Liberation Day

Chapter 50

Years of pigeon shit hung from the steel roof supports like gray 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 pieces by the two unknowns I’d seen come out of the store 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 toward the Lexus, parked next to the Merc van, which was two vehicles along, opposite the shutter at the far end of the building. Blood dripped off his mustache and mouth as the two unknowns just followed him, kicking, and having a good laugh. They pushed him down onto the ground, then kicked him again, turning him away from the vehicles. The engine revved 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 One and 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 onto their sweat-drenched bodies. They were kept in the pit by what looked like a heavy old iron gate from a mansion, 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 pants. He took a long drag on a cigarette and swapped jokes with the fat van driver, who had a brown sweater 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 backward 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 worked 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 toward 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 we’d found was hidden by two mobile construction trailers, which stood at right angles to each other in front of a rough, whitewashed cinder-block cube, no more than eight feet 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 yammered off to each other and did some more begging to the people above.

A cell 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 around and lit as Goatee carried on his conversation in what sounded like French. There was even a little laughter from him as he walked toward 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 soccer balls 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 ear 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 fanny pack around, letting my front sink into the tar. 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’s yellow 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 onto 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 onto his knees. Wiping his hands on his jeans to get the tar off, he nodded over toward the gate. The heat burned 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 toward the downpipe.

A Peugeot station wagon with police markings and blue light bar had stopped at the intersection 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.