Liberation Day

Chapter 28

I froze.

A bright yellow strobe light near the tabac began to bounce around the marina. There was nothing I could do but hug Plexiglas, my pulse racing. The four foxtrots sparked up loudly in French, sounding surprised, while the Germans shouted urgently to each other.

I heard a rush of Arabic in the cabin below. Furniture was being knocked into. A glass was smashed. Lights went on. Through a tiny gap at the edge of the blind, I found myself looking straight down onto a stretch of highly varnished wood below the front window. A hand grabbed at things I couldn’t see, and disappeared. A blue-shirted back came into view. They were already dressed down there. They’d probably been ready to make a run for it. There was more babbling. They were panicking, thinking that whatever was going on outside was meant for them.

I heard an English voice, male and educated, very calm, very in control. “Just let me check, just wait. Let me check.”

I saw a mass of curly black hair, and a wash-stained, once-white T-shirt. The hair was flatter on one side, probably from the way he’d been sleeping; its owner was peering under the front blind toward the stores.

There was movement in other boats, too, and lights coming on. A few people were venturing out to see what the commotion was all about. The strobe was still going for it big-time, and I kept rigid, my eye glued to the gap, trying to see through the condensation and dribble between me and the Plexi.

The man below me turned, and his face was highlighted by the flashing strobe. It was Curly, for sure, the man at Juan-les-Pins and in the Polaroid; now I definitely knew where Greaseball was getting his information. George needed to know about this.

He was very skinny. His shoulder blades poked through his T-shirt as if he had a coat hanger in there. His big hair made his head look totally out of proportion to his body. He hadn’t shaved for a while, and his slightly hooked nose and sunken eyes made him look as if he’d jumped out of a Dickens novel. He’d be the one giving Oliver Twist a hard time.

“It’s okay,” he said, smooth as silk. “It’s just a burglar alarm. Things are cool….”

There was another flurry of Arabic. He was definitely the voice of reason. “No, an alarm — it’s just being robbed. You know, someone’s breaking into the shop to steal, that’s all it is, it’s okay.” He moved back from the window and his face disappeared.

Was the alarm going to bring the police? If so, how quickly? There was still talking and movement beneath me. It was an ideal time to get the job done. If I was wrong, and people saw me, I’d soon know about it. I got to my knees and wiped up what had fallen out of my mouth with my sleeve. Then I pushed the device under the covering and into the channel where the back of the seat met the backrest. I peeled back the insulation tape tab, and gave the fishing line a steady pull until the clothespin jaws released the strip of plastic and the two thumbtacks connected. The circuit was complete; the device was armed. I pushed the cylinder in as far as my arm could reach.

The strobe was still going ballistic and I could hear people on other boats talking animatedly. It was starting to feel like some sort of yachting rave out there. I lay by the seats, not moving an inch, worrying about whether the gear at the OP would be found if the police decided to have a good look around. Biggest worry of all, though, was how to get off this thing before the gendarmes showed up.

About fifteen seconds later I knew it was too late. Two sets of blue flashing lights were heading down from the town. They arrived at the marina and turned right, toward the strobe. Below me, Curly started calming the Arabs down. “They’re just checking out the shop. Everything is cool.”

I watched as four uniforms got out of their patrol cars and inspected the storefront, silhouetted in their headlights and flashing blues.

They were joined almost immediately by another set of headlights. The driver got out and waved his arms about, jabbering away full steam. Probably the owner, working himself up to a big insurance claim.

The police stayed for another twenty minutes, then the voices faded and lights started to go out all around the marina. Things went quiet in the cabin below me. At least they wouldn’t be leaving without me knowing; this must have been the closest OP in OP history.

I lay there for another hour, glad of my new quilted jacket as I felt my extremities start to chill. I sat up slowly and checked around me. The marina was asleep once more. The tabac lights were on; it looked like the owner was guarding it for the night. I made sure that the vinyl covering of the couch looked exactly as it had when I arrived, then went back into Spiderman mode.

Less than fifteen minutes later I was walking along the pier toward the parking lot and Lotfi’s Ford Focus.

I turned left, toward my Timberlands, and hit the pressle.

“L, stay where you are and keep the trigger. There’s a change of plan. I’ll let you know what later. Acknowledge.”

Click, click.

“H, check?”

Click, click.

“Meet me at my car.”

Click, click.

I got back to the garbage bin to retrieve my Timberlands. As I headed back to the OP, I offered up a prayer to the god of wrong numbers that no one got through to the pager by mistake. At least, not until the three on the boat had done their job.