found a pen among the mess on the table, and wrote on the edge of a newspaper, in a scrawl that any doctor would have been proud of.
“There is a port, a marina, I think you call it. It’s not far. Her name is the Ninth of May. It’s a white boat, quite large. It’s coming in tomorrow night.” He ripped off the edge of the paper—“Here”—and pushed it toward me.
I looked out of the window and down into the garden of one of the original houses opposite. An old man was tending a vegetable patch, attaching bits of silver paper to bamboo sticks. I kept watching him. “How many are going to be on board?”
“There are three. One will always remain with the boat, while the other two collect the money. They’re going to start on Friday, the first of three collections. They’ll make one a day, and leave for Algiers with the money on Sunday. They are trying to close their accounts here in France — before you do it for them, no?”
I turned back to Greaseball. He rummaged around in his bag and dragged out a Camel. With an elegant flick of a lighter, he sat back and let smoke curl out of his nostrils. He crossed his legs once more and laid his left arm along the back of the couch as if he were running the show. He was starting to get a bit too confident. “Where are they going to collect the cash, then, Greaseball?”
He choked on his cigarette and smoke blew uncontrollably from his nose and mouth. “Greaseball?” Composing himself, he took another drag and this time exhaled slowly, smiling at his new name. “Where? That I do not know, and I won’t until tomorrow night, maybe. I’m not sure yet. But I do know they’re only going to use public transport, buses, that sort of thing. It’s safer than Hertz. Bus drivers don’t keep records.”
It made sense to me. “Do you know how much money?”
“Anything between two-point-five and three million American.”
He took another drag and I went back to watching the old guy dig around his vegetable patch, thinking about the number of suicide bombers’ families with Land Cruisers with all the extras that could be funded with that sort of cash.
“Are they collecting from hawalladas?”
“Yes, of course. These guys on the coast, the ones who will be handing them the money, are hawalla people.”
I moved back one of the net curtains so I could get a clearer view.
“What time will the boat arrive?”
“Did you know this is where the money was collected to finance the attack on the American embassy in Paris?” He took another drag and sounded almost proud. “Can you imagine what would have happened if that had been successful too?”
“The boat, what time?”
There was some shuffling as he adjusted himself in his seat. “In the evening sometime, I’m not too sure.” There was a pause and I could hear him stubbing out his cigarette and pulling another from the pack. I turned as he gave the lighter a flick and looked at the CDs on the wall unit. It was obvious he was a big Pink Floyd fan.
“Zeralda liked me to bring a new tape for him each trip. I’d collect the boys too, of course.” He cocked his head to one side, measuring my reaction. “Did you see me drive back to the house that night? I was hoping you would have finished the job by then. But he kept calling on my cell. He didn’t like to be kept waiting….”
The fucker was smiling, taunting me.
I pulled the sliding glass door with my sweatshirt cuff to let in some air, and was greeted by the sound of traffic from the main drag, and the old guy outside clearing his passages. I resisted the temptation to go over and give Greaseball a good smack in the teeth and looked outside again instead. “So you two liked the same music as well as the same boys?”
He blew out another lungful of smoke before he replied. “You find it distasteful — but are you telling me it’s worse than cutting off a man’s head? You don’t mind using people like me when you need to, do you?”
I shrugged my shoulders, still looking out at the old man. “I’m here because it’s my job, believe me. And distasteful isn’t a strong enough word for what I think about you.”
I heard what sounded like a snort of derision and turned back to face him.
“Get real, my friend. You may hate me, but you’re here, aren’t you? And that’s because you want something from me.”
He was right, but that didn’t mean to say I was going to share his toothbrush. “Have you got anything else for me?”
“That’s all I know so far. But how do I inform you about the collections?”
“I’ll come here at eleven tonight. Make sure you’re here, and no one else is. You have a bell that rings downstairs, yeah?” He nodded and sucked the last mouthful out of his Camel. “Good. Open the door.”
He moved toward the exit. I went over to the coffee table and took the marina address, as well as the newspaper. Beaulieu-sur-Mer — I did know it, and so would anyone else if they picked up the paper. The imprint was clear to see on the pages beneath. As I bent down I could see the lower shelves of the wall unit and did a double-take at some Polaroids. I knew he liked rock music, but this was something else. Greaseball was in a bar, drinking with one of the guitarists from Queen. At least, that’s who it looked like. Whoever it was, he had the same mad curly hair.
Greaseball was trying to work out what had caught my eye as I waited for him to pull back the bolt. “Those people, the ones on the boat…Are you going to do the same to them as you did to Zeralda?”
I checked my 9mm to make sure it was concealed as he opened the door and glanced outside. I didn’t bother to look back at him. “Eleven. If you don’t know by then, I’ll be back in the morning.” I went past him, my left hand ready to pull up the sweatshirt.
As I walked toward the elevator I saw the stairwell and decided to go that way instead, just to get off the floor more quickly. I elbowed the light switch as I passed it. A couple of floors down, I was smothered in darkness. I waited for a moment, then pressed the next one.
I reached the ground floor and headed for the main door as a young woman in red sweat pants and sweatshirt was packing a crying baby into a stroller on the landing. Out in the sun again, I had to squint as I checked the bell push for number forty-nine. There was no name by it but, then, who would want to own up to living in a place like this? As I walked away, I wondered how I was going to break the news to Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba that Greaseball was the source.
Chapter 12
As I headed back along Boulevard Carnot, I knew I’d have to move from my hotel. It was far too close to Greaseball’s apartment, and I didn’t even want him to see me, let alone find out where I was staying.
I stopped at the laundromat and picked up my sheets. They were now on top of the washing machine, still wet. As I shoved them into the black garbage bag, the old woman jabbered at me for leaving them in when there were about four other people waiting. I’d obviously breached the laverie protocol big-time, so I just smiled my apologies to everyone as I finished my packing and left.
I set off down the hill toward the beach. I had to contact George and give him a sit rep, and that meant going to the Mondego, a cyber cafe, and getting online. He needed to know where the collectors were going to park their boat and, later on, where they were going to collect the cash. My surroundings got very smart very quickly. Luxury hotels that looked like giant wedding cakes lined the coast road, La Croisette, and Gucci shops sold everything from furs to baseball caps for dogs. I dumped the sheets into a street garbage, hanging on to the plastic bag. As I carried on walking, I screwed up the newspaper I’d taken from Greaseball’s apartment inside it.
This might have been the upscale end of town, but anything that stuck out of the sidewalk, like a parking meter or a tree, was decorated with fresh dog piss and a couple of brown lumps.
New cars, motorbikes, and motor scooters were crammed into every possible, and impossible, space, and their owners, the customers in the cafes, looked extremely cool and elegant in their sunglasses, smoking, drinking, just generally posing around the place.
There were quite a few homeless around here as well. Fair: if I were homeless I’d want to sleep in a warm place with lots of good-looking people about, particularly if they were the sort to throw you a few bucks. A group of
