Croisette in Cannes, just by the PMU betting shop-cum-cafe-cum-wine bar, facing the sea and cheek by jowl withChanel and Gucci. Women in minks sat there with old Italian men whose hands wandered under the fur like ferrets as they bet on horses, drank champagne, and generally had fun until it was time to be escorted back to their hotels. The only difference between the women in minks and the ones who worked the road near the airport was the price tag. I was tempted, but it was far too late to go into Monaco to do a recce of the Palais de la Scala. For a start, the mall would be closed, but that wasn't the main reason. Monaco has the highest per capita income in the world, with security to match. There's a policeman for every sixty citizens, and street crime and burglary simply don't exist. If I went into Monaco at this time of night for a drive-past of the target area, I'd be picked up and recorded by CCTV, and could very well be physically picked up at a road block. Drive in and out of Monaco three times in a day and there's a high possibility you'll be stopped by the police and asked why. It was all designed to make the inhabitants feel cocooned and protected, and that didn't just mean the racing drivers and tennis stars who lived there to avoid tax. The population also included others who had made their money from the big three: deception, corruption, and assassination. I decided to leave the recce for the morning, and take a look at the Nice address on the way to BSM where I planned to spend the rest of the night. That meant parking up overnight somewhere, and joining the morning traffic queues into the principality, but it carried far less risk. I folded the piece of paper and placed it inside another glove, then hid it under the seat, pushing it right up into the upholstery. I hit the coast road. It was much less busy now; just the odd Harley or two thundering along as their riders took advantage of the deserted tarmac. As I approached Nice, the whole coastline seemed to be bathed in neon. It reminded me of the United States, a never-ending stream of shocking pink and electric blue. There was heavier traffic in both directions along the Promenade des Anglais, and the whores were doing good business with kerb crawlers near the airport. Quite a few bars were still open for diehards. I turned inland on the same road as I'd used to go to the safe house, and headed for La Roque, on the east edge of town. It turned out to be just a big sprawl of apartment blocks, much like those around the safe house, only cleaner and safer. There were no scorch marks above the windows, no bricked-up buildings, no burnt-out cars. There were even supermarkets, and a street market, by the look of the boxes of damaged fruit and vegetables that were piled up in the main street. A rubbish truck lumbered along, bedecked with yellow flashing lights, and collectors in fluorescent jackets moved among the dossers rooting through the debris. I pulled over to check the map. Boulevard Jean XIII was the second option right, so I overtook the rubbish truck and turned right. Cheap shoe shops, thrift shops and grocery stores were both sides of me. Maybe this was where Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba had bought their outfits. A few take away pizza joints were still open, flanked by lines of mopeds with boxes on the back, ready to zip off to an apartment block with a large quatre frontages and some special deal chicken dippers. The building turned out to be not a house but a shop front covered completely by a large pull-down shutter plastered in graffiti. Huge padlocks anchored it to the pavement. I hung the next right at the junction, just two shop fronts along, then right again, taking a quick look at the back of the shop. I found rough, broken tarmac and crushed Coke cans, and hundreds of signs that I presumed said, "Fuck off, don't park here, shop owners only." Big skips lined the long wall that ran along the rear of the parade of shops. I drove along the back of the parade. There was no need to park, and it wouldn't be wise to spend too long hanging around commercial premises at this time of night. It might attract attention, or even a couple of police cars. At least I knew where it was; I'd do the recce the night before the lift. Turning right again after about a hundred metres, I was back on the boulevard; I turned left, back the way I had come, towards the sea and BSM. Nice harbour was a forest of lights and masts. As I drove round it, I noticed an Indian restaurant, the first I'd seen in France. I wondered if it was full of ex pats throwing down pints of Stella and prawn cocktail starters while the cook added a little squirt of Algipan to the vindaloo, to give it that extra zing. I reached the marina at BSM at just after one thirty, and drove into the car park between the harbour and the beach. The world of boats was fast asleep, apart from a couple of lights that shone out of cabins rocking gently from side to side in the light breeze. Dull lighting came from tall, street-style poles following the edge of the marina. These ones were a bit fancier, branching out at the top into two lights per pole, though a few of the bulbs were on their last legs and flickering. Luckily for me, they'd been designed not to give out too much light, or no one would have been able to get to sleep. My only company in the car park was two cars and a motorcycle chained to the two-foot-high steel tubing set into the ground to stop vehicles parking in the flower bed. With the engine off, I opened my window and listened. Silence, save for the soft chink of the rigging. I felt under the seat for the piece of paper and put it into my bum-bag. I got out, making the Browning comfortable as I headed towards the admin end of the parade. Quickly climbing the concrete steps, I got to "I fuck girls', jumped up on to the OP, and settled myself in for the remainder of the night, having first buried the addresses in the earth at the base of the palm tree. I needed to be detached from it, in case I'd been seen by some well-meaning member of the public and got lifted by the local police for dos sing in a public place. It was going to be a pain in the arse staying up here for the next seven hours, but it had to be done. The car was a natural draw point if people had surveillance on me, so I didn't want to sleep in it. Also, from here I could see anyone trying to tamper with it. I brushed some of the stones from under me as I leant forward against the palm, and alternately watched the car and studied the layout of the marina. The addresses were in my head by now; I didn't need the information any more. That bit of paper was for George. The handwriting, the fingerprints on it, even the paper itself could be useful to him, either now or later. After all, this was going to be a long war. It started to get quite nippy at about four o'clock. I dozed off for a few minutes now and again, having pulled the baseball cap down as far as it would go, and curled my arms around myself, trying to retain some warmth. Twenty-Two. THURSDAY, 22 NOVEMBER, 07:27 hrs My eyes stung more and more and my face got colder, which kept me checking my watch. It was still dark. I retrieved the addresses from their hiding place and moved along the hedge before jumping over, then walked along the road to the entrance, down to the roundabout, and past the shops and cafes. Everything was still closed; the odd light could be seen behind the blinds of a couple of the smaller boats as they got the kettle on for the first brew of the day. I got my washing kit from the car; there was a freshwater shower by the beach on the other side of the car park. I washed my hair and gave myself a quick once over with the toothbrush. I'd spent a third of my adult life out in the field, sleeping rough, but today I couldn't afford to look like a dosser. I wouldn't last five minutes in Monaco if I did. Also, I couldn't walk around in swim wear or go bare-chested anywhere but the beach. No camper vans, either. A comb through my hair and a brush-down of my jeans and I was ready. I went back to the Megane and hit the road, with the heater going full blast to dry my hair. Monaco was twenty-ish minutes away if the traffic was good. I hit Riviera Radio just in time for the eight o'clock news. The Taliban were fleeing the bombing campaign, Brent crude was down two dollars a barrel, and the day was going to be sunny and warm. And now for a golden oldie from the Doobie Brothers... I disappeared into a couple of mountain runnels, the bare rock just a few feet away from me, and as I emerged into the gathering daylight I put my hat back on and made sure the peak was down low for the trip into the principality. The first people I saw were policemen in white peaked caps and long blue coats down to their knees, looking like they'd come straight from the set of Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang. The road was quite congested, with a hotchpotch of number plates There was a lot of French and Italian traffic, but just as much from the principality, with red and white diamond cheque red shields on their plates. As I reached the small roundabout just a few hundred metres beyond the end of the tunnel, I had to run a gauntlet of motorcycle police parked up on either side of the road. Three of them, in knee-length leather boots and dark blue riding trousers, were checking cars both in and out of the principality, scrutinizing tax and insurance details on the windscreens as their radios gob bed off on the BMWs beside them. The road wound downhill towards the harbour, past three or four CCTV cameras. They were everywhere, the rectangular alloy boxes swivelling like robotic curtain twitchers. Sunlight was starting to bounce off the clear water in the harbour, making the boats shimmer as I got down to sea level. Some yachts were the size of P&O cruisers, with helicopters and Range Rovers parked on the deck so that the owners didn't have to worry about phoning Hertz when they parked up. High on the other side of the harbour was Monte Carlo, where all the casinos, grand hotels and fat cats' condos were clustered. That was where I was heading. I followed the road as it skirted the port, and couldn't help imagining myself as one of those Formula One drivers who raced along this stretch of tarmac each year, made millions, then came and lived hereto make sure none of it leaked back into the tax system. Good work if you can get it. Monaco hadn't struck me as a particularly attractive place. It was full of boring, nondescript apartment blocks smothering the grand buildings that had gone up in the days before people wanted to cram into the principality and save some cash. The banks held twenty-five billion dollars on deposit, which wasn't bad for a population of thirty thousand people. The whole place could fit into New York's Central Park and still have some grass to spare. Money even washed over into the streets, where public escalators took you up and down the steep cliffs that started less than a hundred metres from the water's edge. There was no shortage of rich people wanting to live there, and the only way to accommodate them had been upwards. On the recce a few days ago, I'd walked past a primary school housed on the first floor of an apartment complex. Its terrace had been extended, and covered over with green felt flooring to create a playing-field. There were just as many little whippety dogs in waistcoats, and poodles with baseball caps here, but there was no need for the Cannes Shuffle. Even the pavements were part of the fairy tale. The harbour fell away as I drove up the hill towards the casino. Opposite me, on the far side of it, was the palace where the Prince and all his gang lived. Flags fluttered from every tower and turret. The architect must have been Walt Disney. I hit the perfectly manicured lawns of the casino. Even the giant rubber plants around it were protected, cocooned in some kind of wax covering in case of a freak frost. A fairy-tale policeman directed me out of the path of a Ferrari that was being reversed out of the valet park, so some high-roller could drive the quarter-mile or so back to his yacht after gambling the night away. I turned left, past the Christian Dior and Van Cleef jewellery shops and more protected rubber plants. Across a junction in front of me was Place du Beaumarchais, a large grassed square with walkways and trees. To my right was the Palais de la Scala, an impressive six-storey pile built in the old French style, with pristine cream paintwork and shuttered windows. I followed the edge of the square, and turned right into an underground car park just before the de la Scala entrance, squeezing in next to a sleek, shiny Acura sports car with New Jersey plates. How it had got there, I didn't have a clue; maybe it had been driven off one of the yachts. Back up at street level I walked across to the shopping mall. The sun was just reaching over the tops of the buildings, and I put on my sunglasses to complement the hat for the short walk under the security cameras. I pushed my way through the door of the mall with my shoulder, and my nostrils were immediately assaulted by the smell of money and polish. I took off my glasses. Small concession shops lined both sides of the marble corridor, selling champagne and caviar. First stop on the left was the glass entrance to the main post office, its interior as grand as a private bank. The corridor went on for about forty metres, then turned left and disappeared. Just before the corner there was a cluster of tables and chairs outside a cafe. Large decaffs and the Wall Street Journal seemed to be the order of the day. Power-dressed people moved among them with a click of their heels. Half-way down on the right was a Roman-style marble pillar and door. A sign announced it was the reception area for the offices that made up the five floors above. I walked towards the cafe, glancing at a large Perspex display that gave details of who owned or rented the office space upstairs. One glance told me they all started with Monaco the Monaco Financial Services Company, Monaco this, Monaco that. They were all spaced out, showing who was on what floor, but I was walking too fast and my mind was working too slowly to spot who occupied 617. I carried on past the blur of brass plates. Double glass doors opened into the reception area. An immaculately dressed dark-haired woman operated the desk. A wall172 mounted camera swivelled behind her as she spoke on the telephone. I took a seat at a vacant table at the cafe, looking back towards the reception area. A waiter immediately materialized and I ordered a creme. He wasn't too impressed with my attempt at French. "Large or small?" "Large one, and two croissants, please." He looked at me as if I'd ordered enough to explode, and disappeared back into the cafe. I looked over to my right to see what was round the corner. A very smart-looking cobbler's shop sold shiny belts and other leather goods, and a dry-cleaner's had a row of ball gowns on display. Opposite the cleaner's was a china plate shop. This part of the corridor was only about fifteen metres long, and ended with another glass door. I could see sunlight reflecting off a car windscreen outside. My order arrived as well-dressed people at other tables finished off their coffee and sticky buns before work. The loudest voice I could hear, however, was English home counties. A woman in her early forties with big hair was talking to an older companion. They wore enough makeup between them to fill a bomb crater. "Oh, darling, it's just too awful ... I can't get salopettes long enough for my legs in