None.
“Phase four, the lift and the drop-off. Same as yesterday. We don’t know where the hawallada is going to be, we’ve just got to think on our feet. If there’s one of us, if there’s three of us, it doesn’t matter. Whoever’s there will just have to improvise. The most important thing is, we must get these people. I’ve got two cartridges left for my pen, so I’m going to need a spare from one of you. We can redistribute the stuff tomorrow.”
Lotfi fished in his jacket pocket.
“Any questions? All right, service and support. Remember the radio frequency change at midnight. Remember fresh batteries. Remember full fuel tanks. Remember the pager number. And please, Lotfi, put in a good word with God for us again.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “There is no need. I already have.”
“Then ask him if he wants to give us a hand sorting out the arrangements.”
Hubba-Hubba piped up. “We are going to prepare it here?”
“Why not? It’s as a good a place as any. Besides, it won’t take more than half an hour. All we have to do is use one of the blankets to cut off the rear from the front, and make a small aperture through the paint on one of the back windows. Easy.”
We sat in the dark now that Hubba-Hubba had closed the glove compartment.
“But the problem there is,” I poked Hubba-Hubba in the shoulder, “no matter how small the aperture, there is always the risk of compromise. Kids are a nightmare: they always seem to be exactly the same height as the aperture. And when they’ve thrown a wobbler at their mother, they’ll always stop and turn just in time to notice half an eye looking out at them from a hole in the van parked next to them. That normally freaks them out and they scream — which, of course, pisses the mother off even more, and she doesn’t believe the kid’s story of eyeballs looking at them and drags them away.”
Hubba-Hubba conferred with Lotfi. He looked confused. “Nick, what is a wobbler?”
“A tantrum.” He still didn’t get it.
Lotfi babbled off some Arabic as Hubba-Hubba nodded intently.
I leaned forward and poked him in the same spot once more. “And that’s the least you’ll be wanting to throw after a few hours staring out of the back of this thing.”
Chapter 43
We all exited the Scudo.
“Lotfi, I need you to keep a lookout on the road while I sort out the back with Hubba-Hubba, okay?”
“Of course.” He walked to the parking area entrance as we put the van space light back in place to see what we were doing, and started to use duct tape to fix up one of the dark-patterned, furry nylon blankets Hubba-Hubba had bought so that it hung from the roof just behind the two front seats.
Hubba-Hubba was leaning in from the left, and me from the right, as he whispered questions about his new job to the sound of duct tape being pulled away from its reel. “Won’t my eyes be seen from outside if I’m looking through the aperture?”
“No, mate, it doesn’t work like that if we do it correctly. It’ll be pitch-black inside here if we seal the blanket down the sides. You just need to keep your head back a bit, especially if there’s a kid throwing a wobbler next to you.”
“What about noise? What if I have to move, what if I get a cramp?”
“That is a problem, mate, because if you move too fast the wagon can rock. The slightest movement can be detected. Even when these things are custom-built inside a van. If you have to, just do it really slowly. You must keep the noise down in there.
“Normally these vans would be lined with foam, stuff like that, to absorb the noise. But for you there is going to be jack shit. You’ll just have to take your boots off and lay out the spare blanket.”
“Jack shit…Jack shit. Yes, I like this saying.”
“And talking of shit, don’t. Sorry. No food, just water, you can’t afford to need a dump.” I explained the logistics. “Make sure you take some empty bottles to piss into. Shitting is going to make too much noise, too much movement, and you won’t be able to keep the trigger. And you can’t just shit in your jeans, because you need to get out and join in the take.”
Hubba-Hubba couldn’t resist. “Have you ever had to shit during one of these triggers?”
“Twice. Once on purpose, because there was nothing I could do about it. I was just about to trigger someone and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. It didn’t matter, because I wasn’t in the take, just the trigger, so I was going to be driven away.”
Another length of duct tape was ripped off the roll. “And the other?”
“Let’s just say it was lucky I had a long coat on.”
The blanket was now hanging from the roof and we were starting to tape down the sides. Even with half of it hanging down and the rest gathered on the floor, I could make out the picture I was faced with in the dull light. “Where the fuck did you get this?” I pulled out the blanket from the bottom to expose the remainder of the furry dogs playing pool.
“They were all I could get in time…” He giggled as he realized how stupid it looked, and I couldn’t help but join in.
I forced myself to get serious. “Where’s your spray paint?”
“In the passenger door compartment.”
“Okay. You need to seal off just a little more down your side.”
I climbed out of the van and walked around to the right-hand door, to the sound of ripping duct tape as he got to work. By the time I had gotten around to the back again, Hubba-Hubba was sitting on the side door sill.
“What we need to do now, mate, is scrape a small hole at the bottom of the right-hand window, in the left- hand corner. That way the aperture is roughly in the center of the rear, and you’ll get a better perspective.”
I shook the paint can and the ball bearing mixer inside rattled about. “Keep it in the back in case you need to make it smaller once you’re in position.”
Less than five minutes later, and with the use of Hubba-Hubba’s thumb nail, it was done: a nice little scrape, an inch long, ran along the bottom of the right-hand window.
“Once you’ve triggered the Romeos, just crawl under the blanket, check first it’s clear, and climb out. You’ve got the Renault to think about, and we might as well keep the blanket in position seeing as it’s so interesting.”
Hubba-Hubba stayed in the back as I got out and slid the side door shut, and the interior light died. I moved to the driver’s seat and could hear him moving about inside.
I opened the glove compartment for some light. “Okay, mate, have a go at getting out.”
He started to worm his way under the blanket, trying to keep low. When he was halfway, he stopped and fished down the front of his shirt, pulling out his charm. “It keeps doing this.” He lay where he was, checking the clasp.
“H, can I ask you a question?”
He looked up, surprised, and nodded.
“I think I understand Lotfi, but,” I indicated his little beaded palm, “where does this fit in? Are you religious — you know, a paid-up Muslim?”
He concentrated once more on his repairs. “Of course, there is only one God. To be a true Muslim doesn’t mean we all have to be like Lotfi. Salvation is attained not by faith but by works.” He took the charm to his teeth, biting down on the metal before fiddling with it some more.
“You see, when I die I will be able to say the Shahada with the same conviction as he will. Do you know what I am talking about?” He raised his head again. “You heard the old guard say it in Algeria. ‘La ilaha ill-Allah, Muhammad-ur rasul-ullah.’ For you, that means: ‘There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the apostle of Allah.’ That is the Shahada, the first and greatest teaching of Islam. I just said that to you with true sincerity, and that is what makes me just as good a Muslim as him.” He fastened the chain, and gave it an experimental tug.
“When my book of destiny is weighed, it will show God that I was also a good man, and my reward will be the same as his, crossing the bridge to Paradise. Our Paradise is not like yours — a cloud to sit on, a harp to play —
