A set of headlights swept the high ground ahead of me, on the other side of the marina as they left town, then cut into the night sky in the area of the parking lot where Lotfi’s Ford Focus was going to be positioned. The vehicle continued down the slope, passed the marina entrance, then came uphill toward me, still on high beam, dipping briefly as it climbed past me. It was Hubba-Hubba’s silver Fiat Scudo. He’d drawn the short straw for the sort of small van an odd-job man would use. It had a sliding side door, plus two at the rear; on my instructions he’d had to spray out the windows in the rear doors with matte black car paint, and we would have to scrape it off again before the van was returned to the rental company. We couldn’t be sure of making a definite ID on the hawallada if we encountered a group of people handing over the cash, so we might have to lift a bunch of people, bundle them into the van, and let the warship figure it out. I bet they’d be able to sort the problem out in no time at all.
I couldn’t see him behind the steering wheel because of the headlights, but I could read the first four digits of the rear plate as Hubba-Hubba went by. Tucked under that plate, as with all our vehicles, would be his spare key.
Silence returned, apart from the sound of water slapping against very expensive hulls and the clicking and clacking of pieces of metal and ropes and all sorts of other stuff as they rocked rhythmically at their moorings. A few lumpy clouds blocked out the stars now and then as they scudded across the sky.
I turned left at the mini-traffic circle, and walked past the shopping promenade toward the parking lot. There was still a light shining in the rear of one of the fancy restaurants, and the flickering glow of a TV set escaped from the gaps around the blinds of a cabin directly opposite, but apart from that everyone else in marinaland had thrown in their towels for the night.
I turned right at the parking lot and headed for pier nine, which was the second one on the right. In the dull glow of the overhead lamps that lined the edge of the marina, a sign told me I couldn’t fish from here, and that the spaces were numbered forty-five to ninety.
From either side of me came the slap of water and the click of electricity meters as I passed the backed-in boats. I was sure there was a better way of saying it, but Lotfi wasn’t around to put me right. In my head, I ran through my reason for being here. I was looking for my girlfriend. We’d argued, and I knew she was on a yacht here somewhere — well, here or in Antibes, I wasn’t too sure. But I was unlikely to be challenged: even if somebody saw me, they’d be much more likely to assume I was going back to one of the boats than getting up to bad things in the night.
A TV blared out of a white fiberglass motor launch the size of a small bungalow, gleaming in the darkness to my left. A satellite dish on the pier was collecting what sounded like a German program, with aggressive voices barking out. People in the studio and inside the boat were laughing.
As I neared parking space forty-seven on my right, I found what I was looking for. The Ninth of May was a bigger and more upmarket version of the fishing boat from Jaws. Her name was painted on the rear in flowing, cursive writing, as if it had been done with a fountain pen. She was registered in Guernsey, Channel Islands, and had a red ensign hanging off the back of a small sort of patio area. A diving deck jutted out over the propellers, with a folding ladder for swimmers to climb in and out of the water.
A short aluminum gangway, hinged at the back of the boat above the diving deck, was lifted clear of the pier by a pair of divots, as if they wanted a little bit of privacy.
A set of blacked-out floor-to-ceiling doors, with matching windows on either side of them, preserved the anonymity of the main cabin. To their right was an aluminum ladder with handrails that led to the upper deck. From what I could see as I wandered past, there were two couches up there, facing forward, and a console, all covered with custom-made heavy white plastic tarps. I supposed they’d whip these off for summer driving.
I concentrated for the time being on trying to take in as much information as I could without stopping or turning my head too obviously toward the target. I had to go to the end of the pier, glance at my watch, look a bit confused, then turn around and walk back. There was no other way to get off. The second time I caught the left- hand side of the boat, and saw light leaking from the two cabin windows. As I got closer there was still no noise but, then again, there wasn’t a satellite dish and no TV cable running from the plastic casing on the quay; just water and electric.
It was twelve-thirty-eight when I approached the stores. Hubba-Hubba should be nearing the OP. I decided to wait a few minutes to give him time to check the position and drop off my gear, before I moved up the concrete steps and checked out the front of the OP for myself on the way back to the road.
I stood against one of the louvered doors of one store and listened to the gentle hum of a generator, feeling the heat seep through the slats as I had a good look at the top of the Ninth of May and worked out how I was going to get the device on board.
At twelve-forty-three I walked up the stone steps to the flat roof and the fuck bench, following the pathway that led to the main drag. Once on the main road I turned right, and saw a lone figure on my side of the road, heading toward Monaco. I knew it was Hubba-Hubba because he took small, jerky strides, almost as if he were wearing a pair of punk bondage pants.
By the time I was past the Megane he had disappeared into the darkness. I spotted the Coke can sticking out of the hedge, and, picking it up as I passed, I moved along the hedge about four or five yards before climbing over at what I thought was the same point I’d come out of on Wednesday.
Scrabbling on my hands and knees, feeling in front of me, I got to the bundle. I made sure I had eyes on the boat as I unknotted the towel. The Ninth of May was packed in among all the other boats like a sardine, but even in the gloom it was easy enough to spot, simply because I knew it was there.
The priority was to sort out comms; nothing was going to happen without them, apart from a fuck-up.
I wished we could have just used one of those antennae sticking out of the warship as a relay board. With that sort of help, we could have communicated safely and securely with anyone, anywhere in the world, even George. But you don’t have that kind of luxury when you’re deniable: you have to rely on e-mails, brush contacts, and the Sony Corporation.
I turned the volume dial to switch on the radio, then peeled back the strip of duct tape that covered the illuminated display, to check it was on channel one. The channel dial was also covered with duct tape, to ensure it didn’t move. Hubba-Hubba would have checked all this before leaving the safe house, but it was now my radio, and time to check again. I slipped it into the inside pocket of my jacket, and put on the earpiece of the hands-free set. The next item I retrieved and checked was the insulin case, before it went into my fanny pack.
A truck thundered past, heading east toward Monaco, as I checked the spare radio and the pipe bomb. It was still in its garbage bag, to keep it sterile. Then I made myself as comfortable as I could against the hedge, making sure I could see the target through the V-shaped palm in front of me before getting a Snickers bar down my throat and checking traser. There were six minutes to go before the first radio check.
I watched the boat and generally sorted myself out by shuffling left and right to make a small dip in the earth. It was going to be a long night. Then, checking the time once more, I unzipped my jacket and hit the radio pressle. “Morning, morning. Radio check, H.” I spoke in a low, slow, normal voice. These radios weren’t like military sets, which are designed to be whispered into. I’d only end up repeating myself, as the other two tried to work out what the mush in their ear was all about. I’d be wasting power and time on the air.
I let go of the pressle and waited until I heard a voice. “H. Okay, okay.” Then it went dead. I hit the pressle. “That’s okay to me. L?”
“I can hear you perfectly.”
“Good, good. Okay, then. Everything is how it should be, the OP is set. I’ll call you when I’ve worked out what I’m going to do. H, have you got that?”
I got two clicks.
“L?”
Click, click.
“Okay.”
I zipped up my jacket and looked out at the boat, thinking hard about my options. It didn’t take me long to work out that I really only had one. Swimming would be more covert on the approach, but once on the boat I would leave sign, and I couldn’t guarantee it would evaporate by the morning. They might even come out during the night and see it. So it looked like the towel was out of commission tonight, which was good. I hadn’t been looking forward to a dip anyway.
I decided simply to walk to the back of the boat, climb on board, and go for the padded seats on the top deck. At this time of year they wouldn’t be used: the weather, and the reason for the visit, would encourage the
