a whole night’s TV viewing. There was nothing from George. He’d be waiting for the addresses that I’d give to Thackery at one o’clock, and he had nothing new to tell me.
I closed down, and pulled out my phone card, which still had sixty-two francs left on it. As I picked up my coffee, I spilled some down the machine and jerked back to avoid any dripping on me. Visibly annoyed with myself, I gave the screen, keys, and mouse a good wipe-down with the napkin that they’d wrapped around the baguette, until I’d left no fingerprints. With a fistful of soggy paper napkin and a suitably apologetic look on my face, I left Le Cyberpoint and headed back to the car, stopping on the way to buy a roll of 35mm film and a red-and-yellow jester’s hat with bells.
There was only an hour before the brush contact, so I turned the Megane’s ignition key and hit Riviera Radio, then slipped on the latex gloves. I tipped the film out of its plastic canister, and replaced it with the rolled-up addresses.
Marvin Gaye was interrupted by an American voice. “We now go to the BBC World Service for the top-of-the- hour news.” I checked traser on the last of the bleeps, and it was dead-on. A suitably somber female brought me up to speed on the bombing of Kabul, and the progress of the Northern Alliance. I turned it off, hoping that Thackery had been well trained and was doing exactly the same.
At thirty-two minutes past the hour I checked the canister in my jeans, the Browning, my baseball cap, and fanny pack, and headed once more into Cap 3000. It was a lot busier now. The gourmet food hall was doing a roaring trade, and it looked as though the Jaguar sales rep had led the charge. He was still at the garden table, but sitting back with a glass of red wine and a filled baguette the size of a small torpedo. I headed left and through the first-floor perfume department of Galeries Lafayette. Menswear was directly above me, up an escalator, but going this way gave me time to check my back and make sure no one else was wanting to join us.
I went into the book department to the right of the perfume counters, and started to check out the English- language guides to the area, not picking them up but tilting my head to scan the spines.
When I’d satisfied myself that no one was taking more interest in me than was healthy, I walked deeper into the store, took the escalator up to the second floor, and worked my way back to the men’s section. I hit the bargain racks of cargo pants and took a pair, plus some jeans. Then I wandered along the coat rack and chose one in dark blue padded cotton. It would stop me freezing to death at the OP, and not make the noise that nylon would every time I shifted position.
I moved from table to table, comparing prices, before picking up two sweatshirts. As far as I knew, you couldn’t leave fingerprints on fabric. The only thing I was doing differently from any other browser was snatching a look at traser whenever I could. I had to be on my start line at precisely twelve minutes past. The contact wasn’t exactly at one o’clock, but twelve minutes after. Surveillance teams are aware that humans tend to do things at the half, quarter, or on the hour.
At the same time, I was also keeping a running total of my expenditure. I wanted to make sure I had enough cash on me to cover the cost of this stuff. I didn’t want any scenes at the checkout that people might remember later.
At eight minutes past one I headed over to the maze of shelving in the underwear department. Calvin was doing a nice line in flannel pajamas and long johns this season, but they weren’t really my style. I moved on, glancing at the four or five other people in my immediate vicinity. None of them was wearing blue. I picked up four pairs of socks after sifting through the choices and checked traser. Three minutes to go.
Still no glimpse of blue. I draped my purchases over my left arm as I agonized over a shelf full of T-shirts and fished the canister out of my jeans. A man brushed past me from behind, and gave me a big “Pardon.” That was okay: it gave me extra cover to check traser. Two minutes to go. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” was interrupted by somebody babbling over the loudspeaker about the bargain of the day.
I was walking back toward my start line when I spotted a blue chunky turtleneck sweater ahead of me, no more than ten yards away. It was two sizes bigger than it needed to be, and making its way toward the other end of the socks and underwear aisle, the other start line. This wasn’t the sort of Thackery I’d imagined: this one looked straight out of a garage band. He was in his late twenties, with peroxide-blond hair, gelled up and messy. He, too, had a bag in his left hand. He was hitting the start line; it had to be him. One minute to go. I toyed with a selection of boxers on the edge of the underwear department, but my mind was focused on what was about to happen.
Twenty seconds to go. Adjusting the clothes on my arm, I transferred the canister into my right hand as I started to walk down the aisle. Thackery was now about six yards away. Between us, an old man was stooped over a pile of thermals.
There was another announcement over the loudspeaker, but I hardly heard it. I was concentrating completely on what needed to happen during the next few seconds.
Thackery’s eyes were green, and they were looking into mine. The contact was on. He was happy with the situation; so was I.
I headed straight along the aisle, aiming for the suits, but my eyes were on his hand. Two yards to go. I stepped around the old man, and relaxed my grip on the canister.
I felt Thackery’s hand brush against mine, and the canister was gone. He carried on walking. He’d done this before.
I decided against the suits, but had a quick look at the overcoats before heading to the cashier on the far side of the floor. I didn’t know what Thackery was doing, and didn’t care. My only job now was to pay up and get out, and that was exactly what I did.
Chapter 24
A wrecked car was burning nicely in the square, dangerously close to one of the apartment buildings. Flames were licking at the second-floor balconies, but nobody seemed to care. An old mattress had been chucked onto the roof, its burning foam adding to the column of thick black smoke. I tossed the garbage bag containing all my crap onto the fire; it was too good an opportunity to miss and I stood against a wall and watched it turn to ash. Kids ran around the car like Indians around a wagon train. They threw on wooden pallets and anything combustible they could find, while their parents shouted at them from the windows above.
As I approached the house, Hubba-Hubba’s garbage bag was exactly where it should have been, and the matches were under the door. Lotfi looked up from the couch by the coffee table as I entered the living room. Wearing a matching green shower cap and gloves, he muttered, “Bonjour, Nick,” with a very straight face, daring me to comment on his new hat. I just nodded extremely seriously as Hubba-Hubba threw the bolts behind me.
As I bent down to get my own gloves out of my duffel bag, I saw Hubba-Hubba’s sneakers stop a few feet behind me. He gave me a cheery “Bonjour,” but I didn’t look up until I’d slipped on my new multicolored velvet jester’s hat, then given a shake of the head for the full benefit of the bells. I tried to control my laughter, but failed as Hubba-Hubba moved into view. He was wearing a pair of joke glasses with eyeballs bouncing up and down on springs. Lotfi looked at us with a pained expression, like a father with two naughty children.
We all took our places around the coffee table. Lotfi got out his beads, ready to start threading them through his fingers as he thought about his next conversation with God. Hubba-Hubba took off his glasses and wiped the tears from his eyes before playing mother with the coffee. I kept my hat on, but what I had to say was serious.
“I’ve got the location of the boat in BSM from Greaseball. I’ve also got the three addresses from him, but he doesn’t know the names of the hawallada or the times of the collections.” I looked at the two of them. “You ready?”
They both nodded as I tried the hot sweet coffee. Then they closed their eyes and listened intently as I gave them the Palais de la Scala address.
They were immediately concerned. “I know what you’re thinking. I couldn’t agree more. It’s going to be a nightmare. But what can I say?”
Well, I did know what to say: the address, three more times. I watched their lips moving slightly as they repeated it to themselves.
I gave them the second address three times, then the third. They opened their eyes again once I’d finished, and I told them about the recces.
