in  the  back of  this  thing." I  looked at  Hubba-Hubba  as  they
exchanged more Arab stuff and sounded quizzed.
     "Where are the blankets to cover the  hawalladaT  He tapped the rear of
his driver's seat.
     "Under here."
     "Good, I think it'll work. Basically, one  of us  needs  to get in  the
back of  this wagon, and stay there all day  if necessary, watching the quay
by the fishing boats and the archway  so we can trigger the  Romeos away. We
need to play about with the back of this thing a  little  bit, but the first
thing we need  to do  is choose the  right  man  for  the  job. Hubba-Hubba,
congratulations."
     He didn't make any sounds of concern.
     "Don't  look so happy. You're just about  to find out what it's like to
be holed up in the back of one  of these things  all day, looking through  a
small aperture  waiting  for the target, knowing  that if you take your eyes
off the trigger for just a second,  you could miss what you've  been waiting
hours to see."
     Lotfi knelt up and forward and  shook Hubba-Hubba's shoulder, obviously
pleased it wasn't him. That's not a problem for this man. He's the smallest,
of course he should do it."
     Hubba-Hubba  said something  back  that didn't  sound too  pleasant.  I
couldn't  do anything  but smile  because I didn't  know what  Lotfi was  on
about. To me they looked like they'd both come out of the same mould.
     I took a breath to gather my thoughts.
     "OK,  then,  first  things first."  I was  waiting for Lotfi to get his
beads out and, sure enough, I heard a click.
     "Ground you've just had it. Remember that the bus and the rail stations
are a lot  closer to  the boat than they were yesterday. That's good for us,
as  it's easier to take them, but it's bad if they've decided they can  trim
their timings and get there just in time to jump  on and go. So we've got to
be on the mark and right on top of them.
     "The  boat is in exactly the same condition as when we last saw it: the
blinds  are down, everything is buttoned up on the device. There's no reason
to believe it's been moved, or that the Romeos have gone." Lotfi's mind  was
elsewhere.
     "What about the  police, Nick?  What about what happened to you? Do you
think they have made a connection between you and the boat?"
     "I  really don't  know. We  just  have to  focus  on what we're  doing.
Nothing has  changed for  me.  We have a  job to do, an important  job.  The
police are at Vauban so what? They're here for the boat, we're here for  the
hawallada  and the cash. If we do our job properly they  won't even know  we
exist. When, or if,  they do, that's when  I'll start flapping. It's  a tall
order, but we don't have a choice."
     Lotfi gently tapped his brother's arm once more.
     "But Nick and I, we are taller."
     He was clearly very pleased not to be going in the back of the Scudo.
     "Situation.  Greaseball  and  the int from the recycling bins both said
the police presence could just be routine,  because Curly's used the boat to
smuggle heroin.
     "And because  it's  moved about quite a bit these  last  few  days, the
police  have taken  an interest. It  went from its normal  parking place  in
Vauban to Marseille to pick up the Romeos from the Algiers ferry, then  back
home to Vauban, then to BSM. I reckon they moved  back because of the  alarm
last night. The  Romeos were spooked big-time,  and I think Curly used it as
an excuse to scurry back home."
     Hubba-Hubba adjusted himself in his seat.
     "But why use a boat that is known to the police? That's crazy ..."
     "Fuck knows,  mate. I asked Greaseball and he said  the  Romeos  didn't
know the boat was known, and laughed. Maybe him and Curly were so  desperate
to make  a few dollars they just forgot to tell them that  the  Ninth of May
had form. Who knows, who cares?"
     Lotfi did. Why, if they are getting  paid for helping the  Romeos, does
Greaseball become the source?"
     That I don't  know.  What  I do  know is  that  he's protected,  so  he
probably has  no choice  and maybe he thinks he'll get  to keep some of  the
money." Neither of them could  keep a straight face as Lotfi gave out a low,
"Booooom."
     I grinned too. I couldn't agree more.
     "It's just a shame that Greaseball won't  be on board when we make that
call."
     Hubba-Hubba looked as disappointed as I felt.
     "So,  I reckon that if they don't know  the  police have eyes  on them,
we've  got to assume  that everything from the collectors' point of view  is
still going to plan, and they're off to Nice tomorrow."
     I pressed on.
     "Enemy  forces. We  now have  Curly  on  the  list  and, of course, the
police. Also, don't forget  our last enemy. Watch your third-party awareness
... "Execution general outline. Phase  one is getting this van  in position,
which has to be pretty soon, before the car park fills up, so we've got time
to manoeuvre you into a good spot before it gets busy. Phase two, triggering
the  collectors and taking  them  to Nice, or wherever  they're going to go.
Phase  three,  the lift  of the  hawallada,  and the drop-off.  Phase  four,
setting up for the last collect in Cannes."
     I saw Lotfi's fingers getting ready for the next few clicks.
     "Phase one, positioning  the van." I explained that  I needed the Scudo
to nosey-park  in one of  the spaces near  the archway so that the rear door
windows faced  the  fishing boats,  with Hubba-Hubba already in the back and
Lotfi driving.
     "You guys need  to meet up somewhere  near the rail station." I pointed
at Lotfi.
     "Leave  your car there,  then drive Hubba-Hubba  into position. The car
park barrier comes down at six, so make sure you leave the parking ticket in
the cab with  some  cash.  Work  out  where you're going to leave it in  the
vehicle,  but  leave it out of  sight. And  remember,  there  could  be eyes
looking at you from inside that Renault."
     I turned to Hubba-Hubba.
     "For the same reason, just be careful and  don't rush coming out of the
back of here. You can have a  practice later. Make sure you have the trigger
on the quay, and be able to give direction if the Romeos are foxtrot or even
mobile at that archway. Who knows?  Curly  might have a car  and give them a
lift."
     Hubba-Hubba nodded intently.
     "So  then,  phase two, triggering the  collectors. On the standby  from
Hubba-Hubba, I want you, Lotfi, to cover the rail station. You don't have to
be on it physically all the time; you can be hovering about having  a coffee
somewhere, doing whatever you want  to do, but make sure you have eyes on it
within  a  minute. And, of course, make  sure your car is nearby so you  can
react to whatever the Romeos do.  I'm going to be doing the same, but at the
bus station.
     "Phase  three,  taking the  collectors to the hawallada. We're going to
have to do exactly the same as we planned before, and that's why Hubba-Hubba
needs  to be  in the back  here, because I want  us all in  our own vehicles
today. Does that make sense?"
     Hubba-Hubba  nodded at Lotfi, pleased  there  was  a tactical  decision
behind my choice.
     I  ran through all the RV drills if we got  split during the take. They
were the same as yesterday's, but I covered them anyway.
     "Any questions?"
     None.
     "Phase  four,  the  lift and the drop-off. Same  as yesterday. We don't
know  where the  hawallada  is going to be,  we've just got  to think on our
feet.  If there's  one  of  us, if there's  three  of us, it doesn't matter.
Whoever's there will just have to improvise. The most important thing is, we
must get these people. I've got two cartridges left for my pen, so I'm going
to need a spare from one of you. We can redistribute the stuff tomorrow."
     Lotfi fished in his jacket pocket.
     "Any  questions?  All  right, service and  support. Remember  the radio
frequency change  at midnight. Remember fresh batteries.  Remember full fuel
tanks. Remember the pager number. And please, Lotfi, put in a good word with
God  for us again." He shrugged his shoulders. There is no  need.  I already
have."
     "Then  ask him  if  he  wants  to  give  us  a  hand  sorting  out  the
arrangements."
     Hubba-Hubba sparked up.
     "We are going to prepare it here?"
     Why not? It's as a good  a place  as any. Besides, it won't  take  more
than half an hour. All we have to do is use  one  of the blankets to cut off
the rear from the cab, and make a small aperture through the paint on one of
the rear windows. Easy."
     We  sat  in  the  dark  now  that  Hubba-Hubba  had  closed  the  glove
compartment.
     "But the  problem  there is."  I poked Hubba-Hubba in the shoulder, 'no
matter how small the aperture, there is  always the risk of compromise. Kids
are a  nightmare: they always  seem  to be  exactly the same  height  as the
aperture. And when they've thrown a wobbler at their mother,  they'll always
stop and turn just in time to notice half an eye looking out at them  from a
hole in the van parked next to them. That normally freaks them out  and they
scream  which, of course, pisses the mother  off even more, and she  doesn't
believe the kid's story of eyeballs looking at them and drags them away."
     Hubba-Hubba conferred with Lotfi. He looked confused.
     "Nick, what is a wobbler?"
     "A paddy." He still didn't get it.
     Lotfi gob bed off some Arabic as Hubba-Hubba nodded intently.
     I leant forward and poked him in the same spot once more.
     "And that's the least  you'll  be wanting  to throw  after  a few hours
staring out of the back of this thing."
     Forty-Three.
     We all exited the Scudo.
     "Lotfi, I need you to keep a  lookout  on the road while I sort out the
back with Hubba-Hubba, OK?"
     "Of  course." He walked to the parking area entrance as  we put the van
space  light back  in place  to see what we were  doing, and  started to use
gaffer tape  to fix  up  one  of the dark  patterned, furry  nylon  blankets
Hubba-Hubba had bought so that it hung from the roof just behind the two cab
seats.
     Hubba-Hubba was leaning in from the  left, and me from the right, as he
whispered  questions about his new  job to the sound  of  gaffer tape  being
pulled away from its reel.
     "Won't  my  eyes  be  seen  from  outside  if  I'm  looking through the
aperture?"
     "No, mate, it doesn't  work like that  if we do it  correctly. It'll be
pitch black inside here if we seal the blanket down the sides. You just need
to keep your head back a bit, especially if there's a kid throwing a wobbler
next to you."
     What about noise? What if I have to move, what if I get a cramp?"
     "That is a problem,  mate,  because if  you move too fast the wagon can
rock. The slightest movement  can  be  detected. Even when these things  are
purpose-built  inside a van.  If you ha veto just  do it  really slowly. You
must keep the noise down in there.
     "Normally these  vans would be  lined  with foam,  stuff like that,  to
absorb the noise.  But for  you there is  going to be jack shit. You'll just
have to take your boots off and lay out the spare blanket."
     "Jack shit... Jack shit. Yes, I like this saying."
     "And  talking  of  shit,  don't.  Sorry. No food, just water, you can't
afford to need a dump." I explained the logistics.
     "Make sure you take some empty bottles to piss into Dumping is going to
make too  much noise, too much movement, and you won't be  able  to keep the
trigger. And you can't just dump in your  jeans, because you need to get out
and join in the take."
     Hubba-Hubba couldn't resist.
     "Have you ever had to dump during one of these triggers?"
     Twice. Once on purpose, because there was nothing I could do about  it.
I was just about to trigger someone and I couldn't hold it in any longer. It
didn't  matter,  because I wasn't  in the take, just  the trigger, so I  was
going to be driven away."
     Another length of gaffer tape was ripped off the roll.
     "And the other?"
     "Let's just say it was lucky I had a long coat on."
     The blanket  was now hanging from the roof and we were starting to tape
down the sides. Even with half of it hanging  down  and the rest gathered on
the floor, I could make out the picture I was faced with in the dull light.
     "Where the fuck did you  get  this?" I pulled out the blanket from  the
bottom to expose the remainder of the furry dogs playing snooker.
     They were all I could get in the time..." He giggled as he realised how
stupid it looked, and I couldn't help but join in.
     I forced myself to get serious.
     "Where's your spray paint?"
     "In the passenger door compartment."
     "OK. You need to seal off just a little more down your side."
     I climbed out of the van and walked round  to the right  hand  door, to
the  sound  of  ripping gaffer tape as he got  to work. Bythe time I had got
round to the back again, Hubba-Hubba was sitting on the side door sill.
     "What we need to do now, mate, is scrape a small hole at  the bottom of
the right hand window,  in the left  hand  corner. That way the aperture  is
roughly in the centre of the rear, and you'll get a better perspective."
     I shook the paint can and the ball bearing mixer inside rattled about.
     "Keep it in the back in case you need to make it smaller once you're in
position."
     Less than five minutes later, and  with the  use of Hubba-Hubba's thumb
nail, it was done: a  nice little  scrape, a centimetre long,  ran along the
bottom of the right hand window.
     "Once you've triggered the Romeos, just crawl under the blanket,  check
first it's clear,  and climb out. You've got the Renault to think about, and
we  might  as  well   keep  the  blanket  in  position  seeing  as  it's  so
interesting."
     Hubba-Hubba stayed  in the  back as  I got out  and  slid the side door
shut, and the interior  light died. I moved  to the driver's seat  and could
hear him moving about inside.
     I opened the glove compartment for some light.
     "OK, mate, have a go at getting out."
     He started to  worm his way under the blanket, trying to keep low. When
he was half way, he stopped and fished down the front of his  shirt, pulling
out his charm.
     "It keeps doing this." He lay where he was, checking the clasp.
     "H, can I ask you a question?"
     He looked up, surprised, and nodded.
     "I think I  understand Lotfi but," I indicated his little  beaded palm,
'where does this fit in? Are you religious you know, a paid-up Muslim?"
     He concentrated once more on his repairs.
     "Of  course, there is only one God. To be a true Muslim doesn't mean we
all have to be like Lotfi. Salvation is attained not by faith but by works."
He took the charm  to  his teeth,  biting down  on the metal before fiddling
with it some more.
     "You see,  when  I die I will be able  to say the Shahada with the same
conviction as he will. Do you know  what I  am talking about?" He raised his
head again.
     "You heard the old guard say it in Algeria.
     "La il aha ill-Allah, Muhammad-ur  rasul-ullah." For  you,  that means:
"There is  no God  but Allah, and Muhammad is the apostle of Allah." That is
the  Shahada, the first and greatest teaching of Islam. I  just said that to
you with true sincerity, and that is what makes me just as  good a Muslim as
him." He fastened the chain, and gave it an experimental tug.
     "When  my book of destiny is weighed it will show God that I was also a
good  man, and  my  reward will be the same  as his, crossing the bridge  to
Paradise.  Our Paradise is not like yours a cloud  to sit on, a harp to play
it  is a perfumed garden of  material  and sensual  delights, surrounded  by
rivers and fountains playing. Sounds good,  yes?"  He  put  the  charm  back
around his neck.
     "Lotfi would be able to tell  you  what Suras that is in. But  before I
get there, I have to live this life." The charm was now securely back on and
he lifted it up for me to see.
     "And this gives me all the help I need."
     He replaced the chain  around  his neck before  finishing  his crawl up
into the passenger seat.
     "What does Lotfi think of all that?" I was puzzled.
     "How come  you two are so different? I mean, you with the charm and him
with the Qur'an?"
     He  smiled as he fought with the seat, jerking himself forwards, trying
to get the thing to move as he pressed down on  the seat adjuster, so  there
was more room to crawl  into the cab. As the  seat finally gave  in, I could
see where he had hidden the cash from Gumaa.
     "We  were  both  at a Muslim school  together  you  know, sitting there
cross-legged on  the floor,  learning to  recite the  Qur'an  from memory. I
would have been like him, if it wasn't for the fact that the words just fell
out of my head as quickly as  they tried to put them in. So I was thrown out
of school and our  mother  taught me with my sister. Our  father had died of
TB,  years  before." He  looked directly into my eyes. "You  see, going to a
religious school is not just about faith. For a family cursed by poverty, it
is  a way  outboys are fed and cared for. Our mother saw it as the only  way
for us to survive."
     "But how did you learn English? I mean, most  people in  your shoes are
still '
     He laughed gently to himself.
     "You know, the first  pair of  shoes  I ever had were  from Lotfi. They
were given to him at school." His smile turned to an expression of  infinite
sadness.
     "Our mother died a few months after Khalisah was beaten. She never  was
the same after that none of us were."
     He put his hand on my shoulder.
     "But  we stayed  together, Nick.  That is  because the  inheritance our
mother left  us was love for  each other. We  are a family  first, no matter
what disagreements we may have, no matter  what  pain we may suffer. Because
we have love."
     I thought a bit about my inheritance, but decided to shut the fuck up.
     He tapped his chest.
     "He  hates  this. He says I  will not go  to Paradise,  but to Gahenna,
hell, instead. But he is wrong, I think." His eyes sparkled.
     "I hope ..."
     He paused  for a moment,  but I kept silent. These  boys were  making a
habit of saying stuff that came a bit too close for comfort.
     "Lotfi  is  not right  about  everything, but neither am I. And  it was
Lotfi who gave up what he had  to take us both to Cairo, to our aunt, and to
school. That's why  I  speak English. We are a  family, Nick. We learnt long
ago to meet in the middle, because otherwise the family  is lost. And we had
a promise to keep, that we made as children."
     He dug into his jeans pocket before pointing a clenched fist at me.
     "What is it?"
     "Ketamine, you needed some more, no?"
     Forty-Four.
     The square  was near the bus station in the new part of  Antibes. I sat
in  my  car in a roadside parking  space  with my hat and sunglasses on  and
listened  to  the two  of them as they put the Scudo  in place,  Hubba-Hubba
giving Lotfi instructions as he manoeuvred the wheel.
     "Back,  back,  back,  stop, stop."  I'd  asked them  to communicate  in
English  so  I  knew   what  was  happening.  Finally  everything   was   to
Hubba-Hubba's satisfaction.
     "H  has the trigger. I can't see the target, but I will be able to give
a  stand-by as soon as they  move along the quay, and  can give direction at
the  archway.  The  Renault  is  still  on  the  wall. It's  dark  blue.  N,
acknowledge."
     I put my left hand down to my jeans belt and hit the pressle.
     "Roger that, that's N foxtrot. L, be careful."
     "Roger that. That's L, foxtrot to check the obvious." He was on his way
to  confirm the Ninth of May was still there.  Just because the police were,
it didn't automatically mean the boat was. The  only way for him to do  that
was to go up on the wall where the van was, or hug the port side of the wall
so he was  in dead ground to the van along the quay. But that would take him
in direct line of sight to the boat. He opted for the  wall and bras sing it
out. He wouldn't be  there for more  than a minute, and it had to be done. I
got  out of the Megane and bought myself a  twenty-four-hour parking ticket.
The  last  thing I wanted was to  come  back here and find  the car had been
towed  away.  I  had  also  learnt  a  lesson yesterday when I  should  have
pre-bought tickets in both directions in case the timings were tight for the
Romeos  when  they caught the train, and  there wasn't enough time to  get a
ticket without them seeing me. I wasn't making  the same mistake today: both
Lotfi and I had paid a visit to the station earlier this morning.
     I left  the parking ticket on the dashboard and glanced down at traser:
seven  forty-seven.  Dodging the  dog shit,  I  headed across the  square in
search  of a cafe. I was ready for some  coffee and croissants. It was going
to be a sunny  day; the birds were singing  in  the morning's  first  light,
traffic was moving, people were going to work, most with  sunglasses on, and
a lot with small dogs in tow.
     Several of the cafes were open, their canvas  or plastic awnings out to
shade  the  handful of customers who  were already  getting stuck  in to the
coffee and newspapers.
     I walked over the square towards a large corner cafe that was all glass
front, with huge patio doors and wicker  chairs outside, and ordered a large
creme  along with a couple of  croissants, paying for it  there and then  in
case I got a stand-by. It was  time just to sit and relax in the shade until
Hubba-Hubba gave us the hurry-up.
     Lotfi  came on the net just as the croissants were put on the table. He
was walking:  I could hear French conversation and the beep  of a scooter in
the background. This is L. The obvious is still static, blinds down, gangway
up. H, N, acknowledge."
     I put my hand down on the Sony and waited to hear the double-click from
H before I gave mine.
     Lotfi came back.
     "I'm going for coffee. H, what would you like cappuccino?"
     There was no reply to that or, at least, not on the net.
     Cars trundled around the large  grass- and tree-covered square The sore
on my stomach was trying hard to  scab but the hammer on my  Browning wasn't
going to let it.  No matter, two more days  and the weapon could go into the
sea. I felt into my hairline above my forehead; at least a  scab  had sealed
the head butt split.
     I drank coffee and watched doorsteps  being  washed, and rat dogs being
walked  by their owners and having a dump everywhere they could. I could sit
here  for  an hour or so  and no  one  would see it  as anything out of  the
ordinary.
     I started to  think about  the  police  but  cut  away quickly. If they
planned to do anything we  would know about it  soon enough.  And  there was
fuck all we could do about them in the meantime.
     I stretched  out my legs under the table, and thought about Hubba-Hubba
cramped up in the back of the small van. Although Lotfi and I were  covering
the two stations, we also  had to make sure we were close enough to give him
support if  someone  fancied getting their  hands  on  a new van for minimal
outlay. We'd  have to get in there quick,  mainly  to help  Hubba-Hubba, but
also to salvage the operation.
     The  sun rose gradually over the  buildings and began to warm the right
side  of my face. I took  another  sip  of  coffee  and dunked the end of  a
croissant.
     Lotfi was exactly on time with the eight o'clock call.
     "Radio check. H?"
     Click, click.
     I could hear a dog barking in the background. That was all  they seemed
to do around here, bark and crap. I'd not seen one chase after a stick.
     "N?"
     I reached under my new green Cap  3000 sweatshirt and double-clicked on
my belt, then sat back, stubbed at the croissant crumbs on the napkin with a
coffee-wet finger and waited for the stand-by.
     Another twenty-seven minutes  passed and  I  was waiting for  Lotfi  to
start the next radio check. Hubba-Hubba came on the net his voice agitated.
     "H has lost the trigger ... There's a truck in the way. H has  lost the
trigger. N, L, acknowledge."
     I hit the pressle.
     "Roger that. N's going for the trigger. L, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     I got up  and started to  move as I  wiped  my cup and took the napkin.
Nearly running through the old town, I climbed the stone steps in the small,
cobblestoned square. As  my head got level with the concrete between the two
sides of  the ramparts, I saw  the Renault, still reversed against the wall,
now with a Skoda parked to its right.
     Two other people were up there with me, old men waffling  to each other
by the  rampart  overlooking  the port, where the wrought ironwork  met  the
stone. I hit the pressle before I got too close as I took the last few steps
up on to the wall.
     "N has the trigger. N has the trigger. H, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     I  got up  top  and looked  out over  the port, between the van and the
Skoda.  I gave myself some time  to admire the effect of  the  dazzling  sun
bouncing  off  the water around so many hulls. If Hubba-Hubba had any sense,
he'd be using the time to rest his eyes.
     I checked  that the  blinds and gangway were still the same,  then down
over the wall and left, into the dead ground, to make sure the Romeos hadn't
decided to move out in  the minute or so it had taken to regain the trigger,
and weren't walking along the  quay. I could see the Scudo, reversed  into a
space  so that the rear blacked out windows  faced towards  me.  The vehicle
blocking Hubba-Hubba's view was a small, refrigerated van picking  up crates
of fish  from  the  boats.  I got my  eyes  back  on the Ninth of  May as  a
passionate conversation was developing on  the other side of the police van,
and saw movement on the Lee. Three kids, aged from ten to twelve, were doing
boaty jobs on the deck. Two adults,  whom I presumed were their parents were
in chairs at the back, drinking coffee.
     Still playing the  tourist, I stared  out at  the fort overlooking  the
mass of masts and  glittering hulls. In less  than five minutes the fish van
was on its way back through the archway. I moved back towards the steps.
     "Hello, H, that's the truck clear. Acknowledge."
     I stayed up  top, waiting  for Hubba-Hubba to take over as  the two old
men sauntered past behind me, their arms flying around as they put the world
to rights. They  disappeared  down the  stairs with  their  dogs  in tow.  I
suddenly felt naked, with my back to the van and no one else here.
     "H has the trigger. N, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     I'd finished my bit of tourism and headed back  to the steps, wondering
where I'd go now for another brew.
     Three paces  down I got  click, click, click,  click in  my earpiece. I
smiled, slowed down and hit the pressle.
     "Is that a stand-by from H?"
     Click, click.
     Shit, they were early.
     "Are they both foxtrot?"
     Click, click.
     "Are they dressed the same as yesterday?"
     Nothing.
     "Are they carrying a bag?"
     Click, click.
     Then he came on the net.
     "Romeo one has  the same  bag. It's  full. They're both wearing jeans."
The net went dead momentarily.
     "That's approaching the archway."
     I stayed put, smiled some more, and sat on the stone step.
     "N can take, N can take. L, where are you?"
     "Nearly  at  the  station, nearly  there."  His voice  merged  with the
passing traffic.
     "H still has Romeo One and Two, at the archway ... Wait... wait, that's
now crossing the road, towards  me. They're  staying this side of the wall."
The radio  went dead  as I started down the stairs again into the square and
right towards the archway. If they had a camera in the Renault, I bet it had
been snapping away big-time.
     Forty-Five.
     I got to the  arch  and waited for  information. It wasn't long  before
Hubba-Hubba came back on the air. That's Romeo  One and Two in the car park,
following the wall and unsighted to me."
     I  went through the archway, turned left, and  could  see  their  backs
immediately among the lines of vehicles.
     "N  has  Romeo One, Romeo Two foxtrot.  Half-way  along  the  old wall,
generally towards the rail station. L, acknowledge."
     An out-of-breath Lotfi did just that.
     "L has the trigger on the station."
     "Roger that, L.  Romeo One, black leather jacket on jeans, carrying the
bag. Romeo Two, brown suede jacket on jeans. L, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     That's both Romeos now temporary unsighted."
     I  moved  to  the right as I passed Hubba-Hubba's blacked  out windows,
trying to get a better view now they were hidden by some coaches.
     "Both  Romeos still  temporary unsighted,  still  generally towards the
rail station."
     There was  nowhere else for them to go just now, unless they could walk
through  walls. Hubba-Hubba would be crawling his way under the snooker dogs
now and moving out of the car park so there would be no delay when he needed
to  go mobile. He  had better do it  right.  The  van  could see him from up
there.
     They appeared the other side of the coaches.
     "Stand by, stand by. N has both Romeos approaching the end of the wall.
No one acknowledge."
     I started  to cut in left, towards the wall now, so I'd be more or less
behind  them  when  they  hit  the  end of  it,  with freedom to  go  in any
direction. Romeo One was clearly nervous.
     I hit the pressle. That's at the end of the  wall  and  still straight,
generally towards  the station. Approaching  the  first option left they are
aware. No one acknowledge."
     I was now behind them by  about  thirty metres  as they passed boat kit
and insurance shops before stopping  at  the junction to  let a vehicle out.
That's held option left, still intending straight, towards the station."
     They  carried  on over once the  vehicle had passed. That's now foxtrot
still straight."
     Getting to the  junction  myself,  I  overheard a voice straight out of
EastEnders  as  a  crew-cut  thirty-something with  a  black nylon Docklands
bomber jacket gob bed off on his mobile.
     "I don't fucking care. What's the matter wiv you, you deaf or some fink
Further down the  junction a Brit-plated truck with pallets of Happy Shopper
goods was  being unloaded for "Geoffrey's of London', a shop  that seemed to
supply baked  beans  and  plastic cheese to the  huge  numbers of Brits  who
worked on the boats.
     I got  back  on the  net. That's Romeo One and Romeo Two still foxtrot,
approaching the main before the station. L, can you at the main?"
     The last leg of the route was uphill and they would  be unsighted to me
for far too long once they crossed the main as it was higher, dead ground to
me.
     He could.
     "L has,  L  has.  Romeo One. Romeo  Two. At the main, they're crossing,
approaching the station."
     The Romeos  were unsighted to me now  as I moved uphill and the traffic
screamed past in both directions above me. The station was the other side of
the main. In front of it was a bay for taxis and a small car park.
     That's H now complete. N, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     Loth" kept up the commentary.
     "That's approaching the station."
     I got  to the main and also watched them while  I waited  for the green
man and Lotfi kept gob bing off on the net.
     "That's both Romeos complete the station, unsighted to L."
     The green  man  flashed,  the bleeps cried out, and the traffic stopped
reluctantly. I gob  bed off and  smiled as if I'd just heard a  joke on  the
phone.
     "Roger  that. N will take. H,  go now, mate, go now. H, acknowledge." I
got a double click and hoped I'd done the right thing by taking a chance and
sending him straight on to Nice. This surveillance stuff  wasn't  a science,
and decisions had to be made on what you knew at  the time. All  I knew  was
that  the traffic was horrendous and  the  train would get there far quicker
than any  road vehicle,  and  I needed someone else there to back me. If I'd
made a  mistake and they were going for Cannes, or anywhere  else  for  that
matter,  Lotfi  had better be able to fly in  that Focus of  his and keep up
with the train.
     The old station had undergone quite a renovation within the last couple
of  years. It had  retained its original shape, but  the  inside looked very
modern and  clean,  with glass  everywhere,  glass  walls,  glass  counters,
plate-glass doors.  As  I  went  in, the Romeos weren't  to the  left by the
ticket  machines,  or  to  the  right  where  there was  a  small  cafe  and
news-stand.
     Four kids  were smoking  round  one of the  tables, listening  to dance
music on their radio. I could see a section of both of the platforms and the
two tracks  between.  Time in recce is seldom  wasted:  I  knew the platform
nearest me would be going towards Cannes. What I was hoping was that both of
the Romeos were going down into  the tunnel to the left, and would emerge on
the far side platform, which would mean they were off to Nice.
     I got on the  radio  as I checked the  timetables. That's the Romeos on
the platforms. L, can you see them?"
     "L's foxtrot."
     I waited in the cover of the station  listening  to an NRG Radio jingle
booming out from the cafe area.
     Lotfi came on the net.
     "Stand by, stand by. L has the two  Romeos on the far platform. They're
static the tunnel exit. N, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     The  framed  and Perspex-covered timetable on  the  wall said  the next
train for  Nice  was at nine  twenty-seven, stopping at  Gare  Riquier, just
seven hundred metres or so from  the  target  shop on  Boulevard  Jean XIII.
Maybe I'd made the right choice in sending Hubba-Hubba there, after all.
     I waited near the timetable and listened to the high-caffeine breakfast
show  blaring  from the radio.  I didn't  want to  move  anywhere  else now,
because if I crossed the concourse towards the cafe the two  Romeos would be
able to see me.
     Posters carried pictures of happy  families going  on trains and really
enjoying themselves, all with unnaturally perfect teeth.  I studied them for
a couple of minutes before Lotfi came back on.
     "Stand by, stand by. Train's approaching,  no change on the Romeos. I'm
going complete. N, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     The  train entered  the station from the direction of Cannes. The dirty
blue  and aluminium  carriages  squeaked to  a halt.  I ran  out on  to  the
platform, turned left, and headed for the tunnel. Through the grimy glass of
the carriages I followed  the two Romeos' dark  faces as they waited to step
aboard with the dozen or so others alongside them.
     I  raced down  the  steps and along  the dimly lit tunnel,  passing the
people who'd  just got  off the train. It  looked perfectly natural in  this
environment: who didn't run to catch a train?
     Taking the steps two at  a time and making sure my peak was down low, I
didn't  look at their carriage, but  carried  on  and entered  the next  one
along. Taking  my seat immediately to keep out  of the way, I kept an eye on
the tunnel just in  case they'd changed their minds, or were putting in some
anti-surveillance. The train doors  closed before it shunted forward and off
we went as I tried to control my breathing.
     "L, we're mobile. Go for it now, go! Acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     He'd be hitting the coast  road on his way to Nice, hot on the heels of
Hubba-Hubba, who should have been at least a third of the way there by now.
     I couldn't see the Romeos through the glass of the connecting door this
time, but  I'd be able to see  if they got out at one  of the  four or  five
stops on the way.
     We emerged from  the shade of  the station building and the morning sun
burned  through the glass, making me squint,  even with my  sun-gigs and hat
on. I just sat there and watched  the Mediterranean go past as  we travelled
the twenty minutes towards Nice.
     Gare Riquier wasn't like the  station at Antibes, an old building  made
new: it was still old, an unmanned pick-up and drop-off point for commuters.
     The  two Romeos disembarked along with  a woman in a big flowery dress,
dragging a tartan shopping  trolley behind her. Both  now with gigs on, they
walked out of the station and left towards the busy road, which was the main
drag I'd used to get up to L'Ariane and the safe house. I followed them out.
The main was about forty metres away,  and the  noise  of traffic was almost
deafening. Trucks, cars and scooters fought for space on the tarmac  in both
directions  as  their exhausts  hazed  the  air.  The  Romeos stopped  about
half-way,  dug  out a  map from the  side  pocket of the bag, and  got their
bearings.  If they were  going to  the target shop, it would  be left at the
main, straight on for about four hundred  metres, then right on to Boulevard
Jean XIII. I  waited by a wall smothered  in spray-painted graffiti  in both
French and Arabic. I imagined the  good news was that they all fucked girls,
but I couldn't be sure. The Romeos put away their map and turned left at the
main, under the railway bridge, before crossing over and heading north along
the right-hand side of the street, maybe to keep in the shade, maybe because
they should be turning  right eventually anyway. Romeo One had  the bag over
his shoulder and  was  still looking like a cat on hot  bricks as he checked
left and right  of him, still seeing nothing. They  carried on past  rows of
low end cafes, banks and shops, everything that fed the  east  side of town,
all very much the poor relations of their counterparts in Cannes or downtown
Nice.
     Smaller roads fed the  main from both sides and the odd tree stuck  out
along the pavements.  But instead of grass around  them, there was  just mud
and windblown McDo cartons, dog shit and butt ends. It was a  lot easier  to
do the follow here than it had been in Monaco;  one, because  there was less
CCTV to worry about,  and two, because there  were  many more people  moving
around in all directions. Wherever  they  were heading,  they were obviously
late.
     I  tried  a  radio check but  there was  nothing from either  Lotfi  or
Hubba-Hubba. I wasn't expecting there to be, but it would have been nice  if
they'd been here somewhere to back me.
     They crossed several  small junctions on  the right, then stopped at  a
larger one  that  had lights,  waiting with  the impatient  herd,  which was
growing as  vehicles hurtled past  and air brakes  hissed. There were  a lot
more brown and  black faces here than in Monaco, and the two  Romeos weren't
getting a second glance. They took the opportunity to check their map again,
while I took particular interest in the range of mattresses in the window of
a  waxy pine bed shop.  They should be  turning right at  the next junction,
which was a crossroads, to get on to Jean XIII. From  there  the target shop
was roughly three hundred metres up the boulevard on the right.
     Forty-Six.
     Romeo One still looked around as if he was expecting the sky to fall on
his head. He lit up as Romeo Two went back to the map.
     The green man flashed and  they  crossed.  I  gave  another radio check
before following on behind.
     "Hello, anyone, this is N. Radio check, radio check."
     Nothing.
     They turned on to Jean XIII and became temporary unsighted. I quickened
my pace and  fought with the flow of pedestrian traffic to get eyes on again
as French and  Arabic music fought its way  out of cafes  and cheap  clothes
shops. It was risky to do so this early  in the take, because of third-party
awareness. No matter where you are, someone is always watching. But I had to
get in there, I had to keep on top of them, being so close to the target and
hawallada whom we still had to
     ID.
     I started across  the road at the junction with  Jean XIII, dicing with
the traffic.  A scooter had to swerve to get out of my way.  The Romeos were
still foxtrot towards the target,  still on  the right. I  got  to the other
side,  turned right, then had them once more. Being on  the opposite side of
the road gave  me a better perspective of  what they were up to than if  I'd
been directly behind them. The shops were all selling  pots  and pans, pedal
bins and  bundles of brightly  coloured plastic coat hangers, and the Romeos
mingled well with the early shoppers who'd just stocked up on toilet cleaner
and bin liners.
     The net  burst into  life. That's H turning on to  the boulevard. Radio
check, radio check."
     It was a relief to hear his voice. I hit the pressle on my Sony.
     "N has  Romeo  One and Romeo Two on the right on the boulevard. They're
at  the Cafe  Noir, on  the right. H, acknowledge." Just as  I  released the
pressle, I saw his Scudo pass me.
     "H has, H has. I'm going for the trigger."
     I double-clicked him as  I continued taking the  Romeos.  Both  of them
were checking shop numbers to the right and left of them. We came to a small
street  market  selling  fruit  and  veg, and the Romeos disappeared now and
again between barrows  of apples and melons and street traders sounding like
French Del Boys.
     I  gave  a running commentary for  Hubba-Hubba  and also, I hoped,  for
Lotfi, who at some stage was going to rejoin  the net and would  need to get
up to speed on the situation.
     "N still has Romeo One and Romeo Two. On the right at the fruit market,
still straight, towards the shop. H, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     Ten seconds later he came back on the air.
     "That's H static, thirty metres past the shop on  the right. The target
is a fabric  store, one old  man, Arab, white  shirt,  buttoned  up, no tie.
That's H foxtrot."
     I double-clicked him. The  Romeos  had stopped at a  small junction and
were still checking numbers.  Romeo One  scanned  the  crowd of  shoppers as
Hubba-Hubba came back up on the net.
     "H has the trigger. N, acknowledge."
     Great news.
     "Roger that. Romeo One, Romeo Two, still on the right,  approaching the
end  of  the  market.  Can you  after  the market?" There  was  a  gap while
Hubba-Hubba worked it out.
     Click, click.
     "Roger that. That's ten short, still on the right."
     I  shut up now and  waited for Hubba-Hubba to see them. They passed the
last stall and had gone no more than three or four paces before he was back.
     "H has Romeo One, Romeo Two."
     Now I could drop back a little and let Hubba-Hubba  take them  into the
shop. That's now fifty short, still on the right."
     I  could still  see the Romeos, but the  fact that  Hubba-Hubba had the
trigger gave  me the freedom  to think about what I was going to do next.  I
just hoped that Lotfi got here soon.
     "That's  twenty-five  short, still  on  the  right,  checking  numbers.
They're slowing down, they're slowing down."
     I  kept my  head  low as I listened, pretending to window-shop  as  the
world  passed by. There was no need to  look directly at the targets.  I was
being told what was going on,  and it would be a nightmare  if we had eye to
eye.
     "That's approaching the target. Wait, wait. That's at the target, going
complete ... that's complete the target. They're talking to the white shirt.
Wait, wait." The cry of a baby and  a  flood of female Arabic burst over the
net. I heard their waffle get weaker: he was walking away from it.
     "H is foxtrot, I can't hold the trigger, I can't hold the trigger."
     I quickened my pace.
     "Roger that. N going for the trigger. You take the rear, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     As I got  nearer I could  see  what the  problem was.  Hubba-Hubba  was
crossing from left to right over the road just past  the target:  he'd  been
lurking in a doorway, which  two head-scar fed  women with  long coats and a
pram were trying to get through.
     He  reached the  junction, which was two shop fronts to the left of the
target, and disappeared. His route  would take him round  to the rear of the
shops and the wide alleyway.
     Security  was  now definitely  being  sacrificed  for  efficiency as  I
stopped  to  have a look at  the display outside a hardware shop. Ladders on
the pavement leant against the wall, and brooms and brushes sprouted between
the rungs. No matter; at least I could see the shop.
     "N has the trigger."
     Click, click.
     I  could  also  see  the  conversation that was  happening between  the
unknown in the white shirt  and Romeo One and Romeo Two. When that finished,
they started to walk towards the rear  of the dimly lit shop.  I had to take
off  my glasses  so I could see inside clearly. It looked almost empty, with
not much more  stock than a few  rolls  of multicoloured  fabric lining  the
walls.  They passed a  long glass counter with lengths  of cut  material all
over the place, then another man emerged from the rear internal door with  a
group who'd been standing in the shadows.
     "Stand by, stand by. Unknowns on target."
     Then  I realized they weren't unknown.  It was the man with the  goatee
I'd seen  get out of the Lexus on  Wednesday night  in Juan-les-Pins, and go
into the Fiancee of the Desert. His smaller, bald-headed driver was standing
to his right, still looking bored.
     Goatee  leant  forward and  spoke  into  Romeo  Two's  ear without  any
greeting.  I got back on the net. That's a possible Romeo Three. Tall, Arab,
black on jeans, and goatee beard, with three or four unknowns."
     There  was  a  little more movement in the gloom.  My view was abruptly
blocked  as a truck rumbled between us. By the time it had passed, everybody
was starting to pile back through the internal door.
     They're heading  to the back of  the  shop," I  said. That's all  three
Romeos unsighted, could be coming your way. H, acknowledge."
     "Nearly there, I'm nearly there. Wait out." It had to be the hawallada.
They were whispering the password.
     I moved away from the hardware shop.  It was pointless being exposed to
the white  shirt who had now  returned  to the glass counter. I  could still
keep the  trigger from  a distance. I  turned back the way  I'd come, making
sure I could still see the place.
     "Hello, this is L. Radio check, radio check."
     Relief wasn't the word for it  as I felt for the pressle and stopped by
the door of a flat, behind a news-stand.
     "N has the trigger on the shop. Where are you?"
     "Approaching the target from the main."
     "Roger that. Wait."
     I kept  my eyes  on the shop as a group of  teenagers  in  the  world's
baggiest jeans  ambled past with Walkmans  in their  ears  and cigarettes in
their hands. It gave me time to think before I hit my pressle.
     "L, sit  rep.  I have  the  trigger front. Romeo One and  Romeo Two are
complete the shop with a possible Romeo Three. Arab, tall, black on blue and
a goatee. H is foxtrot  and  getting the  trigger  rear. Go static and  stay
complete in case Romeo Three goes mobile. L, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     As soon as that finished, Hubba-Hubba came on the net.
     "H has the trigger." I heard  him trying to control his breathing so he
could be heard clearly.
     "N, acknowledge. N, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     That's L  static. First junction  past  the  market and can take in all
directions. N, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     I guessed he was on the junction facing the boulevard now to be able to
do  that, so  he could come  on to the avenue and turn left, right,  in  all
directions.
     Hubba-Hubba  started to  give plate checks in case  any of the vehicles
behind the shop went mobile with the possiblehawallada.
     "White Mercedes van, Zulu Tango one five six seven. Large scrape on the
left-hand side. Blue Lexus, Alpha Yankee Tango one three. Highly polished."
     I was right, it was him.
     "Stand by, stand by movement by the vehicles."
     The net  stayed open for a few  seconds and I  could hear Hubba-Hubba's
laboured breathing and the rustle of his clothes before  it went dead. There
was a long pause and  I could feel my heart go up a gear as I waited for the
next stand-by to  say vehicles  had  gone mobile. Lotfi would  be doing  the
same, and his engine  would be running in preparation. The world just walked
on past as we both waited on Hubba-Hubba.
     The net crackled into life.
     "That's  an  Arab,  short, fat, brown wool on  jeans. Foxtrot from  the
shop. Wait... He's going to the  Mercedes, he's heading for the van. Wait...
wait... no good, I think he's seen me, he's using a cell. That's me foxtrot.
Lost the trigger, lost the trigger."
     I hit the pressle with my eyes still on the front of the target.
     "H, go complete. Stand by to take anything  that goes  mobile.  L, go-'
Two  guys exited  from the  front  of  the  shop. The  expression  on  their
dark-skinned faces said they were on a mission.
     "Stand  by, stand by. That's  two unknowns from the  target front, both
Arab and black leather. That's right, towards the junction.  H, go complete,
get out of there. H, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     Lotfi burst back on the net.
     "L is mobile."  His voice was  tight with  tension and I understood his
concern.
     The two guys from the shop had reached the junction and turned right. I
hit  the pressle. That's the unknowns now  right at the junction, unsighted,
towards the rear. H, acknowledge."
     Hubba-Hubba's voice was a whisper.
     "H has the  two unknowns,  I  can't  move yet. Engine on, engine on the
van."
     He was close, I could hear it.
     That's 'The next sound  was of  Hubba-Hubba resisting  and  Arab voices
shouting. There was lots of grabbing going on around the Sony as it crackled
like a forest fire.
     Fuck. It had gone noisy.
     Forty-Seven.
     Shit, shit, shit!
     I  sprinted across the road,  not bothering to look out for traffic. My
right hand forced the Browning  down into  my jeans to stop  it falling out,
and  my left held the earpiece in place. My  whole being was focused on that
corner, two shops to the left of the target. I got that familiar feeling  in
the pit of my stomach, the same sensation that always came when shit was on.
I'd had it even as  a kid,  running away from the bigger boys  who wanted to
beat me up and nick my dinner money, or from an angry shopkeeper whose stuff
I'd tried to lift. It was a horrible feeling:  you know there's a drama, you
wish it wasn't there, you know you've got to do something about it, but your
legs just won't take you fast enough.
     I turned the corner but saw nothing except a few  people standing maybe
twenty  metres further  down on the other  side of  the road.  All eyes were
turned to the alleyway. Screams still came over the net,  mixed with  shouts
and the sounds of  a  struggle. Everything was in Arabic but  none of it was
from Hubba-Hubba. Then I heard him in the background. He was in pain, he was
getting filled in, he was getting subdued.
     My mouth was dry as I drew down and, alert to the third party, kept the
weapon by my side.  I turned the corner  into the alleyway, not bothering to
clear it. There wasn't time.
     I was too late.  The  Merc van was bouncing over the potholes away from
me, with one  of the unknowns  trying to  close the  rear door. More  Arabic
commotion  streamed over the net. Even if I'd spoken the language I wouldn't
have been  able to  understand  what  was being said it was so  confused and
loud. But for sure  Hubba-Hubba was in  there.  I  caught a  glimpse  of his
trainers; he was fighting back as two guys  climbed on top of him, trying to
keep him down in the back.
     The  left door was already  closed,  the  small window covered by black
plastic.  The second  door  was  pulled  shut  from  inside; that,  too, was
covered. I kept running towards the rear of the shop.
     The Lexus was still there. The back of  the shop was closed down. Shit,
who to go after, Hubba-Hubba or the hawalladal Lotfi swung into the alleyway
like something out of Hill Street Blues. Somebody somewhere would be getting
on a phone to the police. I motioned with my hand, trying to get him to slow
down, to stop. The vehicle  nearly somersaulted over its two front wheels as
he  hit the brakes. His eyes looked frenzied. The growing crowd  on the road
turned and gawped.
     Jumping out, Lotfi had his pistol up, ready to fire.
     "Keep  it down, for fuck's  sake!" I pointed  along the alleyway, which
was now clear. The van, black plastic covering the rear windows. He's in the
back. Go, go, take it."
     I turned to  run  back the  way I'd come, shouting at him as he  jumped
back into the Focus.
     "I'll give you directions at the boulevard, go to channel four, channel
four. Go, go, go!"
     I disappeared left around the corner, going back towards the boulevard.
Fuck the third party now. People everywhere were stopping to rubberneck.
     I got down to the  corner and looked left. The van  had slowed  as  the
traffic hit the vegetable market. I turned the  dial on the Sony to four and
hit the pressle as I sucked in oxygen.
     "L,  they've  gone  left,  they've  gone  left  towards  the  main.  L,
acknowledge, acknowledge."  The Focus screamed  into view  at the  junction,
Lotfi still playing cops  and robbers.  He  was going  to have to  slow down
before he had a crash or ran somebody over. Either would stop him being able
to take. He was looking frantically left and right, trying to  see where the
van had gone, then  looking down, probably  having just remembered to change
channels. I  kept  on sending.  They've gone left, they've gone left towards
the main."
     He didn't reply, but he  must have heard me because the  Focus screamed
round  towards the market, braking hard as  the  horn screamed out at people
trying to cross the road in front of him, then hurtled down towards the mass
of fruit buyers.
     I turned right and  had gone  maybe twenty metres up towards  the Scudo
when I got a blast of screaming and ranting in my ear. I couldn't understand
any of it.
     "Slow down, slow down! Say again."
     I got to  the wagon and started to pull at the soft steel  number plate
at the rear, feeling for  the key and fob taped behind it.  Lotfi carried on
trying to get the message across; he'd slowed down but the  voice  was still
very high-pitched, he was really hyped up.
     "L has, L has! Past the market straight for the main. They're going for
the main. N, acknowledge, acknowledge."
     I double-clicked, not wanting to talk yet, in  case he got more sparked
up.
     By now I'd extracted  the key  fob  and hit it to  release  the central
locking. I  jumped  in and began turning the  Citroen round so I  could back
Lotfi. A cluster of third party watched; at  least two were on mobiles. This
was a weapons-grade screw-up.
     Forcing the  Scudo round into the traffic and driving  down towards the
market, I checked my decision to go for Hubba-Hubba. It must be right: Lotfi
wouldn't help me lifting Goatee. But deep down I knew we wouldn't get Goatee
either way; he would be  well and  truly going  to  ground now. The job  was
destroyed and I would be, too, if I got caught by the police. But what could
I do about it? Abandon the two of them and just head for the airport? It was
tempting. I instinctively moved my hand down to  the bum-bag, making sure my
docs were still with me. I could just turn round and drive  straight to Nice
airport,  get  the first plane out  of here ... Lotfi had calmed down a  bit
when he came back on the net, trying hard to keep the speed and tension from
his voice.
     "L still has, L still has. They  are  approaching the  main, lights are
green, lights are green. No indication. Wait, wait. They're intending right,
that's  now  right  on   the  main,  towards   the  autoroute.  Acknowledge,
acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     By now I was half-way down the market. I couldn't see Lotfi ahead of me
and  just hoped  that  he was still  with them and  hadn't got held  by  the
lights. I couldn't guarantee it, because he  was too sparked up to give me a
full commentary.
     I tried to anticipate. The main drag went on for about a kilo metre and
a half, until it  took a sharp left-hander at the  bridge  over  the railway
lines from the freight depot. If the van went  that  route they'd eventually
hit  the feeder road that followed the  river  towards the  autoroute at the
north end of town, where the safe house was.
     "L still has approaching the freight station."  Despite his efforts, he
was still hyped up, talking an octave above his normal voice, but at least I
could understand him now.
     I reached the main on red, getting right up close to the  car  in front
in case it was a short light.
     That's now at the freight station still straight towards the autoroute.
N, acknowledge."
     "Roger that, I'm held at the main."
     Click, click.
     They changed. All the  cars in the  queue made it through, and I turned
right, following Lotfi,  trying to get closer  and back him as he carried on
with the commentary. That's approaching the swimming pool  on  the right." I
heard the hiss of an artic's air brakes over the net.
     That7s  now  at  the  swimming  pool.   Still  straight,  speed  forty,
forty-five. N, acknowledge."
     "Roger that, N's mobile."
     Click, click.
     Railway lines  appeared on my left,  running into the  freight  station
just ahead. I couldn't  be that far behind them. The swimming pool was maybe
three hundred metres  further on and  I was  travelling at roughly  the same
speed as them in the flow of traffic.
     All  of a sudden  I got a frenzied,  "Stop, stop,  stop!  That's at the
lights  before the railway bridge. The  van's five vehicles  back, I'm  four
behind that, lights still red. N, where are you? Where are you?"
     I held down the pressle.
     "The swimming pool, not far."
     "Roger  that. Stand  by,  stand  by. Lights  green.  Wait,  wait... Now
mobile. That's left over the bridge. Wait, wait ... Stand by. They are going
... Wait, wait.  That's them  in the right-hand lane  ...  intending  right,
they're going to the autoroute. That's them  now towards the autoroute, they
are  following  the  river to  the  autoroute. Acknowledge,  acknowledge. N,
acknowledge. Where are you?"
     Click, click.
     He  was starting to  get sparked up again  as he  took the van over the
junction. The important thing was that he knew I understood where he was and
he knew I was behind him somewhere.
     The railway bridge traffic lights were about a hundred  metres ahead of
me as Lotfi resumed his commentary.
     "Speed, sixty, sixty-five. Half-way to the autoroute  turnoff. N, where
are you? Where are you?"
     It  was  time  to  talk,  now  that  he'd  finished  manoeuvring around
junctions, and was on a straight drag.
     "At the bridge lights, and held."
     "Roger that, speed no change."
     They were on the dual carriage way towards L'Ariane,  the autoroute way
above them and ahead, on the viaduct. If they carried  on straight this side
of the river,  they could take the  ramp for Monaco  and Italy, or cross the
river and head for  the Cannes and Marseille ramp. I  didn't care which one;
it'd be much easier to take  them up on the  autoroute, fuck the toll booths
and cameras now.
     Lotfi had more to say.
     "Approaching  the  bridge  over  the  river, on red. We're  going to be
held."
     Good, I could catch up. Cigarette smoke  billowed  out from  the car in
front, and its radio blared as we waited for my lights at the railway bridge
to change.
     "N's mobile."
     "Roger that, N. That's at  the lights, intending left. They're going to
cross the river, they're going to cross the river."
     I turned right on to the fast-flowing road and the riverbed to my left.
Ahead of  me were the other two vehicles. I could see the  autoroute viaduct
ahead and accelerated up to ninety Ks, trying to close the gap.
     "Stand by, stand by,  lights to  green ... that's left over  the river,
left over the river. N, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     Lotfi's voice was still high-pitched, but slower.
     "That's  halfway over the  bridge.  They're  intending  right,  they're
intending right, not for the autoroute, intending right towards L'Ariane. N,
acknowledge, where are you?"
     Forty-Eight.
     Click, click.
     Lotfi came back.
     "Stop,  stop,  stop.  Held  at  the  lights,  still  intending  towards
L'Ariane. The autoroute  traffic now is moving on. We are  held. N, they are
definitely intending right. Acknowledge, acknowledge. Where are you? What if
they go into the mountains?"
     It was still not the time to talk to him yet. Click, click.
     I  got  my  foot  down and tried to  make  up  the distance. If the van
carried  on further  north, past L'Ariane and the built-up  area,  the roads
became very narrow and  wound up the  mountains on either side. It would  be
hard to follow a  target in that sort of terrain even with a four-car  team,
let alone two.  It would need both of us to keep on top of the van, changing
positions often so the same vehicle was never behind the target for long. At
the same time, we'd have to keep close to each other, because once we got up
into  those  hills there was no telling if we could keep  communications. If
the  van  became  unsighted,  we'd  have to split up and  look  in different
directions to try to find it, which would totally screw everything.
     Lotfi came back on.
     "Stand by,  stand  by. Lights to green. They're  mobile, right, towards
the incinerator. N, acknowledge." Click, click.
     "Roger that, approaching the bridge, approaching the bridge."
     "Roger that, N. Still towards the incinerator.  Speed  four  five, five
zero. Increasing."
     "Roger that, roger that, I'm at the bridge, at the bridge."
     Click, click.
     I  turned  on  to  the  bridge  and  followed the line  over the  stony
riverbed. The  viaduct and the incinerator funnel towered into the sky to my
right. I turned  right, past the filter light,  and as I  followed the other
side of the riverbank, I could  see Lotfi's Focus about  four cars back from
the Merc van. Lotfi was regaining control once more. That's half-way towards
the incinerator."
     "Roger that. N's backing. I'm now backing. Acknowledge."
     "Good, good, that's approaching the  incinerator.  Wait,  wait, at  the
incinerator, still straight. Now straight towards the apartments."
     Click, click.
     Lotfi was sounding a lot better now. That's approaching the apartments.
Wait, wait. Past the first option left, speed six five, seven zero. It looks
like they're not slowing down around here. N, acknowledge. N, acknowledge."
     "Roger that. That's me at the incinerator."
     "Roger  that, N, that's past  the  second left,  wait, past the  third.
Still straight, they're still going straight, speed no change."
     Driving past the incinerator, I saw the burnt-out shell of the Audi  in
the dead ground to the right of  it, and the skeleton of a van a  few metres
away that had also been torched.
     That's now  past the apartments, still straight. They're heading north,
it looks like they're heading out of the city, speed no change. I'm going to
need you soon to take. N, acknowledge." He was getting sparked up again.
     Click, click.
     That7 s now approaching the bridge on the right. Brake lights on, brake
lights on! Intending right, intending right, they going back over the river.
That's now right on to the bridge. N, acknowledge. N, acknowledge."
     Click, click.
     Looking  along the line of the rocky  riverbed, ahead of me I could see
the van crossing the bridge from left to right, with the Ford Focus directly
behind. Lotfi came back.
     "Half-way over  the bridge brake  lights on, brake lights on, intending
left."
     I could see the the van's rear indicators flashing.
     That's now  over the bridge, they're intending left into the industrial
area.  I'm going '  Don't  go with  them, don't  go  with them! Acknowledge,
acknowledge. L, acknowledge. Don't do it."
     The van disappeared as it took the first left just over the bridge. The
Focus went straight  as  Lotfi told me  what  he could  see down the option.
That's  the van at the horse, at the horse. They've  gone straight, into the
industrial area beyond the horse, somewhere to the left. I'm unsighted."
     "Roger that. N is checking, N is checking. L, acknowledge."
     I got  a double-click  as I  saw  him take the  next  turning left  and
disappear. I  got  to the bridge  and turned  right, and got a burst  of air
brakes and flashing headlights from  an approaching  truck as  I crossed his
front.
     I  didn't  want Lotfi  to  go in there. Going  into  a closed area  was
dangerous and it might be a trap. Or they might just be stopping in there to
see if anyone was following.
     I was about half-way over the bridge when I heard, "L's foxtrot."
     "Roger that. That's me on the bridge."
     As  I reached  the other side  of the rocky riverbed I looked  into the
first  option left and could see the horse he'd been on about.  Down on  the
left-hand side of the road was a thirty-foot-high stone monster, prancing on
his hind  legs, Roman  fashion. It  was to the left of an entrance into what
looked like a decaying light-industrial estate. To the left of the  gate was
a large, rundown brick warehouse with a faded, hand-painted sign running the
full length  of the  wall, announcing it was a  brocante,selling second-hand
furniture  and all sorts. There was a line of vehicles parked into the wall.
Fuck it. I  turned, crossing over the traffic  and headed to the left of the
horse and the vehicles.
     The road quickly became a mud-caked, potholed nightmare with puddles of
diesel and muck. At last I saw Lotfi in my wing mirror, walking down towards
me from the bridge road. I swung left by the horse and backed up against the
brick wall  of the  warehouse, in line  with the  other  cars. It was out of
sight of the industrial estate entrance, in case I was being watched, and it
looked natural. I was just your everyday furniture buyer.
     Lotfi was just a  few metres short of the  estate gates,  and was going
for his pistol. If he'd seen me, he certainly wasn't coming over to join me.
     I  powered down  the  window  and  waved to him from the Citroen like a
long-lost friend, smiling and  gesturing for  him to cross  over.  It didn't
look  as if  it was working.  All I  could  hear  was the  noise of  traffic
rumbling over the bridge and the hissing of air brakes. He looked over to me
and must have had a change of heart, because he ran  reluctantly towards me,
avoiding the potholes as I  held out my hand in welcome from  the window for
the benefit of any  third parties.  He played his part in the pretence,  but
his eyes were still dancing around just like they'd done in Algeria.
     I tried to calm him down and glanced at the pistol.
     "Put that away, mate, get in the car."
     He ignored me.
     "Get in the car."
     "No, come. That is wasting time. We've got to go and get him. Now."
     I started to  plead  with  him through the  window, and both  of us had
smiles on as his eyes screamed round like a pair of Catherine wheels.
     "We just can't  go in  like that." I gestured for him to  get  into the
wagon.
     "Look, we don't  know where  they are, how  many of them there  are. It
could be a trap. Come on, get in the car, let's take our  time and we'll all
get out of this alive." But Lotfi wasn't having any of it.
     "He might be dead soon. We have to  ' "I know,  I know. But let's  find
out where he is first, so we can work out how to get him out in one piece."
     "I will not leave my brother behind."
     "We're not  leaving  anybody  behind. Just get in the car. We've got to
stay calm and work out how to get him out. Come on, you know it's the  right
thing to do."
     He thought about  it  for a  couple of seconds,  then walked  round the
front  of  the  Citroen and  climbed in  beside me. He stared at  the  rocky
riverbed to the right, where  the  wall of the brocante ended. I left him to
it,  changed  channel back  to  two  and listened  in  case  Hubba-Hubba was
sending. There was nothing coming over  the air at all, so I switched it off
and removed it from my belt as Loth checked chamber.
     "I cannot wait any longer, he  could be dead any minute. Are you coming
with me?"
     I turned to a heavy, nostril-breathing  Lotfi, who was trying  to  calm
himself  down  as  he  stared into my eyes. I couldn't make  out  whether he
really cared if I went with him or not: he was going anyway.
     "You know this is fucked up ... You don't know  how many there are, you
don't know what weapons they have, you don't even know  where  the fuck they
are. You are going to die, you know that, don't you?"
     "God will decide my fate." He turned for his door handle.
     I hated  this  shit. I  should have  just cut  away  and headed for the
airport back at the boulevard. Fuck it. I started to suck in my stomach so I
could draw down the Browning. I tapped his arm with my spare hand to get his
attention before nodding at the radio.
     "We can't use these  things  any more,  mate. They might start scanning
channels  on Hubba-Hubba's. Let's  just hope  they didn't switch to  channel
four and listened to us flapping on the way here, eh?"
     Lotfi turned  and  gave me a  smile as I pulled back  the  hammer  from
half-cock  and checked chamber. My head was spinning Why was  I  doing this?
Thank you," he said quietly.
     "Yeah,  right. Kismet my arse. If I'm going to die I might as well make
sure  a couple of  those fuckers come along  with  me so  they can get their
books, whatever they're called, weighed."
     He  finished checking  that  his magazines were correctly positioned on
his belt carrier before looking up at me as I did the same.
     "Destiny their books of destiny. You know exactly what it is called."
     "Come  on,  then, let's get ' Lotfi's eyes darted beyond me and he sank
back into his seat. Instinctively, I followed.
     "Lexus."
     I heard  a vehicle crunch over the gravel filling some  of the potholes
on the road towards the industrial estate.
     "Two up in the front."
     I looked,  but  now being  side on I  couldn't see who  was behind  the
darkened rear windows. Baldilocks was definitely driving.
     "Romeo  Three, with  the Goatee, I saw  him in the  same restaurant  as
Greaseball the other night. I don't know if they met or what, but..."
     The  vehicle had gone past  the gates  and  I jumped  out of the Scudo,
shoving away my Browning.
     "Come on, we can do this without getting killed now, we have time."
     Lotfi ran round the vehicle to make up the distance with me as I headed
towards  the  rusty, sagging  chain-link  gate  that hadn't  been  closed in
donkey's  years.  I kept to the left against the  brocante wall for a little
cover as I passed the gate. Lotfi  had caught up with  me, and he still  had
his pistol out.
     "Put it away!" I snapped. Third party, for fuck's sake."
     Leaving him a few steps behind to sort himself out, I kept  walking. In
front of  me was  a  ramshackle collection of  buildings,  at least  thirty,
probably  forty  years old, some  of  brick or stone,  some of a  corrugated
fibre. Pipes that ran between the buildings had been lagged and painted with
tar, and held together with bits of chicken wire. Skips were overflowing all
over the place. Stacks of old tyres had collapsed across the diesel-infected
tarmac that long  ago had lost its  straight edges and was starting to merge
with the  mud. There was even an  old stone  farmhouse and barns, which  had
long since given up the struggle against the encroaching banlieues.
     I inched forward, using the wall, trying to look as  normal as I could.
Then, as I reached the end of the wall of the brocante, I saw movement to my
left. The rear of the Lexus was disappearing inside a tall brick building. I
held out my hand behind me.
     "Stop, stop."
     I leant back  against the wall, just as  a train came into the  station
off to  my right,  beyond  the estate. The  screech  of  its braking  wheels
drowned out the clatter  of the roller shutter as it crashed down behind the
hawallada and his men.
     Forty-Nine.
     I took my gigs off for a better look at the building  and put them into
the bum-bag.
     The estate consisted of  six or seven worn-out structures spread around
the edge of a large open square. The target building, which  I hoped the van
had driven into,  was in the left-hand corner furthest away from us.  It was
about forty metres long and twenty-five high, and constructed of dark, grimy
brick. There were no windows  on the front elevation, just the rusty shutter
in the  left third, tall enough to  take  a  truck. The roof  was flat, with
lines of triangular glass skylights sticking up in the air like a dinosaur's
fins,  or something in  a Lowry  painting. Two  other  buildings a converted
stone barn, and the old farmhouse formed the left side of the square and met
the back of the brocante. Just beyond them was the river.
     Lotfi was trying hard to control his breathing; he had his mouth closed
and  pulled  in air heavily  through  his  nose.  The veins  throbbed in his
temples as his eyes stayed glued to the building.
     "He knows I'm coming for him," he said.
     "He's waiting for me."
     He started to move forward  and I  held out my arm to stop him, looking
around anxiously  for third  party. It was midday, people were on the  move,
traffic hummed up and down the main.
     "I reckon nothing's going to happen to him just  yet, mate. Goatee will
want to know what all this means that's why  he's here, it  must be. We have
time now to do a little planning."
     I made an effort to get eye  to eye with him, but he was too focused on
the building.
     "We won't  be able to  get in there anyway look,  there are  no windows
this side, no possible point of entry. Just those shutters, and they're down
and  locked. And even if we  could get  in,  we haven't got a clue how  many
players are in there ..."
     Lotfi's gaze was still locked on the building as he  lifted his hand to
cut off my objections.
     "None of that  matters to me. God will decide  the outcome. I've got to
go."
     "We'll both do  it. Look, if God's going to  decide what happens, let's
give  him a  hand here and do  a recce, give him something to work  with." I
managed eye contact, and he sort of smiled.
     "You might be in the good lads' club with him, but I'm not sure I  am."
I tilted my head to indicate the way we'd just come.
     "Let's look round the back."
     There were two  elements to this now. The first  was to get Hubba-Hubba
out in  one piece,  the second was to lift the hawallada. We still had a job
to do. If we did it right, maybe we could achieve both  but not  if  we just
went for it like Lotfi wanted to.
     We turned right, passing  the Scudo, and walked along the front  of the
brocante towards the fence  line just as  two happy  shoppers tried to fit a
couple of chairs on to the roof rack of their Nissan. I  hoped we could work
our way along the river-bank, passing the barn and the farmhouse, get behind
the target building, and see what we could see.
     As  we took  a  right again at the far  end of  the  brocante,  we were
confronted by a  dry,  worn mud path that seemed to run the whole length  of
this side  of the  industrial estate.  It was about four metres wide, in the
space between the river and  the buildings,  and strewn with rubbish and dog
shit. The remains of a  chain-link  fence ran parallel with the riverbank to
our  left.  Old  concrete  posts were still standing  at five-  or six-metre
intervals  but  the  wire  was either  rusty  and pushed  down,  or  missing
altogether. About  a hundred and fifty  metres away on the other side of the
river was the busy main that followed it, and  a  cluster of blocks of flats
that looked  as though they'd wanted to join the L'Ariane club, but couldn't
afford the membership fee.
     I walked slightly  ahead  of Lotfi, following  the natural path  rather
than kicking through all the decayed  Coca-Cola  cans, old cigarette packets
and faded plastic carrier bags. About a hundred  metres  ahead of us was the
solid  brick  side  elevation of the target  building,  easily  the  tallest
structure in the estate. We  followed the path past the end of the brocante,
and now had the solid stone back wall and terra cotta-tiled barn immediately
to our right and traffic screaming over the bridge behind us.
     A  group of half a dozen women suddenly appeared  from  another path at
the rear of the target  building.  I  looked back at Lotfi to make sure he'd
seen. His weapon was out again, down by his leg.
     "Put that fucking thing away, will you?"
     The  group were  headscarfed  Arab women  weighed  down with overloaded
plastic bags. They didn't turn left to  come down towards us, but carried on
straight,  through the fence-line. They  didn't give us as much as a  second
glance  as they  began  to pick their  way across the dried-up  riverbed. It
looked as if they  were heading to the flats on the other side of the river,
and couldn't be bothered going all the way down to the bridge.
     The farmhouse  was derelict, and graffiti-scrawled  steel sheets barred
anyone getting  in through the windows that  faced the  river. Somebody  had
started a fire against the steel-covered doorway; black scorch marks stained
the stone and the paint had blistered off the steel. We continued, trying to
look as normal as possible as we negotiated the remnants of a  disembowelled
mattress lying across our path.
     We turned right, behind the target,  and on to a track that was just as
well-worn and covered in litter. Instead of  a  fence  on my left, there was
now a  stone wall  about ten feet high. I could see straight away that there
was nothing at the  rear that would help us gain entry no vents, no windows,
just more unrelenting brick.
     Lotfi came up level with me.
     "This must be a short cut to the station."
     "What are you on about?"
     There's a railway station just the other side of the buildings,  at the
end there. That's where I've parked."
     We carried on, following the rear of  the building; there was still the
other  side  elevation  to check out. At the far corner,  about forty metres
along,  I  finally  found  something useful,  a  window  frame  set into the
brickwork. Lotfi and I exchanged a look.
     "See? I told you it was worth it." At last I got another smile.
     The  window was  metal-framed, with a  single glass  panel that  opened
outwards not that it had been opened in  years.  The frame  was  rusty,  and
covered with cobwebs and grime. The glass was heavy-duty, frosted and wired,
but  there  was  a small wind-activated  plastic ventilator fan, about  four
inches  in diameter, cut into its  centre.  The main problem was going to be
the two  bars on  the other  side that  I  could see  casting  dark vertical
shadows against the glass.
     We carried on the five or so paces to the end of the building, and both
leant against the  wall, trying to look as if we  were having a  casual chat
while I took a look round the corner and back into the estate. On this side,
there was nothing but brick once more. Past the  far edge of the building, I
could  see the gate off  to the left, and  beyond that traffic buzzing along
the bridge road.
     Lotfi lost patience and started walking back to the window. I followed,
glancing down the track towards the station, then back at the river.
     "Listen,  mate, nothing's going to happen to  him yet.  He knows you're
coming, he'll hold on. We've got to do this right."
     He was now inspecting the window.
     "The only way is up," I said.
     "What  do you reckon? Shall we go and see what we're up against first?"
Lotfi wanted to go through the window. I shook my head.
     "It could take far too long. Better to use  the time climbing up there.
Maybe there's a skylight open or something."
     He surveyed the window once more, then the twenty-five metres of climb,
before nodding reluctantly.
     "Let's do it. But, please, let's hurry."
     "One of us at a time, OK? It's old."
     He  checked  that his weapon  wasn't going  to fall out, and  I did the
same. I started to climb the rusty down pipe hot from the sun. It shifted as
it took my weight and there was a small shower of rust flakes, but there was
nothing I could do about that. I climbed with no great technique, apart from
pulling down on the  pipe as  opposed to pulling out. I didn't know how good
the fixings were, and I was not sure I wanted to find out.
     My hands eventually got  to the top and I thrust my forearms on to  the
flat  roof. My  shoulders,  biceps  and fingers  ached from  the  effort  of
climbing, but they  needed to produce one last burst of energy. I heaved and
clawed my way upwards and  across, until  I  could eventually roll on to the
rooftop. It  was  hot bitumen  and gravel,  almost molten  under the sun. It
burned into my knees and the palms of  my hands as I swivelled round to look
down at Lotfi.
     As  I  leant out,  I could  see beyond  the industrial  estate,  in all
directions. We were overlooked in the distance by the flats across the river
and a few  houses  on the high ground this side but, apart  from that, there
should be no problem with third party. I  hoped none of the tenants  decided
this was the time to test out a new pair of binoculars.
     I could see the railway station a small one less than a  hundred metres
away to my right. A well-worn path led to it from the rear of the warehouse,
through  a gap  in the fence, over the line,  and  into the  parking area. I
could just make out the shape  of Lotfi's Focus estate in a line of vehicles
near the road.
     The  railway  line  ran parallel to  the  river, and there  was  alevel
crossing just past the entry point to the estate that Lotfi must have belted
over before turning left and parking.
     Lotfi's grunts became audible above the drone of traffic as he climbed.
Two hands appeared at the top of  the pipe and I  pulled on his wrist as  he
gripped me. I heaved him over and we both lay on the flat roof,  getting our
breath back. I closed my eyes against the sun, and felt the heat of the roof
burn through my sweatshirt and jeans.
     I rolled on to my front, my clothing pulling at me as the bitumen tried
to make  it  stay  where it was.  After checking that my Browning was  still
secure, and not  covered in  tar and grit, I crawled on my hands  and  knees
towards the line of six skylights in the centre of  the roof. Even from here
I could see they weren't frosted and wire-meshed, just clear but grimy. Some
of the  panes had cracked, and  many  were covered in pigeon shit. It didn't
matter: it was a way in.
     As I crawled, with Lotfi just behind, the  hot tarmac substance beneath
the gravel slowly moved under the weight  of my elbows, toes and knees. Then
its  surface  split,  like  the  skin  on  old custard, and  I  sank  a  few
millimetres into the black stuff.
     I noticed that my shadow was more or less under me, and a quick look at
a now tar-covered traser told me it  was  after  twelve thirty. The sun  was
high,  but all the same I'd have to be careful as I stuck my  head  over the
glass that I didn't cast the world's biggest shadow across  the floor below.
Shape, shine, shadow, silhouette, spacing and movement are always the things
that give you away.
     I headed for the second skylight from the left, because there was glass
missing from it. I was  no more than a metre away when I heard a scream from
inside, louder than the drone of the  traffic and the blast of horns and air
brakes.
     Lotfi heard it too, and scrambled past me to get to the missing pane.
     I put my hand up.
     "Slowly, slowly. Remember your shadow."
     He nodded and moved his head  up gently, trying to get his face against
the  hole. His nose was doing all the breathing now,  and his  sweat-covered
face was screwed up in anger.
     I went to the left of him and, with bitumen-covered fingers, rubbed the
grime slowly from the glass to get a better view.
     Fifty.
     Years  of  pigeon shit  hung  from  the steel  roof  supports like grey
icicles. Then, down  at ground  level, among the  old faded  newspapers  and
lumps  of  rubble,  I saw why  Lotfi's breathing  was  suddenly  a lot  more
agitated. Romeo Two was  on the concrete floor, naked and  covered in blood,
getting kicked to bits by the two unknowns I'd seen come out of the shop and
walk to the rear,  the ones who must have lifted Hubba-Hubba. They still had
their black leather jackets over jeans. I couldn't see any weapons on them.
     There was movement  from Romeo Two.  He was trying to crawl towards the
Lexus, parked next to the Merc  van,  which was two up, opposite the shutter
at the far end of the building. Blood dripped off his moustache and mouth as
the  two unknowns just followed him,  kicking, and having a good laugh. They
pushed  him down  on to the ground, then kicked him again, turning him  away
from the vehicles. The engine sparked up on the van and  it drove  slowly to
the shutter. The passenger got out and pulled  on the chain. He climbed back
in and the Merc disappeared,  while one of the black leather jackets lowered
the shutter.
     Below us, in the  middle of  the building, were  two vehicle-inspection
pits and two  sets of concrete ramps.  Romeo Oneand  Hubba-Hubba were inside
one  of  the  pits, also  naked.  Ripped  clothes were strewn around on  the
concrete,  probably  having  been  checked  inch  by  inch for  tracking  or
listening  devices.  Blood  had  dripped  from  their  faces  on   to  their
sweat-drenched bodies. They were kept in the pit by what looked like a heavy
old iron gate from a stately home, maybe bought from the brocante next door,
which had been dragged over the top of it.
     Hubba-Hubba  sat  cross-legged  in  one  corner,  his  head  down.  His
blood-wet hair  was matted and glinted in the  sunlight.  I couldn't see his
face.
     Sweat dripped into my mouth as I took in  the scene. Goatee stood above
them  on the  gate,  shouting and  poking them with  a broom  handle,  as if
baiting a couple of pit bulls before the Big Fight.
     All the faces  below  me  were  Arab. Baldilocks was leaning  against a
concrete  ramp  in a baggy blue short-sleeved shirt and black  trousers.  He
took a long drag on a cigarette and swapped funnies with the fat van driver,
who had a brown pullover stretched over his gut.  I thought that he had been
the one to spot Hubba-Hubba at the rear of the shop, as the  Romeos prepared
for loading inside. But none of this made sense. Why  lift him, and why lift
the Romeos?
     Lotfi was inches from me now, his eyes fixed on the  pit. Hubba-Hubba's
head was still bowed.  He wasn't  reacting to the  blows, just rolling  with
them, taking the pain. Romeo One was on his knees, begging Goatee for mercy.
What he got instead was another burst of good news from the broom handle.
     Lotfi turned to me, his face determined.
     "He's waiting for me."
     I nodded.
     "Not long  now, mate. Go  beyond  the skylight, see  if  there's a trap
door."
     He  took  another  long,  hard  look  at  his  brother  before crawling
backwards and making his way to the other side of the  roof. Maybe there was
a  fire  door, with a steel escape ladder attached to  an interior wall.  It
wouldn't help us much: we'd be spotted at once  coming down it. But at least
it  got Lotfi out of the way  for a while. I  didn't want him sparked up any
more than he was already.
     As I listened  to the screams and shouts I looked around below me.  The
building was just one  big open space, and had obviously once been used as a
garage workshop. I was lying with my head  towards the shuttered entrance at
the far end of the building. There was nothing behind it now, apart from the
Lexus. It  looked as though it  had been the vehicles'  holding area, before
they  were brought over to the inspection  pits and ramps  for repair in the
middle.  At  the  other end,  the  ground-floor  window  was hidden  by  two
Portakabins, which stood at right  angles to each other in front of a rough,
whitewashed breeze block cube, no  more than eight  foot  high, which jutted
out of the corner. Unless Lotfi came up with something magical, the only way
in was through the shutter, or that window.
     Goatee stepped  off the  gate  and  barked an order at the  boys by the
ramp. Baldilocks and Van Man threw down their cigarettes, walked over to the
pit, and dragged the ironwork gate to one side. When there was a  big enough
gap, Romeo Two was herded into it by the black-leather brothers.
     Hubba-Hubba didn't  react as the newcomer  fell in  beside him  and the
gate was  dragged back  over. But  the  reunited Romeos gob  bed off to each
other and did some more begging to the people above.
     A mobile phone  rang.  A couple of them reached into their pockets, but
it turned out to be Goatee's. He flipped it open, and did a bit  of business
as the other four congregated by the ramps. Cigarettes were passed round and
lit as Goatee carried on his conversation in what sounded like French. There
was even a little laughter from him as he walked towards the shutters.
     Goatee had a big smile on his face,  and waved his left arm gently back
and forth as he talked. He was maybe in his early forties with a short, very
neat hairstyle that made him look  even more like George Michael  today. His
body language was cajoling, and  he kicked small imaginary footballs against
the wall as he moved.
     Lotfi appeared from  the other side  of the skylight  on his hands  and
knees,  shaking  his  head  as  he closed  in  on  me.  He  stared  down  at
Hubba-Hubba, then shifted his attention to Goatee.
     "It's a woman," he whispered.
     "He says he'll be home late, there is lots to do."
     And  then, as  if a switch had been  thrown, the phone  was thrust back
into Goatee's pocket and he strode back to the pit. The smile had gone.
     The two Romeos were on  their knees, beseeching him in rapid Arabic.  I
turned to Lotfi.
     "What are they saying?"
     He put his ear to  the  hole instead of  his eyes and plugged the other
one with his thumb as a jet passed overhead and vehicles raced about us, his
face screwed up in concentration. While I waited for him  to work it  out, I
moved  the Browning to the back of my  jeans and  turned the  bum-bag round,
letting my  front sink  into the bitumen. It didn't  make much difference, I
was  already  covered  in the stuff. I felt as if I'd been crawling  in  hot
volcanic mud.
     They don't know who my brother is. They've never seen him before."
     I watched  Goatee light a cigarette  while he glowered at  the  two men
gibbering on their knees below him, picking off some tobacco  that  was left
on his lips.
     They're saying they're just here to collect money from three locations.
One yesterday and two today.  They don't understand  what's  happening. They
know nothing apart from where to collect the money' He  had the same thought
as I did.
     "Nick, two collections today?"
     Shit!  I glanced  over to him, then back  at Goatee, who was  holding a
hand out as Van Man brought over Hubba-Hubba'syellow Sony. He brought  it up
to his mouth and mouthed, "Bonjour,  bonjour,  bonjour," with an exaggerated
sneer.
     He  flicked his  unfinished  cigarette into the  pit and  crouched over
Hubba-Hubba,  shouting questions. There was  no  reaction  at  all  from the
Egyptian.
     "He wants to  know who  he was talking  to on  the  radio." Lotfi wiped
sweat from his face.
     "He wants  to know who we are,  where  we are,  what we're  doing." And
then, strangely, Lotfi smiled. He looked me in the eye.
     "He won't say a word, Nick. He knows I'm coming."
     Hubba-Hubba  was still facing the bottom of  the pit,  not  responding.
Maybe Lotfi was right: he actually did believe. Goatee got pissed off at the
lack  of  reaction and hurled the Sony at  the  gate. Shards of  plastic and
electronic  components showered  into  the pit like shrapnel. Then, in  what
looked like an explosion of frustration, he forced the broom  handle down on
to the base of Hubba-Hubba's neck with both hands. Hubba-Hubba just took the
pain and went down, his bloodstained head falling into Romeo Two's lap.
     Lotfi  stared down as Goatee screamed into the pit. He was  looking far
too calm. It was as if he had a plan.
     "What else are they saying, mate?"
     Lotfi closed his eyes and cocked his ear to the broken pane.
     "He doesn't  believe the  Romeos. He  says  it  doesn't matter  who  is
telling the truth and who  is lying. It doesn't matter if he  kills them and
he is wrong. Someone else will  collect the  cash." He opened his eyes again
and looked at me.
     "It is now time, Nick."
     I nodded back.
     "We only have the window  to ' Lotfi jerked away from the  glass and up
on to  his knees. Wiping his  hands on his jeans to get the bitumen off,  he
nodded over towards the gate. The heat burnt into my palms as I put my hands
into  the black  stuff and pushed myself up to  see what  he'd seen. He  was
already crawling towards the down pipe
     A Peugeot estate with police markings and blue light bar had stopped at
the junction opposite  the line of cars in front of the  brocante, where the
Scudo was parked. It was three up, and the front passenger was on the radio.
     Fifty-One.
     I had to assume the worst: that third-party  calls earlier had  alerted
the  police  about  the Scudo and these three  boys were just about to get a
promotion. They'd  find  the radios and the boot set-up, and the  cash under
the  seat together with enough fingerprints to keep  them dusting for weeks.
The first thing they'd do was look for us around here.
     I  checked Lotfi's Focus. Nothing was happening there, but it  wouldn't
be  long before it did after his cops-and-robbers  impersonation. I couldn't
help thinking  that maybe it was God's" way of  saying, "That's  enough of a
recce for me today, now just get on with it."
     Still trying to work out how we were going  to do it, I decided to take
one more look down into the building before I went  to  join Lotfi. I hadn't
reckoned on things getting worse. Goatee was still on the gate, but the boot
to the Lexus  was now open and Baldilocks was handing him a red plastic fuel
canister. The can was then held up,  like a bottle  of wine at a restaurant,
for the three in the pit to see.
     Hubba-Hubba finally looked up. The charm had  gone from his neck. There
was no reaction at all: he  just took  the shouting, and bowed his head once
more. He was waiting for Lotfi to come. But in the meantime he was preparing
to die. Lotfi was nearly at the corner of the  roof as a train squealed into
the  station. He  stopped at  the parapet, waiting  in case  anyone took the
short cut. By the time  I had reached him, the train had left. Should I tell
him  what  I'd seen? What  would it change if I did?  We were still going to
have to get down and try  to  make  entry through that window. Would it help
for  him  to  know that  his brother  was  on  the verge  of  being  torched
-especially if it turned out we couldn't get inside?
     Lotfi checked for people crossing the railway line.
     "All clear. Ready?"
     I  nodded,  checked my  Browning and bum-bag,  then clambered over  the
parapet, scrambling  down a  bit too  fast. Slivers of rust sliced  into  my
hand, but  my  pain was nothing  compared to Hubba-Hubba's. As soon as I hit
the ground, Lotfi started to follow.
     I switched  the bum-bag and Browning from my back to my front once more
and took my Leatherman out of  its belt case. I wanted the weapon back where
it normally sat, because it was  an instinct to draw down from that position
and I got the feeling I'd be needing it.
     Lotfi  landed beside me  as I  opened  the  blade  of  the  Leatherman.
Reaching up on  tiptoe with my left hand and pushing up with my free hand on
the concrete window sill, I started  to stab  and cut into the  plastic  fan
casing.
     Lotfi was against the wall,  keeping watch.  It seemed a  good idea  to
prepare him for failure.
     "If we can't get these bars off,  the only way  to go in is through the
shutter.  We wait for  someone  to come out, or maybe the van to  come back,
then ' "God will decide what we can and cannot do, Nick. It's in his hands."
He didn't look at me: his eyes stayed fixed towards the track.
     That was all well  and  good,  but what if  God decided it was time  to
light up the pit?
     I lifted out the centre of the four-inch-diameter fan and tried to look
through at the bars beyond the now grimy, bitumen-smeared  glass. Fuck it, I
had to tell him.
     "Before we left the  skylight, I saw  Goatee waving  a fuel can at  the
three of them in the pit. You know what that could mean, don't you?"
     His expression didn't change.  His eyes  still didn't  leave the track.
But  he did have  his  beads in his  left hand, threading  them  between his
fingers and thumb, one by one.
     "Yes, I  do  know what that means."  His  voice was  unbelievably calm,
unbelievably collected.
     "Let's just carry on."
     I needed help to get my hand through the hole.
     "Give us a leg  up, mate."  I lifted  my  right foot, and he cupped his
hands. We  both grunted as I stretched out  my  arm and he pushed up against
the bricks.
     I got  a glimpse  of urinals  as  I reached  through, and at the fourth
attempt I managed to pull down the rusty  window latch.  Not much  happened.
The frame  was  so old it had  been glued  in  place by years of weather.  I
lowered myself back  to the  ground and used the  Leatherman blade  to prise
open the frame.
     There was no noise  from inside, which  was  good: if we couldn't  hear
them, chances were they couldn't hear us. I just hoped none of them suddenly
decided they wanted to take a leak.
     Pushing  at the bars was no  good, they  were solid, but I used them to
pull myself up the extra foot so  I could  see what  was going on. They were
secured  by three  straight  head screws, above and below  the frame, driven
through two strips of metal that were welded on to the bars.
     I  dropped  back  to  the ground  and  got out the  screwdriver of  the
Leatherman. "You know we still need to get the hawallada, don't you, as well
as Hubba-Hubba?  We've already  lost the third one, and without these people
we don't get to the ASUs. We need them you  know  what's going  to happen if
these ASUs aren't jumped on?"
     "Nick,  I understand  the importance. You  forget,  my  brother  and  I
volunteered." His expression was so calm it was  unnerving.  He  really  did
believe in right and wrong, and all that Kismet stuff.
     "You also know it's finished, after this?  We  are  compromised to  the
police, we have  missed the  other  collection. Let's just get  both of them
out, drop off the hawallada,  and  get  the fuck out of this country. OK? No
revenge shit, it'll take too long."
     I pulled  myself up again, using the  bars, and managed to half sit  on
the sill so I could get to work with the screwdriver.  At least  the stained
toilet and two dust-filled urinals had no smell, just dried cigarette butts,
from the eighties probably; the filters gathered around the drain holes were
faded white with age.
     Layers of paint  covered the screw heads near the ceiling, and I had to
dig  them  out first  with  the  blade before I could get the screwdriver to
bite. It eventually started to turn after the head had  twice slipped out of
the groove and scraped my knuckles.
     The first screw came  out and I handed it to Lotfi and stayed silent as
I  got to  grips with the remaining  ones. There was too  much to think  and
worry about. I glanced at Lotfi, still calm, watching  up and down the path.
Me, I was  flapping a bit, but ready to go for it  so we could get  the fuck
out of France before the police got hold of us.
     I didn't bother with the bottom screws, just prised the bars downwards.
Then, getting out my Browning and turning my bum-bag round to the back of my
spine  again, I went in head first, belly-flopping  on to the  toilet, using
the  two urinals as support to stop  me falling  on to the floor  and making
noise.
     I could hear voices the other side of the door.
     Lotfi  followed  me  through, closing the  window  behind  him  but not
pulling down the catch.
     The  door  was  an  over  painted  cheap  interior  one,  with  an old,
brushed-aluminium handle. The gap  at  the bottom was too  narrow for me  to
look  through,  but  the  screams  and  shouts  didn't  leave  much  to  the
imagination. At least I couldn't smell petrol or burning yet. Lotfi also got
his ear to the door. They're begging them to stop we must hurry now."
     "We  need to spread out so we can cover them  all.  I'll take the left,
using the Portakabin that side as cover. You take the right, using the other
one."
     One of the  Romeos screamed so loudly  it sounded as if he was in  here
with us. Lotfi  got very sparked up, his eyes flashing once more the same as
they'd done in Algeria. I put a hand on his shoulder.
     "Me left, you right, and this God of yours knows I'm with you, yeah?"
     As he nodded, both Romeos cried  out  again. I pulled the  hammer  back
from its half-cock position  on the Browning and  checked  chamber by gently
pulling back  the backslide just  enough to  see the brass  of the round  in
position. Then I pushed it back into position.
     Lotfi was doing the same as I checked my  bum-bag for the last time and
wiped the sweat from my eyes with a bitumen-stained ha