As we took a right again at the far end of the brocante, we were confronted by a dry, worn mud path that seemed to run the whole length of this side of the industrial complex. It was about four yards wide, in the space between the river and the buildings, and strewn with rubbish and dog shit. The remains of a chain-link fence ran parallel with the riverbank to our left. Old concrete posts were still standing at five- or six-yard intervals, but the wire was either rusty and pushed down, or missing altogether. About a hundred and fifty yards away on the other side of the river was the busy main drag that followed it, and a cluster of apartment buildings that looked as though they’d wanted to join the L’Ariane club, but couldn’t afford the membership fee.
I walked slightly ahead of Lotfi, following the natural path rather than kicking through all the decayed Coca-Cola cans, old cigarette packs and faded plastic shopping bags. About a hundred yards ahead of us was the solid brick side elevation of the target building, easily the tallest structure in the complex. We followed the path past the end of the brocante, and now had the solid stone back wall and terra-cotta-tiled barn immediately to our right and traffic screaming over the bridge behind us.
A group of half a dozen women suddenly appeared from another path at the rear of the target building. I looked back at Lotfi to make sure he’d seen. His weapon was out again, down by his leg.
“Put that fucking thing away, will you?”
The group were headscarfed Arab women weighed down with overloaded plastic bags. They didn’t turn left to come down toward us, but continued straight, through the fence line. They didn’t give us as much as a second glance as they began to pick their way across the dried-up riverbed. It looked as if they were heading to the apartments on the other side of the river, and couldn’t be bothered going all the way down to the bridge.
The farmhouse was derelict, and graffiti-scrawled steel sheets barred anyone getting in through the windows that faced the river. Somebody had started a fire against the steel-covered doorway; black scorch marks stained the stone and the paint had blistered off the steel. We continued, trying to look as normal as possible as we negotiated the remnants of a disemboweled mattress lying across our path.
We turned right, behind the target, and onto a track that was just as well-worn and covered in litter. Instead of a fence on my left, there was now a stone wall about ten feet high. I could see right away that there was nothing at the rear that would help us gain entry — no vents, no windows, just more unrelenting brick.
Lotfi came up level with me. “This must be a short cut to the station.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s a train station just on the other side of the buildings, at the end there. That’s where I’ve parked.”
We continued, following the back of the building; there was still the other side elevation to check out. At the far corner, about forty yards along, I finally found something useful, a window frame set into the brickwork. Lotfi and I exchanged a look. “See? I told you it was worth it.” At last I got another smile.
The window was metal-framed, with a single glass panel that opened outward — not that it had been opened in years. The frame was rusty, and covered with cobwebs and grime. The glass was heavy-duty, frosted, and wired, but there was a small wind-activated plastic ventilator fan, about four inches in diameter, cut into its center. The main problem was going to be the two bars on the other side that I could see casting dark vertical shadows against the glass.
We continued the five or so paces to the end of the building, and both leaned against the wall, trying to look as if we were having a casual chat while I took a look around the corner and back into the factory complex. On this side, there was nothing but brick once more. Past the far edge of the building, I could see the gate off to the left, and beyond that, traffic buzzing along the bridge road.
Lotfi lost patience and started walking back to the window. I followed, glancing down the track toward the station, then back at the river. “Listen, mate, nothing’s going to happen to him yet. He knows you’re coming, he’ll hold on. We’ve got to do this right.”
He was now inspecting the window. “The only way is up,” I said. “What do you reckon? Shall we go and see what we’re up against first?”
Lotfi wanted to go through the window. I shook my head. “It could take far too long. Better to use the time climbing up that pipe there. Maybe there’s a skylight open or something.”
He surveyed the window once more, then the twenty-five yards of climb, before nodding reluctantly. “Let’s do it. But, please, let’s hurry.”
“One of us at a time, okay? It’s old.”
He checked that his weapon wasn’t going to fall out, and I did the same. I started to climb the rusty pipe, hot from the sun. It shifted as it took my weight and there was a small shower of rust flakes, but there was nothing I could do about that. I climbed with no great technique, apart from pulling down on the pipe as opposed to pulling out. I didn’t know how good the fittings were, and I was not sure I wanted to find out.
My hands eventually got to the top and I thrust my forearms onto the flat roof. My shoulders, biceps, and fingers ached from the effort of climbing, but they needed to produce one last burst of energy. I heaved and clawed my way upward and across, until I could eventually roll onto the rooftop. It was hot tar and gravel, almost molten under the sun. It burned into my knees and the palms of my hands as I swiveled around to look down at Lotfi.
As I leaned out, I could see beyond the industrial complex, in all directions. We were overlooked in the distance by the apartments across the river and a few houses on the high ground on this side but, apart from that, there should be no problem with third party. I hoped none of the tenants decided this was the time to test out a new pair of binoculars.
I could see the train station — a small one — less than a hundred yards away to my right. A well-worn path led to it from the rear of the warehouse, through a gap in the fence, over the tracks, and into the parking area. I could just make out the shape of Lotfi’s Focus station wagon in a line of vehicles near the road.
The train tracks ran parallel to the river, and there was a level crossing just past the entry point to the factory that Lotfi must have belted over before turning left and parking.
Lotfi’s grunts became audible above the drone of traffic as he climbed. Two hands appeared at the top of the pipe and I pulled on his wrist as he gripped me. I heaved him over and we both lay on the flat roof, getting our breath back. I closed my eyes against the sun, and felt the heat of the roof burn through my sweatshirt and jeans.
I rolled onto my front, my clothing pulling at me as the tar tried to make it stay where it was. After checking that my Browning was still secure, and not covered in tar and grit, I crawled on my hands and knees toward the line of six skylights in the center of the roof. Even from here I could see they weren’t frosted and wire-meshed, just clear but grimy. Some of the panes had cracked, and many were covered in pigeon shit. It didn’t matter: it was a way in.
As I crawled, with Lotfi just behind, the hot pitch substance beneath the gravel slowly moved under the weight of my elbows, toes, and knees. Then its surface split, like the skin on old custard, and I sank a few millimeters into the black stuff.
I noticed that my shadow was more or less under me, and a quick look at a now tar-covered traser told me it was after twelve-thirty. The sun was high, but all the same I’d have to be careful as I stuck my head over the glass that I didn’t cast the world’s biggest shadow across the floor below. Shape, shine, shadow, silhouette, spacing, and movement are always the things that give you away.