Still no glimpse of blue. I draped my purchases over my left arm as I agonized over a shelf full of T-shirts and fished the canister out of my jeans. A man brushed past me from behind, and gave me a big “Pardon.” That was okay: it gave me extra cover to check traser. Two minutes to go. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” was interrupted by somebody babbling over the loudspeaker about the bargain of the day.
I was walking back toward my start line when I spotted a blue chunky turtleneck sweater ahead of me, no more than ten yards away. It was two sizes bigger than it needed to be, and making its way toward the other end of the socks and underwear aisle, the other start line. This wasn’t the sort of Thackery I’d imagined: this one looked straight out of a garage band. He was in his late twenties, with peroxide-blond hair, gelled up and messy. He, too, had a bag in his left hand. He was hitting the start line; it had to be him. One minute to go. I toyed with a selection of boxers on the edge of the underwear department, but my mind was focused on what was about to happen.
Twenty seconds to go. Adjusting the clothes on my arm, I transferred the canister into my right hand as I started to walk down the aisle. Thackery was now about six yards away. Between us, an old man was stooped over a pile of thermals.
There was another announcement over the loudspeaker, but I hardly heard it. I was concentrating completely on what needed to happen during the next few seconds.
Thackery’s eyes were green, and they were looking into mine. The contact was on. He was happy with the situation; so was I.
I headed straight along the aisle, aiming for the suits, but my eyes were on his hand. Two yards to go. I stepped around the old man, and relaxed my grip on the canister.
I felt Thackery’s hand brush against mine, and the canister was gone. He carried on walking. He’d done this before.
I decided against the suits, but had a quick look at the overcoats before heading to the cashier on the far side of the floor. I didn’t know what Thackery was doing, and didn’t care. My only job now was to pay up and get out, and that was exactly what I did.
Chapter 24
A wrecked car was burning nicely in the square, dangerously close to one of the apartment buildings. Flames were licking at the second-floor balconies, but nobody seemed to care. An old mattress had been chucked onto the roof, its burning foam adding to the column of thick black smoke. I tossed the garbage bag containing all my crap onto the fire; it was too good an opportunity to miss and I stood against a wall and watched it turn to ash. Kids ran around the car like Indians around a wagon train. They threw on wooden pallets and anything combustible they could find, while their parents shouted at them from the windows above.
As I approached the house, Hubba-Hubba’s garbage bag was exactly where it should have been, and the matches were under the door. Lotfi looked up from the couch by the coffee table as I entered the living room. Wearing a matching green shower cap and gloves, he muttered, “Bonjour, Nick,” with a very straight face, daring me to comment on his new hat. I just nodded extremely seriously as Hubba-Hubba threw the bolts behind me.
As I bent down to get my own gloves out of my duffel bag, I saw Hubba-Hubba’s sneakers stop a few feet behind me. He gave me a cheery “Bonjour,” but I didn’t look up until I’d slipped on my new multicolored velvet jester’s hat, then given a shake of the head for the full benefit of the bells. I tried to control my laughter, but failed as Hubba-Hubba moved into view. He was wearing a pair of joke glasses with eyeballs bouncing up and down on springs. Lotfi looked at us with a pained expression, like a father with two naughty children.
We all took our places around the coffee table. Lotfi got out his beads, ready to start threading them through his fingers as he thought about his next conversation with God. Hubba-Hubba took off his glasses and wiped the tears from his eyes before playing mother with the coffee. I kept my hat on, but what I had to say was serious.
“I’ve got the location of the boat in BSM from Greaseball. I’ve also got the three addresses from him, but he doesn’t know the names of the hawallada or the times of the collections.” I looked at the two of them. “You ready?”
They both nodded as I tried the hot sweet coffee. Then they closed their eyes and listened intently as I gave them the Palais de la Scala address.
They were immediately concerned. “I know what you’re thinking. I couldn’t agree more. It’s going to be a nightmare. But what can I say?”
Well, I did know what to say: the address, three more times. I watched their lips moving slightly as they repeated it to themselves.
I gave them the second address three times, then the third. They opened their eyes again once I’d finished, and I told them about the recces.
On the buildup for the Algeria job, when we were in Egypt, sitting around a pot of coffee just like we were now but without the clown getup, I’d told them about the seven P’ s: “Prior planning and preparation prevents piss-poor performance.” They liked that one — and it was funny afterward, listening to Hubba-Hubba trying to get his tongue around them in quick time.
“Okay, then, the Ninth of May is going to be parked at berth forty-seven, pier nine. Forty-seven, pier nine. That’s the second one up on the left-hand side of the marina as you look at it from the main road. Got that?”
Lotfi turned to Hubba-Hubba and gave him a quick burst of Arabic, and for once, I understood the reply: “Ma fi mushkila, ma fi mushkila.” No problem, no problem. Hubba-Hubba waved his gloved hands around the room as he traced the outline of the marina and pinpointed the pier.
I gave them the confirmatory orders for the stakeout, from placing the device to lifting and dropping off the hawallada.
Lotfi looked at the ceiling and offered his hands and beads to his maker. “In’sha’allah.”
Hubba-Hubba gave a somber nod, which looked ridiculous, given the way we were dressed. Lotfi’s beads clicked away as kids on motor scooters screamed up and down the street.
“Okay, then. Phase one, finding the Ninth of May. Lotfi, what are the closing times for the places you looked at?”
“Everything is shut by midnight.”
“Great — and yours, mate?”
There was a rustle of plastic as Hubba-Hubba moved in his seat. “Around eleven-thirty.”
“Good.” I picked up my cup and took a gulp of coffee. “I’ll do the walk-past at twelve-thirty A.M. I’m going to put the Mégane in the parking lot up on the road, and walk down to the marina via the stores, check out the boat, then back to the OP via the garden and the “I fuck girls” bench, to clear the area in front of the OP.
“If the Ninth of May is parked where it should be, the OP won’t have to change.” I looked at Lotfi and he nodded slowly as he leaned forward to pick up his coffee. I described the OP once more, the higher ground above the fuck bench, the hedge, and the path from the marina to the main road. I needed them to know my exact location so that if there was a situation they would know where to find me.
Lotfi looked puzzled. “One thing I don’t understand, Nick. Why would anybody write that on a bench?”
I shrugged. “Maybe he’s proud of his English.”
Hubba-Hubba joined in gravely as he filled Lotfi’s cup. “I think that whoever wrote that has had a very tall glass of weird.”
Lotfi’s eyebrows disappeared under his shower cap. “You’ve been watching too much American TV.”