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, 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 immigrés, mostly North African, had taken refuge. L’Ariane had the reputation of being one of the most deprived and violent 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 gendarme was all it took to spark a riot. I couldn’t think of a better place for a safe house.
I passed 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-pâtisserie-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 Mégane; 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.
Chapter 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.
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 piss, the floor was littered with cigarette butts. 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 assume 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.
I headed straight out of the back door and into a courtyard flanked by four identical buildings. It had probably looked wonderful when it was full of shiny little Matchbox cars in the architect’s model. I could still make out the markings of a parking lot, but now the place looked more like a storage area for the incinerator next door than the front lot of a Citroën dealership. It was littered with burnt-out cars and rotting food that seemed to have been flung out of the upper-story windows. Windblown garbage was heaped in drifts against the walls of every building and, for some reason I couldn’t work out, dead pigeons seemed to be lying everywhere. Maybe someone was shooting them from a window with an air rifle, or perhaps they’d eaten some of the food. A couple of seriously macho rats darted from bird to bird.
I strode purposefully across the courtyard, putting in an antisurveillance route to make sure I wasn’t being followed.
I entered the next building to the blare of music and kids screaming upstairs. There was a strong smell of cooking. Two guys who looked as though they’d just gotten off the bus from Kosovo were in the entrance hall ahead of me, surrounded by kids with ski hats and baggy jeans. The kids were in the process of paying for whatever it was these guys were selling them. The men froze, the foil packets in their hands, and stared me out, waiting to see my next move. The kids couldn’t have cared less, they just wanted the packets.
It was pointless turning back. I just acted as if I belonged, didn’t give a shit what was going on, and walked past. The moment they realized I wasn’t concerned they carried on with the deal. I pushed open a door and hit the road.
I worked my way through a maze of small alleyways. Hollow-eyed men in hoodies and jeans hung out on every corner, smoking and occasionally kicking a stray ball back to their kids, who looked like smaller versions of their dads. These people had no work, no prospects, no future. It didn’t matter what color they were, in this part of town everyone was burnt-out, just like the cars.
I turned toward the last building. On my first visit I’d thought it had been condemned; the place had scorch marks licking up from every window. Cinder blocks filled the window frames on the first few floors. This was my last checkpoint before heading for the RV; I was clear, nothing behind me, and everything looked normal, or as normal as anything could look around here. A Muslim woman came out onto a landing above me and gave the family comforter a good shake.
I crossed the debris-covered road and headed for the RV, one of the three farmworkers’ cottages that crouched in the shadows of the housing project. I imagined the owners sitting here fifty years ago, minding their own business, watching their chickens and sheep go down to the river for a drink. Next thing they knew, they were living in the middle of a trash can of a housing project, as the city swallowed them up and introduced them to the brave new world of high-rise living. The far one now belonged to Hubba-Hubba’s aunt. He’d paid for her and her husband to go back to North Africa for two months and see their family before they died, so the house was ours for the duration.
I checked the position of the Browning; I really wanted to check chamber as well, but couldn’t. In a place like this there would be eyes everywhere.
I made my way along a stretch of dried mud that might once have been grass. The cottages had been painted dark beige many years ago. The faded green shutters on the farthest one were closed, the windows covered with metal grates. Litter blown from the road had piled up against the bottom of the rusty, sagging chain-link fence that surrounded them. Beyond it was a concrete path and a dilapidated chicken coop that had last seen an egg in the fifties.
I could hear an exchange of rapid and aggressive French from the apartments behind me. The comforter-shaker was giving someone inside her state-of-the-nation address. I checked that the first telltale was in position. It was: a new black garbage bag, half-filled with newspaper, had been placed by the gate inside the fence. That meant Hubba-Hubba was in the house, hopefully sponsoring the RV. A glance at traser told me it was four minutes to four. All being well, Lotfi would also be in position.