If the Yamaha was part of a surveillance team – or a hit team – there would be cars ahead of us by now, trying to pre-empt so the surveillance wasn't so obvious, trying to get ahead of the junctions so they could take us once the bike had told them what direction we'd committed to.
Other cars might be behind us, caught in the traffic, trying to close in, but it didn't matter too much. The stark fact was, there wouldn't just be a lone bike following us. They'd be all over the place. If I was heading the team, I'd send a car or bike straight to the tollbooths.
The lights turned to green. We went right and onto another junction about seventy metres further on. The lights were at red. A green sign pointed left to the autostrada. I hit the indicator while a dozen or so bikes and mopeds pushed past. The VFR went with them. I checked my wing mirror. He'd had no choice: I'd been the last car through.
Lynn checked his watch again and tutted.
58
The lights changed and I followed the traffic left. As I drove, I swivelled my eyes to check a filling station and shop car parks. Less than fifteen metres from the junction, there he was. The VFR was static between two parked cars. The rider was going through the motions of sorting himself out, but I knew from where he'd positioned the bike that he would have eyes on the junction.
And I knew what he'd be saying into his radio: that I was now heading towards the tollbooths and not turning right and going back into town. In other words, I wasn't doing anti-surveillance.
I pointed ahead. 'We're definitely on the straight now for the toll road, are we?'
'Yep, not far – thank God.' He checked his watch again.
The bike hadn't come with us. There were others ahead, for sure.
The road widened after one K into the toll plaza, as Lynn had said it would. Cafes and shops lined the route to the six or seven booths. So did parked cars and trucks. One in particular caught my attention. It was a dark blue Golf. If you'd jumped out to grab a coffee or a paper, you would have nosy-parked. This one had reversed in, ready to go.
As I drew level, I could see it was two-up. Both sat well back; no conversation, no movement. The side windows were tinted but the windscreen had a direct view of the tollgates. Both guys had black hair, days of growth, black leather jackets. I'd know that look anywhere.
I checked the rear-view as I got to the booth. The Golf cut out into the traffic at the same time as the VFR appeared in the distance.
I took my ticket and the barrier went up. We had two choices: left towards Genoa and the RV, right to head south, further down the coast.
I took the right.
'No, Nick, we want left, towards—'
I put my hand on his to stop him pointing. 'Shut the fuck up.'
The Golf was coming with me.
The Yamaha reappeared as we spiralled up to the autostrada. Good, just the bike and the Golf to contend with so far. With luck, everyone else would have been staking out the RV. Now that we were committed, they would be gunning it down to the next junction.
'We're going the wrong way. We're going to be late.'
'Listen in. Do not look back. Just look at me or ahead.'
He shuffled around in his seat, trying to decide what to do.
'We're being followed, got that? I thought you said Skype was safe . . .'
'It is, Nick. I don't know what's going on.'
'Well I fucking do.'
A sign said the next exit was a K away. I moved over to the right-hand lane, making it easier for them.
'This can't be them. I trust them—'
'Trust them or not, they've stitched us up.'
The Golf had followed us into the right-hand lane.
'We're going to try and lose them, dump the car and then do a runner.'
The slip road curled steeply to the right. The surface was canted; our wheels juddered on the rumble strips that lined the concrete drainage ditch.
Lynn turned to see what I kept checking in the mirror.
'For fuck's sake! Don't let them know!'
It wouldn't have mattered. The Golf came up close, with the Yamaha following. They were coming for us now we were out of view of the autostrada anyway. It was the best time and the only place to do it.
The Golf was going to ram us into the ditch. The rider would then pull up and drop us with a weapon.
'Fucking hold on!'
