He ignored the stupid second question and thought for a few seconds about the first. “The main train station in Nice. They have some of those cyberpoints. There are maybe four or five of them. I think they lock the station at night, but I’m not sure. There are definitely two outside.”
I briefed Hubba-Hubba on what I had seen inside the boat, and told him to pass it on to Lotfi while I went to Nice. “Tell Lotfi to keep a trigger until I get back. And if they move before that, you two just have fun!” I slapped him on the shoulder. I checked the sidewalk for people, then stepped out and went back to the Mégane.
Driving past the entrance to the marina and on up toward Lotfi’s position, I listened in as Hubba-Hubba briefed Lotfi on the net, then I started to work out the code words I was going to need in the e-mail.
I drove along the coast toward Nice. At this time of the morning the city was dead. A few cars passed me, and the odd loving couple or lost soul wandered among the brightly lit storefronts.
The main station was a grand nineteenth-century building, with plenty of modern steel and glass now complementing huge blocks of granite. The area around it was filled with the usual array of kebab stalls, sex shops, newsstands, and souvenir shops.
Hubba-Hubba had been right: the station was closed, probably to prevent it becoming a homeless refuge at night. The two cyberpoints he’d mentioned were among a cluster of maybe six or seven brightly lit glass phone booths to the left of the main entrance. The only cameras I saw were focused on the entrance. I continued driving past and squeezed into the only space I could see, down a side road.
The cyberpoint was exactly the same as the one in Cap 3000. I slipped on my latex gloves, inserted my phone card, got on to e-mail.
I started to tap out with two fingers, gradually getting faster.
It was good to see you yesterday. Guess what? I think you had better move a lot faster if you want to get together with Susanna. There’s this guy I’ve just seen her with. I don’t know his name, but you might know him, he’s got long, dark, curly hair. In his mid-thirties and English. Do you know him? Anyway, he’s getting about quite a bit. I also saw him and Jenny together last night, which looked a bit suspicious as they obviously know each other very well, and it certainly seems that this guy tells Jenny everything. Did you know about this or is Jenny keeping that a secret from you? Sorry if this is sad news, but I just thought you’d like to know. Is there anything you want to tell me? If so I can come around after work tomorrow night. I would say have a nice day, but maybe not.
P.S. I gave your present to Susanna, she loves red.
I closed down and pulled out my phone card. If George had anything new to tell me, or if I needed to change the plan, I’d pick it up at the DOP tomorrow night.
Chapter 30
There was a sudden burst of static in my ear for the eight A.M. check. “Hello, hello — radio check.” As I reached inside my jacket, I heard, “H?” followed by two clicks. Then, “N?” I hit the pressle twice.
“That’s all okay.”
The radio went dead. I brought my hand out of my pocket and pulled up the zipper. The coat had done its job well through the night, and a couple of times I’d even had to undo the top a little.
My face was greasy and my eyes stung, but my job was to keep the trigger on the target boat and that was what I’d done. There’d been no sign of life, outside or in.
First light was a bit later today because of the cloud cover, and for the last hour or so a gentle breeze had been coming off the sea and rustling the vegetation around me. It was going to be a dull, gray, miserable day, not one that the postcard photographers would be rushing to capture.
The traffic was starting to make its presence felt behind me, and a store’s shutter rattled open below. I bet the tabac was going to get one now.
The first thing I’d done on my return from Nice last night was fold the towel and use it as a cushion under my ass. It hadn’t turned the OP into a hotel room on the Croisette, but it had made me quite comfortable. All my Snickers bars had gone, and I’d had a dump in the plastic wrap. Lying next to it was my water bottle, full of urine.
I brushed my hair back with my hands and rubbed my eyes awake. Now wasn’t the time to slack off. I could hear labored breathing: someone running, coming down the road to my left. He took his time to get to me, and I was amazed when he finally did: the wheezing and scraping of feet made it sound like he was about to have a heart attack.
There was general movement around the marina now, with quite a few bodies moving out of their boats. The crew of a garbage truck were emptying champagne bottles and caviar tubs out of the two wheeled bins. I made a mental note to really find out who my biological parents were one day — I wouldn’t mind finding out I belonged in a place like this, maybe even getting served in the Boston yacht club instead of just being able to work in it.
Birdsong had piped up around me. I tipped over onto my side and supported my head with my right arm, stretching out my legs as I tried to restore some sort of feeling in them. I had a better view of the VW camper now. It was yellow and white, one of the newer, squarer-shaped ones, and all the windows were covered with aluminum folding blinds. They must have laid their heads down as soon as the wheels stopped turning.
With just one eye on the binos, because I couldn’t be bothered to sit up and use both, I watched the couple on the boat to the right of the Ninth of May emerge on deck. Hair sticking up, much the same as mine probably was, they did some boat stuff around the deck, their fleece jackets protecting them from the breeze. There was still nothing coming from the Ninth of May: the black blinds still covered the front window and the two on the side facing me. I ran the binos over the plastic covering on the top deck couches and the driving station. It was buckling a little under the breeze, but didn’t look as if it had been disturbed.
I thought about what might be going on behind those blinds. Maybe they were already up, all three of them, just waiting to go and collect, lying in their bunks with time to kill, or memorizing street maps and bus and train timetables. Whatever it was, I wished they’d hurry up and get on with it. The longer they stayed there, the more chance I had of being compromised.
A very small, narrow Japanese van pulled into the parking lot and the old gardener I’d seen yesterday got out: he was dressed in the same baggy green overalls and rubber boots. He seemed more concerned about the camper than about his plants right now; he dragged himself toward it, looking like he was about to start an incident. Maybe campers weren’t welcomed as energetically as everyone else was, according to the marina entrance sign.
When he got there, he shouted and banged on the side panel. One of the blinds went up and he carried on shouting and waving his arms as if he were directing traffic. He obviously got a satisfactory answer, because he went back to his vehicle with a bit more spring in his step. He opened the sliding door to reveal forks and spades and a wheelbarrow. The tools came out one by one, clanging as they hit the ground. I just hoped he hadn’t woken up at three in the morning determined to deal first thing with that V-shaped palm up behind the fuck bench. Whatever he was planning, it wasn’t going to happen yet. He looked as if he were going to take the first break of the day.
Lowering himself onto the sill of the sliding door, he tapped a cigarette out of a pack. The smoke was picked up and dispersed quickly by the breeze.