Liberation Day (19 page)

Leaving the airport behind me, I hit more neon at Cap 3000 and carried on along the coast toward Juan-les-Pins, deciding to pick up a pizza on the way to Cannes. The place was a seasonal beach town, living off its past glory from the sixties and seventies, when Brigitte Bardot and the jet set used to come down on the weekend for a cappuccino and a pose. It still had its moments, but right now three-quarters of the shops were closed until Easter or whenever the season started again. Restaurants were being refurbished and bars were getting repainted.

19

I
cruised around the sleepy town. Strings of Christmas lights twinkled across the streets, but there was nobody at home to enjoy them. A few bars and cafés were still serving a small number of customers, but the majority of the hotels looked dead. Several stores had whitewashed windows, like bandages across next season’s facelift.

I drove down a tree-lined main street, looking for a takeout pizza place that was open, and did a double-take at the two men walking toward me. For a moment I even wondered if I was hallucinating, but there was no doubting who it was in the long leather coat, smoking and chatting as he went.

I jerked my head down instinctively so that the brim of my cap hid my face. I didn’t know if Greaseball had seen me, and I didn’t want to check. There was no reason why he should have: my headlights should have blinded him temporarily anyway.

I took the next right and threw the Mégane up onto the curb, then made my way quickly back to the main road on foot. I looked up to my left and they were still in sight, walking away from me. They were the only other people around; cigarette smoke drifted behind them in a cloud. Greaseball’s pal was taller than him, maybe six foot, and had a bush of dark curly hair, cut just above the shoulder. He was wearing a dark, three-quarter-length coat over what looked like jeans. I couldn’t see that much of him from behind, but would have bet good money on him being the man I’d spotted in the Polaroids back at Greaseball’s flat. They talked quietly and earnestly to each other as they moved up the road.

They stopped and Greaseball turned toward the curb; I could see the glow of his cigarette. He took one last drag as he nodded to his companion, then threw the stub into the gutter. The other man was definitely Curly from the Polaroid. He took something from his coat pocket, checking around him as he did so. It must have been small, because I couldn’t see a thing. They shook hands and quickly hugged before parting; whatever it was, it was being mailed. Maybe this was who gave Greaseball his fixes. Curly turned immediately left, down a side road, while Greaseball continued another few yards up the street, before disappearing into what looked like a restaurant or bar. A sign hung on the wall outside, but it wasn’t illuminated.

I crossed the street, to get a better view of the place, and checked the road Curly had gone down. As I closed in, I could see that the sign showed a belly-dancer with a veil and low-cut bikini top. There was no sign of Curly, and it looked as though Greaseball was now being entertained by the “Fiancée of the Desert.”

The outside of the building looked as if someone had gone berserk with a truckload of plaster, flinging handfuls at the wall to make it look ethnic. Ornate grilles covered two small windows on each side of the door, through which I could just make out shadows bobbing about in the glow.

I went back across the street, head down, checking left and right. There was no traffic, just a mass of tightly parked cars. I tried to see what was going on inside, but couldn’t make out much through the small, square window. I couldn’t see Greaseball anywhere.

Continuing on past the solid wood door, I peeped inside the next window as casually as I could. I still couldn’t see anything but low light and tablecloths.

It looked as if a pizza would have to be shelved for a few hours. I went to the top of the street, and stopped in a doorway on the opposite side. Three motor scooters screamed past with their engines at bursting point. The riders looked about fourteen.

The streetlights and decorations cast a haphazard pattern of shadows, so it was easy to find a corner to lurk in, in the doorway of a lingerie shop. It was probably the best place not to arouse any suspicion in this country; if Greaseball could get away with wearing a pashmina shawl, I could probably wear this stuff without anyone batting an eye.

Diners finished their meals. Groups and couples kissed, laughed, and went their separate ways, but still no sign of Greaseball.

After two hours I was quite an expert on bustiers and garters. The only people on the street now were old men and women taking their dogs out for a last dump before bedtime. Only the odd vehicle came in either direction.

A Lexus glided up the road from my left and stopped outside the restaurant. The chrome wheels and bodywork were so highly polished you could see the Christmas decorations in them. The driver stayed put with the engine running as his passenger finished off a telephone call. When he finally got out, I could see he looked like a dark-skinned version of George Michael, with a goatee and flat, short hair. As he slid into the restaurant, the car moved farther along the road and parked. The driver, also dark, had a shaved head that gleamed as impressively as the Lexus. I could tell that he was already bored with waiting.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and Greaseball emerged into the glow of the Christmas lights. He turned toward me and I moved back into the shadows. If he got level with me, I’d have to sit down, hide my face, and pretend to be drunk. But it would be difficult for him to see me over the parked cars from the other side of the road.

I waited for him to pass, then came out onto the sidewalk and followed. The Lexus was still there, waiting for George Michael to stop stuffing his face. The driver had the interior light on, trying to read a paper; this probably wasn’t his idea of the perfect night out. Greaseball turned left, heading for the taxi stand at the train station.

I watched as he got into the back of one and moved out onto the main, toward Cannes. I checked traser: nine-thirty-seven, not long to go before the meet. He must be going home. It was pointless rushing back to my car since I was pretty certain where he’d be at eleven. Besides, I didn’t want to scream around after him and get stopped by the police for jumping a red.

I headed back in the direction of the Fiancée of the Desert.

At ten-forty-five, having finally grabbed something to eat, I turned the Mégane up Boulevard Carnot and made my way past Greaseball’s apartment building.

I took a few turns, methodically checking out the area for people sitting in cars or lurking in shadows before parking outside Eddie Leclerc’s.

I moved into an alleyway behind the store and waited to see if anyone was following me up the hill. I just stood as if I were taking a piss between two large Dumpsters full of cardboard boxes, and let ten minutes go by.

I could still hear vehicles on the main drag as I walked up the hill, but at this time of night it was no longer a constant drone. Otherwise, there was just the occasional burst of music from a TV, or a dog barking.

There were lights on in a couple of the apartments on Greaseball’s floor. I checked traser. I was a couple of minutes early, but it didn’t really matter. I hit the bell with the cuff of my sweatshirt over my thumb. I heard crackling, and a rather breathless “Hello, hello?”

I moved my face nearer the small grille and said, “It’s me, it’s eleven.”

There was a buzz at the door. I pushed it open with my foot, then pressed the intercom again. The door buzzed once more and the intercom crackled again. “Push the door,” he said.

I gave the handle a rattle, but didn’t move. “Nothing’s happening. Come down, I’ll wait here.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then, “Oh, okay.”

I slipped into the hallway and closed the door gently behind me, then moved to the side of the elevator, by the door to the stairs, and drew down the Browning, making myself feel better by checking chamber before packing it back into my jeans.

The elevator rattled its way up the shaft. I eased open the door to the stairs and hit the light switch with my elbow, just in case he had friends waiting to move in behind me once I’d gotten up to the apartment.

The stairwell was empty. I closed the door as the light went out and waited where I was for the elevator to come back down. It stopped and Greaseball walked out, expecting me to be at the front door. There were no keys in his hand. How did he plan to get back into his apartment?

I drew down in preparation, and whispered, “I’m here.”

Greaseball spun around. He could see the weapon down at my side and his eyes flickered in alarm.

I said, “Where are your keys?”

He looked confused for a second, then smiled. “My door is open. I rushed down to meet you.” He looked and sounded genuine enough.

“Is anyone with you?”

“No,
non
.” He gestured. “You can see.”

“No. Is there anyone with you upstairs?”

“I am alone.”

“Okay, let’s go.” I ushered him into the elevator and, just as before, stood behind him in a cloud of aftershave and alcohol. He was dressed as he had been earlier in the day, except for the pashmina, and still had his leather jacket on. He wiped his mouth nervously. “I have the—I have the—”

“Stop. Wait until we get inside.”

The elevator stopped and I moved him out. “Off you go. You know what to do.” He headed for apartment 49, with me three paces behind, the weapon held alongside my thigh.

20

H
e hadn’t lied: the door was still open. I touched him gently with the pistol on the side of his arm. “In you go, and leave this as it is.” He did as he was told, and even opened the door that led into the bathroom and the bedroom, to prove the place was deserted.

I stepped inside and it was immediately obvious that the magic cleaning fairy hadn’t paid any surprise visits since this morning. I turned the light off above me with the Browning’s muzzle, then pushed down the button that released the deadbolt so I could close the door with my heel. I raised the Browning, ready to go into the room.

The moment the door was shut, I reactivated the deadlock. I didn’t want anyone making entry with a key while I was clearing the apartment.

He was standing by the table. “I have the addresses….” He had to force his hand into his jeans, which were straining to hold in his gut.

“Turn the light out.”

He looked confused for a second, then understood. He reached for his Camels before moving to the switch; then we were plunged into darkness. A streetlight across the road glowed against the old man’s garden wall. Greaseball was nervous; the lighter wouldn’t keep still as he tried to direct the flame toward the tip of his cigarette. The shadows that flickered across his face made him look even more like something out of the Hammer House of Horror than he normally did.

I didn’t want the darkness for dramatic effect. I just didn’t want anyone to see a silhouette waving a pistol about through the net curtains.

“Now close the blinds on these balcony windows.”

I followed the red glow in his mouth as he pulled down on the canvas strap that controlled the wooden roller blinds, and began to lower them. “I really do have—”

“Wait, wait.”

Once the blinds were down I watched the glow of ash move back toward the couch, and listened to him wheezing as he tried to breathe through his nose with a mouth full of cigarette. He knocked into the table and I waited for the sound of him sitting down.

“You can turn the light back on now.”

He got up and walked past me to hit the switch.

I started to clear the apartment, with him in front of me as before. I glanced at the wall unit for another look at Curly. The Polaroids weren’t there. A dog barked its head off on the balcony above us as we entered the bedroom. It looked as if he had decided against tennis, after all. The bags, along with the syringes, had gone from under the bed. The apartment was clear: there was no one here but us.

As I moved toward the living room, I pushed the Browning back into my jeans and stood by the door. He collapsed back onto the couch, flicking his ash at an already full plate.

“You have the addresses?”

He nodded, pushing himself to the edge of his seat and reaching over the coffee table for his pen. “The boat, it will be at Pier Nine, berth forty-seven. I’ll write it all down for you. I was right. There are three collections, starting Friday in Monaco—”

I lifted my hand. “Stop. You’ve got the addresses in your pocket?”

“Yes, but—but…the ink’s bad. I’ll write them again for you.”

“No. Just show me what you’ve got in your pocket.” His excuse sounded too apologetic to be true.

He managed to squeeze his hand back into his jeans, and produced a sheet of lined paper that had been torn from a notebook and folded three or four times. “Here.” He leaned toward me with the sheet in his hand, but I pointed at the table. “Just open it up so I can read it.”

He laid it down on top of yesterday’s
Nice Matin,
and turned it around toward me. It wasn’t his writing, unless he’d been to neat lessons since this morning. This was very even and upright, the sort that girls in my grammar school used to practice for hours. And it belonged to a Brit or an American. The first address contained the number 617; the one didn’t look like a seven, and the seven didn’t have a stroke through it.

Monaco was marked “Fri.” Nice marked “Sat.” Here in Cannes was labeled “Sun.” “Who gave you these?”

He shrugged, visibly annoyed with himself, and probably shaken because he knew he’d messed up when he panicked at the beginning and got too eager to give me the addresses so I would go away. “No one, it’s my—”

“This isn’t your handwriting. Who gave it to you?”

“I cannot…I would be—”

“All right, all right, I don’t want to know. Who cares?” I did, really, but there were more important things to worry about right now and, besides, I thought I already knew. “Do you know the names of the collectors—or the
hawallada
?”