When Hubba-Hubba had arrived he’d have put out the garbage bag for Lotfi and me to see as we made our approach. Hubba-Hubba would have gotten here about three; Lotfi thirty minutes or so later.
If the garbage bag hadn’t been there, I’d have just kept walking and gone to the emergency RV in twenty-four hours’ time — Cannes at McDonald’s, or McDo as it was called down here. The place was always packed with schoolkids and office workers, much to the disgust of the French food police. If any one of us failed to show, we’d be in the shit, but the job would still go on. We had no choice: there was too much at stake for it not to.
I went through the gate with my bag over my left shoulder, leaving my right ready to react with the Browning, and walked up the pathway.
As I reached the door of the farthest cottage, I checked again that I wasn’t about to be jumped on as I took off my sunglasses. I looked for the two match heads that should be protruding from the bottom of the door. They had to be where I could see them without adjusting the angle of my head as I approached; I didn’t want to make it obvious that I was looking for something.
They were exactly where they should be, one sticking out an inch from the right-hand corner of the door, and the other on the left, by the frame. That told me that both Hubba-Hubba and Lotfi were inside; the door hadn’t been opened and closed without the telltales being replaced.
I knocked on the door and watched. After a few seconds, the spyhole darkened. I lowered my eyes, but kept my face in line with it, to indicate that everything was okay, that nobody was against the wall and out of view with a weapon aimed at my head. Eyes are a good telltale; they can’t be seen from a distance, so nobody can see what’s going on.
The matches disappeared from view, four bolts were pulled back, and the handle turned. The door opened and three rubber-coated fingers appeared around its edge as it was pulled inward. I walked in without any greeting, and it was closed behind me. The bolts were slid back into place.
I took two steps over the wooden floorboards of the cramped hallway and onto a worn, Persian-style rug. I followed the smell of freshly brewed coffee into the dimly lit living room, past furniture draped in doilies and faded black-and-whites of kids with gummy smiles gathered together on a sideboard in cheap chrome frames. Lotfi was standing by a wooden-armed couch, part of an ancient, flower-patterned three-piece set. It was covered in clear plastic sheeting, which reflected the few beams of light that managed to defeat the shutters behind him. The coffee stood on a low table in front.
He wore jeans and a cheap striped cotton shirt, the sort where the pattern fades after just a few washes, but that wasn’t what made me want to grin. He was also wearing pink Rubbermaid gloves, and a dolphin-patterned shower cap over his heavily gelled hair. Hubba-Hubba knew that the boy was taking his personal security very seriously, but had ragged on him mercilessly the last time we’d all met.
I put my bag on the rug and got out my own gloves, the clear plastic ones I’d picked up from a gas station.
Lotfi watched me as I put them on and muttered, “Bonjour,” in a low voice. I knew he was waiting for my face to break into a smile.
I unzipped my bag, removed my Nike cap, and replaced it with the hammerhead baseball cap I’d bought at the marina. Then I stood smartly at attention, trying to keep a straight face as I pulled down on the string.
Lotfi watched impassively as the hammer moved up and down on the peak and I heard Hubba-Hubba try not to snigger by the door. “This is serious, Nick.” He pointed behind me. “Please, do not be a fool like him.”
I turned. Hubba-Hubba was sporting a plastic Groucho Marx big-nose-mustache-and-glasses set. The two of us snorted with laughter, like a couple of kids. We couldn’t help it. It really had been a boring four days, and I was feeling pretty glad to see them again.
Hubba-Hubba held up his hands, to give me the full benefit of his ridiculous pink gloves, and that only made things worse.
Behind their disguises, both of them still had very neat hair and mustaches. Hubba-Hubba had broken out slightly and not shaved for a few days. His teeth gleamed in the murky light as we enjoyed our moment of stupidity, and Lotfi tried not to understand why it was so funny.
After a moment or two, I decided that kindergarten was over. We had things to do. “Is the escape clear?”
Hubba-Hubba nodded, and the Groucho Marx gear slid down the bridge of his nose. That started me off again, and this time even Lotfi joined in.
The escape route was into the cellar via the kitchen, then through the next-door cottage. A mat had been glued over the trapdoor, so that when it was closed it would be concealed. Apparently it was a leftover from the Resistance in the Second World War.
We sat down around the coffee table to the sound of crumpling plastic sheeting that Hubba-Hubba had bought from a hardware store. We couldn’t afford to leave behind anything like hair or clothes fibers that might be used against us. The sheeting and our other precautions wouldn’t do a one hundred percent job, but you can only do your best.
“I’m afraid we may have a problem, Nick.” Lotfi nodded toward Hubba-Hubba, his expression serious. “I’m getting worried about him. He’s turning into a weird beard.”
“A what?”
“Weird beards — you know, Talib. He’s turning into Taliban.”
Hubba-Hubba took off his big nose and glasses, shaking his head as he poured the coffee into three blue flower-patterned cups. “We have to make allowances, Nick. He doesn’t get out much these days.” He gave me a theatrical wink.
I sipped my coffee. This was nothing instant from a jar, it was hot, sweet Arabic stuff. It always tasted to me like perfume, but it was good all the same. I could hear kids running around on the road, and mopeds buzzing past, sounding like turbo-charged sewing machines.
“We’re operational from tomorrow,” I said, in a low voice. “The boat’s going to park at Beaulieu-sur-Mer sometime tomorrow night. I don’t know yet where the collections are going to happen, or precisely when, but I’m told there are going to be three of them; one a day, starting Friday. I’ve got another source meet tonight, and hopefully I’ll get the collection addresses then.”
Lotfi was silent for a moment, digesting this information. Finally, he spoke. “Dock, Nick.” He smiled. “You dock a boat.”
I smiled.
“Dock, okay. I’ll try to remember that one.”
“And the French don’t have marinas,” Hubba-Hubba added. “They have ports.”
Chapter 17
I watched the two of them drop enough sugar cubes into their cups to make their spoons stand up. I decided to treat myself to one. Then I pulled out the camera from my bag, together with the postcards and maps I’d gotten from the newsstands, and a couple of sets of wires. I nodded at Hubba-Hubba. “Okay, smartass, let’s see if you can spark up Auntie’s TV….”
He stood up and pressed the On button. After a minute or so there was an electronic squelch and a picture appeared: some high-octane Italian quiz show with everyone’s arms flying everywhere. They looked as though they’d be getting their stuff off any minute. I went around the back and rigged up the connecting wires so we could have a good look at the pictures I’d taken, instead of having to crowd around the digital display on the back of my camera like teenage boys with a copy of Penthouse.
I took another sip of coffee as I marshaled my thoughts. “Okay. These are orders for the stakeout of Beaulieu-sur-Mer, and the take of the collectors from the target boat, the Ninth of May, to the hawalladas, then the hawalladas’ lift and drop-off. We’ll just call the marina BSM from now on, okay?”