“That’s approaching the target. Wait, wait. That’s at the target, going complete…that’s complete the target. They’re talking to the white shirt. Wait, wait.” The cry of a baby and a flood of female Arabic burst over the net. I heard their chatter get weaker: he was walking away from it. “H is foxtrot, I can’t hold the trigger, I can’t hold the trigger.”
I quickened my pace.
“Roger that. N going for the trigger. You take the rear, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
As I got nearer I could see what the problem was. Hubba-Hubba was crossing from left to right over the road just past the target: he’d been lurking in a doorway, which two headscarfed women with long coats and a stroller were trying to get through.
He reached the intersection, which was two storefronts to the left of the target, and disappeared. His route would take him around to the rear of the stores and the wide alleyway.
Security was now definitely being sacrificed for efficiency as I stopped to have a look at the display outside a hardware shop. Ladders on the sidewalk leaned against the wall, and brooms and brushes sprouted between the rungs. No matter; at least I could see the store. “N has the trigger.”
Click, click.
I could also see the conversation that was happening between the unknown in the white shirt and Romeo One and Romeo Two. When that finished, they started to walk toward the rear of the dimly lit store. I had to take off my glasses so I could see inside clearly. It looked almost empty, with not much more stock than a few rolls of multicolored fabric lining the walls. They passed a long glass counter with lengths of cut material all over the place, then another man emerged from the rear internal door with a group who’d been standing in the shadows.
“Stand by, stand by. Unknowns on target.”
Then I realized they weren’t unknown. It was the man with the goatee I’d seen get out of the Lexus on Wednesday night in Juan-les-Pins, and go into the Fiancée of the Desert. His smaller, bald-headed driver was standing to his right, still looking bored.
Goatee leaned forward and spoke into Romeo Two’s ear without any greeting. I got back on the net. “That’s a possible Romeo Three. Tall, Arab, black on jeans, and goatee beard, with three or four unknowns.”
There was a little more movement in the gloom. My view was abruptly blocked as a truck rumbled between us. By the time it had passed, everybody was starting to pile back through the internal door.
“They’re heading to the back of the store,” I said. “That’s all three Romeos unsighted, could be coming your way. H, acknowledge.”
“Nearly there, I’m nearly there. Wait out.”
It had to be the hawallada. They were whispering the password.
I moved away from the hardware store. It was pointless being exposed to the white shirt, who had now returned to the glass counter. I could still keep the trigger from a distance. I turned back the way I’d come, making sure I could still see the place.
“Hello, this is L. Radio check, radio check.”
Relief wasn’t the word for it as I felt for the pressle and stopped by the door of an apartment, behind a newsstand. “N has the trigger on the shop. Where are you?”
“Approaching the target from the main.”
“Roger that. Wait.”
I kept my eyes on the store as a group of teenagers in the world’s baggiest jeans ambled past with Walkmans in their ears and cigarettes in their hands. It gave me time to think before I hit my pressle.
“L, sit rep. I have the trigger front. Romeo One and Romeo Two are complete the shop with a possible Romeo Three. Arab, tall, black on blue and a goatee. H is foxtrot and getting the trigger rear. Go static and stay complete in case Romeo Three goes mobile. L, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
As soon as that finished, Hubba-Hubba came on the net. “H has the trigger.” I heard him trying to control his breathing so he could be heard clearly.
“N, acknowledge. N, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
“That’s L static. First intersection past the market and can take in all directions. N, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
I guessed he was at the intersection facing the boulevard now, to be able to do that, so he could come onto the avenue and turn left, right, in all directions.
Hubba-Hubba started to give plate checks in case any of the vehicles behind the store went mobile with the possible hawallada. “White Mercedes van, Zulu Tango one-five-six-seven. Large scrape on the left-hand side. Blue Lexus, Alpha Yankee Tango one-three. Highly polished.”
I was right, it was him.
“Stand by, stand by — movement by the vehicles.”
The net stayed open for a few seconds and I could hear Hubba-Hubba’s labored breathing and the rustle of his clothes before it went dead. There was a long pause and I could feel my heart go up a gear as I waited for the next stand-by to say vehicles had gone mobile. Lotfi would be doing the same, and his engine would be running in preparation. The world just walked on past as we both waited on Hubba-Hubba.
The net crackled into life. “That’s an Arab, short, fat, brown wool on jeans. Foxtrot from the shop. Wait…He’s going to the Mercedes, he’s heading for the van. Wait…wait…no good, I think he’s seen me, he’s using a cell. That’s me foxtrot. Lost the trigger, lost the trigger.”
I hit the pressle with my eyes still on the front of the target. “H, go complete. Stand by to take anything that goes mobile. L, go—”
Two guys exited from the front of the shop. The expression on their dark-skinned faces said they were on a mission.
“Stand by, stand by. That’s two unknowns from the target front, both Arab and black leather. That’s right, toward the intersection. H, go complete, get out of there. H, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
Lotfi burst back on the net. “L is mobile.” His voice was tight with tension and I understood his concern.
The two guys from the shop had reached the intersection and turned right. I hit the pressle. “That’s the unknowns now right at the intersection, unsighted, toward the rear. H, acknowledge.”
Hubba-Hubba’s voice was a whisper. “H has the two unknowns, I can’t move yet. Engine on, engine on the van.”
He was close, I could hear it.
“That’s—”
The next sound was of Hubba-Hubba resisting and Arab voices shouting. There was lots of grabbing going on around the Sony as it crackled like a forest fire.
Fuck. It had gone noisy.
Chapter 47
Shit, shit, shit!
I sprinted across the road, not bothering to look out for traffic. My right hand forced the Browning down into my jeans to stop it falling out, and my left held the earpiece in place. My whole being was focused on that corner, two stores to the left of the target. I got that familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach, the same sensation that always came when shit was on. I’d had it even as a kid, running away from the bigger boys who wanted to beat me up and steal my lunch money, or from an angry storekeeper whose stuff I’d tried to shoplift. It was a horrible feeling: you know there’s a situation, you wish it wasn’t there, you know you’ve got to do something about it, but your legs just won’t take you fast enough.
I turned the corner but saw nothing except a few people standing maybe twenty yards farther down on the other side of the road. All eyes were turned to the alleyway. Screams still came over the net, mixed with shouts and the sounds of a struggle. Everything was in Arabic but none of it was from Hubba-Hubba. Then I heard him in the background. He was in pain, he was getting filled in, he was getting subdued.