e-mail center and the place where the brush contact would happen tomorrow.
The airport was right at the edge of the city, virtually on the beach. A new terminal was under construction, and large pictorial banners told me how wonderful it would be for the future of the area.
I drove into the city along a wide double-lane highway, punctuated by palm trees. The automatic sprinkler system threw up a series of pint-sized rainbows along the central divide. The traffic was funneled between glass and steel hotels and more construction sites. It got busier and busier, until it turned into the Wacky Races, with the contestants stopping and starting like maniacs, slaloming from lane to lane and leaning on their horns.
I switched on the English-speaking Riviera Radio and listened to a Hugh Grant soundalike make his link from the closing bars of a Barbra Streisand weepy into a string of commercials for financial and yachting services. Before long I even knew the price of a barrel of Brent crude, and what was happening on the Nasdaq. It was obvious what type of Brit expatriates they were broadcasting to: the very rich kind. But I always listened to it because they had a review of the U.S. papers in the afternoon, and carried the BBC World Service hourly.
I hit the Promenade des Anglais, the main drag along the coast. It was a glamorous stretch, lined with palm trees and glitzy old-world hotels. Even the buses were immaculate: they looked as though someone had just given them a good polish before they were allowed into town. I carried on around the harbor, which was heaving with pleasure cruisers and ferries en route to and from Corsica, and started to see signs for Beaulieu-sur-Mer.
The road wound uphill until only the cliff edge and a hundred-foot drop separated it from the sea. As I got higher I could see mountain ranges inland that seemed to go on forever. I guessed Riviera Radio was right when it said you could be on the beach in the morning, and skiing in the afternoon.
Nice disappeared behind me as the road snaked along the cliff. I felt like I’d been caught up in a late-night movie; I expected to turn a corner at any moment, and meet Grace Kelly in an Alpine Sports roadster coming the other way.
I took a steep left-hand turn, and Villefranche and its huge deep-water bay lay spread out below me. Home of the U.S. Sixth Fleet until France decided to pull its military out of NATO, it was one of the biggest natural harbors in the world. American and British warships still dropped anchor there when on a courtesy visit — or when spiriting away heavily anesthetized hawalladas.
The dull gray shape of the warship dominated the bay with its large registration number stenciled in white paint on the back. It had more domes and antennae than the Starship Enterprise, and a helipad on the back big enough to take a jumbo jet.
The crew wouldn’t have a clue what was happening. The most they’d know was that an area was out of bounds, and some important guests were on board. Only the captain and a few officers would have been told what the goodwill visit was really all about. The guests were probably getting a sit rep from George this very minute, using the information I’d just sent. They’d be fired up now making their final preparations in some small, steel- walled room, out of screaming distance from the crew. I really hoped we were going to make it all worth their while.
Beyond the warship was Cap Ferrat. It looked very green, and very opulent, with large houses surrounded by trees and high fences. I made my way around the bay, through Villefranche and past a small left-hand turn that hairpinned up to the mountains. Up that road and just over sixteen miles away, on the other side of a couple of small villages and the odd isolated house, was the DOP. It was an illegal dumping area, full of rusting freezers and household waste. It looked like it could host the biggest yard sale on the planet, and was just the place I needed.
A few minutes later I was in Beaulieu-sur-Mer. The harbor was on the other side of the town, so I followed signs to the gare. It was a small cream-colored building with a taxi stand and flower beds that were so manicured they looked like they had a personal stylist. After a couple of circuits, I found a spot and parked. I got out and retrieved my digital camera from my duffel bag.
The Megane was a perfect vehicle for this sort of job: it was a dark color, a popular make, and about as nondescript as they come, once I’d peeled off the sticker from the dealership the rental company had bought it from. It was also small enough to park quickly, but big enough to hide a body in the trunk. Which was why, as well as my personal gear, I had two rolls of silver duct tape in the trunk. Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba also had some; we wanted to make sure that once we got a body inside a vehicle, it was there to stay.
All three vehicles had been fiddled with so that the backup and brake lights could be cut off. It was simple enough: we just sliced through the leads and added an on/off switch to the circuit. When we drove a hawallada into the DOP with the lights out, the last thing we wanted was for the brake or backup lights to kick in and show everyone around what we were up to. For the same reason, all the interior lightbulbs had been removed. We’d have to return the cars to Alamo, or wherever the other two had gotten theirs from, in the same condition we’d rented them, but it wouldn’t take more than an hour or so to change everything back.
I wandered around between the post office and the station, making like a tourist, taking the odd snapshot while the taxi drivers stood around their Mercedes, preferring to talk and smoke rather than take a fare.
The gare was immaculate, as French train stations always are. I glanced at the timetables — regular services in both directions along the coast, either back to Nice, Cannes, and Marseille, or on to Monaco and Italy.
I bought myself nine francs’ worth of brewed-while-you-wait coffee from the machine and tried not to overexcite three small white hairy dogs that were tied by lengths of string to the newsstand on my left. They looked at me as if it were lunchtime. I stepped around them and went to look at the postcard carousel rack. Cards are a really good source of information for people like me, because they usually have shots of locations you can’t get to easily. It’s Standard Operating Procedure for most intelligence operators to collect them as they travel around the world, because the agencies want these things at hand. If there’s an incident, say, at an airport in the middle of Nowhereland, they just have to open their files and they’ve got a collection of visuals to refer to until more information is gathered.
I picked up several pictures of Beaulieu-sur-Mer, which showed the marina from different angles and heights, all shot in fantastic sunlight, with beautiful women and sharply chiseled men strolling among the boats. Next to the carousel was a display of town maps, so I picked out three different ones. The vendor had a big round face and an annoyingly happy smile. I gave him my “Merci, au revoir” and walked away with the change, which the French never seem to put into your hand, but always on the counter, in case you’ve got some disease.
I went back to the car.
The marina was larger than I’d expected from the postcards. Two or three hundred shiny masts rocked and glinted in the sunlight.
Just before turning through the entrance, I saw bus stops on either side of the road and a glass phone booth. Whoever was on the boat had chosen their location well: there were buses to both Monaco and Nice, and the train station was just a ten-minute walk away. The phone booth was certainly going to be a bonus for us.
The large blue sign welcomed me, thanked me for my visit, looked forward to me coming back again, and gave me a list of available stores and services. I took a right onto the access road, a short avenue with neatly trimmed hedges on either side. There was a mini traffic circle ahead of me, and beyond that, the world’s largest supply of pleasure craft. I turned left toward the parking lot.
Chapter 14
A one-story, flat-roofed building housed a promenade of stores and cafes that ran for maybe a hundred yards on each side of the mini traffic circle. I drove slowly over a succession of speed bumps, past fancy restaurants with glinting glasses and dazzlingly white linen tablecloths, all laid out for lunch. It was just after midday, so they’d be full pretty soon, once the boaters had emerged from the clothing stores, shopping bags bulging with Lacoste polo shirts and sweaters.
Coffee drinkers sat at cafe tables just a few yards from the water’s edge, probably wishing they were sitting aboard the sleek and beautiful boats just out of reach to my right instead. The craft all seemed to have English names like Suntreader or Kathy’s Dreams, and it was obviously the time of day for their owners to be out on deck, to take an aperitif, and enjoy being envied.
I reached the point where the promenade merged with a series of administration buildings that bordered the parking lot. I pulled up next to the deserted beach, by a sign saying “Petite Afrique,” probably because that was
