A chance to stop? Pause a moment? Consider? What actually is best for me? How should I react? Am I supposed to believe the guy who I have known for months, who I fucked last night – who glories in me, who is nothing but a truck driver – is a policeman? Have I been duped? Betrayed? Who says so? Who . . .? Did not have time to scratch her head, frown, think. Her stride slackened and his fist, clamped on her wrist, tightened and then jerked her away. She saw him, Andy Knight – lover or defender or traitor? – and he stood and he watched, and his posture had changed. No longer round-shouldered, nor slouched, as if a role had altered his shape. No linger, nor loiter. She was tugged. The boy was shorter than her and might have been a clear stone lighter. The money had gone. The man who had shouted had disappeared. The couple she had seen at the top of La Canebière – where Andy had made her laugh and had showed her the painted street sculptures of the giraffes – had now come forward from a café, and were with two men, and one of them carried a drooping bag.
Karym did not exhort her to come with him, said nothing, dragged her. She was not asked. They were at the scooter. He wrenched her. What alternative? None that she knew of. She hitched her leg over the Peugeot’s pillion seat. The engine coughed. Dark fumes spilled from the exhaust behind her and the wind took them into her nose. They careered out into the traffic, and she had her arms around his waist, and the package wedged on her lap.
He had not said where he was taking her, nor asked what was best for her.
He followed, felt calm.
Tucked in behind two cars, each loaded with families and going steadily, it was not hard for Andy to slip into a good position to tail. He could not be obvious nor was it likely that he would lose the scooter. He had slept with her that night – as if it were from both of them a final calling card – and he saw already that he was history in her mind. She held tight to the boy’s waist, was close to his back and her head was against the boy’s shoulder. To what purpose he followed her, he was uncertain. To have evaluated his situation he would have needed perhaps a half-minute of quiet, an opportunity to reflect. Did not have that luxury: never did in his work . . . he was tasked to be up close to her, so he went after her.
The scooter could weave but Andy relied on the cars ahead to push through gaps, and the distance between them stayed constant. He saw signs on a main road that headed towards Avignon, but the boy rode past them and took a diversion on to narrow streets and they now were filling because it was the middle of the day and the traffic was increasing, and following them was becoming harder, and he’d have less help from those in front. Then he was alone. No vehicle was between them. She did not look back, and the boy had no mirror.
He would follow to the end, expected to and wanted to.
Chapter 16
Not knowing where they led him, he went after them, could see the billow of her hair and the closeness of their bodies, and when the kid took a corner sharply, and banked, he had a brief sight of the package clamped against her stomach . . . and already it had all failed.
The plan had been to allow the single weapon, product of a test run, to enter British territory and to be bugged and tailed, then for a wide-scale arrest swoop, and a network rounded up. To achieve that, Zed should have done the swap and walked away with that lofty haughtiness that he had helped establish as hers by right, should have given the boy a light kiss on the cheek, the big thrill of his day, and should have settled into the Polo and put the package on the floor, and he’d have pulled away from the kerb, and headed for the road out, taken the Avignon signs and the autoroute. Straight sailing from there. Except it had not happened, and now would not – all screwed up.
He was denounced.
Across the open square, he had seen the figure rise from a low chair in the shadows and gesticulate, identify him as he sat on the wall, claim him as a ‘cop’. An old man had done it. Could not have been his clothing, his hair or his cheeks, all unkempt but acceptable for a civilian. He could not think that anything he had done would have alerted a guy sitting a minimum of a hundred yards from him. There had been a cry in French, then English; he wore a cap and tinted glasses and had a neatly trimmed snow-white beard. The instructors always preached that old lags, veteran villains, had the knack of spotting an officer, however good the cover. And the scene in front of him had disintegrated fast . . . the money had gone – she might have tried to get to him, to the car, but the kid was shouting in her ear, would have been telling her that she had produced the cop, her fault, her responsibility, and had dragged her away. He wondered if she had tears in her eyes. Wondered if she could see, or if her eyes had misted over . . . It had failed, had shown out, and he didn’t know how. What was life afterwards? He followed her: assumed if he followed far enough and fast enough that a moment would come when they’d confront each other. She would spit, he would tell her that it was a lie, he was not a police officer. She would rant. He would claim innocence and deny deceit. But he was unarmed, and she clasped against her stomach an assault rifle. She’d not know how to use it. But the boy would. He thought, in bitterness, that the kid would know, and all his friends, and all of his brothers, how to arm an AK-47, and shoot with it, would have learned all that about a week after being weaned off his mother’s milk, and all the rest of them . . . but he followed.
The kid rode the scooter well. His top speed was good enough for the narrow streets, and for other traffic. The bigger problem was for Andy Knight, bogus lover and treacherous friend, and a serving police officer under the direction of SC&O10, to hold the link. Behind him was a faint rumble, like a gathering storm was closing on them. Back to that ‘life afterwards’ . . . why had he followed them? Had no idea, except that it was his ‘duty’, big word and unsure of its meaning . . . What did he hope to achieve by following them? Not in Andy Knight’s lowly pay grade to make such decisions, had been told to stay close, and would . . . and what came ‘afterwards’? An internal inquiry, evidence given, and a reference to the Official Secrets Act, closed sessions, and he’d be walking out of the door, and a flunkey would demand his ID and would slot it into the shredder. Found wanting, surplus to requirements . . . nobody wanted to jostle shoulders with failure. He kept on following. Could have taken the next sign for the autoroute, going north, maybe overtaking her first and giving her a cheery wave, then stamping his foot, and getting the hell out and leaving it to others to sort out the debacle.
The noise was louder. A big bike. There had been a time in his life, before the legend of Andy was cobbled together, and before Norm had shown up, and before Phil had been created, when he’d have gone on bent knee for a chance to ride that sort of machine. Maybe take it out on the Welsh mountains, around the National Park, do a loop that would take in Mallwyd and almost to Dolgellau and down to Corris Uchaf and with the summit of Waen-oer on one side and that of Cader Idris on the other, then to Machynlleth where his parents, the real ones, had had a caravan on a site, might still have, go east towards Cwm-Llinau and finish the circle . . . Because he had failed, it was possible for him to consider the old life, which otherwise was denied. Brilliant to be on that sort of bike, which had been an ambition all through the Marines days, and the uniformed police slog before his transfer into the new existence of living the lie. A Ducati came past him, hovering left and right of the white line in the middle of the road. Seemed to ooze power. He recognised the rider, the leather jacket. The Ducati, the 811 model, was cleaned and the metal parts shone and the paintwork was without blemish. He knew it as the Ducati Monster. It would be a symbol of power where the rider came from. It came level with the Peugeot scooter that was chugging up the long hill.
An arm came off the Ducati controls. Snaked out, reached across, the fist clenched. First there was a punch on the kid’s shoulder. The scooter rocked but the kid held firm and he might have heard the pillion scream and bury her head lower on the kid’s back and hold ever tighter, and the scooter skidded but the kid held it upright. One punch on the shoulder and one cuff on the back of the hea
d. The scooter held its speed. The hand went lower, was at the package, tried to rip it clear. He saw Zed’s foot. It came out, paused, took a bearing, then kicked sharply at the back of the leg of the Ducati man. Where the muscle was. The guy needed both hands for control. Might have had the briefest hold of the package. The two riders screamed abuse at each other. Then the Ducati accelerated past. A siren sounded a long way back. Zed was tearing at her parcel’s packaging, bubble-wrap and tape, must have lifted a knife off the kid carrying her, and dropping the wrapping, ditching it as a toy for the wind to play with.
Andy saw the barrel of a rifle as the packaging was stripped off.
Zeinab slashed with the blade. More of the bubble-wrap came loose.
The boy, she knew him now as Karym, had needed both hands on the scooter’s steering. In his hesitant English, he’d told her which pocket on his coat he’d find the knife, and she’d opened the blade. If the fist that had punched Karym had groped into her lap and tried to seize the package, had come again, she’d have stabbed it.
The packaging flew away behind her. The bike in front had slowed. She had the rifle, and a magazine slotted into its guts, and another was under her T-shirt, and into the waist of her jeans. The motorbike made one more dart after them, and she saw the anger on the face of the rider; he was revving the engine and cutting his speed, and the hand snatched for the rifle. She stabbed, made a poor job of using the blade, managed only a nick on the hand but enough to draw blood. The bike swung away; one-handed control was hard, and the pain would have been big and blood ran from a small but deep wound. Words yelled between the brothers, him furious and Karym defiant, and the bike – two hands in place – sloped away, went in front, left them for dead.
Karym shouted at her, ‘It is yours, it is what you bought . . . I thought it would be skunk of Moroccan black. I thought it was that, not a Kalash . . . why go to such trouble for a Kalash? Why involve my brother and Tooth in this deal? Is that all you wanted, a Kalash? You make my brother angry, I saw his blood. He has a Ducati 821 Monster, and I have a little Peugeot, which says what he thinks of me. You have anywhere to go?’
‘If my friend is a policeman, I have nowhere to go.’
‘I can hide you.’
‘Is it possible there is a mistake?’
‘That your boy is not a policeman? The one I saw you with this morning, not a policeman? A mistake? I do not think so . . . the one who identified him is an old legend of Marseille, a big man with a reputation. He would know a cop . . . it is the face, the look in the eye, it is the style of the body, the posture. Old people, they know . . . old gang leaders know better than anyone. Possibly a mistake, but . . .’
‘What should we do?’
Karym did not know, could not answer.
The rifle was hidden between them, and the magazine gouged into his back. She had closed the knife, had dropped it back in his pocket. He could hide her, a possibility. Hide her until darkness then take her out of La Castellane, and bring her to . . . where? Could take her to the ferry port and put her on a boat to – to anywhere. Could take her to Saint Charles railway station and buy a ticket for her to – to anywhere. Or go to the airport, or one of the little fishing harbours along the coast and towards the Spanish frontier and see if there were people who would take her to – to anywhere. The siren came closer, screaming. If they were followed, then it was clear to him, that police had been at the plaza, had watched the exchange – confirmed what old Tooth had claimed, that her boy, her driver, was a cop.
What to do? He did not know.
Who to ask? Karym knew no one who could make a decision fast other than his brother, who would now feel the pain of the cut in his hand, and have to get the wound bandaged, and would feel vicious anger towards her. Did not know what to do, did not know who to ask. He felt the tremors in her body, and the weapon seemed to shiver in her grip which made the pain where it trapped his flesh more acute. They went on up the hill. He understood that the previous buried tensions with his brother were now in the open air and clear to view, and rejoiced in it – like he had crawled from the cover of deep shadow. He could not twist sufficiently to see behind him, gauge how far away the source of the siren was. He would not have admitted his fear, certainly not to her, but imagined himself as one of the myriad of small puppy dogs that roamed the project, and when a stone was thrown at them, they’d slink away, look for the safety of a home – under a bush or behind a building, or the corner of a stairwell. In the distance was the large flat landscape of buildings that formed the commercial shopping centre. On the far side of the road was La Castellane. If he could get there before the sirens caught up with him, he would feel a certain safety.
‘I will protect you, Zeinab.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I admire you and I respect you.’ Her arms were around his waist. She was different from every other young woman in the project, and so brave – so innocent. No woman of her age in La Castellane retained even a pinch of innocence.
‘Thank you again.’
‘I will hide you.’
‘Yes, I thank you.’
‘If you are seen, Zeinab, with the rifle, they will kill you. Samson will.’
‘I do not need to know, Karym, what will happen to me.’
‘They shoot to kill, Zeinab, it does not matter to them if they kill us.’
‘What the fuck do we do?’ she shouted in his ear.
‘Did you think it would be easy?’ he yelled back. ‘Here, for us, it is never easy.’
‘Who is Samson . . .?’
‘Hope, Zeinab, that you do not learn who is Samson.’
The Major drove. Samson, beside him, used a monocular with a steady hand. The English pair were sitting behind them in the vehicle with four uniforms.
Samson said, ‘She has a rifle, I can see it. She has a Kalashnikov. It was in the wrapping. We should block them before they get into the rat-house.’
‘Get it deployed,’ he was told.
And he did.
The Englishman said quietly, almost diffidently, ‘We’d like her taken. She’ll be a treasure trove.’
The Englishwoman snapped at him, ‘For heaven’s sake, Gough, she’s on the loose with a lethal weapon, and has to be stopped – just leave it.’
It was called up, would be in place, and there were squad cars coming from the east and west, and another from the north, and all would carry the necessary gear.
The Major asked, not looking back, ‘The Volkswagen, the Polo, that is your man?’
‘Afraid it is,’ he was answered.
They drove at the speed of the scooter, but were out in the middle of the road and nothing could pass them. The Major had created a gap in the traffic. The scooter was isolated and weighed down by its passenger and cargo, was alone in its space; perfect for what they intended . . . except for the one car that had stayed at constant speed and at a constant distance behind the fugitives.
It was flicked out.
The road ahead was empty. On the pavements crowds gathered, mostly immigrants from the Maghreb but some from central Africa; very few in this district had parents born in France. They would hear the sirens and there was a good feeling that soon another performance would be laid before them, perhaps as exciting as when the executioner, Samson, had come and shot a man, one bullet and taking out the skull.
It slithered snake-like across the road. A second was ready for use on the far side. The police called them ‘stingers’. The Tyre Deflation Devices covered half the road’s width with close-set spikes, and officers reckoned from experience they could stop any vehicle, shred the tyres and bring it to a halt. Armed police crouched in doorways on either side and could hear the sirens but not yet the erratic engine of the small Peugeot scooter. The intention was that the snakes – one already in the road and the other held back until the target was close – would halt the pair well short of their La Castellane refuge. The instructions called for the arrest of the couple, particularly the female. They had w
ith them, it was said, an automatic rifle but were without experience of using such a powerful weapon . . . And a car followed them, a male driver, and that person should be kept out of the arrest area, should be prevented from entering the cordon sanitaire. Many eyes watched, and many ears listened for the approach of the prey, and guns were cocked. In that arrondissement a spectacle was always eagerly welcomed.
‘What the bloody hell do I do now?’ Crab hissed.
‘Use your feet, and walk,’ was his answer.
They were at a set of lights. The sign by the church said this was the Rue Beauvau. It was near the quayside for the vieux port, near McDonald’s and an Irish pub, near the marina where the yachts and launches were moored, but nowhere near the airport. And a further answer . . . Tooth had reached across him, unlocked the passenger door and pushed it open, flicked the hold on the seat belt, and propelled Crab out, and he had stumbled on the pavement, scattering pedestrians . . . And another answer, as Tooth twisted round to the back seat, picked up his one-time friend’s bag, and threw it out. It careered into Crab’s legs.
‘How was I to know?’
‘You come to me, you fat old fool, with your little idea, and want to play a big man again, and you are now senile and incompetent, and you have brought a cop with you. A cop travels along with you . . . “How was I to know?” . . . You come here, you feed off my hospitality, you threaten my way of life. How, why? Because you have not taken care. You can walk to the airport.’
‘Nobody speaks to me, not that way, no one does.’
‘Go back where you came from, use your feet to get there. I am not your chauffeur.’
Battle Sight Zero Page 38