London. The only place seems to be Sweden, these days.
I mean, how ridiculous is that?"
     Others talked quietly,  almost covertly, into their  mobile  phones, in
French, Italian, English,  American. All the English speakers used  the same
words  during their conversations:  'deal', 'close'  and 'contract'. And  no
matter which nationality was talking, they all ended with "Ciao, ciao'.
     Twenty-Three.
     I finished my milky coffee as two  suits stopped at the plastic-covered
board and checked it out before pressing a buzzer. One bent his head towards
the intercom, then they both disappeared through  the  doors immediately  to
the left inside the reception area.
     I'd seen nearly everything in here I needed to. I picked up the napkin,
cleaned my hands and wiped the cup, even though I'd only touched the handle.
Leaving an  outrageous sixty-six francs and a  tip, I went out the  way  I'd
come in.
     This time, my eyes hit the sixth-floor sign and  ran along the  row  of
small  plates:  617   was  apparently  the   home  of  the  Monaco  Training
Consultancy, whoever they were. I walked on and exited the building.
     The sun  shone bright  above the square now,  so I put  on my gigs  and
pulled  my  peak  down.  Cars,  motorbikes  and scooters were  crammed  like
sardines  into  any available space around the  square. Gardeners pruned the
bushes  and  a couple of guys  in Kevlar  gear were  just about  to  take  a
chainsaw  to some branches of the large  leafless trees.  Sprinklers lightly
sprayed the grass as women dressed  in furs floated past, their dogs wearing
matching  fashion accessories.  I took  a right at Prada and went  round the
back  of the building as the  chainsaw sparked up behind me. I wanted to see
where the exit by the dry-cleaner's emerged.
     The narrow road this side of the building  was about sixty metres long,
with a few  small  shops developing pictures or selling  little paintings. I
turned right again, along  the back of de  la Scala, and found myself in the
building's  admin  area. Some shutters were up, some  were down; behind them
were  private  parking spaces and storage areas  for the shops. Most of  the
space was taken up by the loading bay for the post office. It was very clean
and orderly, and the postal  workers wore smart, well-pressed  blue uniforms
and white socks. I felt as though I'd wandered into Legoland.
     The  dry-cleaner's  entrance was just  past the loading bay. I  glanced
through the glass doors and could see all the way to the cafe, and the point
where the corridor turned right towards the reception.
     Beyond the dry-cleaner's, on the other corner of the Palais de la Scala
and  about  twenty feet above the  ground,  was  a camera. At the moment  it
wasn't angled in  this  direction because  it was  too busy  monitoring  the
junction below it. I hoped that wasn't going to change. I walked back to the
Megane the way I'd come.
     I squeezed  away from  the Acura and went and had a look at the railway
station before heading for Nice and Cap 3000. It was time to prepare for the
brush contact with my new mate Thackery that  I'd  arranged yesterday  in my
email to George.
     I drove into the  retail park  at  just after ten thirty. I  put on  my
disposable gloves, retrieved the addresses from under my  seat, then  pulled
the paper from  its own protective wrapping. I  ran through the addresses in
my  mind before unfolding it, testing myself; this was the  last time  I was
going to see them. Then  I folded it once more, and rolled it tightly enough
to be able to squeeze it back into the  thumb  of the glove,  ripped off the
excess  polythene  and  shoved it into the pocket of my jeans. I got out and
locked my door as an airliner touched down on the runway a couple of hundred
metres away. For a moment it had  looked as though it was going  to land  on
the beach.
     Most of the complex was dominated by the Lafayette retail company, with
its huge department store and gourmet supermarket, and the spaces  around it
were  filled with  shops  selling everything from smelly  candles to  mobile
phones.
     As  I walked  through the automatic glass doors, a loudspeaker above me
knocked out some bland Muzak. There weren't many Santas about, but plenty of
twinkling  lights  and  Christmas novelty stalls. One sold a whole range  of
multicoloured velvet  head wear  from top  hats to jesters' caps with bells.
Escalators carried hordes of shoppers  with gigantic plastic bags bulging at
the seams between the two levels. This was the only place that I'd used more
than once. It was large, busy, and I  considered it a reasonable risk. I had
to get  online, and a cafe was too intimate. So long  as I never used a card
or an ATM, this place should be OK.
     Four shiny new Jaguars from the local  dealership were parked up in the
atrium, windscreens groaning with promotional material. To the left of  them
was the entrance to Galeries Lafayette, the two-storey department store.
     The  rather  bored-looking Jaguar salesman sat  behind  the cars,  at a
white plastic garden furniture set, complete with parasol. He was surrounded
by piles of shiny catalogues, but had his nose stuck firmly in  Nice  Matin.
Perhaps he realized that November isn't  the time to buy cars; it's the time
to buy socks and slippers and Christmas stuff for your mum.
     First things first.  I went to  the sandwich shop and got myself a Brie
baguette  and a  very  large hot  coffee,  and  took  both  with  me  to  Le
Cyberpoint.  This wasn't a shop, but a  collection of telephone-cum-Internet
stations, each with a conventional telephone, linked  to a small touchscreen
and metal keyboard, with a big steel ball for the mouse. There were eight of
them, mostly being used by kids  whose  parents had dropped them  off with a
phone card to  shut them up for an hour or so while they did the shopping. I
put my coffee on top of the machine, to relieve my burning fingers and allow
me to shove some crusty baguette down  my neck before pushing the phone card
into  the slot and  logging on. Muzak  played in  the background, too low to
hear and too loud to ignore, as Hotmail hit me with enough adverts in French
and  English to fill a whole  night's  TV  viewing. There  was  nothing from
George. He'd be waiting  for the addresses that I'd give to Thackery  at one
o'clock, and had nothing new to tell me.
     I closed down, and  pulled  out my phone card which still had sixty-two
francs left on it.  As I picked up my coffee, I  spilt some down the machine
and jerked back to avoid  any dripping on me. Visibly annoyed with myself, I
gave the screen, keys and mouse a good wipe down with the napkin that they'd
wrapped  round the  baguette, until I'd left no fingerprints. With a fistful
of soggy paper and  a  suitably apologetic  look  on  my  face,  I  left  Le
Cyberpoint and headed  back to the car, stopping on the way to buy a roll of
35mm film and a red and yellow jester's hat with bells on.
     There was  only an hour  before  the  brush  contact,  so I turned  the
Megane's ignition key  and hit Riviera Radio,  then slipped on the polythene
gloves. I tipped  the film out of its plastic canister, and replaced it with
the rolled-up addresses.
     Marvin Gaye was interrupted by an American voice.
     "We now  go to the BBC  World Service for  the top-of-the-hour news." I
checked traser on  the last  of the  bleeps, and it was dead  on. A suitably
sombre female  brought me up  to  speed  on  the bombing  of Kabul,  and the
progress of the Northern Alliance. I turned it off, hoping that Thackery had
been well trained and was doing exactly the same.
     At thirty-two minutes past the hour I checked the canister in my jeans,
the  Browning, my baseball cap  and  bum-bag, and headed once more  into Cap
3000.  It was a lot busier now. The gourmet food  hall was doing  a  roaring
trade, and  it looked as  though the Jaguar rep had led the  charge.  He was
still at  the garden  table, but sitting  back with  a glass of red wine and
afilled baguette the size of  a small torpedo. I headed left and through the
ground-floor perfume department of Galeries Lafayette. Menswear was directly
above me, up an escalator, but going this way gave me time  to check my arse
and make sure no one else was wanting to join us.
     I went into the book  department to the right of  the smelly  counters,
and started  to  check  out the English-language guides  to  the  area,  not
picking them up but tilting my head to scan the spines.
     When I'd satisfied myself that no  one  was taking more interest in  me
than was healthy, I walked deeper into  the store,  took the escalator up to
the  first floor, and worked my  way back to  the  men's section.  I hit the
bargain rails  of cargo trousers and took a  pair, plus  some jeans. Then  I
minced along  the coat  rail  and chose one in  dark  blue padded cotton. It
would stop me freezing to death at the OP, and not make the noise that nylon
would every time I shifted position.
     I moved  from table to table,  comparing prices,  before picking up two
sweatshirts.  As far as I  knew, you couldn't  leave fingerprints on fabric.
The only thing I was doing differently from any other browser  was snatching
a look at traser whenever I could. I had to be on my start line at precisely
twelve minutes  past. The  contact wasn't exactly at one o'clock, but twelve
minutes after. Surveillance teams are aware that humans tend to do things at
the half, quarter, or on the hour.
     At the same time, I was also keeping a running total of my expenditure.
I wanted to make sure I had enough cash on me to cover the cost of this kit.
I didn't want any scenes at the checkout that people might remember later.
     At eight minutes past one  I headed over to the maze of shelving in the
underwear  department. Calvin was doing a  nice line in flannelette  pyjamas
and long Johns this season,  but  they weren't really my style. I moved  on,
glancing at the four or five other people in  my immediate vicinity. None of
them was wearing blue. I picked up four pairs of socks after sifting through
the choices and checked traser. Three minutes to go.
     Still no  glimpse of blue.  I draped my purchases over my left arm as I
agonized over a shelf full  of T-shirts and  fished  the canister  out of my
jeans. A  man brushed past me from  behind, and gave me a big "Pardon'. That
was  OK: it gave me extra cover to check traser. Two minutes  to go. Michael
Jackson's Thriller' was interrupted by somebody gob bing off over the Tannoy
about the bargain of the day.
     I was walking back  towards my start line when I spotted a  blue chunky
turtleneck  jumper  ahead  of me, no more than ten metres away.  It  was two
sizes bigger  than it needed to be, and making its way towards the other end
of the socks and underwear aisle, the other start line. This wasn't the sort
of Thackery I'd imagined: this one  looked straight out of a garage band. He
was in his late twenties, with peroxide blond hair, gelled up and messy. He,
too, had a bag in his left hand. He was hitting the start line; it had to be
him. One minute to go. I toyed with a selection of boxers on the edge of the
underwear department, but my mind was focused on what was about to happen.
     Twenty seconds to go.  Adjusting the clothes  on my arm,  I transferred
the  canister into  my  right  hand as  I  started to  walk down the  aisle.
Thackery was  now about six metres away. Between us,  an old man was stooped
over a pile of thermals.
     There was another announcement over the  Tannoy, but I hardly heard it.
I was concentrating completely  on what needed to happen during the next few
seconds.
     Thackery's eyes  were  green, and  they  were  looking into  mine.  The
contact was on. He was happy with the situation; so was I. I headed straight
along the  aisle, aiming  for the suits, but my  eyes were on  his hand. Two
metres  to  go. I  stepped  around the old man, and  relaxed my grip  on the
canister.
     I felt Thackery's hand  brush against  mine, and the canister was gone.
He carried on walking. He'd done this before.
     I decided against the  suits, but  had a  quick  look at  the overcoats
before heading to the cash desk on the  far side of the floor. I didn't know
what Thackery was doing, and didn't care. My  only job now was to pay up and
get out, and that was exactly what I did.
     Twenty-Four.
     A wrecked  car was burning  nicely in the square, dangerously close  to
one  of  the  apartment  blocks. Flames  were  licking  at  the  first-floor
balconies, but nobody seemed to care. An old mattress had been chucked on to
the roof,  its  burning  foam adding to the column  of  thick black smoke. I
tossed  the bin liner containing all my crap on to the fire; it was too good
an opportunity to miss and I stood  against a wall and  watched  it  turn to
ash. Kids ran round the car like Indians around a wagon train. They threw on
wooden pallets and anything combustible they could find, while their parents
shouted at them from the windows above.
     As I approached the house, Hubba-Hubba's bin liner was exactly where it
should have been,  and the matches were under the door. Lotfi looked up from
the  settee by the  coffee table  as I entered the living  room.  Wearing  a
matching  green shower cap and gloves, he muttered, "Bonjour,  Nick," with a
very straight face,  daring me  to comment  on his  new  hat.  I just nodded
extremely seriously as Hubba-Hubba threw the bolts behind me.
     As I bent down to get my own gloves out of my bag, I saw  Hubba-Hubba's
trainers  stop a few feet behind me.  He  gave me a cheery  "Bonjour', but I
didn't look up until I'd slipped onmy new multicoloured velvet jester's hat,
then given a shake of the head for the full benefit of the bells. I tried to
control  my laughter,  but  failed as Hubba-Hubba moved  into  view.  He was
wearing  a  pair  of  joke  glasses  with eyeballs  bouncing up and down  on
springs. Lotfi looked at us with a pained expression, like a father with two
naughty children.
     We all took  our places  around  the  coffee  table. Lotfi  got out his
beads, ready to start threading them through his fingers as he thought about
his next conversation  with God. Hubba-Hubba took off his glasses  and wiped
the tears from his eyes before playing mother with the coffee. I kept my hat
on, but what I had to say was serious.
     "I've  got the location of the  boat in BSM from  Greaseball. I've also
got  the  three addresses  from him, but he doesn't  know the  names  of the
hawallada or the times of the collections." I looked at the two of them.
     "You ready?"
     They both nodded as I tried  the hot sweet brew. Then they closed their
eyes and listened intently as I gave them the Palais de la Scala address.
     They were immediately concerned.
     "I know what you're thinking. I couldn't agree more. It's going to be a
nightmare. But what can I say?"
     Well,  I did know what to say: the address, three more times. I watched
their lips moving slightly as they repeated it to themselves.
     I gave them the second address three times, then the third. They opened
their eyes again once I'd finished, and I told them about the recces.
     On the  build-up for the  Algeria job, when we were  in Egypt,  sitting
around a pot of coffee just like we were now but without the clowns' get-up,
I'd told them about the seven  Ps: "Prior planning  and preparation prevents
piss-poor performance." They liked that  one and  it  was  funny afterwards,
listening to Hubba-Hubba trying to get his tongue around them in quick time.
     "OK, then,  the  Ninth  of  May is  going  to  be  parked  up at  berth
forty-seven, pier  nine. Forty-seven, pier nine. That's the second one up on
the left-hand side of the marina as you look at  it from the main  road. Got
that?"
     Lotfi turned to Hubba-Hubba and  gave him  a quick burst of Arabic, and
for once,  I understood  the  reply: "Ma  it  mushkila,  ma it mushkila." No
problem, no  problem. Hubba-Hubba  waved his gloved hands around the room as
he traced the outline of the marina and pinpointed the pier.
     I gave them the confirmatory orders for the stake-out, from placing the
device to lifting and dropping off the hawallada.
     Lotfi  looked at the  ceiling  and offered his hands  and beads  to his
maker.
     "In'sha'allah."
     Hubba-Hubba gave a sombre nod,  which looked ridiculous, given  the way
we were  dressed. Lotfi's beads clicked away as kids on scooters screamed up
and down the street.
     "OK,  then. Phase  one,  finding the Ninth of May.  Lotfi, what are the
closing times for the places you looked at?"
     "Everything is shut by midnight."
     "Great and yours, mate?"
     There was a rustle of plastic as Hubba-Hubba moved in his seat.
     "Around eleven thirty."
     "Good." I picked up my cup and took a gulp of coffee.
     "I'll do the  walk-past at twelve  thirty  a.m.  I'm going  to  put the
Megane in the parking bay up on the  road, and walk  down to  the marina via
the shops, check out  the boat, then  back to the OP via the garden  and the
fuck bench, to clear the area in front of the OP.
     "If the Ninth of May is parked up where it should be, the OP won't have
to change."  I looked at Lotfi and he  nodded slowly as he leant  forward to
pick up his brew. I described the  OP once more, the higher ground above the
fuck bench, the hedgerow, and the path from the marina to the main. I needed
them to know my exact location so that if there was a drama they  would know
where to find me.
     Lotfi looked puzzled.
     "One thing I don't understand,  Nick. Why would anybody write that on a
bench?" I shrugged.
     "Maybe he's proud of his English."
     Hubba-Hubba joined in gravely as he filled Lotfi's cup.
     "I think that whoever wrote that has had a very tall glass of weird."
     Lotfi's eyebrows disappeared under his shower cap.
     "You've been watching too much American TV."
     Hubba-Hubba grinned.
     "What else can I do while I wait for you to finish praying?"
     Lotfi turned to me  with a look of exasperation. What am I to  do  with
him, Nick? He is a very  fine man, but an excess of popcorn culture  is  not
good for such a weak mind."
     I started to go through the what-ifs. What if the boat wasn't  there at
all? What if the boat was there, but in a different position and  I couldn't
see it from the OP? What if I got compromised  by a passer-by in the OP? The
answers at this stage were mostly  that we'd just have to  meet  up  on  the
ground to reassess.  And if the boat didn't  make an appearance at all, we'd
have  to spend all night screaming up and  down the coast,  checking out all
the marinas and, of course, Greaseball.
     I  swallowed  the last of  my brew and Hubba-Hubba picked up the coffee
pot to give me a refill. There was a gentle click of beads as I continued.
     "Phase two: the drop-off and the  OP setup. I want you, Hubba-Hubba, to
walk  along the  main and past the OP at twelve  forty with the  radios, the
pipe bomb, binoculars and insulin case. If the  OP area is clear, I want you
to  place the bag in the  OP, so it's there when I get back from finding the
Ninth of May. Leave a Coke Light can  in  the top of  the hedge to give me a
tell-tale, then move back to your car and get in position for the stake-out.
Where exactly are you going to be?"
     Hubba-Hubba waved his arms about again  to give me directions,  as if I
knew what was in his head and what he was pointing at. I was eventually able
to establish that he'd  found a place  just past the marina, towards Monaco.
There are vehicles parked along the coast, mostly belonging to the houses on
the high ground."  He checked inside the pot to make  sure he had enough  of
the black stuff to keep us going. The radio should work I'll be no more than
four hundred metres away."
     "Good news." I had a brain wave
     "Wrap all my OP kit up in a large dark beach towel, will you?"
     He looked puzzled, but nodded.
     "Once I've found the  boat I'll move back to the OP the same way that I
walked in, but not before twelve forty, so the kit drop can take place. Once
I'm settled in the OP I'll radio-check you both. Where are  you going to be,
Lotfi?"
     He'd  gone for the car park five hundred  metres back into the town, on
the other side of the marina from the OP.
     "The one that looks over some  of the marina," he  said, 'so  the radio
should work from there too I'm in line of sight with you."
     It was a good  position: in the dark it would be very difficult to  see
him, as long as he sat perfectly still and left a window open  a fraction to
stop condensation  forming, and giving the game away. I'd  told both of them
to practise this when  we first met up in-country. They'd spent  a couple of
nights not getting noticed in supermarket car parks, so they were well up to
speed.
     "Call signs  are our initials L, H and N. If I don't hear anything from
you by one thirty, or you don't hear from me, you'd better move position and
try to get com ms Come in closer  if you have to. This job's going  to be  a
nightmare with these radios, but it would be even worse without them.
     "Once  we've  established  com ms I'll tell  you if  anything's changed
like, the boat isn't  there and  we can  reassess. Once we've done the radio
check, and  everything's fine, the OP is set, and no matter what happens  we
must never lose  the trigger  on the Ninth of  May.  Not even for  a second.
Lotfi,  I  want  you to radio-check  us  every half hour. If somebody  can't
speak, just hit the pressle twice and we'll hear the squelches."
     I moved on to phase three.
     "While we're all  hanging about and getting bored, I'll  be working out
when to go down to  the  boat and place  the device. I  won't know when  I'm
going to doit until I see  what's happening on the  ground. And I won't know
where I'm going to place the thing until I know what the boat looks like. It
might  not happen tonight they might have  a rush  of blood to the  head and
invite their mates  round for a barbecue  on deck, or decide to  sleep under
the stars. Or the boat next  door  might be throwing a party. But as soon as
I'm ready, here's what I want you both to do."
     I covered  all the angles,  and  finished by telling them what I had in
mind if there was a drama, so we could get away quickly and, with luck, make
it  look like  nothing more significant than an  aborted robbery. We  didn't
want to put the collectors off their mission.
     Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba were absolutely  silent now.  Even the beads were
still. It was time for the difficult bit.
     "OK, phase four, triggering the collectors away from the boat. We can't
afford to  lose  them. We think we  know  the first location, but  it  means
nothing  we're going to have to take them. I'm  calling  them  Romeo One and
Romeo  Two, and so on  as we ID the hawallada. I'll  give them their numbers
when I first see them. If they go towards Monaco, this is how I want to play
it..."
     I covered the details of the take of the collectors to the Palais de la
Scala.  Then I  went through  the actions-on  in  the event that  they  went
towards Nice  or  Cannes,  and finished my  brew before confirming the major
points.
     "Remember that radio contact is vital, especially if I've had to follow
them on to a train. If  we have this all wrong and  they go towards Nice and
Cannes,  I want  you,  Lotfi,  to  head  straight  for the  Cannes location.
Hubba-Hubba,  you work  your  way into  the city  and take Nice.  That  way,
hopefully, one of you  will be at the collection point  to  back me  up if I
manage to stay with them.
     "If they go somewhere else altogether and we get split and  lose com ms
I'll have  to assess the situation, see if I can do the job myself. Whatever
happens,  we'll meet back  in  our  BSM  positions  again by  0030  Saturday
morning. I'll radio-check  at0100. If there's been a fuck-up,  we'll meet up
on the high ground and sort ourselves out. Any questions?"
     They shook their heads again, and Lotfi got cracking with the beads.
     "Phase  five: lifting the hawallada,  and  the  drop-off.  Getting  the
Special K into him is  going  to  be  difficult. I  doubt if he'll take  the
injection lying down. Just remember, no matter  what, he has to be delivered
alive. When and how we do this is going to have to be decided by  whoever is
on the ground at the time."
     I was silent for a minute to let them take it in.
     "Right, let's go through the DOP again."
     They knew where it was and how it worked, but I didn't want there to be
any misunderstanding.
     "Remember the telltale for the hawallada in position the Coke Light can
to the right and  just under  the recycling bin. Whoever is  picking up  the
hawallada will  remove  it  so it's clear for the  next drop  the  following
night."
     Lotfi started to pour everyone more coffee. I waved it away. I hated it
when my  pulse raced: there was going  to  be enough of that  tomorrow,  for
sure.
     "We have until four in the morning to make the drop-offs. I want to get
rid of each one  as soon as we've lifted him. That will  give us time to get
clear, and sort ourselves out for the next lift.
     "We'll use frequency one for Friday, frequency  two, Saturday, three on
Sunday  just  as well  this  job is  only  three days,  we  only  have  four
frequencies."
     It got no more than a polite laugh from the two of them.
     "We'll change frequencies at midnight no matter what is happening, even
if  we're still playing silly fuckers  trying to lift  the  first hawallada.
Remember, keep the radio traffic to a minimum and, please, no Arabic."
     Lotfi sparked up. Is it OK to  come up on the net if we need to correct
your English?"
     I laughed.
     "OK, but only in the event of split infinitives."
     They  gave each other  another squirt of Arabic, and  both smiled  When
Lotfi turned back to me, I knew what was coming.
     "On second thoughts," he said,  'we won't be carrying enough  batteries
..."
     "Very funny." I reached over.
     "Split this." I gave him a smack on the back of the shower cap.
     "Have I missed anything?"
     We sat quietly, running  everything  through our heads, before  I wound
things up.
     "I need you both to go  and check out the other two hawallada locations
before  getting on the ground at BSM tonight. Get  down to Nice, get down to
Cannes, familiarize yourselves. But leave Monaco. I think we should  only be
going in there when we have to."
     As I went through all the timings again, I  fished around in my bum-bag
and got out my phone card They did the same.
     "Zero four nine three." I pointed at Hubba-Hubba.
     "Four five."
     I nodded at Lotfi,  who did his bit too. We went round  and  round with
the telephone number until it was burned even deeper into everyone's memory.
     We started to play the address game, exactly the same as we'd done with
the pager  number.  I started  off with the Cannes address, stopped half-way
through  and handed the baton to Lotfi, who finished it off, then started on
the Nice address, pointed at Hubba-Hubba, who carried on. We played the game
until we heard  sirens  in the  distance probably  a fire  engine and police
escort about half an  hour too late to sort out the burning car or maybe one
of the apartments by now.
     This  is  now going  to be the  most dangerous period for  us." I leant
forward, elbows on thighs, as the plastic crumpled and my hat bells  gave  a
gentle ring.
     "Up to now we've sacrificed  a lot of our efficiency for security. From
now on it's going to be the other way round. We'll  have radios  beaming out
our intentions; we're  going to have to meet up  without a safe house; we'll
be on the ground, vulnerable and open to discovery. Not only from the Romeos
and  the  hawallada but from the  police  and  the intelligence services  as
well." I pointed to the shuttered window.
     "Not to mention that  lot, the  third party."  The kids  screamed  with
excitement as they taunted the  fire crew. It must  be tough  trying to hook
into  a  hydrant while you're being  pelted with dead pigeons. I wondered if
they ever got used to it.
     "They're  the ones who'll be watching every minute we're out there. But
if we're careful, by Tuesday morning we can all be back where we belong."
     I stood up and pulled  the plastic away from my jeans  as static  tried
its hardest to keep it there. Lotfi continued to watch me.
     "And where do you belong, Nick? Maybe this is the biggest question."
     I somehow  couldn't  shake off his  gaze,  even though  he still looked
ridiculous in his shower cap.
     "I mean for all of us." He paused, choosing his words with care.
     "I have been thinking about God, and hoping that  he doesn't want us to
die here, because it is for my family that I do  these things. I'd rather be
with them when he decides it is my time. But what about you, Nick?"
     Hubba-Hubba  rescued me. Take no  notice. It's been this  way with  him
since we were children."
     I sat  back down  to the jingle of bells  and looked at each of them in
turn.
     "Of course, brothers. I should have realized ..."
     One  thing I  did  realize  was  that  we  were moving  into  dangerous
territory  here. Standard operating procedure said that  each of  us  should
know nothing more about the others than we had to. Then I thought, fuck  it.
We were in dangerous territory already.
     "How did you both get into this, then? I  mean, it's pretty weird for a
family man, isn't it? Is it an Egyptian thing, you all stupid or something?"
     Hubba-Hubba smiled.
     "No,  I'm here  to become an American. This time next  month  my family
will be living in Denver." He punched his brother on the arm in celebration.
     "Warm coats and ski lessons."
     Lotfi looked indulgently at his brother as if he was an Andrex puppy.
     "What about you?" I asked him.
     Lotfi slowly shook his head.
     "No. I'm going to stay where I am. I'm happy there, my family are happy
there." He touched Hubba-Hubba on the shoulder.
     "And he isn't  doing this  for warm  coats and skiing lessons. He  is a
little like you: he likes to cover hurtful things with humour."
     Hubba-Hubba's  smile evaporated.  He glared at  Lotfi,  who just gave a
reassuring nod.
     "You see,  Nick, we  have an older sister,  Khalisah. When  we were all
children she was whipped and kicked in front of  us by the fundamentalists."
He cut the air with his right hand.
     "Her  crime against Islam? She was licking  an  ice-cream cone.  That's
all, we were just having ice-cream." He had the mixture of hatred  and grief
in his eyes that only comes from seeing your own family hurt.
     Hubba-Hubba  rested  his elbows on his legs and shifted his gaze to the
floor.
     Lotfi's  face  crumpled  under  his  shower  cap  as   he  relived  the
experience.  The  fundamentalists shouted at her, screaming that it had lewd
connotations. Our twelve-year-old sister was  whipped with sticks  there, in
the  street, in public, then kicked until she bled." He rubbed his brother's
back between the shoulder blades.
     "We tried to help,  but we were  just small boys. We were swatted  away
like flies, and forced  into the dust while  we watched our beautiful sister
beaten. She still has the scars on her face, to remind her, every day of her
life. But the scars inside are worse ..."
     Hubba-Hubba gave a low groan, and rubbed his face with gloved hands. He
was breathing  hard through  his fingers as Lotfi rubbed his back some more,
and comforted him with a stream of soft Arabic.
     I didn't really know what to say.
     "I'm sorry ..."
     Lotfi looked up at me,  acknowledging my  words. Thank you. But  I know
that you, too, have your sadness. We all need a reason to continue, and this
is  our reason  for  being  here.  We made a  pact  that  day.  We  promised
ourselves, and each other,  that we would never again  just lie there in the
dust if one of us was being hurt."
     Hubba-Hubba gave himself a shake, wiping his eyes with the back of  his
hands, and sat up as Lotfi continued.
     "He will be leaving me soon for Denver. A new start for his family, and
Khalisah she is  going also. But I am staying at  home,  at least until this
evil  is  driven out.  The fundamentalists, they  are  guilty  of shirk  you
remember what that is?" I nodded.
     "So you also remember I have a duty to perform for God?" Lotfi fixed me
again with his  penetrating  look. Not for the first  time, he  gave  me the
impression he could  see right through me, and no amount  of  silly hats was
going to stop him. A new start. Where had I heard that before?
     Twenty-Five.
     FRIDAY, 23 NOVEMBER, 00:19 hrs
     The four ways flashed as  I  hit  the key fob of  the Megane and walked
away from the parking space behind  the  OP. As I carried on  down  the road
towards the  marina entrance, I zipped  up  the front of  my new  jacket and
shoved  my  hands  into my pockets. There were several Snickers bars in each
for later on, wrapped in cling film to cut down on noise.
     A set of headlights swept the high  ground ahead of me, the  other side
of the marina as they left the town, then cut into the night sky in the area
of the  car park where Lotfi's Ford Focus  was going  to be  positioned. The
vehicle continued down the dip, passed the marina entrance, then came uphill
towards me, still on full beam, dipping  briefly as it  climbed  past me. It
was  Hubba-Hubba's silver Fiat Scudo. He'd drawn the short  straw  with  the
sort of small van an odd job man would use. It had a sliding side door, plus
two at the rear; on my instructions he'd had to spray out the windows in the
rear doors with matt black car  paint, and would have to scrape it off again
before the van  was  returned to the rental company. We couldn't be  sure of
making a definite ID on the  hawallada if  we  encountered a group of people
handing over the cash, so we might have to lift a  job lot of people, bundle
them into the van, and let the warship sort it out. I bet they'd be able  to
sort  the  problem  out in no  time  at all. I  couldn't see him behind  the
steering wheel because  of  the headlights, but  I could read the first four
digits of the rear plate as he went by. Tucked under that plate, as with all
our vehicles, would be his spare key.
     Silence returned, apart  from the sound  of water slapping against very
expensive hulls and the clicking and clacking of bits of metal and ropes and
all sorts of other shit as they rocked rhythmically at their moorings. A few
lumpy clouds blocked out  the stars now and then as  they scudded across the
sky.
     I turned  left  at  the mini-roundabout, and walked past  the  shopping
parade towards the car park. There was still a light shining in the  rear of
one  of the fancy restaurants, and the flickering  glow of a  TV set escaped
from the gaps around the blinds of a cabin directly opposite, but apart from
that everyone else in marina land had thrown in their hands for the night.
     I turned right at the car park and  headed for pier nine, which was the
second one on the right. In  the dull glow of the overhead lamps  that lined
the edge of  the marina, a sign  told me I couldn't fish from here, and that
the spaces were numbered forty-five to ninety.
     From  either  side  of  me  came  the slap of  water  and the click  of
electricity meters as I passed the reversed-in boats. I was sure there was a
better way  of saying  it,  but Lotfi wasn't around  to  put me right. In my
head,  I ran  through  my  reason for being  here.  I  was  looking  for  my
girlfriend. We'd argued, and I knew she was on a  yacht here somewhere well,
here or in Antibes,  I wasn't too sure. But I was unlikely to be challenged:
even  if somebody saw me, they'd be much more  likely to assume  I was going
back to one of the boats than getting up to bad things in the night.
     A TV blared  out of a white  fibreglass gin palace the  size of a small
bungalow, gleaming in  the darkness to my left. A satellite dish on the pier
was collecting what sounded like a German programme, with aggressive  voices
barking out. People in  the  studio  and inside the boat were laughing. As I
neared  parking  space forty-seven on  my right, I found what I  was looking
for. The Ninth of May was a bigger and more up market version of the fishing
boat  from Jaws. Her  name  was painted on  the rear in  flowing,  joined-up
writing, as if it had  been done with a fountain pen. She was registered  in
Guernsey,  Channel Islands, and had a red  ensign  hanging off the back of a
small sort of patio area. A diving deck jutted out over the propellers, with
a foldaway ladder for swimmers to climb in and out of the water.
     A  short  aluminium gangway, hinged at  the back of the  boat above the
diving deck, was lifted clear of the  pier by a pair of  divots,  as if they
wanted a little bit of privacy.
     A  set of blacked-out  floor-to-ceiling  doors,  with  matching windows
either side of  them, preserved  the anonymity of  the  main cabin. To their
right  was an aluminium ladder  with  handrails that led to the upper  deck.
From what I could see as I wandered past, there were  two settees  up there,
facing  forward, and a  console, all covered  with  purpose-made heavy white
plastic tarps. I supposed they'd whip these off for summer driving.
     I concentrated  for  the  time  being  on  trying  to take in  as  much
information as I  could  without stopping  or  turning my head too obviously
towards the target. I had to go to the end of the pier,  glance at my watch,
look a bit confused, then turn round and walk back. There  was no  other way
to get off. The second time I caught the left-hand side of the boat, and saw
light leaking from the two cabin windows. As I got closer there was still no
noise but, then again, there wasn't a satellite dish and no TV cable running
from the plastic casing on the quay; just water and electric.
     It was twelve  thirty-eight  when  I  approached the shops. Hubba-Hubba
should be nearing the OP. I decided  to wait  a few minutes to give him time
to check the position and  drop  off my kit,  before I moved up the concrete
steps and checked out the front of the  OP for myself on the way back to the
road.
     I stood against one of the louvred doors and listened to the gentle hum
of a generator, feeling the heat seep through the slats as I had a good look
at  the top of the  Ninth of  May and worked out how I  was going to get the
device on board.
     At twelve forty-three I walked up the stone  steps to the flat roof and
the fuck bench, following the pathway that led to the main drag. Once on the
main I turned right, and saw a lone  figure on my side of the road,  heading
towards  Monaco.  I knew  it was  Hubba-Hubba  because he took  small, jerky
strides, almost as if he was wearing a pair of punk bondage trousers.
     By the time I was past the Megane he had disappeared into the darkness.
I spotted the Coke can sticking  out  of the hedge, and,  picking it up as I
passed, I moved along the hedgerow about four or five metres before climbing
over at what I thought was the same point I'd come out of on Wednesday.
     Scrabbling on my hands and knees, feeling in front of me, I got to  the
bundle.  I made sure I  had eyes on  the boat as I unknotted the towel.  The
Ninth of May  was  packed in among  all the other boats like a sardine,  but
even in the  gloom it was easy enough to spot,  simply because I knew it was
there.
     The priority was to sort out com ms nothing was going to happen without
them, apart from a fuck-up.
     I wished we could have just used  one of those antennae sticking out of
the warship  as  a  relay  board.  With that sort  of  help, we  could  have
communicated safely  and securely  with anyone, anywhere in the world,  even
George. But you don't  have  that  kind of luxury  when you're deniable: you
have to rely on emails, brush contacts and the Sony corporation.
     I turned the volume dial  to switch on the  radio, then peeled back the
strip of gaffer tape that covered  the illuminated  display, to check it was
on  channel one.  The channel  dial was  also  covered with gaffer  tape, to
ensure  it didn't move.  Hubba-Hubba  would  have checked  all  this  before
leaving the  safe house, but it was now my radio, and time to check again. I
slipped  it into  the inside pocket of my jacket, and put on the earpiece of
the hands-free. The next item  I retrieved and checked was the insulin case,
before it went into my bum-bag.
     A truck thundered past, heading east  towards Monaco, as  I checked the
spare radio  and the pipe bomb.  It was still in its  bin liner,  to keep it
sterile. Then I  made myself as comfortable as I could  against  the  hedge,
making sure I could see the target through the V-shaped palm in  front of me
before getting  a Snickers bar down my neck and checking traser. There  were
six minutes to go before the first radio check.
     I watched the boat and  generally  sorted out my arse by shuffling left
and right to make a small dip in the earth. It was going to be a long night.
Then, checking the time  once more,  I  unzipped my jacket and hit the radio
pressle.
     "Morning, morning.  Radio  check,  H."  I  spoke in a low, slow, normal
voice.  These radios weren't  like military  sets, which are  designed to be
whispered into. I'd only end up repeating  myself, as the other two tried to
work out what the mush in their ear was  all about. I'd be wasting power and
time on the air.
     I let go of the pressle and waited until I heard a voice.
     "H. OK, OK." Then it went dead. I hit the pressle. That's OK to me.
     L?"
     "I can hear you perfectly."
     "Good, good. OK, then. Everything is how it  should be, the  OP is set.
I'll call you when I've worked  out what  I'm going to do. H,  have  you got
that?"
     I got two clicks.
     "L?"
     Click, click.
     "OK."
     I  zipped up my jacket and looked out at the  boat, thinking hard about
my options.  It didn't take me long  to work out that I really only had one.
Swimming would  be more covert on the approach, but once on the boat I would
leave sign, and I couldn't guarantee it would evaporate by the morning. They
might even come out during the night and see it. So it looked like the towel
was out of commission tonight, which was good. I hadn't been looking forward
to a dip anyway. I decided simply to walk to the back  of the boat, climb on
board, and go for the padded  seats  on the  top deck. At this time  of year
they  wouldn't  be used: the weather,  and  the  reason for the visit, would
encourage the Romeos to keep a low profile. The position wasn't perfect: the
inside of the boat would contain the pressure wave of  the high explosive as
it detonated, just for a nanosecond, before it ripped its way out, shredding
the superstructure, and whoever was on board, into thousands of tiny pieces.
Even  so, planting the device  on the top deck would be  good enough to take
out the whole of the cabin, and the driver's seat below. If the blast didn't
kill them, the shards of wood, metal  and  fibreglass flying through the air
at supersonic  speed would. I wasn't  sure it would do enough damage to sink
her,  but  no one inside would survive  and the  money would be shredded and
with it my fantasy of it washing ashore at my feet.
     Twenty-Six.
     As  I started to visualize playing  Spiderman round  the outside of the
boat, Lotfi came up on the net. It must have been one thirty.
     "Hello, hello, radio check. H?"
     Click, click.
     "N?"
     I pressed twice, and Lotfi finished the check: "OK."  It was good quick
voice procedure,  considering we  hadn't worked together  with radios before
and they were used to gob bing off in Arabic over the net.
     I pulled  my knees up  to my  chest and rested my  chin on  them  as  I
watched the silhouettes of the masts and continued visualizing getting on to
the  boat, moving around to the right-hand side,  climbing  up the aluminium
ladder. I wasn't happy about it being right next to the cabin window, but at
least there was a blind. I imagined that the sea covers were  strapped down,
so I thought  I'd probably have to pull out the hooks  from  D-rings in  the
deck before pushing the pipe bomb into the gully where the seat and backrest
met, in among the crushed crisps, melted chocolate and fifty-pence pieces.
     Lotfi came back on the air at two a.m. and we all had a radio check. It
was  time to stop  thinking  about  it and  just  get on with  it.  That's N
foxtrot." I was about to start walking. "L, roger that."
     "H?"
     I got two clicks from Hubba-Hubba.
     I  got up  slowly  and felt around the  towel, brought  out the plastic
cylinder, still  in its bin liner, then moved along  the hedgerow and exited
at the same place as I'd come in and walked down to the car. This time I put
the key into  the door,  to try to cut down on the  profusion  of electronic
signals flying around.  High-frequency  signals and electric detonators  are
not a good mix, so the more I could do without them, the better. I had to be
quick off the mark, though, once the  door was open, as the alarm started to
count down  with a steady sequence of bleeps. I  had to get the key into the
ignition and turn it the first two positions before  the alarm activated and
woke up the whole of BSM.
     I got in on the passenger side  and put the  pipe bomb on  the driver's
seat. Then  it was on  with the  garage gloves before  opening  up the glove
compartment to switch on the only interior light I'd left working. I put the
device  on the drinks tray.  Twisting and  separating the two halves of  the
cylinder,  I checked the clothes peg to make sure  the plastic was in  place
before connecting the batteries.
     Hubba-Hubba came  up  on the net. He was quite casual about it,  but he
had important information.
     "Two cars, you have two cars."
     I immediately  covered  the light with my  right  hand and lay flat, my
cheek resting against  the piping of the  driver's seat.  I could  smell the
pick  'n' mix sweetshop  aroma  coming  from  the cylinder as  the  noise of
engines  got  louder  and  light  bathed  the interior  of the  Megane. Both
vehicles carried on  past, and as the sound of their engines died away I sat
up again, checked the clothes  peg and  battery plastic  yet again, and made
sure that the fishing line was still held in place on the outer casing.
     I hated this next bit.
     There was nothing else I could do now; I'd checked everything but still
checked  it several times  over again. Now I just had to go for it. Besides,
if I'd made a  mistake, I wasn't going to know much about it, because I'd be
the one in thousands of pieces, not the boat.
     I  pressed down on the batteries with my  left thumb, to  keep  them in
place while I took hold of the plastic  safety strip with my right thumb and
index finger.  I eased out  the  plastic, without breathing not that  it was
going  to help  in any way, it just felt the  thing to do. Once I had closed
and twisted  the cylinder tighter,  the  device was ready to be  placed. I'd
remove the final circuit breaker once I'd got it into position.
     I closed the glove compartment and sank back into the darkness.
     "L and H, that's me ready."
     I got  an "OK' from Lotfi and two clicks  from Hubba-Hubba  and  waited
were I was.  After three or four minutes, I saw Hubba-Hubba to my right, his
short strides taking him downhill towards the marina entrance.
     I  let him pass  behind  me, watching him in the side  mirror, and very
soon he got on the net.
     "L, I'm nearly there. Acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     Soon afterwards I saw headlights up on the high ground as Lotfi started
down the hill.  The headlights turned  into the  marina,  then  disappeared.
Lotfi and  Hubba-Hubba  were  moving into their positions, to cover  me as I
placed the  device. Hubba-Hubba was foxtrot and staying near  the  shops, to
warn me if  anything was coming from  that direction; Lotfi  would stay with
his vehicle and cover me from the car park. They were my eyes and ears while
I concentrated on getting the device where  it needed to be and  not blowing
myself up.
     Leaving the bin  liner, because I still had the gloves on, I shoved the
device down  the front of my  cotton Puff a jacket and got out of the car. I
moved on to the pavement behind  the OP, for some cover between the hedgerow
and  the little bit of  garden at the  roadside, to check  myself out. Then,
using some of  the insulation  tape  I'd kept in  the  bum-bag,  I taped the
earpiece  around  my ear. I didn't  want it falling off and  making a noise,
either as it hit the deck or  as  one of the guys  gob bed off at me while I
was on the task.
     I put the tape  back in my bum-bag and made sure it was zipped up, then
moved it  round  so it was hanging off  my  arse. I  checked I  had  nothing
rattling in my pockets. The  Snicker bars were still there, so I zipped them
closed,  and  jumped up and down to make sure that nothing was going to fall
out.
     I'd already  done this before coming into BSM,  but  it was part of the
ritual for a job, very much like  checking chamber  and checking the device.
Check and test, check and test it was my lifetime mantra.
     Finally I  made sure my Browning was  going  to stay where it was in my
jeans and not fall into the water,  and  checked the hammer. When I'd cocked
the weapon, I'd put the little finger of my left hand between the hammer and
the pin, then squeezed the trigger  so the hammer came forward under control
but then stopped in the half-cock position, with the safety off. If I had to
draw down,  I'd have to  make like Billy the Kid in a  saloon fight, drawing
and  whipping back the  hammer to its  full  cock  position  before I fired.
Without an  internal holster, it felt safer for me to have it like this as I
was  clambering around,  rather than  hanging  next to my  bollocks with the
hammer back and a safety that could easily be flicked off.
     Finally, I  pressed each nostril closed  in  turn, and gave them a good
blow. It's a pain in  the arse trying to think and  breathe at the same time
with a nose full of snot. It would be back soon, it always was on a job, but
I liked to start on empty.
     As  I set  off  down  the road, I  got  out one of the  Snickers  bars,
unwrapped the cling film  and started to munch. It  would make  me look less
suspicious and, anyway, I was still hungry.
     Twenty-Seven
     There were  too  many boats blocking my view to make out  the  Ninth of
May, and no sign of Hubba-Hubba as I carried on past the shops  and into the
car park, hands in my pockets, sweating up inside the plastic gloves. I took
off  my  Timberlands and left them behind a  wheelie bin  at the end  of the
parade. The last thing I wanted  when I got on the boat was  them  squeaking
all over the deck and leaving tell-tale dirty marks.
     Following  the marina  round towards  the  second  pier,  I checked  my
bum-bag to make sure everything was zipped up, then checked the Browning yet
again to make  sure it  was good  and  secure.  I  walked  casually but with
purpose, a  boat-owner going back  to his  pride and  joy. I  wasn't looking
around me because there was no need: Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba were covering me,
and if there was a problem, I'd soon know about it in my left ear.
     I spotted Lotfi's Ford Focus nose-parked in a  line of cars facing pier
nine. I caught  a  glimpse  of his face, illuminated by a  flickering marina
light, as I turned towards Ninth of May, then my brain started to shrink and
focus completely on the target and surrounding area.
     Light spilled out round  the  sides of cabin  blinds to  my left, and I
heard the sound of German TV and real-time laughter once more.
     I was  no  more than a few metres away from the target  when  a vehicle
approached from the Nice end of  the main. But it wasn't coming my  way. Its
engine noise dwindled and its lights faded as it headed on towards Monaco. I
checked the device yet again, then the  Browning and bum-bag, and risked one
good look around me before  crouching down  behind the boat's utility stand.
The meters ticked away like the crickets in Algeria.
     All the blinds were still down,  and  I couldn't see a single light. It
looked as if the Romeos had turned in.
     It's pointless fannying  around once  you're on target you're there, so
you  might as well just get on with it. Sitting on the edge of the pier,  my
hands  gripping  the base of  the utility stand,  I stretched my right  foot
across to the small fibreglass diving platform that overhung the propellers.
My toes just made contact and I dug them in to  get a decent purchase. I let
go of the utility stand  and extended my body  like a circus gymnast, slowly
pushing  myself off  the pier and transferring my  weight  on to the  ledge.
Every  muscle  screamed  with  the  effort  of controlling  my movements  so
precisely that  I didn't slip or  bang  into  anything.  The  boat was large
enough to absorb my weight; it wasn't going to start rocking  just because I
was messing about on the back end. The only thing I was worried about, apart
from one of the  Romeos suddenly deciding to take a breath of fresh air, was
the  noise the  device or the  Browning would make if they dropped into  the
water or clattered on to the deck.
     I breathed through my  mouth, because my nose was  starting to block up
again, and heaved myself on to the ledge. I hooked my little finger into the
earpiece and pulled it away from my head, blocking the outlet in case one of
the boys started to gob off on the radio. I needed both ears from now on. My
throat was dry, but I wasn't going to do anything to moisten it just yet. It
was  more  important to listen for a while. There was no sound at all coming
from this boat, apart from the gentle lapping of water  against its sides. I
could still  hear the Germans' muted laughter. I  replaced the earphone  and
raised my head,  inch by inch, until I could see over  the back of the boat.
The patio doors were just a few feet away.
     It's  basic  fielder aft never to look over something if  you can avoid
it; always around  or, even better, through. You should never cut a straight
line, like the top of a  wall,  or  the skyline, or the side of  a boat. The
human  eye  is  quick  to  detect  broken  symmetry.  My  hands gripped  the
fibreglass as I raised my  head, painfully slowly, hoping  that the movement
was disguised against the background of divots and the raised gangway. There
was nothing: it was still clear.
     I checked  the device, Browning  and bum-bag  one  more time,  then got
slowly and deliberately to my feet, lifted my right leg over the back of the
boat and tested the ribbed decking with my toes to make sure I wasn't  about
to  step on  something like a  glass  or a plate. I put the rest  of my foot
down,  gradually shifting my weight until  my left leg was able to follow. I
took my time, concentrating on  the  job in hand,  not  worrying about being
seen through  the patio doors. If I had been, I'd know about it soon enough.
Better to spend time and  effort  on  the job than  worry about  what  might
happen  if things went pear-shaped. If they did, that was when I'd  start to
flap.
     Moving  to  the right of  the patio area, I eased myself  up on  to the
right-hand walkway that led round towards the front of the boat,  and to the
ladder that would take me  over  the cabin and on  to the  upper deck. I was
concentrating so hard that the rustle of my gloves sounded to me like a bush
being shaken. I reached the ladder  and placed my right foot on the first of
the three rungs, applying pressure very slowly on the  aluminium. The  cabin
window was  no  more than six inches to  my  right. I didn't want to use the
handrail, to avoid strain on the rivets.
     There was  a metallic creak  as  I lifted my  left foot on to  the next
rung.  My mouth  was open  so I could control the  sound of my breathing; my
eyes were straining to make sure I didn't bump into anything. I kept moving,
slowly and deliberately, all  the time checking that the bum-bag, device and
weapon weren't going to bounce on to the deck.
     I eased my  weight  on  to  the  third rung,  then got my  hand  on the
fibreglass deck and heaved myself upwards.
     I found myself on all fours, on the top deck, as two vehicles came from
the direction of Monaco and lit up the main, then  vanished into the town. I
got slowly to my feet, so there'd only be  two  points of contact  above the
sleeping people. It  took me  six slow, deliberate steps to reach the seats.
Once there, I lowered myself on to my  knees, and tried to  find out how the
covers  were held down. There was a Velcro fastening down the sides. Undoing
that would be a big no no, this close to the enemy.
     I  heard  the sound of sliding doors, a burst of  laughter, then German
voices.
     Lotfi got on the net.
     "Foxtrots! We got fox trots
     I  couldn't  do  anything  but  hug the deck,  then inch my way, on  my
stomach, towards the protection of the seats forward of the driving console.
I ended up over a sort of sunroof, a  clear sheet of Perspex that would have
looked directly down into the cabin if it wasn't for the blinds.
     I rested my face on the Perspex and tried not to think about what would
happen if the blind was opened. I heard  the doors slide shut, and the sound
of footsteps on the pier behind me. Then came the whimper of a dog, followed
by a sharp, Germanic rebuke from its owner.
     There was  nothing  I could  do but wait where I was for  the all-clear
from Lotfi. I stuck my free  ear to the  Perspex to check  for  noises  from
below.  There were none,  and it was  still dark on the  other  side  of the
blind.
     I  lay  perfectly still, mouth open, breath condensing on  the Perspex.
Car doors slammed and engines fired up in the car park.
     I stayed  where I was,  nothing moving but my eyeballs and  the dribble
spilling from the corner of my mouth, as I watched the vehicles leave in the
direction of Nice.
     I got a low whisper from Lotfi.
     "All clear."
     I didn't double-click him  in response: that would just create movement
and noise. He'd see me move  soon  anyway.  There was  still  no sound  from
below,  but  I  wanted  to get off this  sunroof. Having nothing more than a
sheet of  clear plastic and a concertina blind  between  me and  a bunch  of
al-Qaeda was not my idea of fun.
     I began to raise myself on my toes and the heels of my hands.
     "More fox trots more fox trots
     I  couldn't  see  what  he  was  on  about,  but that didn't matter.  I
flattened myself once more. Then I could  hear mumbling from somewhere along
the pier. It sounded like more German.
     Two bodies on deck, smoking."
     I reached down slowly for my Sony.
     Click, click.
     We'd have to wait this one out. There was nothing  I could  do  now but
hope I wasn't seen.
     I stayed exactly where I was, ears cocked, nose  blocked, the left side
of  my face cold and  wet. The mumbling was definitely German.  I even got a
whiff of pipe tobacco as Hubba-Hubba now got on the net.
     "Stand by, stand by. That's four fox trots towards you, L."
     I heard  a double click from  Lotfi as Hubba-Hubba gave the commentary.
That7s  at the first pier, still foxtrot, still straight. They must be going
for pier nine. N, acknowledge."
     I double-clicked gingerly. He was  right, there was nowhere else to go,
apart from one of the cars.
     Lotfi got on the net.
     "N, do you want me to stop them?"
     What the fuck did he mean, stop them? Shoot them?
     If they were aiming  for any of the boats near me, I'd be seen. I could
hear  their footsteps now and the mumbles  of a foreign language.  They were
definitely heading my way.
     I reached  for  the Sony and clicked twice, and Hubba-Hubba came on the
net immediately.
     "H will stop  them."  There was  a  crash of  breaking  glass  from the
vicinity  of the  shops. A microsecond later, a high-pitched  two-tone alarm
split the night.
     Twenty-Eight.
     I froze.
     A bright yellow strobe light near the tab ac began to bounce around the
marina. There was nothing  I could do but hug Perspex,  my pulse racing. The
four fox  trots sparked up loudly in  French, sounding  surprised, while the
Germans shouted urgently to each other.
     I heard  a  rush  of  Arabic in the cabin  below.  Furniture  was being
knocked into. A glass was smashed. Lights went on. Through a tiny gap at the
edge of the blind, I found myself looking straight down  on  to a stretch of
highly varnished wood  below  the front window. A hand  grabbed at things  I
couldn't see, and disappeared. A blue-shirted back came into view. They were
already dressed down there. They'd probably been ready to do a runner. There
was more gob bing off. They were flapping,  thinking that whatever was going
on outside was meant for them.
     I  heard an  English  voice,  male  and  educated,  very calm,  very in
control.
     "Just let me check, just wait. Let me check."
     I saw  a  mass  of  curly black  hair,  and a  wash-stained, once-white
T-shirt. The  hair was flatter on one side, probably from  the way he'd been
sleeping; its owner was  peering under the  front blind  towards  the shops.
There was movement in other boats, too, and lights coming  on. A few  people
were venturing out to see  what the  commotion was all about. The strobe was
still  going for it big-time,  and  I kept rigid, my eye glued to  the  gap,
trying  to see through  the  condensation  and  dribble between  me  and the
Perspex.
     The  man below  me  turned,  and his face was high  lit by the flashing
strobe. It  was  Curly, for  sure,  the  man  at Juan-les-Pins  and  in  the
Polaroid;   now  I  definitely  knew   where  Greaseball  was  getting   his
information. George needed to know about this.
     He was very skinny. His shoulder blades poked through his T-shirt as if
he had a coat hanger in there. His  big hair made his head look  totally out
of proportion to his body.  He hadn't  shaved for a  while, and his slightly
hooked nose and sunken eyes made him look as if he'd jumped out of a Dickens
novel. He'd be the one giving Oliver Twist a hard time.
     It's OK," he said,  smooth  as  silk. It's just a burglar alarm. Things
are cool..."
     There was  another  flurry of Arabic. He  was definitely  the  voice of
reason.
     "No, an alarm it's just being robbed. You know, someone's breaking into
the shop to steal, that's all it is, it's OK." He moved back from the window
and his face disappeared.
     Was the alarm going to fetch  the police? If so, how quickly? There was
still talking and movement beneath me.  It was an ideal  time to get the job
done. If I was wrong, and people saw me, I'd soon know about it. I got to my
knees and wiped up what  had fallen  out of my mouth with my sleeve. Then  I
pushed the  device under the covering and into the channel where the back of
the seat  met the backrest.  I peeled back the insulation tape tab, and gave
the fishing line a steady pull until the clothes-peg jaws released the strip
of plastic and the two drawing pins connected. The circuit was complete; the
device was armed. I pushed the cylinder in as far as my arm could reach. The
strobe was  still  going  ballistic  and I could hear people  on other boats
talking animatedly.  It was starting to feel like some sort of yachting rave
out there. I lay  by the seats, not moving  an inch, worrying about  whether
the kit  at the OP would be found if the police decided to have  a good look
around. Biggest worry  of all, though, was how  to get off this thing before
the gendarmes showed up.
     About  fifteen  seconds later I knew it was too late.  Two sets of blue
flashing lights were heading down from the  town. They arrived at the marina
and turned right, towards  the  strobe.  Below me, Curly started calming the
Arabs down. They're just checking out the shop. Everything is cool."
     I  watched as four uniforms got out of their  patrol cars and inspected
the shop-front, silhouetted in their headlights and flashing blues.
     They were joined almost immediately  by another set of  headlights. The
driver  got out and  waved his  arms about, jabbering  away nineteen  to the
dozen. Probably the owner, working himself up to a big insurance claim.
     The police stayed for another twenty minutes, then the voices faded and
lights started  to go  out all round the marina. Things  went quiet  in  the
cabin below me. At least  they  wouldn't be leaving without me knowing; this
must have been the closest OP in OP history.
     I lay there for another hour, glad of  my new  quilted jacket as I felt
my extremities  start  to chill. I sat up  slowly and checked around me. The
marina was asleep once more. The tab ac lights  were  on; it looked like the
owner was guarding it for the night.  I made sure that the vinyl covering of
the settee  looked  exactly  as  it had when I  arrived, then went back into
Spiderman mode.
     Less than fifteen minutes later  I was  walking along the pier  towards
the car park and Lotfi's Ford Focus.
     I turned left, towards my Timberlands, and hit the pressle.
     "L, stay where you are and keep the trigger. There's a  change of plan.
I'll let you know what later. Acknowledge."
     Click, dick. "H, check?"
     Click, click.
     "Meet me at my car."
     Click, click.
     I got back to the bins to  retrieve my Timberlands. As I headed back to
the OP, I offered up a prayer to  the god of  wrong numbers  that no one got
through to the pager by mistake. At  least, not until the  three on the boat
had done their job.
     Twenty-Nine
     I had just started moving towards the stone steps when Hubba-Hubba came
on the net.
     "Stand by, stand by. Vehicle towards you. N, acknowledge."
     Click, dick.
     Not that I needed him to tell me. The unmistakable sound of a VW camper
thud-thud-thudded its way  around the edge of the marina. I sat  half-way up
the concrete steps and waited for it  to park up, before  moving towards the
OP.
     I followed  the pathway  until  it reached  the main, and turned  right
towards the Megane.
     Lotfi came  on the net. I couldn't see  Hubba-Hubba but I knew  he  was
around somewhere. He wouldn't show himself until he saw me.
     As  I drew  level with the car, I  spotted him further  up the  road. I
waited for him to join me, and we crouched in the shadows behind the hedge.
     "What did you do that for?" I said.
     "Getting the police down here could have been an absolute nightmare."
     He grinned.
     "It stopped those people seeing you, didn't it?"
     I nodded: he had a point.
     "In any case, I've always wanted to do that."
     I nodded  again: so had I. "What did you use to smash the window?" "One
of the metal weights they use to keep the parasols in place.  Those  windows
are quite tough, you know."
     "I need to ask you something." I wiped my running nose.
     "Is there anywhere in your area where I can send an email right now? It
might be important.  One of the guys on  the  boat was  with Greaseball last
night. He's a Brit, early to mid-thirties, skinny,  long black  curly  hair.
Looks like the guitarist out of Queen, you know who I mean?"
     He ignored the stupid  second question and  thought  for a few  seconds
about the first.
     "The  main  station in Nice. They have some of those cyberpoints. There
are maybe four or five of them. I think they lock the station  at night, but
I'm not sure. There are definitely two outside."
     I briefed Hubba-Hubba on what  I had seen inside the boat, and told him
to pass it  on to Lotfi while I went to  Nice. Tell Lotfi to keep a  trigger
until I get back. And if they move before  that, you  two just  have fun!" I
slapped him on the shoulder. I checked the pavement for people, then stepped
out and went back to the Megane.
     Driving  past  the  entrance  to the marina and on  up towards  Lotfi's
position,  I  listened  in as  Hubba-Hubba briefed Lotfi  on  the  net, then
started to work out the code words I was going to need in the email.
     I drove along the coast  towards Nice.  At this time of the morning the
city was dead. A few  cars passed me, and the odd loving couple or lost soul
wandered among the brightly lit shop-fronts.
     The main station  was a grand nineteenth-century  building, with plenty
of modern steel and glass now complementing huge blocks of granite. The area
around it  was  filled with  the  usual array  of  kebab  stalls, sex shops,
news-stands and souvenir shops.
     Hubba-Hubba had been right: the station was closed, probably to prevent
it  becoming a homeless refuge at night. The two  cyberpoints he'd mentioned
were among a cluster of maybe six or seven brightly lit glass phone boxes to
the  left of the  main  entrance. The only cameras I saw were focused on the
entrance.  I carried on past  and squeezed into the only space I could  see,
down a side road.
     The cyberpoint  was exactly the  same as the one in Cap 3000. I slipped
on my plastic gloves, inserted my phone card got on to email.
     I started to tap out with two fingers, gradually getting faster.
     It was  good to see you  yesterday. Guess what? I think  you had better
move a lot faster if you want to get in with Susanna. There's this guy  I've
just seen with her.  I don't know his name, but you might know him, he's got
long,  dark,  curly hair. In his mid-thirties and English. Do you  know him?
Anyway, he's getting  about quite a bit.  I also saw him  and Jenny together
last night, which looked a bit suspicious as they  obviously know each other
very well, and it certainly  seems that this guy tells Jenny everything. Did
you know  about this or is Jenny keeping  that a secret from  you?  Sorry if
this is sad news, but  I just thought you'd  like to know. Is there anything
you  want  to tell  me? If so I can come round after work tomorrow  night. I
would say have a nice day, but maybe not. PS I gave your present to Susanna,
she loves red.
     I closed  down and pulled out my phone card  If George had anything new
to tell  me, or  if I needed to change the plan,  I'd pick it  up at the DOP
tomorrow night.
     Thirty.
     There was a sudden burst of static in my ear for the eight a.m. check.
     "Hello, hello radio  check."  As I reached inside my  jacket, I  heard,
"H?" followed by two clicks. Then, "N?" I hit the pressle twice.
     That's all OK."
     The radio  went dead. I brought  my hand out of my pocket and pulled up
the zip. The coat had  done its job well through  the night, and a couple of
times I'd even had to undo the top a little.
     My  face was  greasy and  my eyes  stung,  but my job was to  keep  the
trigger on the target boat  and that was what I'd done. There'd been no sign
of life, outside or in.
     First light was a bit later today  because  of the cloud cover, and for
the last hour or so a gentle breeze had been coming off the sea and rustling
the  vegetation around me. It was  going to be a  dull, grey, miserable day,
not one that the postcard photographers would be rushing to capture.
     The  traffic was starting  to  make its presence felt behind  me, and a
shop's  shutter  rattled  open below. I bet the tab ac was going  to get one
now.
     The first thing I'd done on my return from Nice last night was fold the
towel and use it as  a cushion under my arse. Ithadn't turned the OP  into a
hotel room on  the  Croisette, but it had made me  quite comfortable. All my
Snickers bars had gone, and I'd  had a dump in the cling film. Lying next to
it was my water bottle, full of urine.
     I  brushed my hair back with my hands and  rubbed my  eyes  awake.  Now
wasn't the time to slack. I could hear laboured breathing:  someone running,
coming  down the road to my left. He took  his time to  get to me, and I was
amazed when he finally did: the  wheezing and scraping of feet made it sound
like he was about to have a heart attack.
     There was  general movement around the  marina  now, with  quite a  few
bodies moving out of their boats. The crew of  a rubbish truck were emptying
champagne  bottles and  caviar tubs out of the  two wheelie bins.  I  made a
mental note  to  really  find out who  my biological parents were one day -I
wouldn't  mind  finding  out  I belonged  in a  place like  this, maybe even
getting  served in the Boston yacht club  instead of just being able to work
in it.
     Birdsong had  sparked up around me.  I tipped over on  to  my side  and
supported my head with my right arm,  stretching  out my  legs as I tried to
restore some  sort of feeling in them. I had  a better view of the VW camper
now. It was yellow and white, one of the newer, squarer-shaped ones, and all
the windows were covered with aluminium folding blinds.  They must have  got
their heads down as soon as the wheels stopped turning.
     With just  one eye on the binos, because I couldn't be arsed  to sit up
and use both, I watched the  couple on the boat to the right of the Ninth of
May emerge  on deck. Hair  sticking up, much the same as mine  probably was,
they  did  some boat stuff around the deck,  their fleece jackets protecting
them from  the breeze. There was still nothing coming from the Ninth of May:
the  black blinds still covered  the  front window  and the two  on the side
facing me. I ran the binos over the plastic covering on the top deck settees
and the  driving  station. It  was buckling  a little under the breeze,  but
didn't look as if it had been disturbed. I thought about what might be going
on behind those  blinds. Maybe they were already up, all three of them, just
waiting  to go and  collect,  lying  in their bunks with  time  to kill,  or
memorizing  street  maps  and bus and train  timetables. Whatever it was,  I
wished they'd hurry up and get on with it. The longer they stayed there, the
more chance I had of being compromised.
     A very small, narrow  Japanese van pulled into the car park and the old
gardener I'd seen yesterday got out: he was dressed in the  same baggy green
overalls and wellies. He seemed more concerned  about  the camper than about
his  plants  right now; he  dragged himself towards  it, looking like he was
about to start an incident. Maybe campers weren't  welcomed as energetically
as everyone else was, according to the marina entrance sign.
     When he got there,  he shouted and banged on the side panel. One of the
blinds went up and  he carried on shouting and waving his arms as if  he was
directing traffic. He  obviously got a satisfactory answer, because he  went
back to his  vehicle with a bit more  of a spring in his step. He opened the
sliding door to reveal  forks and spades and a wheelbarrow.  The tools  came
out one by one,  clanging  as they hit the ground.  I  just hoped he  hadn't
woken up at three in the morning determined to get to grips first thing with
that V-shaped palm up behind the  fuck bench. Whatever he  was  planning, it
wasn't going to happen  yet. He looked as if he was going to take  the first
break of the day.
     Lowering  himself on  to  the sill  of the sliding  door,  he tapped  a
cigarette out of a packet. The smoke was picked up and dispersed quickly  by
the breeze.
     "Radio check. H?"
     I unzipped.
     Click, dick.
     "N?"
     Reaching in, I double-clicked the pressle.
     "Everything OK. Time  to  change batteries."  He was  right:  we should
start  the day with fresh  power, and I had to get it  done before  Old  Man
Titchmarsh  dragged himself  up here  and  started digging  where he  wasn't
welcome.
     I took the radio  from my jacket, tugged the  batteries off the  gaffer
tape, pulled off the battery  cover and replaced them. I checked the display
to make sure the power  supply was on and I was  still on channel one,  then
bunged the Sony back inside my jacket.
     It wasn't that long before the sliding door to Old Man Titchmarsh's van
was closed  and  he  wheeled  his  way  towards  the  concrete steps  before
disappearing  into the dead ground below me  at  the  start of the stairway.
There was nothing I could do but stay where I was and just  get on with  the
job.
     The  morning  commute  gathered pace on  the  main,  and it wasn't long
before OMT  bar rowed past me and the fuck bench, looking down at the camper
and grumbling to himself. Maybe  he  hadn't been as firm as  he'd thought. I
soon  heard metallic  noises to my right as his  tools  were pulled off  the
wheelbarrow, and he started to dig in the sun-dried soil. If  he saw me, I'd
just have to play the bum and let him chuck me out. I could walk down to the
marina entrance and maybe sit at the bus stop; at least I'd still have an OP
on both exits. Then all three of  us would have  to  take turns keeping that
trigger  until  the  Romeos moved. It would be  a  nightmare, but there  was
nothing I could do about it.
     "Hello, hello radio check."
     I put my hand in my jacket. It must be nine o'clock.
     "H?"
     Click, dick.
     "N?"
     Click, click.
     "That's all OK."
     The next  three and a half hours were a pain in the arse. OMT seemed to
spend  more time smoking than he did gardening, which was fine by me because
he took his breaks at the far end  of the garden. Down in the marina, people
wandered off their boats and returned with baguettes or bags  of croissants;
delivery vans arrived and did their stuff at the shops; cars  drove into the
car park and men with tool kits and overalls went to work  on decks, rigging
and  other boaty stuff. I could hear a bit  of  music now and again from the
restaurants,  and  the occasional  loud  voice or  burst  of  laughter  from
customers  in  the  tab ac punctuated  by  the smashing of  more  glass. The
window-replacement boys must have been on site.
     A  small electric cart  loaded  with rubbish bins and brooms whined its
way out of the  dead  ground  in front  of the shops and towards the wheelie
bins where I'd hidden my  Timberlands.  OMT  shouted down at the driver, who
stopped and dismounted with a drag on his cigarette  and a wave. His stomach
looked about  the  same weight  as the  vehicle, which was probably  feeling
relieved to be  rid of him.  The bin  cart driver  cupped an ear towards the
high ground of  the  gardens as the old boy gave him some  verbal broadband,
then turned back towards the camper with a determined nod.
     The bin cart driver closed in on the VW, and repeated the performance.
     There was a lot of thumping on the side of the van and what  I supposed
was the French for "Get the fuck out of here, this isn't a campsite'.
     The door  slid half-way open  and a  woman with  short  dark hair and a
black leather jacket appeared in the gap.
     Words were exchanged, but whatever was said stopped the cart man in his
tracks. He walked away from the camper as the sliding door closed.
     My heart beat a little bit faster. This didn't feel right.
     Old Man  Titchmarsh called to him, wanting  to know what was happening.
The cart man beckoned him down the steps.
     I hit my pressle.
     "All call  signs, this is N. There could be a  problem. The  yellow and
white  VW van  that  came in  last night might contain another  surveillance
team. Roger so far, L." Click, click.
     "HI'
     Click, click.
     "I'll explain more later. Nothing changes for us.  Just  remember  your
third-party  awareness.  If I'm  right,  there might  be  others  out there.
Acknowledge, L."
     Click, click.
     "H?"
     Click, click.
     The woman had been fully dressed. Was that so she  could get out of the
camper fast if the shit hit the fan,  and  still have her  weapon  and radio
concealed?
     Either  way,  we still had  our  job  to  do. If they  were  after  the
hawallada, we just had  to get there  first. I reckoned George would be able
to wring what he needed out of  them a lot quicker than any  law-enforcement
agency.
     The  engine  sparked  up on the camper.  It headed towards  the  marina
entrance, with a man at the wheel.
     "Stand  by, stand by.  That's the van now mobile, two up. A man with  a
dark ponytail and a woman with short  dark hair and a black leather jacket."
The van went out of sight, following the line of the shop-fronts. That's now
unsighted towards the marina exit."
     They both acknowledged  with a double click,  and it was no more than a
minute before Lotfi came on the net with the van's progress.
     "L has the Combi towards BSM, still two up. Now unsighted."
     I tried to convince myself that I'd been wrong about what I'd seen. But
only for about three seconds.
     OMT shuffled  his way back up the hill and  started  digging away to my
right as I got another radio check. It was twelve o'clock on the dot.
     "Hello, radio check. H?"
     Click, click.
     "N?"
     At almost the same moment, my eyes were sucked towards the rear deck of
the  boat.  There was movement: a  body appeared It  was Curly, still in his
T-shirt and jeans, having a look around as he let down the gangway.
     "N, radio check."
     Click, click, click, click.
     There was a pause. He would only have been expecting two.
     "Is that a stand-by, N? Is that a stand-by?"
     Click, click.
     He got the message.
     "Stand by, stand by."
     Thirty-One.
     Curly had finished  pushing out the gangway, still in bare feet, as the
Romeos I'd almost dribbled on last night appeared on  deck. I couldn't radio
Lotfi  and Hubba-Hubba,  as  OMT was just a bit too close for  comfort as he
scraped about  in the earth with his spade no more than four  or five metres
away. But Lotfi knew what to do.
     "N, is there movement?"
     Click, dick.
     "Are the Romeos still on the boat?"
     I did nothing.
     "Are they foxtrot?"
     Click, click.
     OMT  was  even closer  than  I'd thought. I  could hear the rasp  of  a
lighter.
     The Romeos were now off the pier and had turned left towards the shops.
I had a better view of them now. Both were in dark suits.
     Lotfi got back on the net.
     "Are there two of them?"
     I clicked twice, raised  the  binos to my eyes with my right hand,  and
kept the left over  the  pressle  as  Curly hauled the  gangway back  in and
disappeared  inside  the boat. I  checked them  out while  Lotfi  carried on
asking questions.
     "Are they male?" Click, click.
     Hubba-Hubba came on the net.
     "H is mobile."
     Lotfi: "Are they still in the marina?"
     Click, click.
     There was  hesitation: Lotfi was trying to think of other things to ask
so he and Hubba-Hubba could have a clearer picture of what was going on. But
he still hadn't asked what they looked like. Finally he got there.
     "Are they Arab?"
     Click, click.
     I couldn't tell him right now, but they were also young, maybe in their
early thirties, with short, well-groomed  hair, white shirts, ties and black
shoes. The shorter one, maybe five seven,  five eight, had straight hair and
a  rounded, over-fed face. In  his left  hand he was  carrying  a  Slazenger
tennis  bag, with a racquet in the outside pocket. The  to welling round the
racquet handle  was  faded  and  worn. They'd  thought  about  ageing  their
collection kit, to make it look as normal as possible. They looked just like
bankers off to the tennis club. It looked as if Greaseball'sint was going to
prove good: they would blend in perfectly in Monaco.
     The second one was  hands free and taller,  maybe six foot, quite lean,
with wiry hair brushed  back  off his forehead, a very neat moustache and  a
pair of aviator style sun-gigs. The Saddam look was obviously in this year.
     I heard a vehicle drive into the parking space  behind me, and a second
later Hubba-Hubba got on the net.
     "H is static behind you, N, and has the trigger on the main. I can give
direction once they are on the main. N, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     As planned, Hubba-Hubba was coming in closer on the stand-by. That way,
we'd have another person who could take the Romeos once they were out on the
main, just in case I couldn't get out of the OP and do it myself.
     The two collectors disappeared by the parade as Lotfi sparked up.
     "N, are they still in the port?"
     Click, click. "Can you see them?"
     Hubba-Hubba cut in when I hadn't replied after five seconds.
     "H still has the trigger on the main."
     I waited for another thirty  seconds, more than enough time for them to
get half-way up the  steps, if that was the direction  they were headed. But
there was a no-show as I still smelt OMT's cigarette on the breeze. I got up
slowly  on  my  hands  and  knees and gathered all  my kit into  the  towel,
including  my little cling film  package and the bottle of piss. Only  after
crawling to the exit point along the hedgerow did I risk getting on the net.
My voice wavered as I tried to suck in air and move at the same time.
     "OK, OK. They're both Arab, dark suits, white shirts, ties. The smaller
one, Romeo One, is  carrying  a  blue tennis  bag,  Slazenger.  Romeo Two is
taller, slimmer; sunglasses and moustache. H, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     "Is it clear? I'm coming out."
     There was a pause.
     Click, click.
     I stood up, jumped over the hedgerow. Hubba-Hubba had  parked his Scudo
my side of the Megane,  so he  was shielded but could  still look through my
window to keep the trigger.
     His window was half down, and he had his eyes on the exit.  I walked up
and made a show of checking my watch.
     "The station, mate. Get to the station and be careful, keep an eye  out
for that van."
     He nodded, fired the ignition.
     "Don't worry.  Remember,  Lotfi brings  God  with  us."  He  gave me  a
gleaming  smile as he reversed back into the road. I dumped  the  kit in the
Megane boot, took over the trigger and prepared for the take. It was good to
know that God was still on our team. We needed all the help we could get.
     I  closed  the boot as Hubba-Hubba came back on the net, in a calm, low
voice.
     "Stand by, stand by.  Romeo One and  Two foxtrot,  approaching the main
from the  entry road, about ten  short." I looked down the road and saw  the
Scudo just starting to move uphill past the marina entrance.
     "L, standing by."
     I gave my acknowledgement.  Click, click. Bending down to  check out  a
wheel on  the  side  of  the  car  away from the marina  exit, I  peeled the
insulation tape off my ear and waited for them to appear on the main. Then I
checked my Browning and bum-bag while I pretended to inspect the tyre tread,
with both eyes on the marina exit.
     Out they came.
     "Stand by, stand by. N has Romeo One and Two.  At the main. Wait that's
them now, left, towards the town. L, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     "H?"
     There was nothing.
     Lotfi came up: "H, they're foxtrot, towards the town."
     There  was  a  moment's  delay   before  Lotfi  came  back  to  me:  "H
acknowledged and everything looks OK. No Combi."
     I double-clicked. H was too  far away from  me, probably already at the
station, but still within range of Lotfi, who was receiving both of us.
     I let the Romeos settle down,  and watched as they walked away from me,
up the  hill towards the  bus stop. They both looked  a little jumpy.  Maybe
they'd had too much  coffee this morning. Romeo  One kept changing  hands on
the bag and Two  kept looking around  him, not realizing he could do that by
just moving his eyes.
     I got on  the net. That's  approaching the  bus stop on the left. Wait,
wait. That's at the bus stop, still straight."
     "L, roger that. That's straight at the bus stop. H, acknowledge."
     One  moved the  bag over his right shoulder and glanced back. I doubted
that he  could see  the wood for the trees, though: his nerves seemed  to be
taking over. I started to follow.
     "That's N foxtrot and still has Romeo One and Two on the left and still
straight, towards the town. They  look aware, be careful. L, relay to  H." I
got two clicks before listening to a one-way conversation as Lotfi passed on
the information.
     If  they'd stopped  at the bus shelter, taking  them  towards Nice, I'd
have  got on  at the stop before and Lotfi would have kept the  trigger.  If
they were going towards Monaco and crossed the road to the other stop, Lotfi
would have done the same and kept the trigger.
     The trick was for each of us to know exactly where the  Romeos were and
what they were up to, so we could either jump  ahead or hold back, and  take
these two without them ever seeing us. The more exposure we had to them, the
more chance we  had  of  getting  compromised. We  needed to be out of their
vision at  all times, because the mind stores everything. If they saw one of
us today and thought  nothing  of  it,  maybe  they'd  make  the  connection
tomorrow. One of us had to have eyes on the Romeos as much as possible, with
the other two satelliting them, always out of sight, always backing the  man
who was taking, always being aware of the third party.
     I  lost  them now and  again as the road  wound its way up  to the high
ground and into the town. But Lotfi had them in sight. That's Romeo  One and
Two, now passing me, still straight."
     I double-clicked, not knowing if Hubba-Hubba had done the same.
     I checked  my Browning  was  in position, and felt the  bum-bag to make
sure the insulin case was  still  inside even though I knew it wouldn't have
unzipped the bag  by itself and jumped  out. I fished the Medic Alert out of
my jeans and put it on to  my left wrist to announce that I was diabetic and
really needed to carry this stuff about with me.
     As I got  to the high  ground, I caught sight  of Lotfi's  Focus tucked
away well inside the  car park. The Romeos were still ahead, partly shielded
by the traffic.
     "N has, N has  Romeo One and Two. Still foxtrot on the left  about five
zero short of the station option. H  acknowledge." I smiled  away to myself,
as if I was talking to my girlfriend on my mobile.
     Click, click.
     "L?"
     Click, click.
     There was a junction right further up, where the  station road ran down
on to the main. A set of lights controlled the traffic.
     The patisseries, news-stands  and cafes were open for business.  People
were in line for a lunchtime sticky bun to go with their coffee taken at one
of the outside tables.
     "N still has, N still has foxtrot  on the left, half-way to the station
option. Do not acknowledge."
     I wanted  them  to  listen, to cut down on time on the air, so I  could
just concentrate on the take.
     "That's approaching. Wait, wait..."
     I stopped and looked into a shop that seemed to  sell just men's  socks
and ties. They're static at the crossing, they're at the crossing, intending
the station. Wait, wait. It's a red man, wait out."
     I released  the pressle and watched through the corner of the window as
I agonized over my choice of Christmas tie, Santa or the Virgin Mary. Nobody
gave Romeo One and Two a second glance, but to me they  looked out of place.
They weren't talking to each other; they didn't even look at each other.
     A couple  of families were  also  waiting to cross, with all  the  kids
wearing Pokemon backpacks. I heard the beep of the pedestrian crossing.
     "Stand by,  stand by,  green man on. Romeo One and Two crossing left to
right, half-way."
     Once over the road they carried on straight up towards the  station and
disappeared. That's them  straight and towards the station, unsighted to me.
H, acknowledge."
     "H has, on the right towards the station, sixty short."
     The lights at the crossing had turned red again. I joined two women and
more kids with  backpacks. The kids were shoving baguettes  down their necks
as if they hadn't eaten since last Tuesday. Hubba-Hubba came on the net, and
for the first time I  had  to put my hand over the  earpiece as a  couple of
trucks screamed past. It was  a big no-no,  but I didn't  have a choice.  "H
still has, half-way to the station, still aware."
     The green  man flashed and the beeps sounded. My new school friends and
I crossed. It was a good  sign that the Romeos  were aware. I hoped it meant
they hadn't pinged us, rather than that they were in fact  very switched on,
and  about  to take  us to an amusement park or  shopping centre to  fuck us
about or, even worse, into an ambush.
     I  reached  the  other side  of  the road  and  turned  uphill, leaving
Hubba-Hubba to continue the take.
     "H has, still on the right, approaching the station."
     The  Romeos  disappeared  right, into the parking  area in front of the
station as Hubba-Hubba continued his commentary.
     "That's  at  the station, wait, wait ...  at  the  first  set of doors.
That's now complete and unsighted to me. I'm going foxtrot. N, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     He  would now be  taking a position that would  give him a view of both
the platforms, so we'd know whether they were aiming for Monaco or Nice.
     I spotted Hubba-Hubba's empty Scudo van just past the entrance. He  was
out here somewhere, trying to get the trigger, making sure the Romeos didn't
see him or, just as  importantly, the third party who might wonder what this
weird Arab bloke was up to.
     The drivers  at the taxi rank were still leaning against  their  Mercs,
smoking and putting the  world  to  rights. The  multicoloured  flower  beds
nearby were still getting a good sprinkling.
     Taking  my time,  I  wandered past the first of  the two  glass  doors,
hoping to get  a glimpse of  the  Romeos, maybe  by a  ticket machine or the
kiosk. But there was no sign of them in this half of the foyer, and I didn't
want to walk in myself and risk being seen.
     I  plonked myself on the wooden bench outside, between the  two sets of
doors, hoping the train wasn't due just yet.
     "H, can you see them?" There was a pause.
     "No, just the far end of the platforms. They could still be complete."
     Click, click.
     A garage truck approached from my right, and  I could  hear  it  change
gear through  the radio as Hubba-Hubba spoke. He must be up there in the far
car park. I decided I'd give it a minute or two to see if he pinged them; if
not, I'd  have no alternative but to go in. They should have bought a ticket
by now and, with luck, would be out there on the platform.
     I dug out my hundred-franc notes and stood up,  making sure the zip  of
my bum-bag was still done up, and the Browning was still tucked well into my
jeans.
     I hit the pressle.
     "N is going complete the station. H, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     "L, stand by."
     Click, click.
     I walked through the second set of doors by the news-stand in case they
were still on  the concourse, and stepped  around the  little rat  dogs that
were  still guarding the news-stand. My head  was  down, hat on, not looking
for faces, just dark suit trousers. I couldn't see the Romeos anywhere. That
was good, and that was also bad.
     I stopped at  the  coffee  machine and bought myself a cappuccino, then
eyed  up the  snack  machine  and selected  a  couple of  muffin-type things
covered with  sugary  goo as the plastic  cup  fell into place waiting to be
filled.
     Hubba-Hubba sparked up on the net as I bent down and  watched the  brew
fall into the  cup  and  pulled  the  muffin wrapping  apart with my  teeth,
getting the goo on my  chin. That's  both Romeos on the platform, your side,
the station side platform."
     Thirty-Two.
     The dogs tied up by the  news-stand  gave me the evil  eye as I reached
inside my coat.
     Click, click.
     Some people  bought tickets from the touch-screen machines, some headed
straight through the double glass doors on to the platform, but there was no
one hovering around like me, trying to shove the last of a muffin down their
neck without  getting most of the topping over their front, while attempting
to keep out of the Romeos' line of sight. They were out there somewhere, the
other side of the  wall  the coffee machine stood against.  And, so  far, it
looked as if they were going to  Monaco. They'd have to go over a footbridge
for trains to Nice, Cannes and all stations to Marseille.
     Four more people went through to the platform. They had to file between
two steel posts about a metre high. There was a resounding clunk each time a
ticket got fed into the slot and validated.
     The coffee machine had finished clearing its throat. I took a sip  from
the  steaming  plastic  cup  as  I  walked  over  to the touchscreen  ticket
machines, and looked out  on  to the platforms to  see  if I could  ping the
collectors. The only people in sight were two train workers with peaked caps
and beer bellies. I  touched the screen for a single  to Monaco, then bought
another to Cannes. I didn't know  which  of the three locations these people
were heading  for.  They might  even  do  all  three today, or none of them.
Perhaps they really were just meeting some of their mates for tennis.
     If the destination was Nice, I'd just use the Cannes ticket and get off
earlier. My tickets were  still printing out as Hubba-Hubba came on the air.
I could tell by the noise of traffic and his disjointed  speech that  he was
walking  fast. Too much third party, I'm going complete. They are definitely
on the Monaco side, definitely on the Monaco side."
     I double-clicked him as I went  and checked the  timetables. The Monaco
train was due in ten minutes' time, at twelve forty-one.
     It would take  much longer to get to Monaco by road at this time of day
than the thirteen minutes it  took by train, but Lotfi was waiting for me to
press the button.  The  plan was that he'd drive to the underground car park
by the  Palais  de  la  Scala and be ready  to receive  the two Romeos  if I
screwed up on the follow and lost them, while Hubba-Hubba tried to catch up.
I needed the latter here for the time being, just in case the Romeos changed
direction after Lotfi had taken off for Monaco. I made my decision.
     I ran my finger down the timetable like a puzzled tourist.
     "L?" I got two clicks.
     "Go now, go now. Acknowledge."
     I  could hear the engine already  turning  over  while his  pressle was
down.
     "L is mobile."
     He'd  have just  twenty minutes  to get there.  I  hoped he didn't  get
caught behind a truck on the narrow road.
     Hubba-Hubba  kept it  brief.  He knew I  was in the  station, and might
therefore be surrounded by people.
     "H  is  complete  and  has the  trigger on  the  station  exit. Do  not
acknowledge."
     The  timetable remained  very  interesting for a while as a middle-aged
couple chatted with  the guy at the news-stand, and played with the demented
little dogs, then I turned my attention to some ads  for sun-soaked holidays
in Mauritius for something like a thousand pounds a night,  and decided that
Cape Cod was more my kind of place.
     The couple  said their  goodbyes to the guy and cooed over his dogs one
last  time  before  moving over to  the glass doors  and  clunking  in their
tickets.  As they passed  through to the platform,  I  could hear the train,
right on time. The rumble on the  tracks  got louder and the dogs growled as
the train stopped with a squeal of brakes. I clunked my ticket and waited by
the validation posts until I could hear electric doors slide open and people
say their French goodbyes. Only  then did I walk on to the platform, without
looking left or right, and climb into the first carriage I saw.
     From my forward-facing seat, I could see the backs of the Romeos' heads
and  the Slazenger  bag on the rack  above them  through the interconnecting
carriage doors. I sat and waited, ready to jump off  again if they did.  The
doors closed and with a slight shunt the train started to pull out.
     Hubba-Hubba came on the net.
     "Are the Romeos on the train?"
     Click, click.
     "Are you on the train?"
     Click, click.
     "H is mobile."
     His foot was probably  flat to the boards as the Scudo screamed towards
Monaco.
     The railway  line  followed  the coast road, but there  was no sign  of
Hubba-Hubba. It was going to be  a nightmare  for him to catch up; he'd just
have to do the best he could.
     There was no way I was going  to  walk into their carriage,  in case we
met in the aisle. One of  them might be  heading for the  toilet, or  simply
moving away from where they'd got on, as  I would in their  position, to try
to avoid surveillance.
     I sat  and  watched the sea,  and kept  an eye on the vehicles we  were
overtaking on the road. With luck, Lotfi  would be approaching  the  tunnels
just short of Monaco.
     As we  neared Monaco,  gracious old buildings with  wooden shutters and
ugly new  ones blocked  my view of the sea.  Then we entered the tunnel that
took us deep  into the mountains. The train rattled on  for a few minutes in
darkness before emerging into the brilliant light  of an immense underground
station. The place looked like something  out of a  James  Bond film, a huge
stainless-steel and marble cavern.
     The train slowed and a few people  got up from their seats and gathered
their  bags  and briefcases. I stayed put, looking out  at the  station. The
platforms were clean and the marble highly polished; even the light fittings
looked like they came from a Conran shop.
     Carriage  doors opened, and people dressed  for  work  rubbed shoulders
with  Japanese  tourists sporting their  Monaco Grand  Prix  sweatshirts and
Cannes baseball caps as they got out on  to the  platfo