Liberation Day

Chapter 37

With the brake and backup light cut off, I reversed into the road with just a gentle red glow of the rear lights. There was no white backup and no bright red as I put on the brakes to change into first before heading uphill.

The DOP was about four hundred yards to my left, at the end of a small grassy track that went in about eight yards before being chained off. It looked as though it had been that way for years. Just on the other side of the chain, old refrigerators were piled on top of each other as the ground sloped downhill, and there were enough bulging garbage bags to feed the incinerator by the safe house for a year.

Lotfi came on the net. “Stand by, stand by. There is movement between the cars. Engines on. N, acknowledge.”

I double-clicked and slowed.

“Both cars are mobile. Wait, wait…at the main…wait…one left, one right toward you, N, toward you. Acknowledge.”

I double-clicked again, hit the brake and clutch, and waited for the headlights to get to me. As long as no one else was coming from behind I’d be okay. Within seconds, twin beams swept over the high ground, then hit me full on as the vehicle crested the hill. Whoever was in the car would never be able to make out whether I was static or not, and it saved me having to pass the drop-off, turn around at the picnic area, and try again.

I saw the faded, hand-painted sign nailed to the tree. It probably said the driveway was private property and dumping was illegal, so get lost. I didn’t much care. It was my marker to turn my lights off and take my time in the dark. Foot on the brake continuously, I drove slowly over the hard mud ruts up to the chain.

“That’s N static. No one acknowledge.”

They knew where I was and I wanted to cut down time on the air and get on with the job. The track was lined with fir trees and thornbushes, plastered with windblown refuse.

There was no time to mess around.

With the engine and hand brake on I climbed out and opened the trunk, making sure the Browning was tucked well into my jeans and the fanny pack was done up.

Gumaa was a lot heavier than he looked, when only one person was doing the lifting, and I banged him about some as I tried to loop him over my shoulders. I eventually got his taped and trussed body into a sort of fireman’s lift.

Once I’d gotten my legs over the drooping chain, I moved out of the line of sight from the driveway and in among a couple of ripped-open garbage bags, an old mattress with protruding springs, and a very ancient tarpaulin. I dropped Gumaa on the canvas tarp and pulled him onto his side so he could breathe easier. Finally I checked that he was still alive, before wishing him well on his connecting flight with Ketamine Airways and folding the decaying canvas over his body to keep him warm.

I reversed the Mégane back out onto the track, and turned downhill. “That’s drop-off complete. H, acknowledge.”

Click, click.

“L, don’t forget the marker.”

Click, click.

Passing Hubba-Hubba’s parking area, I got back on the net once more. “That’s N now clear. Refuel, get some food. And remember to change channel. If I don’t hear anything before one-thirty, I’m going to move my car into position, and check out the boat, Okay? L, acknowledge.”

“Yes, mother hen.”

“H?”

“Cluck cluck.”

One down, two to go. I could almost hear Hubba-Hubba repeating it to himself, and having another little chuckle.

As I turned the first of the string of hairpins that led back down to the glittering patchwork of Villefranche, I threw the muffin wrapper and all the other crap I’d been collecting during the day into the passenger footwell. On the main drag, I headed right, toward Nice, stopping to fill up and buy two egg salad baguettes, a can of Coke Light, some bottled water, and a few more Snickers bars for the OP.

Curiosity got the better of me as I neared Villefranche. I still had time to kill before returning to the Ninth of May, so I parked for a while in a line of vehicles tucked into the side of the road, still facing toward BSM and just short of the DOP junction. The baguettes were Saran-wrapped and sweaty, and the Coke was warm. It looked like they hadn’t seen a fridge all day.

As I munched, I watched the lights of the warship glittering on the water below me. It was just after eight when I’d finished, and the road was still fairly busy. I settled back, feeling greasy, full of Coke Light, damp bread, and not-too-fresh egg. My eyes were stinging, but once I’d pushed the seat all the way back things started to get more comfortable. Checking that the doors were locked, and the Browning secure, I eased the hammer away from the patch of raw skin on my stomach where it had been rubbing, and made sure that my window was open a fraction to let out condensation, then closed my eyes and tried to doze.

My head jerked up again less than a minute later as a car heading toward me seemed to slow as it neared the intersection, but went straight on.

Next time I looked, traser told me it was eleven-forty-eight. A very noisy Citroën had made its way down from the high ground and was waiting to join the main road. The streetlight just short of the intersection illuminated an old man hunched over the wheel with a cigarette in his mouth. He wasn’t too sure when to move out, even though there wasn’t much traffic. When he finally went for it, I saw why. With a grinding of gears and a flapping of fan belts, he labored his way toward BSM. I wondered how he was ever going to make it back up the hill. I’d seen flashier motors used as chicken coops.

I changed batteries on the Sony, momentarily peeled off the duct tape and switched to channel two. I’d watch the intersection until about one o’clock, then go back to the marina, get into position, and wait for the other two, who’d be at least another couple of hours.

My bacteria takeout was starting to make its presence felt; the atmosphere in the Mégane smelled like gorilla’s breath. I hoped I’d be needing a dump before I got into the OP, rather than after.

At twelve-fifty-six, I saw headlights coming downhill. A small, dark-colored Renault van, the sort a tradesman would use, came into view. It was two up, and I was sure I knew the head behind the wheel.

They checked the main road and turned right, no indicators, toward me and Nice. As they passed under the streetlight I got a better angle from my semiprone position, and spotted the driver. He’d had a different top on the last time I’d seen him, but it was definitely my pal Thackery. I didn’t get to see his companion that close, but he, too, was young.

As soon as they’d passed, I popped my head up and watched them turn left, down toward the bay. I didn’t envy Gumaa what was going to happen next.

I jumped out of the Mégane and crossed the road, watching the van’s headlights bounce off the houses along the narrow streets, sometimes losing them altogether as the van continued downhill. Eventually it reached sea level, and disappeared into one of the buildings by the water’s edge.

Today had been a success. We’d achieved the mission. But we hadn’t had much choice. I couldn’t see George being too understanding if we hadn’t brought him Gumaa. “But, George, we really had a good trigger and the follow was, frankly, excellent. It was the French getting in the way that messed things up for us. Never mind, I think we’ve learned a great deal today and we can do a lot better next time….”

I walked back to the car, feeling a sense of satisfaction. The other thing I was feeling, as I pulled the seat up into the driving position, was a nagging sensation in my bowels. Turning the ignition key might have disguised the noise, but it hadn’t hidden the smell. I powered down the window and made my way to the picnic area to see if there was anything for me from George, having learned one big lesson. No more iffy egg salad baguettes.

I turned into the intersection and headed uphill, reasoning I might as well check the recycling bins now to see if anything had been left for me, and save time and messing around later. I was going to the same place that I’d collected the insulin packs and explosives from. The marker was the same Coke can. It would be left in position if something was there for me, and I would remove it once I had picked up.

I drove past Hubba-Hubba’s cover position, then the drop-off, and on to the picnic area. My headlights hit the recycling bins and two huge green plastic bottle banks, each with a large steel ring poking out of the top. The Coke Light can was still in position just under the forward right-hand corner of the nearer one.

There were no other vehicles in sight, so I parked up on the mud and gravel just past the bins, and turned off my lights. I pushed my hand underneath the one to the left of the Coke can, and felt for the broken brick that would be there if I had a message. Bingo. I dragged it out, a lot lighter than an ordinary brick, then took the can as well.

I turned the car around and headed back the way I’d come, wanting to be clear of the area as fast as I could. Once back on the main road I turned left, toward BSM, leaving the warship lighting up the bay behind me. At the turnout behind the OP, I closed down the Mégane, then got out my Leatherman and started to dig into the brick with the pliers.

The center had been hollowed out, then its contents plastered over. I pulled out the Saran-wrapped package and unraveled it, at the same time brushing the plaster dust off my clothes. Inside was a sheet of lined paper, covered in tight print. I opened the glove compartment and laid it on the drinks tray. There was no introduction, just the message.

George did know about the connection between Curly and Greaseball. It also seemed the Ninth of May was well known to the French police. They suspected it had been used more than once to ferry heroin from here to the Channel Islands.

Curly’s actual name was Jonathan Tynan-Ramsay, and he originated from Guernsey. I didn’t give a fuck: he was going to stay Curly for me. He had a list of minor drug offenses, and had been on court-imposed drug rehab programs, which he’d failed to complete. He’d eventually served five years in jail in England for his part in a pedophile ring, and left the U.K. after being put on the sex offenders list. He had lived in France for the past four years. He and Greaseball were members of all the same clubs. The sort of clubs Hubba-Hubba wanted to put a bomb under.

George finished with a warning. The local police were taking an interest now that the Ninth of May was on the move; it had last been seen in Marseille three days ago. The police didn’t know what had happened in Marseille, but George reckoned it had picked up the Romeos from the Algiers ferry, and now the police were waiting to see where it popped up again. It was just routine, he said, but be careful.

I tore the message into bite-size pieces and started chewing. As I headed back down the mountainside, I wondered why the hell George hadn’t told me all this in the first place. There’d been enough opportunity.