Liberation day

by Andy McNab

  I hit the coast road. It was much less busy now; just the odd Harley or two thundering along as their riders took advantage of the deserted pavement.

  As I approached Nice, the whole coastline seemed to be bathed in neon. It reminded me of the United States, a never-ending stream of shocking pink and electric blue.

  There was heavier traffic in both directions along the Promenade des Anglais, and the whores were doing good business with curb crawlers near the airport. Quite a few bars were still open for diehards.

  I turned inland on the same road as I’d used to go to the safe house, and headed for La Roque, on the east edge of town. It turned out to be just a big sprawl of apartment buildings, much like those around the safe house, only cleaner and safer. There were no scorch marks above the windows, no bricked-up buildings, no burnt-out cars. There were even supermarkets, and a street market, by the look of the boxes of damaged fruit and vegetables that were piled up in the main street. A garbage truck lumbered along, bedecked with yellow flashing lights, and sanitation workers in fluorescent jackets moved among the bums rooting through the debris.

  I pulled over to check the map. Boulevard Jean XIII was the second right turn, so I overtook the garbage truck and turned right. Cheap shoe stores, thrift shops, and groceries were on both sides of me. Maybe this was where Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba had bought their outfits. A few takeout pizza joints were still open, flanked by lines of mopeds with boxes on the back, ready to zip off to an apartment building with a large quatre fromages and some special-deal chicken fingers.

  The building turned out to be not a house but a storefront covered completely by a large pull-down shutter plastered in graffiti. Huge padlocks anchored it to the pavement.

  I hung the next right at the intersection, just two storefronts along, then right again, taking a quick look at the back of the store. I found rough, broken asphalt and crushed Coke cans, and hundreds of signs that I presumed said, “Fuck off, don’t park here, proprietors only.” Big Dumpsters lined the long wall that ran along the rear of the promenade of shops.

  I drove along the back of the promenade. There was no need to park, and it wouldn’t be wise to spend too long hanging around commercial premises at this time of night. It might attract attention, or even a couple of police cars. At least I knew where it was; I’d do the recce the night before the lift.

  Turning right again after about a hundred yards, I was back on the boulevard; I turned left, back the way I had come, toward the sea and BSM. Nice’s harbor was a forest of lights and masts. As I drove around it, I noticed an Indian restaurant, the first I’d seen in France. I wondered if it was full of expats tossing back pints of Stella and shrimp cocktail appetizers while the cook added a little squirt of Algipan to the vindaloo, to give it that extra zing.

  I reached the marina at BSM at just after one-thirty, and drove into the parking lot between the harbor and the beach. The world of boats was fast asleep, apart from a couple of lights that shone out of cabins rocking gently from side to side in the light breeze. Dull lighting came from tall, street-style poles following the edge of the marina. These were a bit fancier, branching out at the top into two lights per pole, though a few of the bulbs were on their last legs and flickering. Luckily for me, they’d been designed not to give out too much light, or no one would have been able to get to sleep.

  My only company in the parking lot was two cars and a motorcycle chained to the two-foot-high steel tubing set into the ground to stop vehicles parking in the flower bed.

  With the engine off, I opened my window and listened. Silence, save for the soft chink of the rigging. I felt under the seat for the piece of paper and put it into my fanny pack. I got out, making the Browning comfortable as I headed toward the office end of the promenade. Quickly climbing the concrete steps, I got to “I fuck girls,” jumped up onto the OP, and settled myself in for the remainder of the night, having first buried the addresses in the earth at the base of the palm tree. I needed to be detached from it, in case I’d been seen by some well-meaning member of the public and got picked up by the local police for sleeping in a public place.

  It was going to be a pain in the ass staying up here for the next seven hours, but it had to be done. The car was a natural draw point if people had surveillance on me, so I didn’t want to sleep in it. Also, from here I could see anyone trying to tamper with it.

  I brushed some of the stones from under me as I leaned forward against the palm, and alternately watched the car and studied the layout of the marina.

  The addresses were in my head by now; I didn’t need the information anymore. That bit of paper was for George. The handwriting, the fingerprints on it, even the paper itself could be useful to him, either now or later. After all, this was going to be a long war.

  It started to get quite nippy at about four o’clock. I dozed off for a few minutes now and again, having pulled the baseball cap down as far as it would go, and curled my arms around myself, trying to retain some warmth.

  22

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 07:27 HRS.

  M y eyes stung more and more and my face got colder, which kept me checking my watch. It was still dark. I retrieved the addresses from their hiding place and moved along the hedge before jumping over, then walked along the road to the entrance, down to the traffic circle, and past the stores and cafés. Everything was still closed; the odd light could be seen behind the blinds of a couple of the smaller boats as they put the kettle on for the first coffee of the day.

  I got my washing kit from the car; there was a freshwater shower by the beach on the other side of the parking lot. I washed my hair and gave myself a quick once-over with the toothbrush. I’d spent a third of my adult life out in the field, sleeping rough, but today I couldn’t afford to look like a bum. I wouldn’t last five minutes in Monaco if I did. Also, I couldn’t walk around in swimwear, or go bare-chested anywhere but the beach. No camper vans, either.

  A comb through my hair and a brush-down of my jeans and I was ready. I went back to the Mégane and hit the road, with the heater going full blast to dry my hair. Monaco was twentyish minutes away if the traffic was good.

  I hit Riviera Radio just in time for the eight o’clock news. The Taliban were fleeing the bombing campaign, Brent crude was down two dollars a barrel, and the day was going to be sunny and warm. And now for a golden oldie from the Doobie Brothers…

  I disappeared into a couple of mountain tunnels, the bare rock just a few feet away from me, and as I emerged into the gathering daylight I put my hat back on and made sure the brim was down low for the trip into the principality. The first people I saw were policemen in white-brimmed caps and long blue coats down to their knees, looking like they’d come straight from the set of Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang.

  The road was quite congested, with a hodgepodge of license plates. There was a lot of French and Italian traffic, but just as much from the principality, with red-and-white diamond checkered shields on their plates.

  As I reached the small traffic circle just a few hundred yards beyond the end of the tunnel, I had to run a gauntlet of motorcycle police parked on either side of the road. Three of them, in knee-length leather boots and dark blue riding pants, were checking cars both in and out of the principality, scrutinizing tax and insurance details on the windshields as their radios babbled off on the BMWs beside them.

  The road wound downhill toward the harbor, past three or four CCTV cameras. They were everywhere, the rectangular metal boxes swiveling like robots.

  Sunlight was starting to bounce off the clear water in the harbor, making the boats shimmer as I got down to sea level. Some yachts were the size of Carnival cruisers, with helicopters and Range Rovers parked on the deck so that the owners didn’t have to worry about phoning Hertz when they parked.

  High on the other side of the harbor was Monte Carlo, where all the casinos, grand hotels, and fat cats’ condos were clustered. That was where I was heading. I followed the road as it skirted the port, and couldn’
t help imagining myself as one of those Formula One drivers who raced along this stretch of asphalt each year, made millions, then came and lived here to make sure none of it leaked back into the tax system. Nice work if you can get it.

  Monaco hadn’t struck me as a particularly attractive place. It was full of boring, nondescript apartment buildings smothering the grand buildings that had gone up in the days before people wanted to cram into the principality and save some cash. The banks held twenty-five billion dollars on deposit, which wasn’t bad for a population of thirty thousand people. The whole place could fit into New York’s Central Park and still have some grass to spare. Money even washed over into the streets, where public escalators took you up and down the steep cliffs that started less than a hundred yards from the water’s edge. There was no shortage of rich people wanting to live there, and the only way to accommodate them had been upward. On the recce a few days ago, I’d walked past a primary school housed on the second floor of an apartment complex. Its terrace had been extended, and covered over with green felt flooring to create a playing field.

  There were just as many little whippety dogs in vests, and poodles with baseball caps here, but there was no need for the Cannes Shuffle. Even the sidewalks were part of the fairy tale.

  The harbor fell away as I drove up the hill toward the casino. Opposite me, on the far side of it, was the palace where the Prince and all his gang lived. Flags fluttered from every tower and turret. The architect must have been Walt Disney.

  I hit the perfectly manicured lawns of the casino. Even the giant rubber plants around it were protected, cocooned in some kind of wax covering in case of a freak frost. A fairy-tale policeman directed me out of the path of a Ferrari that was being reversed out of the valet parking lot, so some high-roller could drive the quarter-mile or so back to his yacht after gambling the night away.

  I turned left, past the Christian Dior and Van Cleef jewelry shops and more protected rubber plants. Across an intersection in front of me was Place du Beaumarchais, a large grassed square with walkways and trees. To my right was the Palais de la Scala, an impressive six-story pile built in the old French style, with pristine cream paintwork and shuttered windows.

  I followed the edge of the square, and turned right into an underground parking lot just before the de la Scala entrance, squeezing in next to a sleek, shiny Acura sports car with New Jersey plates. How it had gotten there, I didn’t have a clue; maybe it had been driven off one of the yachts.

  Back up at street level I walked across to the shopping mall. The sun was just reaching over the tops of the buildings, and I put on my sunglasses to complement the hat for the short walk under the security cameras.

  I pushed my way through the door of the mall with my shoulder, and my nostrils were immediately assaulted by the smell of money and polish. I took off my glasses. Small concession shops lined both sides of the marble corridor, selling champagne and caviar. First stop on the left was the glass entrance to the main post office, its interior as grand as a private bank. The hallway went on for about forty yards, then turned left and disappeared. Just before the corner there was a cluster of tables and chairs outside a café. Large decafs and the Wall Street Journal seemed to be the order of the day. Power-dressed people moved among them with a click of their heels.

  Halfway down on the right was a Roman-style marble pillar and door. A sign announced it was the reception area for the offices that made up the five floors above.

  I walked toward the café, glancing at a large Plexiglas display that gave details of who owned or rented the office space upstairs. One glance told me they all started with Monaco—the Monaco Financial Services Company, Monaco this, Monaco that. They were all spaced out, showing who was on what floor, but I was walking too fast and my mind was working too slowly to spot who occupied 617.

  I continued on past the blur of brass plates. Double glass doors opened into the reception area. An immaculately dressed dark-haired woman operated the desk. A wall-mounted camera swiveled behind her as she spoke on the telephone.

  I took a seat at a vacant table at the café looking back toward the reception area. A waiter immediately materialized and I ordered a crème. He wasn’t too impressed with my attempt at French. “Large or small?”

  “Large one, and two croissants, please.”

  He looked at me as if I’d ordered enough to explode, and disappeared back into the café.

  I looked over to my right to see what was around the corner. A very upscale-looking cobbler’s shop sold shiny belts and other leather goods, and a dry-cleaner’s had a row of ballgowns on display. Opposite the cleaner’s was a china plate shop. This part of the hallway was only about fifteen yards long, and ended with another glass door. I could see sunlight reflecting off a car windshield outside.

  My order arrived as well-dressed people at other tables finished off their coffee and pastries before work. The loudest voice I could hear, however, was English. A woman in her early forties with big hair was talking to an older companion. They wore enough makeup between them to fill a bomb crater. “Oh, darling, it’s just too awful…I can’t get salopettes long enough for my legs in London. The only place seems to be Sweden, these days. I mean, how ridiculous is that?”

  Others talked quietly, almost covertly, into their cell phones, in French, Italian, English, American. All the English speakers used the same words during their conversations: deal, close, and contract. And no matter which nationality was talking, they all ended with “Ciao, ciao.”

  23

  I finished my milky coffee as two suits stopped at the plastic-covered board and checked it out before pressing a buzzer. One bent his head toward the intercom, then they both disappeared through the doors immediately to the left inside the reception area.

  I’d seen nearly everything in here I needed to. I picked up the napkin, cleaned my hands, and wiped the cup, even though I’d only touched the handle. Leaving an outrageous sixty-six francs and a tip, I went out the way I’d come in.

  This time, my eyes hit the sixth-floor sign and ran along the row of small plates: 617 was apparently the home of the Monaco Training Consultancy, whoever they were. I walked on and exited the building.

  The sun shone bright above the square now, so I put on my shades and pulled my brim down. Cars, motorbikes, and motor scooters were crammed like sardines into any available space around the square. Gardeners pruned the bushes and a couple of guys in Kevlar gear were just about to take a chainsaw to some branches of the large leafless trees. Sprinklers lightly sprayed the grass as women dressed in furs floated past, their dogs wearing matching fashion accessories. I took a right at Prada and went around the back of the building as the chainsaw started up behind me. I wanted to see where the exit by the dry-cleaner’s emerged.

  The narrow road on this side of the building was about sixty yards long, with a few small stores developing photos or selling little paintings. I turned right again, along the back of de la Scala, and found myself in the building’s office area. Some shutters were up, some were down; behind them were private parking spaces and storage areas for the stores. Most of the space was taken up by the loading bay for the post office. It was very clean and orderly, and the postal workers wore neat, well-pressed blue uniforms and white socks. I felt as though I’d wandered into Legoland.

  The dry-cleaner’s entrance was just past the loading bay. I glanced through the glass doors and could see all the way to the café, and the point where the hallway turned right toward the reception area.

  Beyond the dry-cleaner’s, on the other corner of the Palais de la Scala and about twenty feet above the ground, was a camera. At the moment it wasn’t angled in this direction because it was too busy monitoring the intersection below it. I hoped that wasn’t going to change. I walked back to the Mégane the way I’d come.

  I squeezed away from the Acura and went and had a look at the train station before heading for Nice and Cap 3000. It was time to prepare for the brush contact with my new
pal Thackery that I’d arranged yesterday in my e-mail to George.

  I drove into the retail complex at just after ten-thirty. I put on my disposable gloves, retrieved the addresses from under my seat, then pulled the paper from its own protective wrapping. I ran through the addresses in my mind before unfolding it, testing myself; this was the last time I was going to see them. Then I folded it once more, and rolled it tightly enough to be able to squeeze it back into the thumb of the glove, ripped off the excess plastic, and shoved it into the pocket of my jeans.

  I got out and locked my door as a jet touched down on the runway a couple of hundred yards away. For a moment it had looked as though it was going to land on the beach.

  Most of the complex was dominated by the Lafayette retail company, with its huge department store and gourmet supermarket, and the spaces around it were filled with stores selling everything from smelly candles to cell phones.

  As I walked through the automatic glass doors, a loudspeaker above me knocked out some bland Muzak. There weren’t many Santas about, but plenty of twinkling lights and Christmas novelty stalls. One sold a whole range of multicolored velvet headwear, from top hats to jesters’ caps with bells. Escalators carried hordes of shoppers, with gigantic plastic bags bulging at the seams, between the two levels. This was the only place that I’d used more than once. It was large, busy, and I considered it a reasonable risk. I had to get online, and a café was too intimate. So long as I never used a card or an ATM, this place should be okay.

  Four shiny new Jaguars from the local dealership were parked in the atrium, windshields groaning with promotional material. To the left of them was the entrance to Galéries Lafayette, the two-story department store.