I looked at Hubba-Hubba. “First thing, how do I get out of here?”
He pointed at a red and a green button to the side of the shutter.
“Okay, mate, go and clear the drop-off. I’ll come in via BSM, and radio-check you to make sure everything’s clear up there.”
He nodded and walked to the door as I half-sat in the Audi, turned the key, and watched him disappear into the street, closing the door carefully behind him.
“That’s H foxtrot. L, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
The engine turned over gently and exhaust fumes filled my nostrils as I moved over to the electric doors, waiting to be cleared by Hubba-Hubba.
There were still voices outside and I could just hear the chainsaw rev up once more in the distance. It was now magnified in my earpiece as Hubba-Hubba came on the net. “N, it is all clear, it’s all clear.”
Click, click.
I hit the shutter button with my elbow and the electric motor whined. As the steel door squeaked its way up, I slipped my shades onto my nose and pulled my brim down low.
Backing out, I had to stop parallel with the truck to close the shutter, before heading for the square. Hubba- Hubba was on his way to the drop-off. “H is mobile. L, acknowledge.”
“Roger that, N is mobile.”
The Audi was an automatic, so it was quite easy to keep my right hand on the pressle.
“That’s approaching the left-hand bend…at the bend toward the square…halfway…approaching.” I hit the intersection. “Stop, stop, stop. Silver car.”
“L has, L has.”
The black Ford Focus was up the road to my left, just past the entrance to the parking lot and facing away from me. There was no need to continue on with the countdown: he had me. I turned left and Lotfi slotted in behind.
We wound our way back to the casino, down the hill toward the harbor. Traffic was heavy but steady as people began to head home from offices and banks, clouds of cigarette smoke and bad music billowing out of their open windows. Higher up, much bigger clouds, dark and brooding, gathered in the mountains.
We crawled around the harbor, with Lotfi protecting the rear of the Audi from impatient commuters.
Motorcycle police were directing traffic at a four-way intersection not far from the tunnels. A truck in front of me eventually got the wave and turned right. I followed as Lotfi hit the net. “No, no, no, no, no!”
As the message sank in I saw Lotfi in my side mirror, heading straight on, not right. There was a series of short, sharp whistle blasts from one of the policemen now behind me. He was wearing high-leg riding boots and a sidearm, and was waving me to a halt. Another policeman kicked up the stand on his bike, and my mind raced through the options. It didn’t take long; I didn’t really have any. I had to bluff it.
If I put my foot down I probably wouldn’t even make it past the other side of the tunnel. I took a deep breath, accepting my big-time fuck-up, checked my Browning was covered, and pulled over as a few trucks moved out into the center of the road to pass the jerk who didn’t know where he was going. The policeman approached and I pressed the down button on the window, looking up at him, my face one big apology. He still had his helmet on, a BMW lid, the sort where you can pull up the face. He said something in French and pointed back to the junction. His tone was more exasperated than aggressive.
I stammered, “I’m sorry, officer, I…”
The bags under his eyes drooped as he looked down at me with an expression of unutterable weariness. “Where are you going?” Perfect English.
“To Nice. I’m sorry, I’m a bit lost and I missed your signal….”
His expression told me he’d been dealing with idiot Brits for years. With a resigned nod, he walked back toward the intersection and beckoned me to back up. A dozen horns were leaned on as he held up the traffic with a leather-gloved hand and pointed me in the direction Lotfi had gone. I gave him a wave of thanks and tried to avoid the angry glares of the other drivers.
As I pulled away I saw Lotfi on foot to my left, coming uphill toward the intersection. His arms were crossed and inside his jacket, which meant only one thing. He had drawn down in case he had to get me out of the shit the hard way. He spotted me and turned on his heel as I got on the net. “L, where are you parked? Where are you parked?”
The roar of the traffic filled his mike. “On the right, not far. Down on the right.”
“Okay, I’ll wait for you, I’ll wait for you.”
Click, click.
I drove down the hill, looking for the Focus. It felt really strange knowing that someone had actually been coming to help. Nobody had done that for me since I left the Regiment.
I saw his car in a small turnout in front of some stores. I pulled in about four cars back, and waited for him to get back behind the wheel. I watched him approach in my rearview mirror, and felt a surge of gratitude that I realized was close to friendship. It had been my fuck-up; he didn’t have to come back and help, but he had been prepared to put his own life at risk to do so.
He walked past me, not giving the Audi a second glance, and as he waited for a line of cars to pass before opening his door, I wrote myself a mental Post-it to find a way of thanking him.
Chapter 36
The Audi and the Focus merged with the traffic as we flicked on our lights to drive through the tunnel. Two Legoland police and three more in riding boots, astride their machines, were on duty at the traffic circle on the other side, checking vehicle tax and insurance discs as the traffic filtered past them. The flow speeded up now, as most of the traffic turned up to the A8, wanting to get straight home rather than waste time winding along the coast. I was trying to think what to do now that there was an extra vehicle in the plan.
It was starting to get dark, so the headlights stayed on. Pinpricks of light were scattered all over the populated slopes to our right, but as the mountains got higher, they thinned out.
It wasn’t long before we arrived at BSM and passed my Megane behind the OP and then the marina entrance. I knew I wouldn’t be able to see the Ninth of May from the road, but couldn’t resist a look anyway before checking the rearview mirror for the hundredth time to make sure Lotfi was still behind me. I got on the net. “H, radio check, radio check.”
I got two low and crackly clicks.
“You are weak. Have you checked the drop-off?”
The clicks were still crackly.
“Okay, change of plan, change of plan. I still want you to cover me, but in my car, cover me in my car. Roger so far.”
Click, click.
“I need you to get rid of the Audi after the drop-off. Lotfi will back you, and take you back to your car afterward. H, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
“L, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
“Roger that. Just carry on now as planned. Do not acknowledge.”
I continued on along the coast road, Lotfi still behind me; I could see his dimmed lights in my rearview, but I had no idea where Hubba-Hubba was. It didn’t matter: we were communicating. We eventually reached the intersection that led to Cap Ferrat, and then, no more than two minutes farther on, rounded a sweeping right-hand bend and the bay of Villefranche stretched out below us. The warship was lit up like a Christmas tree about a mile offshore, and a dozen yachts twinkled away at their moorings. I didn’t have long to take in the picture-postcard view before stopping at the intersection that took us to the DOP. I waited with my indicator flashing for Lotfi to overtake, then followed him up an incredibly steep series of hairpin bends. The road narrowed, with room for two
