My mouth was dry as I drew down and, alert to the third party, kept the weapon by my side. I turned the corner into the alleyway, not bothering to clear it. There wasn’t time.
I was too late. The Merc van was bouncing over the potholes away from me, with one of the unknowns trying to close the rear door. More Arabic commotion streamed over the net. Even if I’d spoken the language I wouldn’t have been able to understand what was being said — it was so confused and loud. But for sure Hubba-Hubba was in there. I caught a glimpse of his sneakers; he was fighting back as two guys climbed on top of him, trying to keep him down in the back.
The left door was already closed, the small window covered by black plastic. The second door was pulled shut from inside; that, too, was covered. I kept running toward the rear of the store.
The Lexus was still there. The back of the store was closed down. Shit, who to go after, Hubba-Hubba or the hawallada?
Lotfi swung into the alleyway like something out of Hill Street Blues. Somebody somewhere would be getting on a phone to the police. I motioned with my hand, trying to get him to slow down, to stop. The vehicle nearly somersaulted over its two front wheels as he hit the brakes. His eyes looked frenzied. The growing crowd on the road turned and gawped.
Jumping out, Lotfi had his pistol up, ready to fire.
“Keep it down, for fuck’s sake!” I pointed along the alleyway, which was now clear. “The van, black plastic covering the rear windows. He’s in the back. Go, go, take it.”
I turned to run back the way I’d come, shouting at him as he jumped back into the Focus. “I’ll give you directions at the boulevard, go to channel four, channel four. Go, go, go!”
I disappeared left around the corner, going back toward the boulevard. Fuck the third party now. People everywhere were stopping to rubberneck.
I got down to the corner and looked left. The van had slowed as the traffic hit the vegetable market. I turned the dial on the Sony to four and hit the pressle as I sucked in oxygen. “L, they’ve gone left, they’ve gone left toward the main. L, acknowledge, acknowledge.”
The Focus screamed into view at the junction, Lotfi still playing cops and robbers. He was going to have to slow down before he had a crash or ran somebody over. Either would stop him being able to take. He was looking frantically left and right, trying to see where the van had gone, then looking down, probably having just remembered to change channels. I kept on sending. “They’ve gone left, they’ve gone left toward the main.”
He didn’t reply, but he must have heard me because the Focus screamed around toward the market, braking hard as the horn screamed out at people trying to cross the road in front of him, then hurtled down toward the mass of fruit buyers.
I turned right and had gone maybe twenty yards up toward the Scudo when I got a blast of screaming and ranting in my ear. I couldn’t understand any of it. “Slow down, slow down! Say again.”
I got to the van and started to pull at the soft steel license plate at the rear, feeling for the key and fob taped behind it. Lotfi continued on trying to get the message across; he’d slowed down but the voice was still very high-pitched, he was really hyped up. “L has, L has! Past the market straight for the main. They’re going for the main. N, acknowledge, acknowledge.”
I double-clicked, not wanting to talk yet, in case he got more worked up.
By now I’d extracted the key fob and hit it to release the central locking. I jumped in and began turning the Citroën around so I could back Lotfi. A cluster of third party watched; at least two were on cell phones. This was a weapons-grade screwup.
Forcing the Scudo around into the traffic and driving down toward the market, I checked my decision to go for Hubba-Hubba. It must be right: Lotfi wouldn’t help me lifting Goatee. But deep down I knew we wouldn’t get Goatee either way; he would be truly going underground now. The job was destroyed, and I would be, too, if I got caught by the police. But what could I do about it? Abandon the two of them and just head for the airport? It was tempting. I instinctively moved my hand down to the fanny pack, making sure my docs were still with me. I could just turn around and drive straight to Nice airport, get the first plane out of here…
Lotfi had calmed down a bit when he came back on the net, trying hard to keep the speed and tension from his voice. “L still has, L still has. They are approaching the main, lights are green, lights are green. No indication. Wait, wait. They’re intending right, that’s now right on the main, toward the autoroute. Acknowledge, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
By now I was halfway down to the market. I couldn’t see Lotfi ahead of me and just hoped that he was still with them and hadn’t got held by the lights. I couldn’t guarantee it, because he was too worked up to give me a full commentary.
I tried to anticipate. The main drag went on for about a mile and a half, until it took a sharp left-hander at the bridge over the railroad tracks from the freight depot. If the van went that route, they’d eventually hit the feeder road that followed the river toward the autoroute at the north end of town, where the safe house was.
“L still has approaching the freight station.” Despite his efforts, he was still hyped up, talking an octave above his normal voice, but at least I could understand him now.
I reached the main road on red, getting right up close to the car in front in case it was a short light.
“That’s now at the freight station still straight toward the autoroute. N, acknowledge.”
“Roger that, I’m held at the main.”
Click, click.
The light changed. All the cars in the line made it through, and I turned right, following Lotfi, trying to get closer and back him as he carried on with the commentary. “That’s approaching the swimming pool on the right.”
I heard the hiss of a truck’s air brakes over the net.
“That’s now at the swimming pool. Still straight, speed forty, forty-five. N, acknowledge.”
“Roger that, N’s mobile.”
Click, click.
Railroad tracks appeared on my left, running into the freight station just ahead. I couldn’t be that far behind them. The swimming pool was maybe three hundred yards farther on and I was traveling at roughly the same speed as them in the flow of traffic.
All of a sudden I got a frenzied, “Stop, stop, stop! That’s at the lights before the railway bridge. The van’s five vehicles back, I’m four behind that, lights still red. N, where are you? Where are you?”
I held down the pressle. “The swimming pool, not far.”
“Roger that. Stand by, stand by. Lights green. Wait, wait…Now mobile. That’s left over the bridge. Wait, wait…Stand by. They are going…Wait, wait. That’s them in the right-hand lane…intending right, they’re going to the autoroute. That’s them now toward the autoroute, they are following the river to the autoroute. Acknowledge, acknowledge. N, acknowledge. Where are you?”
Click, click.
He was starting to get worked up again as he took the van through the intersection. The important thing was that he knew I understood where he was and he knew I was behind him somewhere.
The railroad bridge traffic lights were about a hundred yards ahead of me as Lotfi resumed his commentary. “Speed, sixty, sixty-five. Halfway to the autoroute turnoff. N, where are you? Where are you?”
It was time to talk, now that he’d finished maneuvering around intersections, and was on a straight drag.
“At the bridge lights, and held.”
“Roger that, speed no change.”
They were on the dual-lane highway toward L’Ariane, the autoroute way above them and ahead, on the viaduct. If they continued straight on this side of the river, they could take the ramp for Monaco and Italy, or cross the river and head for the Cannes and Marseille ramp. I didn’t care which one; it’d be much easier to take them up on the autoroute, fuck the toll booths and cameras now.