I closed the front door with my heel as I walked in and motioned to him with my head. "Bolt it."

I moved aside as he obeyed, breathing heavily.

There was another door to the left. "Where does that go?"

"The bedroom and bathroom."

He started to walk toward it, eager to please. "Let me go and-"

"Stop, we go together. I want to see every move you make. Got it?"

I followed a few steps behind him as his loafers squeaked over the light gray fake marble. Both of the other rooms were in a similar state. The bedroom just fitted the bed, and the rest of the floor was covered with newspapers, dirty underwear, and a couple of Slazenger tennis bags still in their Decathlon shopping bag. He didn't look the tennis type, but the two used syringes that lay on top of the bags were very much his style, which was why he tried to kick it all under the bed without me seeing. He was obviously contributing energetically to al-Qaeda's heroin profits.

A pair of wardrobes were packed with brightly colored clothes and shoes, all looking new. The bedroom stank of aftershave and cigarettes, but not as badly as the tiny bathroom did. It had a faded yellow sink, toilet, and a typical French half-bath with a handheld shower. Every surface was covered with bottles of shampoo, cologne, and hair color. The bath had enough pubic hairs around the drain to stuff a mattress.

"You see everything is correct. It is safe."

I didn't even bother to check if he was embarra.s.sed as we walked back into the living room. I squeezed around the furniture and went over to the patio-style window that led onto the balcony overlooking the road we had just walked up. A couple of tennis rackets leaned against the railings, and a pair of scrunched-up beach towels hung over the bal.u.s.trade.

By now he was sitting nervously on a green couch, which had probably been installed at the same time as the kitchen. It was against the left-hand wall, facing a dirty wood-veneer wall unit that was dominated by a huge TV and video. Everything was covered in so much dust I could even see his fingermarks around the controls. VHS tapes and all manner of s.h.i.t was scattered around the shelves. A small boom box-type CD player stood on a shelf above the TV, surrounded by a sea of discs lying out of their boxes. The videotapes had no t.i.tles, but I could guess the sort of thing he was into watching.

The rectangular waxed-pine coffee table at the center of the room was covered with more old newspapers, a half-empty bottle of red wine, and a food plate that had doubled as an ashtray. I was beginning to feel greasy as well as grubby in this guy's company.

I got to the point, so I didn't have to spend too much more time around him. "When will the boat be here?"

He crossed his legs and placed both hands around his knees, feeling a little more comfortable now that it seemed I wasn't going to take his head off. "Tomorrow night, at Beaulieu-sur-Mer, it's toward Monaco."

"Write it down." I knew where it was, but wanted to make sure I had the right place. He leaned forward, found a pen among the mess on the table, and wrote on the edge of a newspaper, in a scrawl that any doctor would have been proud of.

"There is a port, a marina, I think you call it. It's not far. Her name is the Ninth of May Ninth of May. It's a white boat, quite large. It's coming in tomorrow night." He ripped off the edge of the paper-"Here"-and pushed it toward me.

I looked out of the window and down into the garden of one of the original houses opposite. An old man was tending a vegetable patch, attaching bits of silver paper to bamboo sticks. I kept watching him. "How many are going to be on board?"

"There are three. One will always remain with the boat, while the other two collect the money. They're going to start on Friday, the first of three collections. They'll make one a day, and leave for Algiers with the money on Sunday. They are trying to close their accounts here in France-before you do it for them, no?"

I turned back to Greaseball. He rummaged around in his bag and dragged out a Camel. With an elegant flick of a lighter, he sat back and let smoke curl out of his nostrils. He crossed his legs once more and laid his left arm along the back of the couch as if he were running the show. He was starting to get a bit too confident. "Where are they going to collect the cash, then, Greaseball?"

He choked on his cigarette and smoke blew uncontrollably from his nose and mouth. "Greaseball?" Composing himself, he took another drag and this time exhaled slowly, smiling at his new name. "Where? That I do not know, and I won't until tomorrow night, maybe. I'm not sure yet. But I do know they're only going to use public transport, buses, that sort of thing. It's safer than Hertz. Bus drivers don't keep records."

It made sense to me. "Do you know how much money?"

"Anything between two-point-five and three million American."

He took another drag and I went back to watching the old guy dig around his vegetable patch, thinking about the number of suicide bombers' families with Land Cruisers with all the extras that could be funded with that sort of cash.

"Are they collecting from hawalladas hawalladas?"

"Yes, of course. These guys on the coast, the ones who will be handing them the money, are hawalla hawalla people." people."

I moved back one of the net curtains so I could get a clearer view.

"What time will the boat arrive?"

"Did you know this is where the money was collected to finance the attack on the American emba.s.sy in Paris?" He took another drag and sounded almost proud. "Can you imagine what would have happened if that had been successful too?"

"The boat, what time?"

There was some shuffling as he adjusted himself in his seat. "In the evening sometime, I'm not too sure." There was a pause and I could hear him stubbing out his cigarette and pulling another from the pack. I turned as he gave the lighter a flick and looked at the CDs on the wall unit. It was obvious he was a big Pink Floyd fan.

"Zeralda liked me to bring a new tape for him each trip. I'd collect the boys too, of course." He c.o.c.ked his head to one side, measuring my reaction. "Did you see me drive back to the house that night? I was hoping you would have finished the job by then. But he kept calling on my cell. He didn't like to be kept waiting...."

The f.u.c.ker was smiling, taunting me.

I pulled the sliding gla.s.s door with my sweatshirt cuff to let in some air, and was greeted by the sound of traffic from the main drag, and the old guy outside clearing his pa.s.sages. I resisted the temptation to go over and give Greaseball a good smack in the teeth and looked outside again instead. "So you two liked the same music as well as the same boys?"

He blew out another lungful of smoke before he replied. "You find it distasteful-but are you telling me it's worse than cutting off a man's head? You don't mind using people like me when you need to, do you?"

I shrugged my shoulders, still looking out at the old man. "I'm here because it's my job, believe me. And distasteful isn't a strong enough word for what I think about you."

I heard what sounded like a snort of derision and turned back to face him.

"Get real, my friend. You may hate me, but you're here, aren't you? And that's because you want something from me."

He was right, but that didn't mean to say I was going to share his toothbrush. "Have you got anything else for me?"

"That's all I know so far. But how do I inform you about the collections?"

"I'll come here at eleven tonight. Make sure you're here, and no one else is. You have a bell that rings downstairs, yeah?" He nodded and sucked the last mouthful out of his Camel. "Good. Open the door."

He moved toward the exit. I went over to the coffee table and took the marina address, as well as the newspaper. Beaulieu-sur-Mer-I did know it, and so would anyone else if they picked up the paper. The imprint was clear to see on the pages beneath. As I bent down I could see the lower shelves of the wall unit and did a double-take at some Polaroids. I knew he liked rock music, but this was something else. Greaseball was in a bar, drinking with one of the guitarists from Queen. At least, that's who it looked like. Whoever it was, he had the same mad curly hair.

Greaseball was trying to work out what had caught my eye as I waited for him to pull back the bolt. "Those people, the ones on the boat...Are you going to do the same to them as you did to Zeralda?"

I checked my 9mm to make sure it was concealed as he opened the door and glanced outside. I didn't bother to look back at him. "Eleven. If you don't know by then, I'll be back in the morning." I went past him, my left hand ready to pull up the sweatshirt.

As I walked toward the elevator I saw the stairwell and decided to go that way instead, just to get off the floor more quickly. I elbowed the light switch as I pa.s.sed it. A couple of floors down, I was smothered in darkness. I waited for a moment, then pressed the next one.

I reached the ground floor and headed for the main door as a young woman in red sweat pants and sweatshirt was packing a crying baby into a stroller on the landing. Out in the sun again, I had to squint as I checked the bell push for number forty-nine. There was no name by it but, then, who would want to own up to living in a place like this? As I walked away, I wondered how I was going to break the news to Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba that Greaseball was the source.

12.

A s I headed back along Boulevard Carnot, I knew I'd have to move from my hotel. It was far too close to Greaseball's apartment, and I didn't even want him to see me, let alone find out where I was staying. s I headed back along Boulevard Carnot, I knew I'd have to move from my hotel. It was far too close to Greaseball's apartment, and I didn't even want him to see me, let alone find out where I was staying.

I stopped at the laundromat and picked up my sheets. They were now on top of the washing machine, still wet. As I shoved them into the black garbage bag, the old woman jabbered at me for leaving them in when there were about four other people waiting. I'd obviously breached the laverie laverie protocol big-time, so I just smiled my apologies to everyone as I finished my packing and left. protocol big-time, so I just smiled my apologies to everyone as I finished my packing and left.

I set off down the hill toward the beach. I had to contact George and give him a sit rep, and that meant going to the Mondego, a cyber cafe, and getting online. He needed to know where the collectors were going to park their boat and, later on, where they were going to collect the cash. My surroundings got very smart very quickly. Luxury hotels that looked like giant wedding cakes lined the coast road, La Croisette, and Gucci shops sold everything from furs to baseball caps for dogs. I dumped the sheets into a street garbage, hanging on to the plastic bag. As I carried on walking, I screwed up the newspaper I'd taken from Greaseball's apartment inside it.

This might have been the upscale end of town, but anything that stuck out of the sidewalk, like a parking meter or a tree, was decorated with fresh dog p.i.s.s and a couple of brown lumps.

New cars, motorbikes, and motor scooters were crammed into every possible, and impossible, s.p.a.ce, and their owners, the customers in the cafes, looked extremely cool and elegant in their sungla.s.ses, smoking, drinking, just generally posing around the place.

There were quite a few homeless around here as well. Fair: if I were homeless I'd want to sleep in a warm place with lots of good-looking people about, particularly if they were the sort to throw you a few bucks. A group of four or five b.u.ms were sitting on benches alongside a scruffy old mongrel with a red polka-dot scarf around its neck. One guy had a can of beer in his coat pocket, and as he bent over to pat the dog the contents were spilling onto the ground. His wino friends looked horror-struck.

I'd never used this cafe to get online: normally, I drove to Cap 3000, a huge centre commercial centre commercial on the outskirts of Nice. It was only about forty-five minutes away, driving within speed limits, which I was meticulous about, and always crowded. But this time I needed to tell George what I had found out immediately. I was leaving Cannes now anyway, so wouldn't need to come here again. on the outskirts of Nice. It was only about forty-five minutes away, driving within speed limits, which I was meticulous about, and always crowded. But this time I needed to tell George what I had found out immediately. I was leaving Cannes now anyway, so wouldn't need to come here again.

The place looked quite full, which was good. A group of twenty-somethings wearing designer leather jackets and shades posed near their motorbikes and scooters, or sat on shiny aluminum chairs and sipped gla.s.ses of beer. Most had a pack of Marlboros or Winstons on the table with a disposable lighter on top, alongside a cell phone that got picked up every few seconds in case they had missed a text message.

I wove my way through the temple of cool, past walls lined with boring gray PCs, toward the rows of gleaming drinks signs and the steaming cappuccino machine that stood at the black, marble-topped bar.

I pointed at the nearest PC and tried to make myself heard above the beat of the music. "I want to get online.... Er, parlez-vous anglais parlez-vous anglais?"

The guy behind the counter didn't even look up from unloading the dishwasher. "Sure, log on, pay later. You want a drink?" He was dressed in black and sounded Scandinavian.

"Cafe creme."

"Go, sit down."

I headed to a vacant PC station, perched myself on one of the very high stools, and logged on. The screen information was all in French, but I'd gotten the hang of it by now and went straight into Hotmail. George had set up an account for me that was registered in Poland. The user name was BB8642; George was BB97531, a sequence of numbers that even I couldn't forget. He was as paranoid as I was, and he'd gone to quite a lot of trouble to make our correspondence untraceable. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd fixed it for Bill Gates to erase our messages personally, as soon as they'd been read.

Signing in, I made sure the font size was the smallest possible so n.o.body could read over my shoulder, and checked my mailbox. He wasn't getting information on this job from anywhere else. He just wanted it from me. I was his only line of information: anything else would have been dangerous. There was no other way of making contact: I'd never had a phone number for him, even when I was with Carrie, never even knew where he lived. I wasn't sure if she did, these days.

George's e-mail asked me if I'd gotten his present, and said I mustn't open it until Christmas. He was referring to the gear left for me at the DOP, and the drugs we were going to use to help the hawalladas hawalladas on their way to the warship. on their way to the warship.

I tapped away with my index fingers.

h.e.l.lo, thanks for the present, but I'm not too sure if I can wait till Christmas. Guess what? I just saw Jenny and she said that Susanna is coming to town on business, arriving tomorrow night. She'll be in town until Sunday and has three meetings while she is here, one a day starting Friday. Jenny is finding out the details so she can arrange for all of us to get together and try that place you are always talking about, the one that serves great White Russians. I have so much to tell you. You were right, Susanna's business is worth anything between 2.5 and 3 mill. Not bad! You'd better get in there quick before some stud moves in. I know she likes you! I'm around tomorrow, do you want to meet up for a drink, say 1 P.M. P.M.?

My coffee arrived and I took a sip of froth without picking it up. This was the second e-mail I'd sent George since arriving in-country. Each time any contact was made, a color was used for authentication. The first was red, this one was white, the third, the brush contact tomorrow at one, would be blue. Then I'd start the color sequence again. All very Stars and Stripes, all very George, but these things needed to be simple or they were forgotten. Well, by me, anyway.

George now knew that I had met the source, the boat was coming in on Thursday night, and I wanted a brush contact tomorrow to pa.s.s over the collection details. Things like that are far too sensitive to send in clear, even if Bill Gates was in the good guys club.

I finished the e-mail "Have a nice day." After all, I was nearly an American now.

Signing out of Hotmail, I reopened with the addresses I used to contact Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba.

Anyone checking the subscriber would discover he lived in Canada.

There was nothing in my mailbox from these two, which was good news. Like me, they were just waiting for the time to meet up and get on with the job.

I invited each of them for coffee at four o'clock today. They'd be checking their boxes at one-ish, so they'd get the message in plenty of time.

I wrapped a napkin around the coffee cup and took a sip while I worked out what to do next. I had to check out of the hotel, then go to Beaulieu-sur-Mer and do a recce before the boat arrived. I'd need to look at the vital ground before meeting up with Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba at the safe house at four.

I took another slow sip. This was going to be my last quiet time before I started running around like a crazed dog.

I wondered what Carrie was doing now, and spent a minute or two just staring at the keyboard, trying to shake that last image of her at the harbor out of my head. In the end I just logged off, and wiped the keys and cup rim clean with the napkin.

My hotel was right next door to a synagogue, and above a kosher takeout pizza joint called Pizza Jacob. It had been perfect, not only because it was cheap but because the aging manager took cash. My fellow guests were a bunch of iffy-looking comb and pencil salesmen, trying to save money by sleeping in a room with no TV or phone, and very thin blankets.

I checked out and threw my duffel bag into the trunk of the dark blue Renault Megane. The garbage bag, still containing the bits of Greaseball's newspaper I hadn't already chewed up and swallowed, joined a couple of paper cups, three empty c.o.ke cans, and napkins in the pa.s.senger footwell. I made what must have been about a sixty-point turn and eventually managed to squeeze out of the small and crowded parking lot at the rear. I put on my sungla.s.ses and dark blue baseball cap before I emerged onto the street. The sun was bright, but it wasn't what I was shielding myself from. CCTV cameras were everywhere along this coastline.

I'd find myself a new hotel when I needed it, and if I had time.

13.

I hit the coast road, turned east, and headed toward Nice, flanked by the train tracks and the sea. About a mile outside Cannes I pulled up, b.u.mping the car half up onto the curb behind a row of others belonging to a bunch of rod fishermen down on the beach. Bad parking was so common here it didn't draw a second glance, and it meant I could check to see if I'd picked up any tracking devices in the last twenty-four hours. hit the coast road, turned east, and headed toward Nice, flanked by the train tracks and the sea. About a mile outside Cannes I pulled up, b.u.mping the car half up onto the curb behind a row of others belonging to a bunch of rod fishermen down on the beach. Bad parking was so common here it didn't draw a second glance, and it meant I could check to see if I'd picked up any tracking devices in the last twenty-four hours.

I wasn't expecting anything just yet, but I'd still taken precautions. I'd bought a little jar of silver enamel modeling paint and a brush, and had coated all the retaining screws on the b.u.mpers and the license plates. If anybody had been tampering they would have had to cut the paint.

I looked around the wheel arches and underneath the cha.s.sis. Then I had the hood up and checked the engine compartment.

If I found a device, I'd simply walk away, and that would be the end of the job as far as I was concerned. The other two would have to carry on.

But everything was fine. I got back behind the wheel and carried on along the coast road, pa.s.sing through all sorts of places I'd heard about in songs.

The sea was almost totally still today, and shimmered in the sunlight. It all looked just like the South of France should look, except that the sand was heaped up in gigantic mounds. They imported it by the truckload from North Africa, and now was obviously the time of year when they gave the beach a makeover before the new season.

n.o.body was sunbathing but quite a lot of people were out blading, walking their dogs, and just generally enjoying the s.p.a.ce. Stony beach took over again as I neared Nice proper. I skirted the airport and Cap 3000, my e-mail center and the place where the brush contact would happen tomorrow.

The airport was right at the edge of the city, virtually on the beach. A new terminal was under construction, and large pictorial banners told me how wonderful it would be for the future of the area.

I drove into the city along a wide double-lane highway, punctuated by palm trees. The automatic sprinkler system threw up a series of pint-sized rainbows along the central divide. The traffic was funneled between gla.s.s and steel hotels and more construction sites. It got busier and busier, until it turned into the Wacky Races, with the contestants stopping and starting like maniacs, slaloming from lane to lane and leaning on their horns.

I switched on the English-speaking Riviera Radio and listened to a Hugh Grant soundalike make his link from the closing bars of a Barbra Streisand weepy into a string of commercials for financial and yachting services. Before long I even knew the price of a barrel of Brent crude, and what was happening on the Nasdaq. It was obvious what type of Brit expatriates they were broadcasting to: the very rich kind. But I always listened to it because they had a review of the U.S. papers in the afternoon, and carried the BBC World Service hourly.

I hit the Promenade des Anglais, the main drag along the coast. It was a glamorous stretch, lined with palm trees and glitzy old-world hotels. Even the buses were immaculate: they looked as though someone had just given them a good polish before they were allowed into town. I carried on around the harbor, which was heaving with pleasure cruisers and ferries en route to and from Corsica, and started to see signs for Beaulieu-sur-Mer.

The road wound uphill until only the cliff edge and a hundred-foot drop separated it from the sea. As I got higher I could see mountain ranges inland that seemed to go on forever. I guessed Riviera Radio was right when it said you could be on the beach in the morning, and skiing in the afternoon.

Nice disappeared behind me as the road snaked along the cliff. I felt like I'd been caught up in a late-night movie; I expected to turn a corner at any moment, and meet Grace Kelly in an Alpine Sports roadster coming the other way.

I took a steep left-hand turn, and Villefranche and its huge deep-water bay lay spread out below me. Home of the U.S. Sixth Fleet until France decided to pull its military out of NATO, it was one of the biggest natural harbors in the world. American and British warships still dropped anchor there when on a courtesy visit-or when spiriting away heavily anesthetized hawalladas hawalladas.