Liberation Day

Chapter 23

I finished my milky coffee as two suits stopped at the plastic-covered board and checked it out before pressing a buzzer. One bent his head toward the intercom, then they both disappeared through the doors immediately to the left inside the reception area.

I’d seen nearly everything in here I needed to. I picked up the napkin, cleaned my hands, and wiped the cup, even though I’d only touched the handle. Leaving an outrageous sixty-six francs and a tip, I went out the way I’d come in.

This time, my eyes hit the sixth-floor sign and ran along the row of small plates: 617 was apparently the home of the Monaco Training Consultancy, whoever they were. I walked on and exited the building.

The sun shone bright above the square now, so I put on my shades and pulled my brim down. Cars, motorbikes, and motor scooters were crammed like sardines into any available space around the square. Gardeners pruned the bushes and a couple of guys in Kevlar gear were just about to take a chainsaw to some branches of the large leafless trees. Sprinklers lightly sprayed the grass as women dressed in furs floated past, their dogs wearing matching fashion accessories. I took a right at Prada and went around the back of the building as the chainsaw started up behind me. I wanted to see where the exit by the dry-cleaner’s emerged.

The narrow road on this side of the building was about sixty yards long, with a few small stores developing photos or selling little paintings. I turned right again, along the back of de la Scala, and found myself in the building’s office area. Some shutters were up, some were down; behind them were private parking spaces and storage areas for the stores. Most of the space was taken up by the loading bay for the post office. It was very clean and orderly, and the postal workers wore neat, well-pressed blue uniforms and white socks. I felt as though I’d wandered into Legoland.

The dry-cleaner’s entrance was just past the loading bay. I glanced through the glass doors and could see all the way to the café, and the point where the hallway turned right toward the reception area.

Beyond the dry-cleaner’s, on the other corner of the Palais de la Scala and about twenty feet above the ground, was a camera. At the moment it wasn’t angled in this direction because it was too busy monitoring the intersection below it. I hoped that wasn’t going to change. I walked back to the Mégane the way I’d come.

I squeezed away from the Acura and went and had a look at the train station before heading for Nice and Cap 3000. It was time to prepare for the brush contact with my new pal Thackery that I’d arranged yesterday in my e-mail to George.

I drove into the retail complex at just after ten-thirty. I put on my disposable gloves, retrieved the addresses from under my seat, then pulled the paper from its own protective wrapping. I ran through the addresses in my mind before unfolding it, testing myself; this was the last time I was going to see them. Then I folded it once more, and rolled it tightly enough to be able to squeeze it back into the thumb of the glove, ripped off the excess plastic, and shoved it into the pocket of my jeans.

I got out and locked my door as a jet touched down on the runway a couple of hundred yards away. For a moment it had looked as though it was going to land on the beach.

Most of the complex was dominated by the Lafayette retail company, with its huge department store and gourmet supermarket, and the spaces around it were filled with stores selling everything from smelly candles to cell phones.

As I walked through the automatic glass doors, a loudspeaker above me knocked out some bland Muzak. There weren’t many Santas about, but plenty of twinkling lights and Christmas novelty stalls. One sold a whole range of multicolored velvet headwear, from top hats to jesters’ caps with bells. Escalators carried hordes of shoppers, with gigantic plastic bags bulging at the seams, between the two levels. This was the only place that I’d used more than once. It was large, busy, and I considered it a reasonable risk. I had to get online, and a café was too intimate. So long as I never used a card or an ATM, this place should be okay.

Four shiny new Jaguars from the local dealership were parked in the atrium, windshields groaning with promotional material. To the left of them was the entrance to Galéries Lafayette, the two-story department store.

The rather bored-looking Jaguar salesman sat behind the cars, at a white plastic garden furniture set, complete with parasol. He was surrounded by piles of shiny catalogues, but had his nose stuck firmly in Nice Matin. Perhaps he realized that November isn’t the time to buy cars; it’s the time to buy socks and slippers and Christmas stuff for your mom.

First things first. I went to the sandwich shop and got myself a Brie baguette and a very large hot coffee, and took both with me to Le Cyberpoint. This wasn’t a store, but a collection of telephone-Internet stations, each with a conventional telephone, linked to a small touchscreen and metal keyboard, with a big steel ball for the mouse. There were eight of them, mostly being used by kids whose parents had dropped them off with a phone card to shut them up for an hour or so while they did the shopping.

I put my coffee on top of the machine, to relieve my burning fingers and allow me to shove some crusty baguette into my mouth before pushing the phone card into the slot and logging on. Muzak played in the background, too low to hear and too loud to ignore, as Hotmail hit me with enough ads in French and English to fill a whole night’s TV viewing. There was nothing from George. He’d be waiting for the addresses that I’d give to Thackery at one o’clock, and he had nothing new to tell me.

I closed down, and pulled out my phone card, which still had sixty-two francs left on it. As I picked up my coffee, I spilled some down the machine and jerked back to avoid any dripping on me. Visibly annoyed with myself, I gave the screen, keys, and mouse a good wipe-down with the napkin that they’d wrapped around the baguette, until I’d left no fingerprints. With a fistful of soggy paper napkin and a suitably apologetic look on my face, I left Le Cyberpoint and headed back to the car, stopping on the way to buy a roll of 35mm film and a red-and-yellow jester’s hat with bells.

There was only an hour before the brush contact, so I turned the Mégane’s ignition key and hit Riviera Radio, then slipped on the latex gloves. I tipped the film out of its plastic canister, and replaced it with the rolled-up addresses.

Marvin Gaye was interrupted by an American voice. “We now go to the BBC World Service for the top-of-the-hour news.” I checked traser on the last of the bleeps, and it was dead-on. A suitably somber female brought me up to speed on the bombing of Kabul, and the progress of the Northern Alliance. I turned it off, hoping that Thackery had been well trained and was doing exactly the same.

At thirty-two minutes past the hour I checked the canister in my jeans, the Browning, my baseball cap, and fanny pack, and headed once more into Cap 3000. It was a lot busier now. The gourmet food hall was doing a roaring trade, and it looked as though the Jaguar sales rep had led the charge. He was still at the garden table, but sitting back with a glass of red wine and a filled baguette the size of a small torpedo. I headed left and through the first-floor perfume department of Galéries Lafayette. Menswear was directly above me, up an escalator, but going this way gave me time to check my back and make sure no one else was wanting to join us.

I went into the book department to the right of the perfume counters, and started to check out the English-language guides to the area, not picking them up but tilting my head to scan the spines.

When I’d satisfied myself that no one was taking more interest in me than was healthy, I walked deeper into the store, took the escalator up to the second floor, and worked my way back to the men’s section. I hit the bargain racks of cargo pants and took a pair, plus some jeans. Then I wandered along the coat rack and chose one in dark blue padded cotton. It would stop me freezing to death at the OP, and not make the noise that nylon would every time I shifted position.

I moved from table to table, comparing prices, before picking up two sweatshirts. As far as I knew, you couldn’t leave fingerprints on fabric. The only thing I was doing differently from any other browser was snatching a look at traser whenever I could. I had to be on my start line at precisely twelve minutes past. The contact wasn’t exactly at one o’clock, but twelve minutes after. Surveillance teams are aware that humans tend to do things at the half, quarter, or on the hour.

At the same time, I was also keeping a running total of my expenditure. I wanted to make sure I had enough cash on me to cover the cost of this stuff. I didn’t want any scenes at the checkout that people might remember later.

At eight minutes past one I headed over to the maze of shelving in the underwear department. Calvin was doing a nice line in flannel pajamas and long johns this season, but they weren’t really my style. I moved on, glancing at the four or five other people in my immediate vicinity. None of them was wearing blue. I picked up four pairs of socks after sifting through the choices and checked traser. Three minutes to go.

Still no glimpse of blue. I draped my purchases over my left arm as I agonized over a shelf full of T-shirts and fished the canister out of my jeans. A man brushed past me from behind, and gave me a big “Pardon.” That was okay: it gave me extra cover to check traser. Two minutes to go. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” was interrupted by somebody babbling over the loudspeaker about the bargain of the day.

I was walking back toward my start line when I spotted a blue chunky turtleneck sweater ahead of me, no more than ten yards away. It was two sizes bigger than it needed to be, and making its way toward the other end of the socks and underwear aisle, the other start line. This wasn’t the sort of Thackery I’d imagined: this one looked straight out of a garage band. He was in his late twenties, with peroxide-blond hair, gelled up and messy. He, too, had a bag in his left hand. He was hitting the start line; it had to be him. One minute to go. I toyed with a selection of boxers on the edge of the underwear department, but my mind was focused on what was about to happen.

Twenty seconds to go. Adjusting the clothes on my arm, I transferred the canister into my right hand as I started to walk down the aisle. Thackery was now about six yards away. Between us, an old man was stooped over a pile of thermals.

There was another announcement over the loudspeaker, but I hardly heard it. I was concentrating completely on what needed to happen during the next few seconds.

Thackery’s eyes were green, and they were looking into mine. The contact was on. He was happy with the situation; so was I.

I headed straight along the aisle, aiming for the suits, but my eyes were on his hand. Two yards to go. I stepped around the old man, and relaxed my grip on the canister.

I felt Thackery’s hand brush against mine, and the canister was gone. He carried on walking. He’d done this before.

I decided against the suits, but had a quick look at the overcoats before heading to the cashier on the far side of the floor. I didn’t know what Thackery was doing, and didn’t care. My only job now was to pay up and get out, and that was exactly what I did.