by Andy McNab
He was close, I could hear it.
“That’s—”
The next sound was of Hubba-Hubba resisting and Arab voices shouting. There was lots of grabbing going on around the Sony as it crackled like a forest fire.
Fuck. It had gone noisy.
47
S hit, shit, shit!
I sprinted across the road, not bothering to look out for traffic. My right hand forced the Browning down into my jeans to stop it falling out, and my left held the earpiece in place. My whole being was focused on that corner, two stores to the left of the target. I got that familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach, the same sensation that always came when shit was on. I’d had it even as a kid, running away from the bigger boys who wanted to beat me up and steal my lunch money, or from an angry storekeeper whose stuff I’d tried to shoplift. It was a horrible feeling: you know there’s a situation, you wish it wasn’t there, you know you’ve got to do something about it, but your legs just won’t take you fast enough.
I turned the corner but saw nothing except a few people standing maybe twenty yards farther down on the other side of the road. All eyes were turned to the alleyway. Screams still came over the net, mixed with shouts and the sounds of a struggle. Everything was in Arabic but none of it was from Hubba-Hubba. Then I heard him in the background. He was in pain, he was getting filled in, he was getting subdued.
My mouth was dry as I drew down and, alert to the third party, kept the weapon by my side. I turned the corner into the alleyway, not bothering to clear it. There wasn’t time.
I was too late. The Merc van was bouncing over the potholes away from me, with one of the unknowns trying to close the rear door. More Arabic commotion streamed over the net. Even if I’d spoken the language I wouldn’t have been able to understand what was being said—it was so confused and loud. But for sure Hubba-Hubba was in there. I caught a glimpse of his sneakers; he was fighting back as two guys climbed on top of him, trying to keep him down in the back.
The left door was already closed, the small window covered by black plastic. The second door was pulled shut from inside; that, too, was covered. I kept running toward the rear of the store.
The Lexus was still there. The back of the store was closed down. Shit, who to go after, Hubba-Hubba or the hawallada?
Lotfi swung into the alleyway like something out of Hill Street Blues. Somebody somewhere would be getting on a phone to the police. I motioned with my hand, trying to get him to slow down, to stop. The vehicle nearly somersaulted over its two front wheels as he hit the brakes. His eyes looked frenzied. The growing crowd on the road turned and gawped.
Jumping out, Lotfi had his pistol up, ready to fire.
“Keep it down, for fuck’s sake!” I pointed along the alleyway, which was now clear. “The van, black plastic covering the rear windows. He’s in the back. Go, go, take it.”
I turned to run back the way I’d come, shouting at him as he jumped back into the Focus. “I’ll give you directions at the boulevard, go to channel four, channel four. Go, go, go!”
I disappeared left around the corner, going back toward the boulevard. Fuck the third party now. People everywhere were stopping to rubberneck.
I got down to the corner and looked left. The van had slowed as the traffic hit the vegetable market. I turned the dial on the Sony to four and hit the pressle as I sucked in oxygen. “L, they’ve gone left, they’ve gone left toward the main. L, acknowledge, acknowledge.”
The Focus screamed into view at the junction, Lotfi still playing cops and robbers. He was going to have to slow down before he had a crash or ran somebody over. Either would stop him being able to take. He was looking frantically left and right, trying to see where the van had gone, then looking down, probably having just remembered to change channels. I kept on sending. “They’ve gone left, they’ve gone left toward the main.”
He didn’t reply, but he must have heard me because the Focus screamed around toward the market, braking hard as the horn screamed out at people trying to cross the road in front of him, then hurtled down toward the mass of fruit buyers.
I turned right and had gone maybe twenty yards up toward the Scudo when I got a blast of screaming and ranting in my ear. I couldn’t understand any of it. “Slow down, slow down! Say again.”
I got to the van and started to pull at the soft steel license plate at the rear, feeling for the key and fob taped behind it. Lotfi continued on trying to get the message across; he’d slowed down but the voice was still very high-pitched, he was really hyped up. “L has, L has! Past the market straight for the main. They’re going for the main. N, acknowledge, acknowledge.”
I double-clicked, not wanting to talk yet, in case he got more worked up.
By now I’d extracted the key fob and hit it to release the central locking. I jumped in and began turning the Citroën around so I could back Lotfi. A cluster of third party watched; at least two were on cell phones. This was a weapons-grade screwup.
Forcing the Scudo around into the traffic and driving down toward the market, I checked my decision to go for Hubba-Hubba. It must be right: Lotfi wouldn’t help me lifting Goatee. But deep down I knew we wouldn’t get Goatee either way; he would be truly going underground now. The job was destroyed, and I would be, too, if I got caught by the police. But what could I do about it? Abandon the two of them and just head for the airport? It was tempting. I instinctively moved my hand down to the fanny pack, making sure my docs were still with me. I could just turn around and drive straight to Nice airport, get the first plane out of here…
Lotfi had calmed down a bit when he came back on the net, trying hard to keep the speed and tension from his voice. “L still has, L still has. They are approaching the main, lights are green, lights are green. No indication. Wait, wait. They’re intending right, that’s now right on the main, toward the autoroute. Acknowledge, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
By now I was halfway down to the market. I couldn’t see Lotfi ahead of me and just hoped that he was still with them and hadn’t got held by the lights. I couldn’t guarantee it, because he was too worked up to give me a full commentary.
I tried to anticipate. The main drag went on for about a mile and a half, until it took a sharp left-hander at the bridge over the railroad tracks from the freight depot. If the van went that route, they’d eventually hit the feeder road that followed the river toward the autoroute at the north end of town, where the safe house was.
“L still has approaching the freight station.” Despite his efforts, he was still hyped up, talking an octave above his normal voice, but at least I could understand him now.
I reached the main road on red, getting right up close to the car in front in case it was a short light.
“That’s now at the freight station still straight toward the autoroute. N, acknowledge.”
“Roger that, I’m held at the main.”
Click, click.
The light changed. All the cars in the line made it through, and I turned right, following Lotfi, trying to get closer and back him as he carried on with the commentary. “That’s approaching the swimming pool on the right.”
I heard the hiss of a truck’s air brakes over the net.
“That’s now at the swimming pool. Still straight, speed forty, forty-five. N, acknowledge.”
“Roger that, N’s mobile.”
Click, click.
Railroad tracks appeared on my left, running into the freight station just ahead. I couldn’t be that far behind them. The swimming pool was maybe three hundred yards farther on and I was traveling at roughly the same speed as them in the flow of traffic.
All of a sudden I got a frenzied, “Stop, stop, stop! That’s at the lights before the railway bridge. The van’s five vehicles back, I’m four behind that, lights still red. N, where are you? Where are you?”
I held down the pressle. “The swimming pool, not far.”
“Roger that. Stand by, stand by. Lights green. Wait,
wait…Now mobile. That’s left over the bridge. Wait, wait…Stand by. They are going…Wait, wait. That’s them in the right-hand lane…intending right, they’re going to the autoroute. That’s them now toward the autoroute, they are following the river to the autoroute. Acknowledge, acknowledge. N, acknowledge. Where are you?”
Click, click.
He was starting to get worked up again as he took the van through the intersection. The important thing was that he knew I understood where he was and he knew I was behind him somewhere.
The railroad bridge traffic lights were about a hundred yards ahead of me as Lotfi resumed his commentary. “Speed, sixty, sixty-five. Halfway to the autoroute turnoff. N, where are you? Where are you?”
It was time to talk, now that he’d finished maneuvering around intersections, and was on a straight drag.
“At the bridge lights, and held.”
“Roger that, speed no change.”
They were on the dual-lane highway toward L’Ariane, the autoroute way above them and ahead, on the viaduct. If they continued straight on this side of the river, they could take the ramp for Monaco and Italy, or cross the river and head for the Cannes and Marseille ramp. I didn’t care which one; it’d be much easier to take them up on the autoroute, fuck the toll booths and cameras now.
Lotfi had more to say. “Approaching the bridge over the river, on red. We’re going to be held.”
Good, I could catch up. Cigarette smoke billowed out from the car in front, and its radio blared as we waited for my lights at the railroad bridge to change. “N’s mobile.”
“Roger that, N. That’s at the lights, intending left. They’re going to cross the river, they’re going to cross the river.”
I turned right onto the fast-flowing road and the riverbed to my left. Ahead of me were the other two vehicles. I could see the autoroute viaduct ahead and accelerated up to ninety miles an hour, trying to close the gap. “Stand by, stand by, lights to green…that’s left over the river, left over the river. N, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
Lotfi’s voice was still high-pitched, but slower. “That’s halfway over the bridge. They’re intending right, they’re intending right, not for the autoroute, intending right toward L’Ariane. N, acknowledge, where are you?”
48
C lick, click.
Lotfi came back. “Stop, stop, stop. Held at the lights, still intending toward L’Ariane. The autoroute traffic now is moving on. We are held. N, they are definitely intending right. Acknowledge, acknowledge. Where are you? What if they go into the mountains?”
It was still not the time to talk to him yet. Click, click.
I got my foot down and tried to make up the distance. If the van carried on farther north, past L’Ariane and the built-up area, the roads became very narrow and wound up the mountains on either side. It would be hard to follow a target in that sort of terrain even with a four-car team, let alone two. It would need both of us to keep on top of the van, changing positions often so the same vehicle was never behind the target for long. At the same time, we’d have to keep close to each other, because once we got up into those hills there was no telling if we could keep communications. If the van became unsighted, we’d have to split up and look in different directions to try to find it, which would totally screw everything.
Lotfi came back on. “Stand by, stand by. Lights to green. They’re mobile, right, toward the incinerator. N, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
“Roger that, approaching the bridge, approaching the bridge.”
“Roger that, N. Still toward the incinerator. Speed four-five, five-zero. Increasing.”
“Roger that, roger that, I’m at the bridge, at the bridge.”
Click, click.
I turned onto the bridge and followed the tracks over the stony riverbed. The viaduct and the incinerator funnel towered into the sky to my right. I turned right, and as I followed the other side of the riverbank, I could see Lotfi’s Focus about four cars back from the Merc van. Lotfi was regaining control once more. “That’s halfway toward the incinerator.”
“Roger that. N’s backing. I’m now backing. Acknowledge.”
“Good, good, that’s approaching the incinerator. Wait, wait, at the incinerator, still straight. Now straight toward the apartments.”
Click, click.
Lotfi was sounding a lot better now. “That’s approaching the apartments. Wait, wait. Past the first option left, speed six five, seven zero. It looks like they’re not slowing down around here. N, acknowledge. N, acknowledge.”
“Roger that. That’s me at the incinerator.”
“Roger that, N, that’s past the second left, wait, past the third. Still straight, they’re still going straight, speed no change.”
Driving past the incinerator, I saw the burnt-out shell of the Audi in the dead ground to the right of it, and the skeleton of a van a few yards away that had also been torched.
“That’s now past the apartments, still straight. They’re heading north, it looks like they’re heading out of the city, speed no change. I’m going to need you soon to take. N, acknowledge.” He was getting worked up again.
Click, click.
“That’s now approaching the bridge on the right. Brake lights on, brake lights on! Intending right, intending right, they’re going back over the river. That’s now right onto the bridge. N, acknowledge. N, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
Looking along the line of the rocky riverbed, ahead of me I could see the van crossing the bridge from left to right, with the Ford Focus directly behind. Lotfi came back. “Halfway over the bridge brake lights on, brake lights on, intending left.”
I could see the van’s rear indicators flashing.
“That’s now over the bridge, they’re intending left into the industrial area. I’m going—”
“Don’t go with them, don’t go with them! Acknowledge, acknowledge. L, acknowledge. Don’t do it.”
The van disappeared as it took the first left just over the bridge. The Focus went straight as Lotfi told me what he could see down the option. “That’s the van at the horse, at the horse. They’ve gone straight, into the industrial area beyond the horse, somewhere to the left. I’m unsighted.”
“Roger that. N is checking, N is checking. L, acknowledge.”
I got a double-click as I saw him take the next turning left and disappear. I got to the bridge and turned right, and got a burst of air brakes and flashing headlights from an approaching truck as I crossed his front.
I didn’t want Lotfi to go in there. Going into a closed area was dangerous and it might be a trap. Or they might just be stopping in there to see if anyone was following.
I was about halfway over the bridge when I heard, “L’s foxtrot.”
“Roger that. That’s me on the bridge.”
As I reached the other side of the rocky riverbed I looked into the first option left and could see the horse he’d been going on about. Down on the left-hand side of the road was a thirty-foot-high stone monster, prancing on his hind legs, Roman fashion. It was to the left of an entrance into what looked like a decaying light-industrial complex. To the left of the gate was a large, rundown brick warehouse with a faded, hand-painted sign running the full length of the wall, announcing it was a brocante, selling secondhand furniture and odds and ends. There was a line of vehicles parked facing the wall. Fuck it. I turned, crossing over the traffic, and headed to the left of the horse and the vehicles.
The road quickly became a mud-caked, potholed nightmare with puddles of diesel fuel and muck. At last I saw Lotfi in my side mirror, walking down toward me from the bridge road. I swung left by the horse and backed up against the brick wall of the warehouse, in line with the other cars. It was out of sight of the industrial complex entrance, in case I was being watched, and it looked natural. I was just your everyday furniture buyer.
Lotfi was just a few yards short of the factory gates, and was going for his pisto
l. If he’d seen me, he certainly wasn’t coming over to join me.
I powered down the window and waved to him from the Citroën like a long-lost friend, smiling and gesturing for him to cross over. It didn’t look as if it was working. All I could hear was the noise of traffic rumbling over the bridge and the hissing of air brakes. He looked over to me and must have had a change of heart, because he ran reluctantly toward me, avoiding the potholes as I held out my hand in welcome from the window for the benefit of any third parties. He played his part in the pretense, but his eyes were still dancing around just like they’d done in Algeria.
I tried to calm him down and glanced at the pistol. “Put that away, mate, get in the car.”
He ignored me.
“Get in the car.”
“No, come. That is wasting time. We’ve got to go and get him. Now.”
I started to plead with him through the window, and both of us had smiles on as his eyes screamed around like a pair of pinwheels.
“We just can’t go in like that.” I gestured for him to get into the van. “Look, we don’t know where they are, how many of them there are. It could be a trap. Come on, get in the car, let’s take our time and we’ll all get out of this alive.”
But Lotfi wasn’t having any of it. “He might be dead soon. We have to—”
“I know, I know. But let’s find out where he is first, so we can work out how to get him out in one piece.”
“I will not leave my brother behind.”
“We’re not leaving anybody behind. Just get in the car. We’ve got to stay calm and work out how to get him out. Come on, you know it’s the right thing to do.”
He thought about it for a couple of seconds, then walked around the front of the Citroën and climbed in beside me. He stared at the rocky riverbed to the right, where the wall of the brocante ended. I left him to it, changed channel back to two, and listened in case Hubba-Hubba was sending. There was nothing coming over the air at all, so I switched it off and removed it from my belt as Lotfi checked chamber.