rm and headed towards
the front of the train. I, too, stepped out and  followed the herd, the peak
of my cap well and truly down as I checked around me.
     I pinged  them up ahead. Romeo Two  still had  his sun-gigs on, and One
the  bag  over his  shoulder. I got my gigs out and  put them on my nose  as
well. Maybe sixty or seventy metres ahead of me were sets of escalators that
led  up  to  a bridge.  The herd were  moving up them and left,  across  the
tracks, to the ticketing hall. I caught another  glimpse of the Romeos doing
the same.  Romeo  Two  took  off  his  glasses as they  crossed, looking  at
everything  but  hopefully seeing  nothing, as smooth  announcements floated
over the Tannoy system, and giant flat-screen TVs flashed train information.
     We  came into  the ticketing hall:  more acres  of  stainless steel and
polished  marble,  still underground. All  around me shoes squeaked and high
heels  clicked,  to  the accompaniment of coffee machines hissing and people
jabbering to each other over espressos. The crowd was waiting for one of the
many lifts  to  take them up to ground level. I didn't want to join them, no
matter  how big a crowd  the  lifts  could accommodate.  With  my  left hand
holding down the bum-bag and the pistol grip  of  the Browning, I pounded up
the steel stairs,  turning back  on  myself every tenth step or so.  It  was
further than I'd  expected, and I was starting to get out of breath. It  hit
me  that I'd made a  mistake: my chances  of getting up there before the two
collectors were slim. I could have gone faster if I'd used the handrail, but
I didn't want  to leave any sign. I pumped  my arms back and forth, and kept
going for it.
     At last I saw daylight above me. Three more flights and I was at ground
level. I saw  the four aluminium doors for the  lifts  and  a small group of
people waiting. I walked  into the entrance hall gulping  in air,  trying to
calm myself down as the back of my neck started to leak. The glass and steel
frontage  of the small hallway looked out on a bus shelter my side of a busy
road. I could see we were high above the  principality, as I was looking out
on to  the Mediterranean, but there  was no  port. It must  have been  below
somewhere.
     The  breeze blew in from  the sea as I headed for the bus stop. My eyes
darted about, looking for the Romeos. They should be going  left, to the  de
la Scala.
     I  saw them  then,  at a corner  about fifteen metres away to my  left.
Romeo Two was  checking  a small map as  One looked about  nervously and got
stuck  into a pack of  Marlboro. I kept  my back  to  them now,  and  walked
directly to the bus stop, hitting my pressle.
     "Hello, hello, is anyone there? This is N, anyone there?"
     There was  nothing.  I gave it just  under a minute, then spun round to
face the road, hoping to see them in my peripheral vision. They were walking
down the hill towards the casino and the general  area  of the Palais. I set
off behind them,  and immediately spotted  two CCTV  cameras. I  hated  this
place: it  was like an  extra-large, extra-rich version of the  Big  Brother
house.
     I crossed to the right-hand side of the road, hoping to avoid them; the
port was about three hundred  feet below me. Huge grey clouds hung above us,
cutting the tops off the mountains. Hordes of trucks and motorbikes screamed
up and down a  road that had probably been built in the early 1900s  for the
odd Bentley or two.
     The  more we  descended  to  the middle  ground of the casino area, the
taller the bank buildings became around us. Houses that had  once been grand
private  residences  were now  plastered with brass  plates. I  could almost
smell the big money deals going down behind their heavily blinded windows.
     The  Romeos consulted the  map again before  carrying on past the shiny
Rolls-Royces, Jags and Minis lined up in the British Motor Showrooms, as One
dragged on his Marlboro, sending  smoke up above  him before it got taken by
the wind. If  they were  heading for the de la Scala,  they'd have  to cross
over soon and turn off to the right. I stopped, stepped into the  doorway of
a bookshop, and got very interested in a French cookbook with a picture of a
big sticky bun on its cover.
     They crossed. I hit  my  pressle  again,  smiling  away  like an  idiot
chatting on his mobile.
     "Hello, hello, anybody there?"
     They must be heading for the de la Scala. They were now my side  of the
road and  walking down Avenue  Saint-Michel. I  knew  that  because  it  was
engraved expensively on a  slab of  stone just above my head, like  all  the
street names here.
     They committed to the right-hand bend of  the avenue  just fifty metres
down the hill and became unsighted to me. Dead ahead  of them now, about two
hundred  metres  away, beyond manicured lawns, fountains and frost-protected
rubber  plant things, was the casino and its Legoland  policemen.  But  they
still had about  another fifty metres until  the end of Avenue Saint-Michel,
where once more they had a choice of direction.
     I got on the net again as I started to follow.
     "Hello, hello, hello. Anyone there?" Still nothing.
     Thirty-Three.
     I didn't want to stay behind them  because I wasn't being proactive. If
I was going to be the only member of the team on the ground with the Romeos,
I really needed to be doing  Lotfi's job now, waiting for them in the de  la
Scala for the meet with the hawallada. But that  meant jumping ahead, and if
they  went somewhere else once they got  to the end of the avenue  I'd be in
the shit.
     I  carried  on down Saint-Michel and talked  to my imaginary girlfriend
with a big smiley voice.
     "Hello, hello, this is N." Still nothing. Maybe they were caught in the
traffic; maybe Lotfi was here  but down in  the car park. Whatever was going
on, I had to make a decision.
     I turned on  to some steps that went directly downhill, to  cut off the
bend that they'd followed towards the casino. They led to an apartment block
on the steep side  of the road, and were well worn, which I hoped  was going
to prove it was a short cut.
     I hurtled down them, past exotic plants and boring grey concrete blocks
each side  of  me, keeping my  left  hand on the  bum-bag  and  Browning and
checking  traser, as  if I  was late for an appointment, until I reached the
road below. The  casino was to my half-left about a hundred and fifty metres
away. Legoland policemen kept people moving so the Ferraris and Rolls-Royces
had  somewhere to park. The  manicured  lawns  were being  pampered  by  the
sprinklers;  directly left  along the road, just under a hundred metres, was
the junction with the avenue. I  turned right, not checking anywhere because
the Romeos could already be at the junction  and heading my way. I continued
to play looking at my watch as I hurried past fur-coated women and expensive
shops.
     By the time I rounded the corner to the de la Scala square, my neck was
not  just leaking but  drenched with  sweat.  There  was no  sign  of  Lotfi
anywhere on the grass, listening to  my follow  so he could  decide when the
time was right to go into the  mall  and get a trigger on the meet. The only
people in  sight were the orange-overalled, tree-cutting crew, having a brew
on a bench. I tried again on the radio, but there was nothing. I'd just have
to get on with it: I might be the only one here.
     I started towards the glass  doors of  the mall, taking deep breaths to
re-oxygenate myself, pushed through  with my shoulder as  I  wiped the sweat
with  my  shirt cuffs,  and headed straight for the cafe, past the reception
and the  Roman marble entrance. The  same  immaculately dressed  dark-haired
woman was operating the desk,  and still gob bing off on the phone. The same
sort of people were at the cafe, too, talking  discreetly into cellphones or
reading papers.  Some  did  both. I  pulled up a  chair to the  rear of  the
outside tables and by the left-hand corner of the mall, so I was  facing the
reception but could also cover the exit by the dry-cleaner's.
     I started to flap a little as I flattened my wet hair on the back of my
head. What if the Romeos had gone  elsewhere? Fuck it, I  was committed now.
I'd just have to wait and see.
     The  waiter who  took my coffee order was more interested in watching a
woman crossing her  stockinged  legs at one  of the other tables than  in my
sweaty face. I took off my glasses and just hoped that one of the  other two
was nearly here. I needed some  back-up desperately. My crane turned up with
a biscuit and a small  paper napkin between the cup and saucer to  take  the
spills. I handed the guy a fifty-franc note, not wanting to wait  for a bill
later. I needed to  be  able to  jump up and go, without being chased myself
for  doing a runner. The change emerged from his money-bag  and smacked down
on the table just as Lotfi burst on to the net. He was out of breath and, by
the sound of it, on foot and moving fast.
     "Anyone, anyone, stand by,  stand by. Anyone there? Stand by, stand by.
They are in  the square,  Romeo  One and  Two in the  square approaching the
mall."
     I reached into my jacket as I took a sip from the napkin-wrapped cup.
     The snarl of a chainsaw gave me a clue to his location.
     "That's complete the building now, they're inside."
     Click, click.
     There was relief on the air.
     "Is that N?"
     Click, click.
     "Are you inside?"
     Click, click.
     "OK, I'll stay outside, I'll stay outside."
     Click, click.
     The  Romeos appeared  at the bottom of the corridor and looked  around,
getting  their  bearings:  they  obviously  hadn't  been  here before.  They
eventually walked up to the reception and studied the board. They stood  for
ten or  fifteen seconds  before their eyes seemed to  lock on to the address
they wanted: Office 617, the Monaco Training Consultancy.
     I took another sip of coffee and watched between the heads of two women
who  were  gob  bing off in Italian in  front of me, smoking  themselves and
anyone nearby into an early grave.  Romeo Two had  his  gigs back on now. He
took a  pen from his inside pocket and used  it  to press the  buzzer; I bet
he'd used his shoulders to get through the door as well.
     What now? What was I going to do if I was locked outside while they got
directions from the receptionist?
     Romeo Two bent down and I watched him say a few words into a speaker by
the  buzzers maybe a confirmation statement. Whatever it was, he was a happy
man as he  stood  upright and gave Romeo  One,  who didn't look  too certain
about things, a reassuring nod.
     They waited, not going into the Roman entrance just  to their left, and
then  I realized why. I needn't have  worried. There were cameras behind the
receptionist's desk, and  she would know what office  they'd  gone  into. So
they  waited, admiring  the  Persian  rugs  in  the  shop  opposite, perhaps
wondering, like I had, why  people would  pay so much  just for something to
stand on. Their mums could probably knock them one up in a couple of weeks.
     Lotfi came  back on the air; the chainsaw  fired up behind him,  before
turning into a high-pitched whine as it bit into a tree.
     "N,  radio check." He  sounded anxious, not knowing what was  going  on
inside and needing a bit of reassurance.
     I double-clicked him as the reception doors opened and out came a tall,
dark-skinned man with black  hair, greying at the temples in a way that made
him  look quite  distinguished. He was  about six foot and  slim,  not Arab,
maybe   Turkish,  maybe  Afghan.  They   didn't  shake  hands.  He  wore  an
expensive-looking  navy  suit, black  loafers and  a dazzling  white  shirt,
buttoned all the way up, no tie. Maybe, like many people, he refused to wear
one because it was  a symbol of the West. Or maybe he was a  fashion victim.
I'd get the boys on the warship to ask him later.
     They finished exchanging half  a dozen  very  serious-looking words and
started to  walk back out of the door of the  mall they'd come in through. I
warned Lotfi. Click, click. Click, click.
     Lotfi was straight back.
     "Coming out?"
     Click, click.
     "Same doors?"
     Click, click.
     They disappeared from sight  and, no more than three seconds later, the
net burst into life once more.
     "L has Romeo sOne Two and Three. They've gone right, your right  as you
exit. Towards the rear of the building."
     I  got up from the table, and double-clicked  him as  I wiped the  mug,
keeping  the napkin  with me. As  Lotfi carried  on the commentary  with the
chainsaw in the background, I shoved the napkin into my jacket pocket, where
it joined the muffin wrapper and plastic coffee cup.
     "That's Romeos One, Two and now  Three, foxtrot  on the right, still on
the  right-hand  side. About half-way towards the rear. They're not talking.
Romeo One is still aware, they have quick feet."
     I pushed  my way through the glass doors into the cacophony  of traffic
and  chainsaw. I  didn't  bother to look for  Lotfi.  I  knew  he  was there
somewhere.
     "Do you want me to stay here?"
     I double-clicked him as I turned right,  and followed on the  same side
of the road, putting my gigs back on.
     Thirty-Four.
     They were now about two-thirds of the way  down the narrow road leading
to the admin  area at the rear of the building,  still not  talking,  but at
least Romeo One wasn't  looking around  any more. He still  had the bag over
his shoulder  and hung  back slightly because there  wasn't enough room  for
three abreast on the pavement. They'd chosen a good route, avoiding cameras;
the  only  bits  of  people  control  were the two-foot-high steel  bollards
stopping people parking on the kerb.  By Monaco standards, it was all  quite
relaxed.
     They turned right at the corner  and disappeared from view. I quickened
my pace to get eyes on in case they disappeared completely through a door. I
hit the pressle.
     "That's all three Romeos right, to the rear, temporary unsighted."
     I  got two  clicks from  Lotfi;  I  didn't know if he could see  and it
didn't really matter, so long as he knew what was going on. There was also a
possibility  that Hubba-Hubba could receive but not send as he  made his way
to us.
     Reaching the corner, I crossed the road and began to hear  what sounded
like  a supermarket trolley round-up. Steel containers on wheels were  being
shunted backwards and forwards from a  lorry backed  into  the  post  office
loading  bay. Once I was on the far pavement I turned right, just in time to
see the three of them passing through  a steel door next to a garage shutter
alongside the loading bay.
     My mind raced as the door closed. It must be the  exchange -unless this
was a car park and they were about to leave.
     "L ... Hello, L." It was hard to keep my happy smiley face as I chatted
on my hands-free.
     "Are you near your car?"
     "Yes, in the car park, in the car park."
     "OK, mate, go complete ...  and static  outside the car park. All three
Romeos are unsighted in a garage, I have the trigger. You've got to be quick
in case they go mobile. Remember your third party."
     I got two clicks as  I passed the post-office van  and the mail-trolley
pushers, then an anxious voice.
     "Hello, N, hello, L? Radio check, radio check."
     At last, Hubba-Hubba.
     I hit the pressle. This is N. Us here too. Where are you?"
     "Near the casino, I'm near the casino, I'm nearly there."
     "Roger that. That's Romeo One, Two  and now Three unsighted at the back
of  the  building in the last shuttered garage before  you  get to the  post
office loading bay. I have the trigger, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     "OK,  stay  complete  and  cover  the  square,  able  to  take  in  all
directions.  L is going complete now. I'll  trigger  them  away if  they  go
mobile."
     Click, click.
     "L, where are you?"
     No reply: he was probably down in the car park.
     "That's  H  static  on  the square.  Can  take in  all  directions.  N,
acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     Seconds later Lotfi came back on the  net, and I could hear the Focus's
engine closing down in the background.
     "Hello, N,  hello, N. That's L static  on  the car  park road, covering
away from the square."
     "Roger  that,  L. Stay where you are. H  is here,  and  is covering the
square  and can  take in all directions. N still has the trigger, no change.
L, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     By  now I was at the mall entrance near the dry-cleaner's and there was
a loud hiss of steam from a pressing machine.
     "L, I want you to describe Romeo Three to H. Acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     There was  nothing  else I could  do  now  but keep the trigger  on the
shutter and listen  while Lotfi  told  Hubba-Hubba what our  new  best  mate
looked like.
     I watched the letters and parcels being taken backwards and forwards in
the  carts.  Keeping  the trigger  was so  important that I'd have  to  risk
exposing myself out here in full view of the postal workers, and so close to
the women in the cleaner's, but thankfully out of sight of the camera on the
corner of the building.
     I leaned against the wall and checked my traser. I wasn't interested in
the time, just in making it look as if I had a reason to be there. There was
another loud hiss of steam from the pressing shop, and then a small group of
people came out of the exit. I had to brass  it out. Security was definitely
getting sacrificed for efficiency.
     A couple of minutes later there was movement.
     "Stand by, stand by,  Romeo One and  Two foxtrot. Wait ... that's Romeo
One and Two both carrying bags. Wait..." I started to smile, as though I was
listening  to a  good story  on the  mobile. That's both Romeos  now foxtrot
right, towards me. Romeo  Three still unsighted. He must still  be inside. I
have to move. Wait out."
     I turned and walked into the mall with the big smile still fixed  on my
face.  That's  Romeo One and Two unsighted, stay where  you  are.  Both stay
where you are. L, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     "H, can you get a trigger on the mall entrance?"
     "H already has  the trigger and can see the road from  the rear  of the
building." Click, dick.
     Both exit points from the shutter, plus both entry points back into the
mall, were covered if Romeo Three moved  on foot. But it was what we'd do if
he went mobile that worried me.
     As I bent  down  I  took  particular interest in the china shop  window
across  from the  dry-cleaner's. Painted plates  and silver  cutlery gleamed
under  the brilliant  display lights and I waited to see what the two Romeos
were doing. It was just a few seconds before I caught a side view of both of
them quickly passing  the mall's glass doors, going on to the junction below
the camera. They had two bags now,  each  with a tennis racquet in  the side
pocket.  The second bag must have been inside the first to give it bulk, and
now it just looked like they were two mates on their way to a friendly game.
     I got back  on the road, hoping that the Romeos weren't waiting  at the
junction.  Tough shit if  they were: I was committed  now and  had to  get a
trigger on the  shutter in case Romeo Three  went  mobile. I needed to get a
vehicle ID and direction for Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba,  who  would  then  be on
their own.
     I'd got myself out on to the other side of the mall door, looking right
quickly by the camera junction no Romeos then left towards the shutters,  as
my earpiece burst into life.
     "Stand by, stand  by! H has a possible Romeo Three foxtrot  towards the
square, that's half-way ..."
     He  double-clicked  as  I  shot  back  in  through  the door, past  the
cleaner's and china shop, towards the cafe with a third party smile.
     "H stop him. He mustn't get back to the office. Stop him!"
     I got a double-click just as I followed the mall corridor right, passed
the cafe and headed for  the other exit. If Hubba-Hubba  didn't stop  him, I
would have to in the corridor. As I passed  the marble entrance  and  carpet
shop, my left hand started to unzip the  jacket so I had an easier draw down
on  the Browning. I had a hot, tingling feeling, and  was sweating again. If
we didn't act fast we  could lose him upstairs, maybe for ever. I wanted him
lifted and  dropped off as quickly  as  possible.  We couldn'tafford to wait
around here: security was tighter than a duck's arse.
     Barging  my shoulder against the mall door, I shot back  out on  to the
road  facing the  square and the chainsaw  crew. Hubba-Hubba  stood  on  the
pavement to my immediate right, with  an enormous smile  all over his  face,
just about to shake the hand of his long-lost friend, Romeo Three. There was
a burst of French between them before the Arabic started.
     "As-salaam alaykum."
     Romeo Three looked perplexed, but went through the motions and raised a
hand to Hubba-Hubba's.
     "Wa alaykum as-salaam."
     Passers-by took no notice as the  old  friends met  on the  street, and
Hubba-Hubba  initiated  a  bit  of  cheek-kissing.  As  I  approached,   the
hawallada's eyes darted nervously between the two of us. Hubba-Hubba greeted
me in Arabic,  all smiles, and put a very firm arm out to bring  me into the
group  and  let  me know he was running this  bit. The hawallada's hand  was
large but his shake was weak  and soft. Hubba-Hubba carried on gob bing  off
and gesturing towards me, accompanied by nods and smiles. Romeo Three didn't
look so happy, though.
     "Allah-salaam alaykum." I reciprocated.
     "Wa alaykum as-salaam." But I left the kissing business to Hubba-Hubba.
     As I broke  off with the handshake, Hubba-Hubba  embraced us both,  and
steered us back towards the rear of the mall, still jabbering away in Arabic
and talking about the old days.
     Romeo Three's eyes betrayed a mixture of fear, puzzlement and pleading.
He was flapping big-time, but he was too scared to do anything about it, not
that he had the opportunity. Hubba-Hubba kept both of us tightly in his arms
as he continued  to  gob  off, smiling and nodding like a game  show host. I
smiled  back  and  nodded  at  the  hawallada. Whatever  was being said  was
obviously  doing  the  trick,  for  Romeo Three turned  the  corner  without
protest, just  resignation.  We  stepped aside as the  post truck  thundered
past.
     We  stopped  next to the  shutter, and Romeo Three  fumbled through his
bunch of keys. With  Hubba-Hubba's help and support, he finally inserted the
right one into  the cylinder  lock  and opened  the metal door.  Acting  the
gentleman, Hubba-Hubba ushered him inside and followed a step behind.
     I entered  the cool  darkness last. There was hard concrete  beneath my
feet, and a  strong smell  of paint. Romeo Three  started  begging. The only
word I could make out sounded like "Audi'. I pushed the door closed and  hit
the light switch  on the left-hand side  of the steel frame with my elbow. I
could  now  see  what  the  hawallada  was babbling  about. A  French-plated
metallic silver Audi A4 was parked and filled most of the space in here.
     Hubba-Hubba stepped alongside him just as he was turning towards us and
slammed his right hand over Romeo Three's mouth. The keys slipped out of his
hands  and  fell  to the ground with a jangle.  Pulling  his head back,  and
hooking his left arm around his  neck, Hubba-Hubba went down with him on  to
the dusty concrete, grazing the skin on his face, their clothes covered with
dust.
     Muffled screams escaped from the jerking body  as he kicked against the
side of  the  car in  his struggle  to  get  out from under Hubba-Hubba. The
Egyptian looked like he was trying to wrestle a crocodile,  and responded by
forcing Romeo  Three's  head more firmly into  the concrete to  the sound of
both of them snorting for oxygen.
     I  was already down on my knees, opening up  my bum-bag and  extracting
the insulin pen  as  the  hawallada  fought  non-stop to  free  himself, and
Hubba-Hubba did everything to keep his face down and his arse up.
     That's good, mate, keep him there, keep him there." I dug my right knee
into his  left thigh. His cologne filled my nostrils and I  saw a gold Rolex
glint on his wrist. This boy had obviously never seen what a traser could do
for you.
     I clamped  the plastic needle  cover between my  teeth, and put  all my
weight on to his thigh, so I could get to the injection site before spitting
it  away. I could feel  his wallet  in the back pocket of his trousers as  I
used my free hand to push down on his arse, trying to keep it still.
     As  I fumbled with the button to pull it out, there was a  hiss of  air
brakes and another truck started to back into the post office loading bay.
     Thirty-Five.
     I whispered urgently, "For fuck's sake, keep him still!"
     The sound  of the  two of them fighting for breath as they heaved about
on the concrete was almost as  loud as the  rattle of  containers and banter
between the postal workers.
     I threw the hawallada's  wallet on to  the  ground and sat on both  his
legs, right behind his knees so his kneecaps were pressed into the floor. It
must  have hurt, but he was flapping too much to notice. I  stabbed  the pen
into the upper right quadrant of his right buttock and pushed into him hard,
pressing  down the trigger at  the same time. There was a faint ping as  the
spring pushed the larger than normal insulin needle through his clothing and
into the muscle mass. I held the pen  there, pushing down for ten seconds as
instructed,  as  the  sound of angry, frustrated  breathing  fought its  way
through Hubba-Hubba's hand.
     We both held him down for the minute or so it took for his struggles to
subside. Very soon, he was en route for the K hole.
     I  got to my feet. Hubba-Hubba  still  held him down until he'd stopped
moving completely. I reloaded  the pen by  unscrewing it  and replacing  the
cartridge and needle.  After picking up the spat-out needle cover, I  packed
everything away in the bum-bag and fished out the nappy pin from my jeans as
Hubba-Hubba disentangled himself and brushed himself down. The carts outside
were still being filled, to the sound of a lot of French banter.
     Hubba-Hubba  picked up Romeo Three's keys and  talked slowly and softly
to Lotfi on the net, telling him what was going on as he inspected the fob.
     With  the  opened nappy  pin in my  hand, I leant down, forced open the
hawallada's mouth, and  pushed it  through his bottom lip  and tongue before
fastening  it  and  clicking  down  the  pink safety cap.  His muscles  were
completely relaxed  by the ketamine, and we couldn't risk him swallowing his
tongue and suffocating. There was also the  risk of him vomiting as  he came
round from the drug  and if that happened at the DOP with no one else there,
he might choke on it. The pin would keep him safe  until  he reached his new
home. Meanwhile Lotfi had got the  news from Hubba-Hubba,  and  I heard  him
give a double click.
     Our new friend  was probably having his  near-death  experience by now,
looking down at us both and thinking what a pair of arse holes we were.
     The Audi's  yellow four ways flashed as Hubba-Hubba pressed the  remote
and the locks clunked open.
     I thumbed through  the wallet  and found  that our  new mate's name was
Gumaa Ahmed Khalilzad. On the whole, I preferred Romeo Three. Pulling at his
sideburns and  fiddling with the nappy pin, I got no reaction. Then I put my
ear  to his mouth to check his breathing; it  was very shallow, but that was
what we'd been told to expect with this stuff.
     What   I  wasn't  expecting  were  the  two   thick,   banded  wads  of
hundred-dollar bills Hubba-Hubba held in each hand  as  he  walked back from
the Audi.
     I took  one bundle  off  him, and threw  it down inside  my jacket  and
sweatshirt.
     "A little commission he skimmed off the top?"
     Hubba-Hubba  nodded in agreement  as he  slipped  his  bundle down  his
shirt.
     He looked at me expectantly.
     "What  do we  do  now?" A  quick look at  traser told me  it was  three
thirty-eight, a couple of hours or so before last light.
     The  banter from  the postal workers ebbed and flowed as I went through
the options. Hubba-Hubba knelt down and pulled out a crisply laundered white
handkerchief from Gumaa's now dirt-covered navy jacket. There  was no way  I
could get Hubba-Hubba's or Lotfi's wagons in here. They wouldn't  fit in the
garage, and they couldn't just back up to load him in with people so close.
     I watched as Hubba-Hubba tied the handkerchief around Gumaa's head like
a blindfold. It wasn't  to stop him seeing, but to protect his eyes.  He had
lost control of  his eyelids  as  well as his  tongue, and they might easily
open during transportation  to the DOP or during his wait there for pick-up.
We needed to deliver him in a reasonable condition so that the interrogation
could  start as soon as  he came  round,  and not after  he'd  had emergency
treatment to  remove  two inches  of lollipop stick  from his  eyeball. We'd
planned to use gaffer tape from our cars, but you can't win them all.
     I was  going to have to drive the Audi out  of Monaco with Gumaa in the
boot. There was no other way.
     Hubba-Hubba looked at  me expectantly.  I gave him  a  nod  and  hit my
pressle.
     "L?"
     Click, click.
     I could hear vehicles, and people  talking around him. The chainsaw had
stopped.
     "Are you still complete?"
     Click, click.
     "In the same place?"
     Click, click.
     "H is going mobile first to clear the DOP. I'll then come out on to the
square, turn left, and  pass you in Romeo Three's car,  a silver Audi. He'll
be with me. I'll count  down to  the junction and then to you. You then back
me, OK?"
     Click, click.
     "Good.  We'll  then make our way to  the  drop-off,  just as  planned."
Click, click.
     "Remember, you are Romeo Three's protection."
     At last he was able to come on the air.
     "Of course, of course."
     I nodded at Hubba-Hubba.
     "We'd better get him in the boot."
     He  went round to the driver's seat and  there was a clunk as  the boot
opened.  With me lifting his legs and  Hubba-Hubba  gripping  him  under his
armpits,  we lugged Gumaa over to the  Audi and lifted him  in. We were  now
vulnerable; him  to  getting the good  news from a tail-end crash, and us to
being compromised,  so Lotfi would  try to stay  behind me,  close enough to
stop anyone getting between us in the traffic. As we laid Gumaa down, I took
off  his  jacket and wrapped it round his head as a cushion, then pushed him
on  to his  side so he could breathe better,  adjusted the handkerchief  and
threw the wallet back into his pocket after wiping it free of prints. It was
part of the package for the boys on the warship.
     Hubba-Hubba stood there waiting for the green light.
     "Not yet, mate. We need to make this look like a hire car." Fortunately
there wasn't much to  rearrange,  just a  plastic air-freshener on  the rear
parcel shelf,  shaped like a crown, and some French and Arabic newspapers on
the seat. They all went into the boot before it got closed down.
     I looked at Hubba-Hubba.
     "First thing, how do I get out of here?"
     He pointed at a red and a green button to the side of the shutter.
     "OK, mate,  go and  clear the drop-off. I'll come in via BSM, and radio
check you to make sure everything's clear up there."
     He nodded and walked to the door as I half sat in the  Audi, turned the
key  and  watched him disappear into the street,  closing the door carefully
behind him.
     That's H foxtrot. L, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     The engine ticked over gently and exhaust fumes filled my nostrils as I
moved over to  the electric doors,  waiting to be  cleared  by  Hubba-Hubba.
There  were still voices outside and I could  just hear  the chainsaw rev up
once more  in  the  distance.  It  was  now  magnified  in  my  earpiece  as
Hubba-Hubba came on the net.
     "N, it is all clear, it's all clear."
     Click, click.
     I hit the  shutter button with  my elbow and the electric motor whined.
As the steel door  squeaked  its way up, I slipped my gigs on to my nose and
pulled my peak down low.
     Reversing  out,  I had to stop parallel with the  truck  to  close  the
shutter, before heading for the  square.  Hubba-Hubba was  on his way to the
drop-off.
     "H is mobile. L, acknowledge."
     "Roger that, N is mobile."
     The Audi was an automatic, so it was quite easy  to keep  my right hand
on the pressle.
     That's approaching  the  left-hand bend ...  at  the  bend  towards the
square ... half-way ... approaching." I hit the junction.
     "Stop, stop, stop. Silver car."
     "L has, L has."
     The black Ford Focus was up the road to my left, just past the entrance
to the car park and facing  away from me. There was no need to carry on with
the countdown: he had me. I turned left and Lotfi slotted in behind.
     We wound our way back to the casino, down the hill towards the harbour.
Traffic was heavy but  steady as people began to head home from offices  and
banks, clouds of cigarette smoke and bad music  billowing out of  their open
windows. Higher  up, much bigger clouds, dark and brooding,  gathered in the
mountains.
     We crawled around the harbour, with Lotfi  protecting  the rear  of the
Audi from impatient commuters.
     Motorcycle police were directing traffic on a four-way junction not far
from the tunnels. A truck in front of me eventually got  the wave and turned
right. I followed as Lotfi hit the net.
     "No, no, no, no, no!"
     As the message sank in I saw Lotfi in my  wing mirror, heading straight
on.  There  was a series  of short, sharp whistle  blasts  from  one of  the
policemen now behind me. He was wearing high-leg riding boots and a sidearm,
and was waving me to  a halt. Another policeman kicked up  the stand on  his
bike, and  my  mind raced through the options. It didn't take long; I didn't
really have any. I had to bluff it.
     If I put my foot down  I probably wouldn't even make it past the  other
side of  the tunnel. I  took a deep  breath, accepting my  big-time fuck-up,
checked my Browning was covered,  and pulled over as a few trucks  moved out
into the centre of the road to pass the knobber who didn't know where he was
going. The policeman approached and I pressed the down button on the window,
looking up at him, my face  one big apology.  He still had his helmet  on, a
BMW lid, the sort that you can pull up the face. He said something in French
and  pointed  back to  the  junction.  His  tone was  more  exasperated than
aggressive.
     I stammered, I'm sorry, officer, I..."
     The  bags under  his  eyes  drooped  as  he  looked down  at me with an
expression of unutterable weariness.
     "Where are you going?" Perfect English.
     To Nice. I'm sorry, I'm a bit lost and I missed your signal..."
     His expression told me he'd been dealing with dickhead Brits for years.
With a resigned nod, he  walked back towards the junction and beckoned me to
reverse.  A  dozen horns  were leant on as  he held  up the traffic  with  a
leather-gloved  hand and pointed me in the direction Lotfi had gone. I  gave
him a wave of  thanks  and  tried  to  avoid  the angry glares of the  other
drivers.
     As I pulled away I saw Lotfi on foot to my left,  coming uphill towards
the junction. His arms were crossed and inside his  jacket, which meant only
one  thing. He had drawn down in case  he had to get me out of the shit  the
hard way. He spotted me and turned on his heel as I got on the net.
     "L, where are you parked? Where are you parked?"
     The roar of the traffic filled his mike.
     "On  the  right, not far. Down on the right."  "OK,  I'll wait for you,
I'll wait for you."
     Click, click.
     I  drove  down the hill, looking  for the Focus. It felt really strange
knowing  that someone had actually been coming to help. Nobody had done that
for me since I left the Regiment.
     I  saw  his car  in a small lay by in front  of some shops. I pulled in
about four cars back,  and waited for  him to get  back behind  the wheel. I
watched him approach in my rear-view, and  felt a surge of  gratitude that I
realized was close to friendship. It had been my fuck-up; he  didn't have to
come back and help, but he  had been prepared to put his own life at risk to
do so.
     He  walked past  me, not  giving the Audi  a  second glance, and as  he
waited for a line of  cars to pass before opening his door, I wrote myself a
mental Post-it to find a way of thanking him.
     Thirty-Six.
     The Audi and the  Focus merged  with the traffic as we flicked  on  our
lights to drive through the tunnel. Two Legoland police  and  three  more in
riding  boots, astride their  machines, were  on duty  at the roundabout the
other side, checking tax and insurance discs as the  traffic  filtered  past
them. The flow speeded up now, as most of the  traffic turned  up to the A8,
wanting to get straight home rather than waste time winding along the coast.
I was trying to think  what to do now that there was an extra vehicle in the
plan.
     It was starting to  get  dark, so the headlamps stayed on. Pinpricks of
light were scattered all over the populated slopes to  our right, but as the
mountains got higher, they thinned out.
     It wasn't long before we arrived at BSM and passed my Megane behind the
OP and then the marina entrance. I knew I wouldn't be  able to see the Ninth
of May from the road, but couldn't resist a look anyway before checking  the
rear-view mirror for the hundredth time to  make sure Lotfi was still behind
me. I got on the net.
     "H, radio check, radio check."
     I got two low and crackly clicks.
     "You are weak. Have you checked the drop-off?"
     The clicks were still crackly.
     "OK, change of plan, change of plan. I still want you to  cover me, but
in my car, cover me in my car. Roger so far."
     Click, click.
     "I  need you to get rid of the Audi after the drop-off. Lotfi will back
you, and take you back to your car afterwards. H, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     "L, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     "Roger that. Just carry on now as planned. Do not acknowledge."
     I carried on along the  coast road, Lotfi still behind  me; I could see
his dipped lights in  my rear-view, but I had no idea where Hubba-Hubba was.
It didn't matter: we were communicating. We eventually  reached the junction
that led  to  Cap Ferrat,  and then, no  more than  two minutes further  on,
rounded a sweeping right-hand bend and the bay of Villefranche stretched out
below  us. The  warship was lit up like a  Christmas tree about a kilo metre
offshore, and a dozen yachts twinkled away at their moorings. I  didn't have
long  to take in the picture-postcard  view before stopping  at the junction
that took us to  the DOR I  waited with my indicator flashing for  Lotfi  to
overtake, then followed him  up an incredibly steep series of hairpin bends.
The road  narrowed, with room  for two  cars just to inch  past each  other.
Lotfi's tail-lights disappeared ahead of me  every now and again as we wound
our way up the hill, past the walls and railings of large houses  perched on
the mountainside,  then steel  crash barriers  to stop  us driving  over the
edge.
     Our destination was Lou Soleilat, an area of rough brush and  woodland,
situated around  a big car  park-cum-picnic area lined  with recycling bins,
where the Coke Light marker was going to be placed to  show that there was a
hawallada ready for collection.
     The pick-up team, probably embassy or naval personnel, would drive past
the picnic area from the opposite direction, from Nice. If  the Coke can was
in position,  they'd  throw it away  with  the  rest of the  crap  they'd be
dumping for  cover, and  continue downhill about five hundred metres  to the
DOP, pick  up the  hawallada,  and continue  to  follow  the  road  down  to
Villefranche and the warship.
     The picnic area  had  been cut into  the  woods  and laid with  gravel.
Wooden benches and  tables were sunk in concrete for those Sunday afternoons
with the family. I  supposed the  bottle banks were just  there so the local
fat cats could drive up in their overpowered 4x4s and dump a week's worth of
empty  champagne  bottles,  and  feel  they were  doing  something  for  the
environment.
     We carried on  until we were  about four  hundred  metres short of  the
drop-off  point, then  I turned off  into a small  parking  area while Lotfi
headed on  beyond the DOP to  the  picnic area. There was room for about six
vehicles; it was used by people during the  day while they took  their  dogs
for  walkies  in  the woods, and  at  night by  teenagers  and  philandering
businessmen for a different kind of exercise  altogether.  There were enough
used condoms scattered around  the place for  an army of  dogs to choke  on.
Whatever, it was too late for dogs and too early for any  backseat stuff, so
I was alone.
     As Lotfi disappeared into the darkness  I hit  the lights on the  Audi,
letting the engine tick over. My head fell back on to the headrest for a few
seconds. I was fucked: my brain hurt just thinking about what I was going to
do next.
     Lotfi's job at the picnic area was to warn me if anything came from his
direction as I dumped off Gumaa, and to leave the Coke Light marker once the
job had been done.  Hubba-Hubba would be joining me here soon, and he  would
cover me from this direction.
     It wasn't long before Lotfi came on the net.
     "That's L static in the car park. There are two other  vehicles, with a
lot of movement  in a Passat.  The occupants are  being  very energetic with
their map-reading. The Renault next to it is empty."
     I  double-clicked.  I'd obviously  been wrong: it wasn't too  early for
that sort  of stuff. Maybe they'd just  fancied one more for the road before
they went home to their respective partners.
     While  I waited, I got out the pen, hoping that whoever was picking  up
Gumaa would be driving past at intervals during the night, and not only just
before first light.  It wouldn't be  good  if  he woke up  in the  tarpaulin
thinking, what the fuck am I doing here with this pin in my mouth?
     I  couldn't  hear any movement from him yet, but he  was going  to need
another burst of Special K to keep him floating, or whatever he was doing in
the back there.
     Headlights approached from down the  hill  and  turned into the parking
area. As they bumped  over  the gravel I recognized the Megane.  Hubba-Hubba
pulled up level  with  me and powered down the window.  I did  the  same and
leant  over  my  passenger  seat  to  talk  to  him.  He  looked  eager  for
instructions.
     "Would L'Ariane be a good place to burn this thing out?"
     It needed to be somewhere  that wouldn't arouse too much attention, not
for three days anyway, and the estate seemed a safe bet.
     He thought for a moment, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
     "I think it would  be, but I need to wait  until much  later.  It's too
busy there at the moment. Maybe past midnight some time. Is that
     OK?"
     I nodded. All I wanted was to make sure there were none of my prints or
DNA,  or anything else,  to connect us to this job. I  said, "Make sure  you
lose the plates as well, mate."
     Hubba-Hubba smiled just enough for me to make out the whiteness  of his
teeth.
     "Of course. I'll give them to you as a souvenir." He jerked his head at
the rear of the Audi.
     "How is he?"
     "Haven't  heard a word.  He's going to get the  good news  with the pen
right now, just in  case  he's got a long wait." I felt for the boot-release
catch and got out into the fresh and rather nippy air. The light came on  as
I  opened  the  lid, and there  was a heavy smell  of exhaust  as the engine
ticked over. I  could just make out his face from the boot light, and it was
obvious the movement of the car, or maybe his  own efforts,  had done him no
favours. The nappy pin had  ripped some of his lip and tongue. He was  still
breathing;  blood was bubbling from the corner of his  mouth and on  to  the
handkerchief that had slipped down his face, and one glazed and  dilated eye
was open.
     I pulled his eyelid down and  pushed the  handkerchief up over his eyes
once more before turning him over  a bit. I pressed the pen against his arse
and pushed down the trigger. He was going  to wake up  thinking  someone had
implanted a golf ball in his cheek. Not that he'd  be worrying about it that
much when he  saw he was in the steel hull of the warship with a roomful  of
very serious heads bearing down on him.
     I shut the boot, packed away the pen as I coughed out the exhaust fumes
from my lungs, and walked over to Hubba-Hubba.
     "What  did  you say to him earlier  on? You  know,  to get him into the
garage."
     He smiled even more, pleased that I had asked.
     "I told him I wanted to go back to where he'd  just come from. He asked
me why, and I told him I wanted the money. He said he didn't know what I was
talking about. So I insisted."
     "How?"
     "It was easy. I introduced you as the man who cuts off the heads of the
hawallada, and promised that if he didn't hand over the  money you'd do that
to him. I told him that we all have very thin skin."
     No wonder he hadn't been too keen to shake hands.
     Hubba-Hubba finished the story.
     "At first  he kept saying  he  had no  money. I knew  that he had  just
handed it to the Romeos. I just wanted to get him off the street so we could
lift him. But then he started to  say that  I  could have the money, that he
had it in his car. It was pretty good, no?"
     "For a beginner ..." I grinned back at him.
     "Listen, thanks for getting us all out  of the shit  this afternoon. It
was really quick thinking."
     He took his hands off the wheel momentarily in surrender.
     "It was nothing. He  had to  be stopped. Besides, it was  you that  was
going to cut his head off, no?" Now there was something he wanted to say.
     "About the money..." He touched the lump in his chest.
     "What are we going to do with it?"
     "Split it three ways. Why not?"
     He didn't like that.
     "We  can't, it's not ours. We must  put it with  the body  and it'll be
taken to the ship. If we keep it, it's stealing. Lotfi would agree with me."
     If we handed  it back, it would be  lost in the ether. I shook my head.
Tell  you what, keep hold of  it and we'll decide what to do on  Sunday. You
never know, there might be a lot more of this to worry about in the next two
days."
     Before he could say anything more, I explained how I was going to carry
out the Gumaa drop-off.
     Hubba-Hubba had something else on his mind.
     "We got away with it, didn't we?"
     "One down, two to go. I'm going to check the bins later  in the morning
to  see if  they've shed any light  on  the Greaseball and Curly connection.
It'll be about five-ish and I'll need  Lotfi to take the trigger, same place
as this morning, when  I'm ready. You never  know, you might get your chance
to sort out Greaseball after all."
     That made him happy.
     "Make sure Lotfi  knows  what's happening, and  tell  him we still need
that God of  his for another  couple of  days. After  that  we'll  be in the
clear, so he can have the rest of the week off."
     "I'll ask him."
     "Good. Come on, give me a hand."
     We  lifted  Gumaa out  of the  Audi  and  replaced  his  wallet  before
transferring him into  the boot of the  Megane. It  took about  two or three
minutes for us to gaffer tape his hands  and feet, then join all  four limbs
together. I then taped his eyelids down correctly as  Hubba-Hubba gave Lotfi
a  sit rep before  going back to  the Audi with a new phrase  to add to  his
list.
     "One  down, two to go," he said, and gave a quiet chuckle as I got into
my Megane.
     That's N mobile to the DOR L, acknowledge." Click, click.
     I took the money out of my sweatshirt and placed it under  the driver's
seat, hoping that maybe a little might find its way back to the US with me.
     Thirty-Seven.
     With the  brake and  reverse lights  cut-out on, I backed out into  the
road with  just  a gentle red glow  of the rear lights.  There was no  white
reverse and no bright red as I put on the brakes to change into first before
heading uphill.
     The DOP was about four hundred metres to my left, at the end of a small
grassy track that went  in  about eight metres  before being chained off. It
looked as though it had been that way for years. Just the other side  of the
chain, old fridge-freezers were  piled  on top  of  each other as the ground
sloped  downhill,  and  there were enough  bulging bin  liners  to feed  the
incinerator by the safe house for a year.
     Lotfi came on the net.
     "Stand by, stand by. There is movement between the cars. Engines on. N,
acknowledge."
     I double-clicked and slowed.
     "Both cars are mobile. Wait, wait... at the main ...  wait... one left,
one right towards you, N, towards you. Acknowledge."
     I double-clicked  again, hit  the brake  and clutch  and waited for the
headlights to get to me. As long as  no one else was  coming from behind I'd
be OK.  Within seconds,  twin beams swept over the high ground  then hit  me
full on as the vehicle crested the hill. Whoever was  in the car would never
be able  to make out whether I was static or not, and it saved me having  to
pass the drop-off, turn round at the picnic area and try again.
     I saw the faded, hand-painted sign nailed to the tree. It probably said
the driveway  was private property and dumping  was illegal, so fuck off.  I
didn't much care. It was my marker to turn my lights off and take my time in
the  dark. Foot on the brake continuously, I drove slowly over the  hard mud
ruts up to the chain.
     "That's N static. No one acknowledge."
     They knew where I  was and I wanted to cut down time on the air and get
on  with  the job.  The  track  was  lined with fir trees  and  thorn bushes
plastered with wind-blown refuse.
     There was no time to fuck about.
     With the engine and  hand brake on I climbed out and  opened  the boot,
making sure  the Browning was tucked well into  my jeans and the bum-bag was
done up.
     Gumaa was a lot heavier  than he looked when only  one person was doing
the lifting, and I  banged him  about a bit as I tried  to loop him over  my
shoulders. I  eventually  got his taped  and  trussed  body  into a  sort of
fireman's lift.
     Once I'd got my  legs over the drooping chain,  I moved out of the line
of sight from the driveway and in among a couple of ripped open bin bags, an
old  mattress  with  protruding springs,  and  a very  ancient  tarpaulin. I
dropped Gumaa on the tarp, and pulled him on to his side so he could breathe
easier. Finally  I checked that he was still alive, before  wishing him well
on his onward journey with Ketamine Airways, and folding the decaying canvas
over his body to keep him warm.
     I reversed the Megane back out on to the track, and turned downhill.
     "That's drop-off complete. H, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     "L, don't forget the marker."
     Click, click.
     Passing Hubba-Hubba's parking area, I got  back on  the  net once more.
That's N now clear. Refuel, get some food. Andremember to change channel. If
I  don't  hear  anything  before one  thirty,  I'm going to move my car into
position, and check out the boat, OK? L, acknowledge."
     "Yes, mother hen."
     "H?"
     "Cluck cluck."
     One  down, two to  go. I could  almost hear Hubba-Hubba repeating it to
himself, and having another little chuckle.
     As I turned the first of the string  of  hairpins that led back down to
the glittering patchwork of Villefranche, I threw the muffin wrapper and all
the  other  crap I'd been collecting during the  day into the passenger foot
well On the main drag, I headed right, towards Nice, stopping to fill up and
buy  two egg baguettes,  a can of Coke Light, some bottled water and  a  few
more Snickers bars for the OP.
     Curiosity  got the better  of me as I neared Villefranche. I still  had
time to kill before returning to the Ninth of May so I parked for a while in
a line  of vehicles tucked  into the side  of the road, still facing towards
BSM and just short of the DOP junction. The baguettes were cling-wrapped and
sweaty, and the Coke was warm. It looked like I'd been a fridge too far.
     As  I munched, I  watched the  lights of the warship glittering  on the
water below me. It was just after eight when I'd finished, and  the road was
still fairly busy. I settled back, feeling greasy, full of  Coke Light, damp
bread and not-too-fresh egg.  My eyes were stinging, but once I'd pushed the
seat  all the way back things started to get more comfortable. Checking that
the doors were locked, and the Browning secure, I eased the hammer away from
the patch of raw skin on my stomach where it had been rubbing, and made sure
that my window was open a fraction to  let out condensation,  then closed my
eyes and tried to doze.
     My head jerked up again  less than  a  minute later  as  a car  heading
towards me seemed to slow as it neared the junction, but went straight on.
     Next time  I looked,  traser told me it was eleven forty-eight.  A very
noisy Citroen had made its way down from the  high ground and was waiting to
join the main. The street lamp just short of the junction illuminated an old
man hunched over the wheel with a cigarette in his mouth. He wasn't too sure
when  to  move out, even  though  there wasn't much traffic. When he finally
went for  it, I saw why.  With  a grinding of gears  and  a flapping of  fan
belts, he laboured his way  towards BSM. I wondered how he was ever going to
make it back up the hill. I'd seen flashier motors used as chicken coops.
     I changed batteries on the Sony, momentarily peeled off the gaffer tape
and switched to channel two. I'd watch the junction until about one o'clock,
then go  back to the  marina, get into position, and wait for the other two,
who'd be at least another couple of hours.
     My bacteria  take away was starting  to  make  its  presence felt;  the
atmosphere in the Megane smelt like gorilla's breath. I hoped I'd be needing
a dump before I got into the OP, rather than after.
     At  twelve  fifty-six,  I  saw  headlights  coming  downhill.  A small,
dark-coloured Renault van, the sort a tradesman would use,  came into  view.
It was two up, and I was sure I knew the head behind the wheel.
     They checked the  main and turned right, no indicators, towards  me and
Nice.  As  they passed under the street light  I got a better angle from  my
semi-prone position, and pinged the driver. He'd had a different top on  the
last time I'd seen him, but it was definitely my mate Thackery. I didn't get
to see his companion that close, but he, too, was young.
     As  soon  as they'd passed,  I popped my head up and watched them  turn
left, down towards  the  bay. I didn't envy Gumaa  what  was going to happen
next.
     I  jumped  out  of  the  Megane  and  crossed  the road,  watching  the
headlights bounce off the houses along the  narrow streets, sometimes losing
them altogether  as  the  van continued  downhill. Eventually it reached sea
level, and disappeared into one of the buildings by the water's  edge. Today
had been  a success.  We'd achieved  the  mission. But we  hadn't  had  much
choice.  I couldn't see George being too understanding if  we hadn't brought
him Gumaa.
     "But, George, we really had a good trigger and the follow was, frankly,
excellent. It was the  French getting  in the  way that messed things up for
us. Never mind, I think we've learnt a great deal today  and we can do a lot
better next time ..."
     I walked  back to  the car, feeling a sense of satisfaction. The  other
thing I was feeling, as  I pulled the seat up into the driving position, was
a  nagging sensation  in  my bowels.  Turning the  ignition key  might  have
disguised  the noise, but it  hadn't hidden  the smell. I  powered  down the
window and  made my way to the picnic area to  see if there was anything for
me from George, having learnt one big lesson. No more dodgy egg baguettes.
     I turned into the junction and headed uphill, reasoning I might as well
check the recycling bins now to see if anything had  been  left for me,  and
save time and  fucking about later. I was going to the same place  that  I'd
collected the insulin packs  and explosives from. The  marker was  the  same
Coke can. It would be  left in position if something was there for me, and I
would remove it once I had picked up.
     I drove past Hubba-Hubba's cover position,  then the dropoff, and on to
the picnic area.  My  headlights hit the recycling bins and two  huge  green
plastic  bottle  banks, each with a large steel ring  poking out of the top.
The Coke  Light can  was still in position just under the forward right-hand
corner of the nearer one.
     There were  no other vehicles in sight, so I parked  up  on the mud and
gravel just  past  the  bins, and  turned off my  lights. I pushed  my  hand
underneath the  one to the  left  of the Coke  can, and  felt for the broken
brick that would be there if I had a message. Bingo. I dragged it out, a lot
lighter than an ordinary brick, then took the can as well.
     I turned the car round and headed  back the way I'd come, wanting to be
clear of the area as fast as  I could. Once back on the  main I turned left,
towards BSM, leaving the  warship lighting up  the bay behind me. At the lay
by  behind the OP, I closed down the Megane, then got out  my Leatherman and
started to dig into the brick with the pliers.
     The centre had  been hollowed out, then its contents  plastered over. I
pulled  out  the cling-filmed package and  unravelled  it, at  the same time
brushing the plaster dust off my clothes. Inside was a sheet  of A5, covered
in tight  print. I opened the  glove compartment and  laid  it on the drinks
tray. There was no introduction, just the message.
     George  did know about the connection between  Curly and Greaseball. It
also  seemed the  Ninth of May  was well known to  the French  police.  They
suspected it had been used  more than once to ferry heroin  from here to the
Channel Islands.
     Curly's  actual name was Jonathan Tynan-Ramsay, and he  originated from
Guernsey. I  didn't give a fuck: he was going to stay Curly for me. He had a
list of  minor drug  of  fences and had been  on  court-imposed  drug  rehab
programmes, which he'd failed to complete. He'd eventually served five years
in jail in England for his part in a paedophile ring,  and left the UK after
being put on the sex  offenders list. He had  lived in France  for the  past
four years. He and Greaseball were members of all  the same  clubs. The sort
of clubs Hubba-Hubba wanted to put a bomb under.
     George finished  with  a  warning.  The  local  police were  taking  an
interest now that the Ninth of May was on the move; it had last been seen in
Marseille  three days  ago.  The  police didn't know  what had  happened  in
Marseille, but George reckoned it had picked up the  Romeos from the Algiers
ferry, and now the police were  waiting to see where it  popped up again. It
was just routine, he said, but be careful.
     I  tore  the message into  bite-size pieces  and started chewing.  As I
headed back down the mountainside, I  wondered why  the fuck  George  hadn't
told me all this in the first place. There'd been enough opportunity.
     Thirty-Eight.
     SATURDAY, 24 NOVEMBER, 01:38 hrs
     I passed  Lotfi's vehicle position in the hotel car park  and could see
nothing out of the ordinary. Below and ahead of me was the marina, and quite
a  few of the boats were still lit up. Driving  down to the entrance, I  saw
nothing to  get me worried, nothing parked  up near the bus stops, no bodies
mooching around. I carried on up to the lay by behind the OP.  It was empty,
no sign of Hubba-Hubba's  vehicle. Good man:  he had thought about the third
party, parked elsewhere and walked over to pick up my Megane.
     So far everything looked normal which didn't mean a thing.
     A vehicle approached from the other direction, passed me, forgetting to
dip its lights, and carried on. I followed the line of the mountains towards
Monaco, not wanting to  park up behind the OP now in case the  van was back:
if d make too  much noise  this time of the morning. The marina lights in my
rear-view  mirror disappeared as I completed the corner and  drove  into the
darkness.  Eight or nine  vehicles were parallel  parked  in a lay by ahead.
They  probably belonged  to the cluster  of  houses  above me on the steeper
ground apart from Hubba-Hubba's Scudo. I pulled in at the end of the line.
     I got out,  checked my  bum-bag, and moved the Browninghammer away from
the  sore,  which had  started  to  bleed.  From the  back  of my  Megane, I
retrieved  the   towel,   emptied  out   the   cling-film-wrapped  dump  and
urine-filled water bottle, and replaced them  with my fresh supply of  water
and Snickers bars.
     I  locked  the Megane,  slung the  towel and its contents  over my left
shoulder, and started back down to the OP with  my  cap firmly on my head to
keep me warm later on.
     There were  just one  or  two lights on in the houses way up  the hill;
other than that the mountain was asleep.
     An animal scurried away from me as I approached the entry  point in the
hedgerow. I had a  quick  look round before  climbing over and following the
hedge line on my hands and knees until I reached the V-shaped palm shrub.
     I  sat  there for a  while and tuned in, then got the binos out of  the
towel. They worked well  as a  night-viewing aid with a little help from the
dull lighting around the marina. I started  with  pier nine, but couldn't be
sure that the  Ninth of  May was still  there. A boat was parked up  in  its
position, but  it  didn't seem  to have the same silhouette. The binos  were
inconclusive; they were good, but not that good.
     I'd have  to  go down  to the  pier to confirm physically,  and  do  it
straight away. There was no point sitting waiting  for first light, only  to
find that the thing wasn't there.
     I scanned the general area through the binos for  the  van. There  were
about a dozen vehicles in the  car park, only two  of  them vans. These were
right next to each  other, and  parked facing the  boats. The one nearest me
had some sign writing  on  that  I couldn't  make out from here. Worryingly,
both had a good view of pier nine.
     Leaving the towel and its contents behind, I crawled to the exit in the
hedgerow  but,  instead  of  going  through  it,  carried  on  for   another
twenty-five or thirty  metres as  a vehicle moved into the marina.  I turned
downhill towards the Petite  Afrique beach. There was no pathway, just scrub
and dry earth all the way down to the sand. Once I hit the sand I got up and
walked to the car park.  My detour meant I was approaching the vans from the
rear,  on  the  assumption   that  if  anyone  was  inside  them  they'd  be
concentrating on the target.
     I passed the swings and climbing frame, using the huge piles of sand as
cover but walking normally as if I was taking a  short cut back to  my boat.
It  was pointless getting  tactical and running, crawling, ducking, all that
sort  of stuff. I was out in the open and, no matter  what I did, I would be
seen when I crossed the flat, open expanse of car park, if not before.
     My Timberlands slipped and slid as I negotiated the sixty-odd metres of
beach; then I hit the heat-cracked tarmac of the car  park. I checked inside
the  cars as  best I could, to  see if any heads were pulled back  in  their
seats,  with their  car  windows  open just  an inch  to  prevent that  ever
compromising condensation. The odd vehicle still moved to and fro  along the
main, and I heard laughter from the  far side of the marina. As I got closer
to the car park  I could see the silhouette of a couple kissing in  a saloon
to  my  right,  near  the  bin area,  but that was all.  It was probably the
vehicle that had come in  while I was  moving down  here. I didn't think I'd
seen it there before. I sauntered along  until I got  between the two  vans.
Once there, I stopped and listened,  standing  as if I was taking a piss. If
there was surveillance, it would probably be  in the unmarked one. The other
was too easy to spot with such a VDM visual distinguishing mark.
     There was nothing  I could do  but stand there and listen. I put my ear
gently against the side and opened my mouth to cut off any cavity noise, but
heard  nothing. I did the same  with the other  one,  but again, nothing. It
would look  highly suspicious  to anyone watching, a  guy  putting his  head
against a couple of vans, but I didn't have any other options.
     I must have been there for about three minutes, hearing nothing but the
gentle lapping of water against boats, and the odd clanking of the rigging.
     A vehicle screamed along the main towards Monaco as I stepped out on to
the  pier. I wasn't concerned  about the  kissers: they had other things  on
their minds, and might be there all night. The Germans  weren't  dreaming of
life on the ocean wave along  with everyone else around here. Their  TV  was
still going full blare as I  passed, but it was the last thing on my mind by
then. I had a horrible, empty feeling in my gut. I took a few more steps and
stood, looking foolishly at the washing that hung along  the back of a  boat
called the Sand Piper, which was parked  where  the Ninth of May should have
been. I stood  there like an idiot, willing my boat to materialize, hoping I
was about to discover I was on the wrong pier. But it wasn't to be.
     Fuck now what?
     Spinning on my heel, and quickening my pace, I checked further down the
pier, just in case it had been shifted a few spaces. I went back and checked
the first pier. No luck. I was  going to have to  search  the whole  fucking
place:  I didn't  know how  the system worked,  maybe  they'd been moved  to
another parking place,  or they had a  technical problem and were  parked up
alongside the workshop the other side of the marina. I  wanted to  cover  as
much of the area as I could, in as short a space of time as possible,  but I
couldn't run. There was still third-party awareness to think about.
     As I made my way back towards the shops  I delved  into my  bum-bag for
the phone card and started to recite the pager number to myself. 04 ... 93 -
45 ... Fuck, what if they'd left for Algeria already? What if Greaseball had
been wrong, and  there was only ever going to be one pick-up? My mind raced.
The tennis bags had  been big enough to hold at least  a  million and a half
dollars between them, more than enough to pay off a coach load of relations.
     Shit, shit, shit.
     Clenching the  phone card  in my fist  and  reciting the number like  a
madman,  my eyes darted everywhere, still in  hope  of spotting the boat. My
plan now was to work my way methodically around the whole marina. There  was
no other way to confirm whether the boat was there or not. I walked past the
cars that  were parked  to my right, but kept on looking out to  my left, at
the boats.
     Two bodies stepped out from the kissing car. There was a challenge from
the driver.
     "Arretez! Arretez! Arretez!"
     I  carried  on walking,  my  hands in  my  pockets,  eyes  down  at the
concrete. I wasn't going to stop, but  I didn't know what I was going to do.
Water was behind me: the  only escape was forward,  past them and up to  the
main.
     The driver, a man, was about six metres away and came out past his car,
blocking my path, his door left open.
     "Police! Arretez!"
     Now  the other body, a  woman, emerged, leaving her door open as  well.
She ran behind and past him, and carried on down to the  quay, maybe to make
sure I didn't jump in.  Her  black  leather  jacket  glinted dully under the
lights.
     Thirty-Nine.
     The man's voice was  very calm. As  he moved  forward  I could see  his
ponytail.
     "Arretez, police."
     I kept walking, head down,  and did my best to look  confused. I didn't
want to open my mouth unless I had to.
     The woman moved in step with him, following the  waterline no more than
two metres  behind. She kept  at an angle to her partner  so she had a clear
field of fire. The man  kept gob bing  off in French as he got closer to me,
moving  slowly, like a stalking cat, bending his  legs  and  hunkered down a
bit, treating  me as if I  was an unexploded bomb with a tremor  switch. The
woman sensed this was wrong: I hadn't stopped. Never taking her eyes off me,
she  moved her  right  arm, pulling  back the jacket  to get  to the  pistol
somewhere on her hip.
     No more  than three  metres  separated us now. I stopped as I heard the
squeak of leather  as the woman's pistol  came  up. I  hadn't exactly helped
calm the situation  down by not talking to  them or  looking as  if this had
never  happened before.  Her hair flicked up as she jerked her  head around,
checking everywhere to  make sure  I was  alone, before getting eyes quickly
back on me.
     Ponytail moved forward while she stood her ground, covering him. He had
a  couple of days' stubble to go with his hair. He thrust  his ID at me with
his left  hand. A National Police badge,  looking very much like a sheriff's
star with the word "Police' set in a blue centre.
     "Police," he said, in case I had trouble reading.
     He flicked the fingers of his right hand upwards, but at first I didn't
understand the gesture. Then I twigged; he wanted my hands out of my pockets
and up where he could see  them. His eyes never left mine, looking for signs
that I was going to try something. This guy was  really experienced; he knew
that eyes give away an action a second before it happens.
     He gestured upwards again with his right hand.
     "Allez,  allez." He wanted my hands in the air, or on my head, I wasn't
sure which.
     What the fuck was I  going  to do? Jump into the water and swim for it?
To where?
     He was  just  a pace  away as  my hands went  up on to my head. He  was
pleased with that and continued to talk to me in confident, subdued tones as
he closed his ID and shoved it between his teeth.
     She was still static at the water's edge, behind him and to my left.
     Ponytail closed  in and  ran his left hand over the front of my jacket.
His  right hand was still free to  draw down if necessary.  Encountering the
Sony, his eyes narrowed. He breathed through his nose, kept  the  ID  in his
mouth, and gave a muffled but calm, "Pistokt."
     Even I knew  what that meant, and  the woman  moved in closer until she
was at right angles to  me. I could almost feel her tongue in my ear as  she
whispered something along the lines of "Move and I'll kill you'.
     She was too close. You should never be within arm's reach. I  had to do
something, anything, before he got down to the Browning.
     He started to pull on the zip of my jacket, yanking  it with such force
that it snagged about a  third  of the way down and I got tipped forward. It
was time to act.
     His eyes were still  staring into mine. My hands  were still on my head
and my  left elbow  was level with her pistol. Taking a slow, deep breath, I
counted to three, then forced  my arms forward to push  the muzzle away from
me. She shouted out, as if Ponytail didn't know what was happening. I made a
lunge to the left and body-checked her, toppling her into the water.
     Ponytail came at me. I tucked my head in  and got my forehead into  his
face.  There  was a crunch of bone on bone and he dropped  to the ground.  I
followed, my head flashing with pain. It felt like I'd head butted a wall.
     He arched his back, trying to draw the weapon, which  he had  holstered
behind his right kidney, as Leather Girl splashed about below us. His jacket
fell open. I saw a mobile phone clipped to an inside pocket. It was  quicker
to get to than my Browning  or his  pistol hand.  Grabbing the phone  upside
down in my right hand,  I knelt astride him  and  stabbed at  him, using the
stubby antenna like a dagger blade, stabbing into his shoulders and chest. I
didn't want to kill him, but I needed to  fuck him up for long enough for me
to get  away. He screamed in pain and I felt his blood warm on my hand as my
own ran  into my  eyes. The pain in my  head  was a  nightmare.  I  kept  on
stabbing, maybe six or eight times more, I wasn't counting. Fuck him and his
weapon, I just wanted to make some distance between them  and me. Scrambling
to my feet, I ran towards the concrete steps.
     Ponytail cried out in pain as he writhed on the ground behind me, and I
could hear people calling out from the  boats in a cocktail of languages.  I
wasn't too worried about the girl. When she got out of the water, she'd stay
with him,  sorting him  out. It might have been worse. I might have gone for
his face or throat.
     I was taking the  steps  two  at a time  when Lotfi's voice burst in my
left ear.
     "Hello, N - N, radio check."  Almost  simultaneously, I saw  headlights
coming from the  direction of  the town, down towards the marina entrance. I
jumped over the "Ifuck girls!" bench  and hit the Sony pressle as I stumbled
into the scrub.
     "Keep going, we have a drama, do  not stop.  Go to  His vehicle. You'll
see mine there, wait there, wait there. Acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     Mud  caked my bloodstained right hand,  as well as  the mobile. Lotfi's
lights  continued on past the entrance and passed  me as I grabbed the towel
and the OP kit and scrambled along the  hedgerow,  leaving the  screams  and
lights going on in boats behind me.
     As soon as I was out on to the  road I started to sprint uphill as fast
as  I  could,  ready to leap back over the hedge as soon as any vehicle came
along the road. My throat was  bone dry and my  lungs hurt  as I  sucked  in
oxygen and pumped  my  free arm to get me up  the  hill and past the bend. I
found Hubba-Hubba and Lotfi waiting in the Focus, lights off  and engine on.
Lotfi unlocked the doors as he saw me approaching.
     I jumped into the back.
     "Let's go! Drive  towards Monaco and get off the main quick as you can,
come on, let's go, let's go!"
     The Focus revved  up  and we screamed away from the kerb as I tried  to
catch my breath.
     I shoved the mobile with the OP kit in the  towel, wiping  the mud  and
blood from my hands as I did so.
     The  boat  it's  gone. At least, I think so. I  only  got  to check two
piers. The van, it was definitely the police. I've been stopped by them."
     They didn't look at all happy.
     "It's OK, I think  they just  want to know what the boat is up  to. The
guy who owns it is a drug smuggler, small-time, that's all."
     I  finished wiping my hands as the Focus hit the  first of the  hairpin
bends, and stuck the corner of the towel on  the split  in my forehead, just
inside my hairline.
     Hubba-Hubba's mind was already jumping ahead.
     "The device ...  if they are  on  their way to Algeria, we must stop it
now." "It's an option. We could make  the call, if it's still in range.  But
we've got other things to consider first. It  could have  moved  to a marina
along the coast,  so the Romeos can  still make their collections. As far as
they're concerned, yesterday was a success."
     Lotfi changed down to get up the incline.
     "Look.  Maybe the alarm and  the police scared them  last  night. Maybe
Greaseball is wrong and they  move each day ... maybe it is still down there
..."
     I  had regained  my  breath now.  Leaving my head, I fished inside  the
towel  and brought out  some  water to finish cleaning my  hands and face as
well as getting some down my neck.
     "Perhaps they've pinged us and moved, hoping  to  shake us off  for the
next two collections. Maybe they've even prepared an ambush in case  we find
them again."
     I much preferred the first two possibilities. Lotfi's face was set in a
frown as he concentrated on the road.
     "If we call  in the device now, we might stop them  getting to Algeria.
But what if they're still here? Not only do we fuck up the mission, we might
kill  real  people,  and that's something we're here to stop. So, I  reckon,
forget about the police, forget about the boat missing. These things can  be
dealt with. We're here for the hawallada, remember? One down, two to go."
     I leant back in the seat.
     "Look, we are in the shit, and right now checking the marinas seems the
best way of getting out of it. What do you think?"
     It was pointless me telling them what I  wanted  to happen. Playing the
dictator always leads to a  gang fuck. You've got to bring people along with
you. They looked at each other, mumbling away in Arabic, then both nodded.
     "I have already been to the bins and got more information about the guy
I  saw with Greaseball on Wednesday night and on board last night. The Ninth
of  May  belongs  to  him. He's  a  small-time  dealer and  another  fucking
paedophile. Him and Greaseball are mates."
     I  could hear heavy, angry breathing from both of them. "I know how you
feel, but we have to  cut away from that and get  on with  the job. Remember
what we're here for.  We've got  to find the boat.  If we have that, we have
hawallada. We have to keep focused."
     I  let it sink in, which gave me time  to think. There wasn't  really a
plan: it  was  just a  matter of  getting out there and finding the boat. If
not, we were  going to have to stake out  both Nice and Cannes tomorrow, and
hope they came to us.
     "OK, we have to  check every marina in our areas. I'm going to see what
Greaseball  knows. We'll meet at  six a.m. in  the parking  area Hubba-Hubba
uses to cover me at the DOR I want to get together while it's still dark, so
if  we've found the boat again, we can  get an OP in  to  trigger the Romeos
before first light."
     They nodded.
     "If anybody doesn't make it to the meeting place,  for whatever reason,
the other two must carry on with the job."
     I  continued my  quick change-of-plan  briefing  as it bubbled up in my
head.
     "Anyone who doesn't make the meet this morning is to stake out the Nice
address. See if you can raise anybody on the net. If not, tough. We all meet
up again, twelve thirty tomorrow  morning  in the same parking area, whether
or not we've dropped another hawallada off first.
     "If we don't find the boat, we're going to have to put triggers  on the
Nice  and Cannes addresses and  hope they turn up to collect. We do that for
two days, and if no luck, that's it, we'll have fucked up. Any questions?"
     Lotfi raised his right index finger.
     "What if only one of us makes the meet tomorrow morning?"
     My stomach rumbled. The one who makes it has the choice.  Put a trigger
on the Nice addresses and carry  on as before, or  just bin it and  go home,
accept the failure."
     Hubba-Hubba's eyes scoured the coastline.
     "It's got to be here, it's got to be somewhere," he muttered.
     "We can't let the  money leave." Lotfi gob bed off in Arabic and  I got
just one of the words.  Allah. He turned to me  as Hubba-Hubba  shrugged his
shoulders and looked back out to sea.
     "I'm  sorry, Nick, I  forget. I was saying that he is not  to worry. If
God wants us to find them we will, and he  will protect us, believe me." His
eyes shone with conviction.
     I hoped like hell he was right.
     Forty.
     The Focus drove  around  for  another twenty minutes  up  on  the  high
ground. At one point the autoroute was visible in the distance; white light,
not too much at this time of the morning, moved in both directions.
     We  came back down the mountain  to the cars. We had to get on with the
search,  and  had to  take  the chance of getting  closer once  more to  the
marina, no matter what was happening down there now.
     Lotfi changed down again as we took a steep right-hander.
     "Anyway, the Audi." I chanced a smile in the silence.
     "How did it go?"
     I drank  some more water as Hubba-Hubba gave a grin that glowed  in the
light from the instrument panel.
     "We burnt it near the incinerator." By the look on  his face, Lotfi had
enjoyed himself too.
     "There was  another dead  vehicle already  burning  there,  so  we just
joined the party' The main was clear and we parked up where we  had started.
As I gathered up my towel, the smell hit them. Lotfi quickly opened the door
to  get  out. Hubba-Hubba thought it was funny but got out all the same, for
health and safety reasons. He turned back  and whispered, "Is that,  how  do
you say, a "silent but deadly"?" I got out of the car on Lotfi's side. As he
locked  up  he  muttered,  "He  really has  been  watching too  much  BE and
Blockhead."
     Hubba-Hubba shook his head slowly.
     "Butthead - Beavis and Butthead."
     I checked  traser and it was three  fourteen as I drove through Cannes,
stopping two or three times after turning a corner to see who followed. Just
short of Greaseball's apartment off  Boulevard Carnot,  I turned three sides
of a square, but nobody came with me. Finally, I parked about half a  K from
his flat and walked in.
     I pressed the buzzer for about two minutes and eventually got a groggy,
crackly answer. I knew exactly how he felt.
     "Comment?"
     "It's me. I want to talk to you. Open up."
     He was confused.
     "Who? Who's me?"
     "Somebody you met in Algeria, remember?"
     There was a pause.
     "What?" He coughed.
     "What do you want?"
     "Open up and you'll find out."
     The speaker went dead and was replaced by  the high-pitched buzz of the
electric latch.  I moved towards the stairs, taking my time to minimize  the
squeaking  of  my Timberlands on the fake  marble, and didn't push the light
switch to help me up the stairs. The Browning came out and I pulled back the
hammer to full cock and pushed  the safety  catch up with my thumb, ready to
take it off at a moment's notice as I slowly climbed.
     Standing in the stairwell on the fourth floor, I listened with my right
ear at the doorway out  into the corridor, my mouth open to lessen the noise
of me catching  my breath. There was nothing. I moved  into the hallway with
the  pistol  at my side. I  got  to Rat 49 and  tapped  gently on the  door,
standing to the left of the frame so I could see into the flat as soon as it
opened. There was the rattle of a security chain, then the squeak of hinges.
He looked scared but a bit out of it, dark rings beneath his glazed eyes. He
staggered a  little as he led me into the living room. The glass patio doors
and shutter  were closed, so the smell of cigarettes was overpowering. Fully
dressed, he stood by the  coffee table,  taking  nervous  sips from  a small
bottle of Evian. A used syringe lay on top of the table, next to a foil card
of oblong-shaped pills.
     His hair was  greasy as always, but  now  sticking up.  His red-striped
shirt was creased, with the  tail hanging out.  Judging by the  scrunched-up
pashmina on the settee, that was where he'd been sleeping.
     "Is there anybody else here?"
     "No, there's  no  one. What do you want? I have told you everything ' I
put the Browning muzzle to his lips.
     "Shut the fuck up." I  nodded towards  the door that divided the living
area from the corridor  into the bedroom and bathroom, then stepped back and
closed the front door with my arse.
     "Go on. You know what to do."
     "I tell you, there is no one here. Why would I lie to you? Why?"
     He held out his arms in submission and swayed a little.
     "Just do it."
     After two attempts he recapped the bottle, chucked it on to the settee,
and walked into the corridor. I moved behind him, clearing the flat. Nothing
much had changed: everything was  still in a shit state.  We came  back into
the living room and he sat down, slumping into the cushions.
     "Where's the Ninth of May?"
     His brain wouldn't compute.
     "It's where I said it would be."
     "No, it isn't.  It  was there yesterday, but now it's moved.  Where has
Jonathan taken the boat?"
     He looked totally confused now.
     "He?    Who?   I   don't    understand    what    you    '    "Jonathan
Tynan-lah-di-fucking-dah-Ramsay. I know  all about  him, what  he does, what
he's  done, who  he's done it  with I even saw you with him Wednesday night.
The Fiancee of the Desert, Juan-les-Pins, remember?"
     I bent down, looking into the wall  unit for  the Polaroids,  but  they
were still nowhere to be seen.
     I straightened again.
     "You hearing me?" I pushed up his chin and finally got to look into his
eyes.
     "I have no time to fuck about. Tell me where the boat is."
     He  looked  genuinely puzzled and  very worried as he slumped back into
the settee.
     "I don't understand, I don't know what you're saying. He should ' "It's
very simple," I cut in.
     "The  Ninth of  May has left Beaulieu-sur-Mer  and I want to know where
it's gone. Back to Marseille?"
     I wanted him to know I knew a lot more than he thought.
     There was no more time to waste. I was losing valuable minutes.  I went
to  the kitchen  and  used the  muzzle  of  the Browning  to rummage in  the
drawers. I picked up  a  plastic-handled bread knife  and came back into the
living room. He pushed himself back an extra three inches in the  settee. He
was paying a lot of attention to me now.
     I'm going to ask one more time. Where is the boat?"
     He hesitated, then began to stutter.
     "I don't know  ... it  should  be  at  the  port.  It  isn't  going  to
Marseille, that was just to pick up the two guys from the Algiers ferry. No,
no  ... Beaulieu-sur-Mer ... that's what he '  He was  rubbing his face  now
with both hands, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his legs.
     "It should be there, I..."
     I  didn't try to get eye contact  again, just pushed  him back into the
back cushions and pointed the knife at his face. He needed to see it.
     "Listen carefully. If you don't know where it is, you're no good to me.
I don't give a shit how important you think  you are to other people.  To me
you're nothing, and I'd rather have you  dead than able to talk about me, if
you ever live long enough, pumping that shit down you." His dopy eyes rolled
towards the syringe and pills.
     "Please, I  don't know  anything. The boat should be  at the port.  The
boat was there. I swear, you  will make a great mistake, I am protected, I '
"Shut the  fuck up. You've got fifteen seconds left. Tell  me where the boat
is." I shoved the Browning into my jeans and checked traser.
     "You saw  how messy this gets ... especially if  this thing isn't sharp
enough."
     His eyes were jumping around in his head. He was losing it, big-time.
     "I swear I don't know,  please  ..." His hands  suddenly came up, as if
he'd had a revelation.
     "Maybe he's gone back to Vauban..."
     "Antibes?"
     "Yes, yes. Maybe he's moved back there ..."
     I knew this place, I  knew  Vauban. It was a  massive marina in the old
town of Antibes, about ten minutes' drive from  Juan-les-Pins. I pointed the
knife back at him.
     "Why there?"
     "It's  always there, in the port, that's where he lives.  He told me he
would go to Beaulieu-sur-Mer for three days with those guys. I swear this is
the truth, I swear ..."
     "Where in Vauban?"
     "With the fishing boats."
     I reckoned  he was scared enough now  to  be  telling  the truth. Sweat
poured down his face as he leaned forward, nervously pushed a tablet through
the foil and bunged it down his neck, then fought with the Evian bottle top.
I watched as  he swallowed it like a gulping dog, hands shaking so badly the
water ran down the side of his stubbly face.
     He fiddled with the  foil,  as  if making up his mind whether to take a
second for luck.
     "Is everything still going to plan?"
     He looked up at me, his voice trembling as much as everything else.
     "Yes, yes, everything. I'm sure. I don't know why the boat has moved. I
didn't  speak  with  Jonathan  since he  returned  from  Marseille  with the
collectors on  Wednesday.  He stopped  at Vauban with those  guys for a  few
hours,  to meet  me and try to persuade them to stay there. That was  when I
learnt the addresses of  these  hawallada. You have to believe  me.  If  the
Ninth  of  May has moved, that is where it will  be,  by the  fishing boats.
Jonathan will not be letting anyone down, there  will be a reason for him to
leave."
     I looked down  at  the crap he had on  the  table. He  knew what I  was
thinking.
     "You're disgusted. Everything I do disgusts you." He waved the card  at
the syringe.
     "You  think  this is heroin,  or maybe  a little mixer, something  like
that?" He held  up the tablet that he'd just pulled out with his shaky thumb
and forefinger. This, my  friend, this  is saquinavir, an antiretroviral..."
His whole  demeanour  had changed. I  didn't  know whether  he suddenly just
didn't  give  a fuck, or if the chemicals he was  taking had made  him a bit
soft in the head. He put the pill  into his mouth, but didn't follow it with
any water. It rattled against his teeth as he spoke.
     "How times have changed. I take it for keeping slim at the gates for as
long as I can. The syringe, that  is for  my pain. These are the only  drugs
Jonathan and I take these days."
     He  tilted  the  last  of the Evian into  and around  his mouth  before
collapsing back into his sleeping position on the settee.
     The police were at  Beaulieu-sur-Mer. They  were  looking at  the  boat
before it disappeared."
     He smiled weakly to himself and moved  his head to get more comfortable
in the pashmina.
     "He told them he didn't want to leave Vauban, he told me at dinner, but
that's what they wanted, so ..." He shrugged his visible shoulder.
     "He is my  friend, I  know him. He must  have moved  back  home to make
things look more  normal. Yes, that's what he has done. The  boat would have
been  watched  because it has moved such a small distance. The police,  they
know these things, the boat is known to them. But those two guys, they don't
know that."
     He smiled to himself once more and rubbed his eye like a child.
     He might be right. Curly might have used  the Romeos'freaking out as an
excuse to move back to where he felt safer.
     Greaseball looked up at me, red-eyed.
     "Do you know why it's called that?"
     "What?"
     The ninth of May, 1945. The day Guernsey was  liberated from the Nazis.
Jonathan's  a very patriotic boy." He was definitely  in a world of his own;
maybe the  pills  were making him ramble. He  sighed  and a little stream of
saliva dribbled down the side of his face.
     "It  is  going to be our liberation." He took a  deep, whistling breath
through his nostrils,  and  his eyelids  drooped. He  gave  himself a small,
secret smile.
     "Not sad for long. No, no, no."
     "Both of you planning to go out with a bang, are you?"
     "Bien sur, mon  ami. That's the only thing that keeps us  alive. I know
you want to kill me. But  I don't care what you  think. Fuck all of you. All
of you are hypocrites.  You  find  us disgusting, yet you use us if it suits
you. You give me immunity for what we have done."
     "Fucking boys, you  mean? Does  he still do it? You take him to Algeria
with you?"
     "And  more,  and more."  His eyes  were almost  shut  now,  and  he was
dribbling big-time. Whatever he'd been pumping into his veins over the years
had cost him several billion brain cells.
     "You don't like me and I don't like you. But I've still given you  what
you need.  You know why?  Because  we do have something between us.  We both
hate al-Qaeda."  He tried to stare at  me with glazed  eyes, but he was just
off-line.
     "Are  you surprised? Why  else do you think I am doing this? Why do you
think I  told  them I could organize the  collections? I  have  made  them a
fortune from heroin here, and what do I get?" He threw his arm out, pointing
at the flat.
     "So, you  see, we  are  the same, you and  me. You don't like that,  do
you?" He gave up trying to lock on my eyes and turned over.
     I opened the door with my sweatshirt cuff and left him to his dreams. I
only wished I could have helped him on his way.
     Forty-One.
     Antibes and  its  harbour, Port  Vauban,  is Yachting  Central for  the
Mediterranean. A third of the  world's  mega boats are based on the Riviera,
and the majority of them are parked in this one port.  Here, even boats with
a helicopter on the deck are sneered at by those on Millionaires' Row, where
the smallest looks as if it's owned by Cunard.
     The  support  services for  all these thousands of pleasure  craft make
Antibes  an  all-year-round  town,  not   a   sleepy,  seasonal  place  like
Juan-les-Pins or any of the others along the coast.
     I  passed  the nondescript apartment blocks that had spread out  of the
old town like a wave, swamping everything in their path, and as I neared the
port the streets  began to narrow  and  the buildings  got much older. There
were just  inches each side for manoeuvring  past rows of scooters and cars,
all  of which looked abandoned rather than parked. Maybe the mayor awarded a
weekly prize for the most artistic parking arrangement.
     The  Romans  had  built  Antibesinto  an  important town,  but  in  the
seventeenth century the public baths, aqueduct and open-air theatre had been
torn down and  the stone used  to build  its de  fences including  a fort to
protect the port where  Napoleon was once imprisoned.  All  that was left of
the old city wall was a few hundred metres that faced the port.
     The  old  town  proper  was  picture  postcard  stuff,  apart  from the
Christmas  lights taped  on to  windows and  straddling  the  streets. Tall,
shuttered buildings lined the streets, with washing strung  on lines between
them. I drove through a small archway set into the old wall, which was maybe
ten  metres thick.  The other  side and ahead of me was  a forest  of masts,
illuminated by  the harbour lights. To my left was a  car park that followed
the  wall until it ended, maybe two hundred  metres away. To  my  right, the
wall continued, and rows of small fishing boats were parked up in the water.
Behind them, small market  stalls waited empty  to sell the day's  catch. If
Greaseball was correct,  then somewhere among the fishing boats, in the poor
man's area, was the Ninth of May.
     The car park  was virtually empty, and not a VW camper to be seen.  Not
that  I expected to see it: if the police were here, they certainly wouldn't
be using the same vehicle. Keeping  a  constant speed, I checked out the car
park opening times before turning left, back  into the old  town, parking in
the first space I could find.
     If there was a  French trigger  on the Ninth of May,  they'd ping me as
well if I used the car park. Just like  the Romeos,  I always  wanted  to be
behind  them,  out of their field of view. I'd abandoned my  jacket  and cap
after the gang fuck at the marina and cleaned myself up a bit before putting
on the new green baggy  sweatshirt I'd bought at  Cap 3000 during  the brush
contact yesterday.
     Before getting  out  I checked  the  Browning and  the bum-bag  for the
umpteenth time before following the wall town side back towards the port. To
my right was  a line of  small  restaurants and  cafes in the shadow of  the
massive blocks of  granite  or  whatever it was.  They  were closed for  the
night, their outside furniture stacked, wired and padlocked to the ground.
     I headed past the archway towards  the  stone steps up to the ramparts,
so that I could get a better view of the boats.
     Once through an alleyway between the wall and a closed-up bar I emerged
into a  small,  cobbled,  tree-lined square  that  had made many a  postcard
photographer's  day.  As  I started up the  steps, I looked at  the sky. The
clouds had gone and stars were out, twinkling as best they could against the
manmade stuff thrown up from the town and harbour.
     I stopped  about four steps before  the top to check out  the ramparts.
Along  each side of the wall was a  three-foot-high parapet, which must once
have  run its entire length. Now, it was blocked in both directions, leaving
quite a large area for people to use as a viewing platform. To the left, the
wall over the archway was blocked by a rusty wrought-iron gate and railings,
and to my right it had been made into a small car park. How they got up here
was a mystery, but I saw three empty cars  and a Renault van. The van was  a
dark colour, and  had been  reversed  against the parapet. Its  rear windows
looked down over the port.
     I moved back down the stairs a little, into dead ground, and sat on the
steps. A dog  started to  yap somewhere in the old town and a moped  rattled
along the cobblestones below.
     There was only one way to find  out if the van was occupied  or  not. I
stood up and climbed to the  viewing area. The van had a sliding door on its
passenger side, so I kept to the right-hand side of it,  in case it suddenly
opened to reveal a bedraggled, short-haired woman in a damp leather jacket.
     As I approached, I could see that the driver's cab was blocked off from
the rear, screening the  interior. I'd have expected a vehicle  like this to
be full of old newspapers and drinks cans, even an air-freshener hanging off
the mirror, but there was nothing.
     I got  on the right side of it, between the flush body panel and a BMW,
before standing still, doing my open-mouth trick, and waiting.
     The dog  sparked  up again.  Still I  waited, and  maybe three or  four
minutes  passed before there was movement. The  steel creaked just a little;
maybe they were changing over  the trigger; but enough to tell me there were
people inside. I  moved forward, closer to  the parapet, but not beyond  the
line of  the  rear  windows,  to look down at the quay. I couldn't help  but
smile as my eyes followed the line of boats below me. There, tied up next to
the first  of a  whole row of bigger boys,  a fifty-foot monster  called the
Lee, was the Ninth of  May, looking as if it was hiding behind  its mother's
skirts.
     Like the owners of plenty of other small craft here, Curly had made the
place  look just  like  home. The  quay  behind boasted  an  array  of  very
weathered garden furniture.
     I studied the settee cover on the top deck, and it looked much the same
as when I'd left it. There were no lights on board and the blinds were down.
     I turned slowly,  walked back to the steps  and down  into the  square,
leaving the police to  it as I thought through potential exit points for the
Romeos. They'd  have to come along  the  quay, past  the  fishing  boats and
stalls, until they  got to the road through the archway. They  could then go
straight, following the wall on either side  until  it stopped, then uphill,
out  of the  old town, towards the railway station. The other  option was to
turn left through the archway and head for the  bus station through  the old
town. Neither was more than ten minutes' walk away.
     According  to traser it was three fifty-eight. I still had time to do a
more detailed recce of both, and work  out how I was going to  get a trigger
in on the boat without  getting pinged by the police. I crossed the archway,
staying out of sight on the town side of the wall, and went to check out the
rail option  first. I thought about the two,  maybe three people  inside the
Renault. Chances were, they had a camera mounted, ready to take  pictures of
the  boat as soon as there was movement on board. Like me, any food they had
with  them would  have been removed  from its  original noisy packaging, and
wrapped in cling film or a plastic bag. Their toilet arrangements would be a
little better than mine, though:  they might even have  stretched to plastic
jerry cans  The inside of the van  would be protected to cut down  on noise.
Maybe the  floor was  covered with  soft  gym mats and the  wall padded with
foam. They'd certainly be wearing trainers or soft shoes.
     But  even so, at night,  with hardly any ambient noise to  drown  their
gentle movements, thank fuck I had heard them.
     Forty-Two.
     It was six thirty-three when I arrived in Hubba-Hubba's car park, three
minutes late. The other  two  vehicles were already there, parked  together,
with no  one else  around. It was far too dark to  walk the dog, and the sex
would have happened hours ago.
     Once I'd closed down the Megane, I started towards Hubba-Hubba's Scudo.
The cab windows were slightly open, and the engine was off. I heard a gentle
click behind me as Lotfi closed the door of the Focus. We approached the van
together and as we climbed  in through the side door the ribbed steel  floor
buckled gently under our combined  weight. Hubba-Hubba turned  round  in the
driver's seat to  face  us  both. I  slid the side door  back  so it  closed
gently, and before anybody said anything I gave them a thumbs-up in the dull
light of the glove compartment bulb.
     "We've got the boat back. Greaseball gave it to me and  I have checked,
they're in Antibes." Two very relieved people gave big sighs and gob bed off
to each other in Arabic.
     "But we do have a problem: the police are there."
     I described the boat's exact location, then the position of the Renault
van, and the layout of the surrounding area.
     "The only way I can see us getting a trigger on the target is by having
someone