wheelbarrowed past me and the fuck bench, looking down at the camper and grumbling to himself. Maybe he hadn’t been as firm as he’d thought. I soon heard metallic noises to my right as his tools were pulled off the wheelbarrow, and he started to dig in the sun-dried soil. If he saw me, I’d just have to play the bum and let him chuck me out. I could walk down to the marina entrance and maybe sit at the bus stop; at least I’d still have an OP on both exits. Then all three of us would have to take turns keeping that trigger until the Romeos moved. It would be a nightmare, but there was nothing I could do about it.
“Hello, hello — radio check.”
I put my hand into my jacket. It must be nine o’clock.
“H?”
Click, click.
“N?”
Click, click.
“That’s all okay.”
The next three and a half hours were a pain in the ass. Mr. McGregor seemed to spend more time smoking than he did gardening, which was fine by me because he took his breaks at the far end of the garden. Down in the marina, people wandered off their boats and returned with baguettes or bags of croissants; delivery vans arrived and did their stuff at the stores; cars drove into the parking lot and men with tool kits and overalls went to work on decks, rigging, and other boaty stuff. I could hear a bit of music now and again from the restaurants, and the occasional loud voice or burst of laughter from customers in the tabac, punctuated by the smashing of more glass. The window-replacement boys must have been on site.
A small electric cart loaded with garbage cans and brooms whined its way out of the dead ground in front of the stores and toward the wheeled bins where I’d hidden my Timberlands. Mr. McGregor shouted down at the driver, who stopped and dismounted with a drag on his cigarette and a wave. His stomach looked about the same weight as the vehicle, which was probably feeling relieved to be rid of him. The garbage cart driver cupped an ear toward the high ground of the gardens as the old boy gave him some verbal broadband, then turned back toward the camper with a determined nod.
The garbage cart driver closed in on the VW, and repeated the performance.
There was a lot of thumping on the side of the van and what I supposed was the French for “Get the fuck out of here, this isn’t a campsite.”
The door slid halfway open and a woman with short dark hair and a black leather jacket appeared in the gap.
Words were exchanged, but whatever was said stopped the cart man in his tracks. He walked away from the camper as the sliding door closed.
My heart beat a little bit faster. This didn’t feel right.
Mr. McGregor called to him, wanting to know what was happening. The cart man beckoned him down the steps.
I hit my pressle. “All call signs, this is N. There could be a problem. The yellow-and-white VW van that came in last night might contain another surveillance team. Roger so far, L.”
Click, click.
“H?”
Click, click.
“I’ll explain more later. Nothing changes for us. Just remember your third-party awareness. If I’m right, there might be others out there. Acknowledge, L.”
Click, click.
“H?”
Click, click.
The woman had been fully dressed. Was that so she could get out of the camper fast if the shit hit the fan, and still have her weapon and radio concealed?
Either way, we still had our job to do. If they were after the hawallada, we just had to get there first. I reckoned George would be able to wring what he needed out of them a lot quicker than any law-enforcement agency.
The engine fired up on the camper. It headed toward the marina entrance, with a man at the wheel.
“Stand by, stand by. That’s the van now mobile, two up. A man with a dark ponytail and a woman with short dark hair and a black leather jacket.” The van went out of sight, following the line of the storefronts. “That’s now unsighted toward the marina exit.”
They both acknowledged with a double-click, and it was no more than a minute before Lotfi came on the net with the van’s progress. “L has the Combi toward BSM, still two up. Now unsighted.”
I tried to convince myself that I’d been wrong about what I’d seen. But only for about three seconds.
Mr. McGregor shuffled his way back up the hill and started digging away to my right as I got another radio check. It was twelve o’clock on the dot. “Hello, radio check. H?”
Click, click.
“N?”
At almost the same moment, my eyes were sucked toward the rear deck of the boat. There was movement: a body appeared. It was Curly, still in his T-shirt and jeans, having a look around as he let down the gangway.
“N, radio check.”
Click, click, click, click.
There was a pause. He would only have been expecting two. “Is that a stand-by, N? Is that a stand- by?”
Click, click.
He got the message. “Stand by, stand by.”
Chapter 31
Curly had finished pushing out the gangway, still in bare feet, as the Romeos I’d almost dribbled on last night appeared on deck. I couldn’t radio Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba, as Mr. McGregor was just a bit too close for comfort as he scraped about in the earth with his spade no more than four or five yards away. But Lotfi knew what to do. “N, is there movement?”
Click, click.
“Are the Romeos still on the boat?”
I did nothing.
“Are they foxtrot?”
Click, click.
Mr. McGregor was even closer than I’d thought. I could hear the rasp of a lighter.
The Romeos were now off the pier and had turned left toward the stores. I had a better view of them now. Both were in dark suits.
Lotfi got back on the net. “Are there two of them?”
I clicked twice, raised the binos to my eyes with my right hand, and kept the left over the pressle as Curly hauled the gangway back in and disappeared inside the boat. I checked them out while Lotfi carried on asking questions. “Are they male?”
Click, click.
Hubba-Hubba came on the net. “H is mobile.”
Lotfi: “Are they still in the marina?”
Click, click.
There was hesitation: Lotfi was trying to think of other things to ask so he and Hubba-Hubba could have a clearer picture of what was going on. But he still hadn’t asked what they looked like. Finally, he got there. “Are they Arab?”
