Liberation Day Part 7

The dull gray shape of the warship dominated the bay with its large registration number stenciled in white paint on the back. It had more domes and antennae than the Starship Enterprise, Enterprise, and a helipad on the back big enough to take a jumbo jet. and a helipad on the back big enough to take a jumbo jet.

The crew wouldn't have a clue what was happening. The most they'd know was that an area was out of bounds, and some important guests were on board. Only the captain and a few officers would have been told what the goodwill visit was really all about. The guests were probably getting a sit rep from George this very minute, using the information I'd just sent. They'd be fired up now making their final preparations in some small, steel-walled room, out of screaming distance from the crew. I really hoped we were going to make it all worth their while.

Beyond the warship was Cap Ferrat. It looked very green, and very opulent, with large houses surrounded by trees and high fences. I made my way around the bay, through Villefranche and past a small left-hand turn that hairpinned up to the mountains. Up that road and just over sixteen miles away, on the other side of a couple of small villages and the odd isolated house, was the DOP. It was an illegal dumping area, full of rusting freezers and household waste. It looked like it could host the biggest yard sale on the planet, and was just the place I needed.

A few minutes later I was in Beaulieu-sur-Mer. The harbor was on the other side of the town, so I followed signs to the gare gare. It was a small cream-colored building with a taxi stand and flower beds that were so manicured they looked like they had a personal stylist. After a couple of circuits, I found a spot and parked. I got out and retrieved my digital camera from my duffel bag.

The Megane was a perfect vehicle for this sort of job: it was a dark color, a popular make, and about as nondescript as they come, once I'd peeled off the sticker from the dealership the rental company had bought it from. It was also small enough to park quickly, but big enough to hide a body in the trunk. Which was why, as well as my personal gear, I had two rolls of silver duct tape in the trunk. Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba also had some; we wanted to make sure that once we got a body inside a vehicle, it was there to stay.

All three vehicles had been fiddled with so that the backup and brake lights could be cut off. It was simple enough: we just sliced through the leads and added an on/off switch to the circuit. When we drove a hawallada hawallada into the DOP with the lights out, the last thing we wanted was for the brake or backup lights to kick in and show everyone around what we were up to. For the same reason, all the interior lightbulbs had been removed. We'd have to return the cars to Alamo, or wherever the other two had gotten theirs from, in the same condition we'd rented them, but it wouldn't take more than an hour or so to change everything back. into the DOP with the lights out, the last thing we wanted was for the brake or backup lights to kick in and show everyone around what we were up to. For the same reason, all the interior lightbulbs had been removed. We'd have to return the cars to Alamo, or wherever the other two had gotten theirs from, in the same condition we'd rented them, but it wouldn't take more than an hour or so to change everything back.

I wandered around between the post office and the station, making like a tourist, taking the odd snapshot while the taxi drivers stood around their Mercedes, preferring to talk and smoke rather than take a fare.

The gare gare was immaculate, as French train stations always are. I glanced at the timetables-regular services in both directions along the coast, either back to Nice, Cannes, and Ma.r.s.eille, or on to Monaco and Italy. was immaculate, as French train stations always are. I glanced at the timetables-regular services in both directions along the coast, either back to Nice, Cannes, and Ma.r.s.eille, or on to Monaco and Italy.

I bought myself nine francs' worth of brewed-while-you-wait coffee from the machine and tried not to overexcite three small white hairy dogs that were tied by lengths of string to the newsstand on my left. They looked at me as if it were lunchtime. I stepped around them and went to look at the postcard carousel rack. Cards are a really good source of information for people like me, because they usually have shots of locations you can't get to easily. It's Standard Operating Procedure for most intelligence operators to collect them as they travel around the world, because the agencies want these things at hand. If there's an incident, say, at an airport in the middle of Nowhereland, they just have to open their files and they've got a collection of visuals to refer to until more information is gathered.

I picked up several pictures of Beaulieu-sur-Mer, which showed the marina from different angles and heights, all shot in fantastic sunlight, with beautiful women and sharply chiseled men strolling among the boats. Next to the carousel was a display of town maps, so I picked out three different ones. The vendor had a big round face and an annoyingly happy smile. I gave him my "Merci, au revoir" "Merci, au revoir" and walked away with the change, which the French never seem to put into your hand, but always on the counter, in case you've got some disease. and walked away with the change, which the French never seem to put into your hand, but always on the counter, in case you've got some disease.

I went back to the car.

The marina was larger than I'd expected from the postcards. Two or three hundred shiny masts rocked and glinted in the sunlight.

Just before turning through the entrance, I saw bus stops on either side of the road and a gla.s.s phone booth. Whoever was on the boat had chosen their location well: there were buses to both Monaco and Nice, and the train station was just a ten-minute walk away. The phone booth was certainly going to be a bonus for us.

The large blue sign welcomed me, thanked me for my visit, looked forward to me coming back again, and gave me a list of available stores and services. I took a right onto the access road, a short avenue with neatly trimmed hedges on either side. There was a mini traffic circle ahead of me, and beyond that, the world's largest supply of pleasure craft. I turned left toward the parking lot.

14.

A one-story, flat-roofed building housed a promenade of stores and cafes that ran for maybe a hundred yards on each side of the mini traffic circle. I drove slowly over a succession of speed b.u.mps, past fancy restaurants with glinting gla.s.ses and dazzlingly white linen tablecloths, all laid out for lunch. It was just after midday, so they'd be full pretty soon, once the boaters had emerged from the clothing stores, shopping bags bulging with Lacoste polo shirts and sweaters. one-story, flat-roofed building housed a promenade of stores and cafes that ran for maybe a hundred yards on each side of the mini traffic circle. I drove slowly over a succession of speed b.u.mps, past fancy restaurants with glinting gla.s.ses and dazzlingly white linen tablecloths, all laid out for lunch. It was just after midday, so they'd be full pretty soon, once the boaters had emerged from the clothing stores, shopping bags bulging with Lacoste polo shirts and sweaters.

Coffee drinkers sat at cafe tables just a few yards from the water's edge, probably wishing they were sitting aboard the sleek and beautiful boats just out of reach to my right instead. The craft all seemed to have English names like Suntreader Suntreader or or Kathy's Dreams, Kathy's Dreams, and it was obviously the time of day for their owners to be out on deck, to take an aperitif, and enjoy being envied. and it was obviously the time of day for their owners to be out on deck, to take an aperitif, and enjoy being envied.

I reached the point where the promenade merged with a series of administration buildings that bordered the parking lot. I pulled up next to the deserted beach, by a sign saying "Pet.i.te Afrique," probably because that was where the sand came from. I was alongside a little playground area, which was halfway through being given a facelift.

Thanks to the postcards and what I'd seen so far, I now had a pretty good sense of how the boats were arranged. From the mini traffic circle, a central pier ran straight out into the middle of an open square, with four smaller piers branching off on each side at right angles. Another three piers jutted out from the quay by the stores, and three more from the opposite side. The place was jammed with row after row of boats, their masts, with whatever bits and pieces they had hanging off them, towering up to the sky. I had no idea where the Ninth of May Ninth of May was going to find room to park; it didn't look like there was a s.p.a.ce to be had. was going to find room to park; it didn't look like there was a s.p.a.ce to be had.

My first priority was to find a single OP (observation point) that would cover the whole area, so no matter where this boat parked, I'd be able to set eyes on and trigger the collectors as they left to pick up the cash. If that couldn't be done, I'd have to find a number of different ones.

I could already see two routes out of this place, apart from the sea. There was the access road I'd come in on, and a footpath to the right of the stores, which led up to a terraced garden.

I left the Megane, hitting the key fob before walking back past the stores toward the traffic circle and the central pier. Ambling around with my camera in hand, I particularly admired the terraced garden. It was nearly as long as the promenade, and was packed with small palm trees and exotic, semitropical plants set in light, dry soil-well worth a couple of photos. A shiny green hedge ran along the back of it, hiding the road, but I could now see there was a way through, because a man walking his dog along the path had just headed up some steps and disappeared.

The majority of the boats seemed to have red flags hanging off the back. A lot were registered in the Cayman Islands. I heard a group of Brits sitting on the back end of a huge motorboat, enjoying a beer and listening to Riviera Radio. There was quite a lot of activity aboard, and not just the clinking of gla.s.ses. Decking was being pulled up, cleaned, and varnished, and chrome was being polished until you could see your Gucci sungla.s.ses in it.

There was an incessant ching ching ching ching ching ching of steel rigging and the one thing I did know that hung off boats, radar reflective b.a.l.l.s, as I wandered along, snapping away, playing the tourist. When I got to the mini traffic circle I could see the rest of the stores. There was a tire replacement center, several boat chandlers, and a high-tech yard with yachts up on blocks and shrink-wrapped in white plastic as if they'd just come off the supermarket shelf. There was also another set of stone steps that led directly to the road. of steel rigging and the one thing I did know that hung off boats, radar reflective b.a.l.l.s, as I wandered along, snapping away, playing the tourist. When I got to the mini traffic circle I could see the rest of the stores. There was a tire replacement center, several boat chandlers, and a high-tech yard with yachts up on blocks and shrink-wrapped in white plastic as if they'd just come off the supermarket shelf. There was also another set of stone steps that led directly to the road.

I turned left at the mini traffic circle onto the main pier, which was built of gray concrete slabs. As I got to the first set of branches, I looked down the line of boats. Every two or three parking s.p.a.ces there was a shared utilities station, with pipes and cables feeding the rear of each vessel with power, water, and a TV antenna. I saw the occasional satellite dish too, weighted down by sandbags and cinder blocks so the boat owners could get Bloomberg to check if the markets were performing strongly enough for them to buy the next size up.

The yachts nearest the promenade were large enough to keep most America's Cup teams happy, but the farther I walked along the pier, the closer I got to the really big guys, until I was among the kind of vessels that had radar domes the size of nuclear warheads on the back and only needed a splash of gray paint to be confused with battleships. One even had its own two-seater helicopter. No doubt about it, I was in the wrong job and had been fostered by the wrong family. I'd always said to myself I should find out who my real parents were, and I realized that now was the time I should start trying.

From the end of the main pier I looked back once more to the garden, working on the theory that if I could see a possible hiding place from where I was now, I could probably see down here from up there. I took more pictures. The only place that looked possible as a one-size-fits-all OP was to the far right of the marina, above the flat roof of the administration building, and among the bushes that were about level with the parking lot. I wandered back, feigning interest in the boats but really looking under the piers to check how they were constructed. Huge concrete pillars rose out of the water, topped with T f.l.a.n.g.es, on which sat the concrete sections.

A thin film of oil coated the water at the rear of the boats, a hundred different shades of blue and orange swirling in the sunlight. I could see shoals of tiny fish fussing around the pillars quite easily through the clear water. I didn't know how yet, but I had to get on board the Ninth of May Ninth of May and plant the device that was going to stop it reaching Algeria with the cash. Getting wet might be the only way to do it. and plant the device that was going to stop it reaching Algeria with the cash. Getting wet might be the only way to do it.

As I walked back toward the parking lot I could hear British, French, and American voices settling down for lunch. Waiters and waitresses hovered with expensive-looking bottles of water and wine, and baskets of freshly cut baguette. I was beginning to feel quite hungry.

I stopped at a tabac tabac and inspected another carousel of postcards as I devoured a jumbo-size Snickers bar. I listened to a group of twenty-something Americans drinking beer at one of the tables outside. It had been a lot of beer, judging by the number of empty gla.s.ses and the content of their conversation. And, judging by their severe haircuts, tattoos, and tight polo shirts, they had to be on sh.o.r.e leave from the warship at Villefranche. and inspected another carousel of postcards as I devoured a jumbo-size Snickers bar. I listened to a group of twenty-something Americans drinking beer at one of the tables outside. It had been a lot of beer, judging by the number of empty gla.s.ses and the content of their conversation. And, judging by their severe haircuts, tattoos, and tight polo shirts, they had to be on sh.o.r.e leave from the warship at Villefranche.

"No way, man, we should f.u.c.king nuke 'em, man, tonight!"

Another guy started chanting, "U.S.A., U.S.A., U.S.A.," getting very worked up. The others chorused their agreement and swigged some more Kronenbourg. It must have been h.e.l.l being stuck in the Mediterranean instead of bobbing up and down on the Indian Ocean, waiting to hose down the Afghan mountains with cruise missiles.

I rotated the carousel. These cards weren't as good as the ones at the station, but then I caught sight of something in a display case that I knew would make Lotfi's day-a baseball hat with an arm sticking out of the top of it, holding a hammer. When you pulled a piece of string the hammer swung down onto the peak. I couldn't resist it: it would send him ballistic. I went inside and handed over a hundred francs to the salesgirl. It was pretty outrageous, but as she was selling Hermes scarves for those windy days on the waves for a couple of thousand, I guessed I got off pretty lightly. No wonder all the stores had alarm boxes with yellow strobe lights above their front doors.

The sailors were still honking as I came out. "We shouldn't be kicking back here, man, we should be kicking some Bin Laden a.s.s right now."

I looked beyond them to the central pier, and stepped back rapidly into the doorway. Two white vans with blue light bars and riot grilles over the windows had pulled up, and were spilling out heavily armed men in navy blue uniforms onto the quay.

I suddenly got very interested in the latest issue of Paris-Match Paris-Match as a station wagon, also with a blue light bar, stopped next to the vans. The word as a station wagon, also with a blue light bar, stopped next to the vans. The word "Gendarmerie" "Gendarmerie" was emblazoned along the door panels. was emblazoned along the door panels.

Not worrying just yet, and still engrossed in the contents of the magazine rack, I checked chamber. If they were here for me, they didn't yet know where I was: otherwise why get together for a briefing at the rear of the vehicles?

I watched as the Americans continued to develop the Kronenbourg plan of attack on Bin Laden, unaware of what was happening just past the traffic circle.

It couldn't have anything to do with me. But, just in case, I moved out onto the sidewalk and turned left, away from them, heading for the staircase that would take me up to the terraced gardens.

The American table-thumping slowly faded out of earshot. They'd probably never know how much Bin Laden a.s.s they were about to kick, if George's plan hit the target.

I found the concrete steps at the end of the block that led up to the higher ground. They were well worn and there was no notice to say they were private. If I did get challenged I'd just play the d.i.c.khead tourist.

The steps took me up onto the roof, which was covered in red asphalt and formed a balcony. There was even a set of railings to stop you falling into someone's soup on a windy day. The traffic circle was in dead ground from here, which was good; I couldn't see them, they couldn't see me. A stone wall, about three feet high, ran the length of the path, against which concrete benches had been installed at ten-yard intervals, facing in the direction of the marina for a nice relaxing view. Nearer the road, an old man with a wheelbarrow was giving some weeds the good news with a spade.

The dirty white top of a truck zoomed past above me and beyond the hedge, heading for Nice. This looked good so far: not only should I be able to see the entire marina, once I'd gotten into the bushes a few yards above me, but I could be over the hedge and onto the main drag in no time.

A bench stood directly in front of the bushes where I would probably try to establish the OP. Someone had sprayed "I f.u.c.k girls!" in English across the back of it in blue paint. After my morning with Greaseball, it was a breath of fresh air.

I glanced up toward the gardener, and down in the direction of the gendarmerie, gendarmerie, but both were out of sight. I slipped over the bench and onto stony ground above it. but both were out of sight. I slipped over the bench and onto stony ground above it.

Moving into a possible OP site from the front was something that I would never normally do: it leaves sign in the very place you are trying not to draw people's attention to. But it didn't matter here; there was enough human and dog sign about already.

I scrabbled up the bank and into the bushes, settling behind a large palm bush that branched into a perfect V at about head height. The field of view wasn't bad; I could see the whole of the marina, and the binos (binoculars) would get me right onto the Ninth of May, Ninth of May, wherever it parked. I could also see all three exit points. wherever it parked. I could also see all three exit points.

The vehicles by the traffic circle were now deserted and the uniforms had split into two groups, each with a hyperactive spaniel on a lead. I watched as the dogs scurried about the piers as if they were demented, darting, stopping, pointing their noses toward the backs of the boats. It had to be drugs; they were carrying out spot checks or looking for some stuff that had been smuggled in. I sat and thought about the three million U.S. dollars that was headed toward the Ninth of May, Ninth of May, a vast amount of U.S. bills that would be contaminated with drug residue, as most U.S. cash is. Tens of thousands of them bundled together would send even a half-bored sniffer dog crazy. a vast amount of U.S. bills that would be contaminated with drug residue, as most U.S. cash is. Tens of thousands of them bundled together would send even a half-bored sniffer dog crazy.

Was that what they were aiming for now? Were they checking for the cash? No, they couldn't be. They would be more proactive; there would be a lot more support. This looked like a routine operation.

I let them get on with it, and stood up to take a look over the four-foot-high hedge. There was an asphalt sidewalk, and beyond that a narrow strip of garden on the level ground before the road, and, maybe fifteen yards downhill, about ten nose-in parking s.p.a.ces. Just over a hundred yards farther was the marina's main entrance.

I took off my shades and sat back in the OP, taking a few pictures of the target area before checking traser. There was plenty of time before the safe house meet to stay static and tune in to the place. Could I be seen, for example, from the sidewalk above or the path in front if somebody walked past?

I listened to the traffic, which was constant but not heavy, and started to visualize what I wanted the other two to do when I triggered the collectors off the boat.

I looked down at the uniforms and dogs as they worked their way around the marina, and wondered if French intelligence were on to the collectors as well. Their External Security Service hadn't messed about in the mid-eighties when Greenpeace's Rainbow Warrior Rainbow Warrior had parked for the night in Auckland, New Zealand, as it campaigned against French nuclear testing in the Pacific. DGSE's (La Direction Generale de la Securite Exterieure-the French equivalent of the C.I.A.) Operations Division, using divers from their Swimmer Combat Command, just blew up the boat, no messing around. I was glad these people weren't allowed to operate on French soil-but then again, we weren't either, and these were strange times. had parked for the night in Auckland, New Zealand, as it campaigned against French nuclear testing in the Pacific. DGSE's (La Direction Generale de la Securite Exterieure-the French equivalent of the C.I.A.) Operations Division, using divers from their Swimmer Combat Command, just blew up the boat, no messing around. I was glad these people weren't allowed to operate on French soil-but then again, we weren't either, and these were strange times.

15.

I continued to play around with ways we could take the collectors from the boat to wherever they were going to pick up the money. I needed a half-decent plan I could present to the other two at the safe house. We needed a structure, orders that would be the template for the operation. It would change as more information was gathered or the collectors did something we didn't expect, but at least we would have something to guide us. continued to play around with ways we could take the collectors from the boat to wherever they were going to pick up the money. I needed a half-decent plan I could present to the other two at the safe house. We needed a structure, orders that would be the template for the operation. It would change as more information was gathered or the collectors did something we didn't expect, but at least we would have something to guide us.

A few old women gossiping at warp speed in high-pitched French were walking behind me with their dogs. I could hear claws scratching the asphalt as they moved past.

I sat for nearly an hour as the police dogs wagged their tails and sniffed like mad things down in the marina. The old guy was still digging his way downhill, unperturbed by the activity going on below us. I wasn't worried; he shouldn't see me, and if he did, so what? I'd just pretend to take a p.i.s.s and hope he wouldn't be back to tend this part of the garden for another three days.

When I checked traser again it was one-forty-seven. The safe house was no more than an hour away, so I'd stay a little longer. Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted.

A bit of a wind had come up, and the boats were swaying from side to side now. The cry of a seagull took me straight back to the Boston yacht club, and to the thought that I could be working there now, serving Sam Adams in a place where the dogs weren't allowed to s.h.i.t, and I wouldn't have to spend all day in a bush.

Just after two o'clock, a while since the uniforms had gone, I decided to make a move, thinking it was a shame that the gardener hadn't made it this far along. It would have been a good test of the position.

Not wanting to destroy the very bit of vegetation behind me that was hiding me from the road, I moved right, along the hedge about four or five yards, and, after checking the other side, climbed over. I pulled the brim of my baseball cap down some more and replaced my shades, as I followed the sidewalk back to the marina entrance. Once at the traffic circle, I turned left, past the stores and cafe on the way to the car. I played the tourist as ever, taking a lot of interest in the boats and how wonderful they were, looking around and enjoying myself as some more Kronenbourgs were being summoned from the tabac tabac. The boys were going to have to wait a while before they kicked some al-Qaeda b.u.t.t.

I drove back toward Nice. Hubba-Hubba and Lotfi would both have checked their e-mails at one-ish, and be on their way to the safe house. Each of us had no idea where the other was staying, and, just like on the Algerian job, we didn't know what names we were using as cover.

We'd come into France at different times, but had been operating as a team for the last four days. I alone knew how to contact George. Anything they didn't need to know I wouldn't be telling them, just in case they ended up hanging upside down as a nice man read them their horoscopes with a length of two-by-four on the soles of their feet.

Even though I hardly knew these guys, I couldn't help liking them. It was obvious that they knew each other well, and they made me feel as if I'd been sort of adopted by them. But operational security was something we all understood and, f.u.c.k it, I'd never see them again after Sunday, so we weren't exactly aiming to be friends for life.

In preparation for this job I'd cut the TAOR (tactical area of responsibility) into three areas, allocating one for each of us to familiarize himself with in depth, or at least as much as we could in such a short time. Then we had a day in each other's areas. Hubba-Hubba had to recce the area from Monaco to the west side of Nice, ending at the airport. I took over from there to the west side of Cannes, and Lotfi took from Cannes down to St. Raphael, about twenty miles along the coast. We'd now read enough guidebooks and travel information on our TAOR to start our own travel agency. But it had to be done; from the moment the boat arrived, we needed to be able to operate as if we'd lived in this part of the world for years. We could have done with a few more weeks to bed in properly, but as usual we were victims of life's two f.u.c.kers: not enough information, and not enough time.

We now had to learn how the buses and trains worked here, even down to the fare structure. If Greaseball was right, it was highly likely that we'd find ourselves following these people on public transport. At the very least, we'd need to have the correct change or tokens ready so as not to draw attention to ourselves.

To operate successfully, a team like ours had to achieve three goals. The first was to establish efficient communication and information flow within the unit, and then separately between the unit leader and the command structure.

The second was to limit the chances of discovery by outsiders, by minimizing the number of communication links between the members. That meant no phone calls, no meetings other than at the safe house, and even then only when operationally necessary. There had to be no communication other than my contacting them by their individual e-mail, and no marked road maps, in fact nothing on paper. Everything had to be committed to memory. The less of a trail we left, the better our chance of survival.

The third goal was to limit the damage that might be done if one member of the team was discovered and removed from the network, which meant minimizing the number of direct links with each other, and only sharing information on a need-to-know basis. That was why we had split up and done our own thing so far: if one of us got lifted, he didn't know where the other two were, he didn't know their full names, he didn't know anything apart from my Canadian e-mail address.

Working within these constraints had meant that we had to sacrifice efficiency in communications, intelligence-gathering and planning, but it kept us alive. Now, as the job started getting into gear, we had no choice but to operate more visibly as a team, which made us more effective, but more vulnerable to discovery.

My route took me back into Nice along the Promenade des Anglais. I reached the center of town and turned right, away from the beach, heading north. I flicked on Riviera Radio and got the same boring voice I'd heard at the marina. He was blathering his way through a badly worded commercial for easily fitted security shutters for the home and office. Then there was a review of the American newspaper headlines. It was all doom and gloom and people dying of anthrax. For about the hundredth time since I'd left, all I could do was hope that no one I knew was affected.

It wasn't long before the five-star shopping areas and hotels and palm trees gave way to freight depots, grime-covered warehouses, and dirty cream, rectangular, sixties or seventies apartment buildings built far too close to each other.

I followed the road around a sharp left-hand bend and over the train tracks, then hit the maze of high-speed feeder roads to the autoroute. I drove beside the river. At this time of the year it was just a hundred-yard-wide stretch of sandstone-colored rock and rubble, in the center of which a trickle of water wound its way down toward the sea.

Beautiful nineteenth-century houses that had once lined the banks were now towered over by hardware stores and warehouses. There were no palm trees around here, that was for sure. There were no shiny buses, either.

Autoroute 8 appeared ahead of me now as I crossed the river. It ran along a viaduct, a couple of hundred feet high, that straddled this part of the city before disappearing into a tunnel in the direction of Monaco.

It would have been a lot quicker and easier if we'd allowed ourselves to use the autoroute, but that wasn't going to happen unless the s.h.i.t really hit the fan. The toll booths had cameras and, besides, the police always hung around these places checking car tax and insurance. For all we knew, the booths might also have face-recognition technology on the cameras.

All three of us had to avoid leaving sign. We were careful to pick cafes and stores with automatic doors, or ones we could push open with a shoulder. Even drinking coffee was a major challenge, as it had to be done without leaving prints, and every attempt had to be made to prevent leaving DNA. It wasn't so much what they could do with any of the information we might leave in our wake right now, it was what it could tell them later: this stuff stays on computer forever.

I remembered a job I'd been on with the Regiment (SAS) in Northern Ireland, when we were trying to get some fingerprints to connect a suspect with a bombing campaign. This guy was so good, he wore gloves most of the time, and when he didn't, he took care to remove all print traces.

In the end, we risked everything to follow him, just waiting for him to slip up. He went into cafes several times and had a cup of coffee, but wiped the cup and the spoon every time before he left. If it was a paper cup, he took it home with him. And he didn't just throw stuff like that out with his household rubbish, he burnt it in his backyard.

It took weeks, but we got him in the end. One day he used a teaspoon, stirred his coffee, put it down, and forgot to wipe it. The moment he left, the team was straight in.

There was no way I was going to make the same mistake. Everything I touched I wiped, or if the prints weren't wipable, I'd keep it with me and destroy it later. Even taking cash from an ATM was a ch.o.r.e. All three of us had had to do it a lot, since we paid cash for everything. When we took money out, we did so from the same area-I used Cannes-so that no pattern of movement could be established. I never used the same ATM twice; I wasn't giving anyone a known location to stake out and lift me. The only routine I followed was that I always got money out at night, varying the time and slipping on a hat and sungla.s.ses and standing an arm's length to the side so the ATM camera didn't get me. Even then, I had to make sure I didn't leave a print. It was the same when it came to buying stuff from a shop or cafe-it was vital not to go to the same place twice. It was all a major pain in the a.s.s, but if things went noisy, I wanted to leave the French police as few pieces of our jigsaw puzzle as possible. I knew that prison-visiting wasn't high on George's list of priorities.

I drove under the viaduct, past the huge concrete funnel that belched smoke from the city's incinerator. I was now in L'Ariane, very near the safe house.

Areas like these, Hubba-Hubba had told me, were called banlieues, banlieues, the suburbs. That word had always conjured up the image of nice three-bedroom split-levels with lawns near the commuter station. But here it meant ghetto; high-density tower blocks where the suburbs. That word had always conjured up the image of nice three-bedroom split-levels with lawns near the commuter station. But here it meant ghetto; high-density tower blocks where les immigres, les immigres, mostly North African, had taken refuge. L'Ariane had the reputation of being one of the most deprived and violent mostly North African, had taken refuge. L'Ariane had the reputation of being one of the most deprived and violent banlieues banlieues in France, after those that ringed Paris. Hubba-Hubba had told me plenty of his aunt's horror stories; it was a no-go area for the authorities, out of bounds even to ambulance crews and firemen, who didn't dare set foot in the place without police protection-and just one glimpse of a in France, after those that ringed Paris. Hubba-Hubba had told me plenty of his aunt's horror stories; it was a no-go area for the authorities, out of bounds even to ambulance crews and firemen, who didn't dare set foot in the place without police protection-and just one glimpse of a gendarme gendarme was all it took to spark a riot. I couldn't think of a better place for a safe house. was all it took to spark a riot. I couldn't think of a better place for a safe house.

I pa.s.sed a burnt-out car that hadn't been there three days ago. Apart from that, everything else looked the same-a grim, rat-infested, litter-strewn warren of graffiti-sprayed concrete and satellite dishes.

I took the first turn left into the housing project and parked outside the kebab-dry-cleaner's-patisserie-laundry. I got out of my car immediately so it looked as if I had a reason to be here-which, in fact, I did, though it wasn't one I wanted anyone to know about. I worried about the Megane; the roads were packed with vehicles, but mine was four or five years newer, and still had its plastic hubcaps.

I'd only been here twice before: when we'd gotten together on the twentieth to sort out the recces and divide the areas, and again earlier today, to deliver the equipment I'd picked up from the DOP.

16.

I 'd tucked my pistol into the front of my jeans. I worried about having just one mag with me, but then again, if I needed more than thirteen rounds to protect myself, I was beyond help and should probably be serving beer at the yacht club. 'd tucked my pistol into the front of my jeans. I worried about having just one mag with me, but then again, if I needed more than thirteen rounds to protect myself, I was beyond help and should probably be serving beer at the yacht club.

As I closed the door, a young Muslim woman appeared, eyes lost in the shadows of her headscarf, shoulders drooping under the weight of two plastic shopping bags full of cans and breakfast cereals.

I went to the trunk and got out my duffel bag, locked up, and headed straight for the entrance to the nearest apartment building on my side of the road. The mosaic tiles decorating the front of the building had crumbled away long ago. The concrete underneath was now decorated with a blend of French and Arabic graffiti that I didn't understand.

The security locks and intercom system had been trashed years ago. The entrance hall stank of p.i.s.s, the floor was littered with cigarette b.u.t.ts. Shouts came from the floor above me, and a barrage of loud French rap. At least I was out of sight of the road. Anyone watching would a.s.sume I was visiting someone in the building, and since I was a white stranger, that probably meant I was there for drugs. Because I was alone and without armed backup, I couldn't be a policeman.