The Marines were striding away to my right, towards the nearest point where the promenade met the street. My car was already there, waiting, with its hazards on. The two guys were twenty feet behind, walking almost in step, hands in their pockets, not talking. And straight ahead, leaning on the railing that separated the river from dry land, was the ginger haired messenger boy. I strolled across and rested my forearms on the rail next to him, as if I was an old friend. No one was watching from the far side of the river. No boats were moored nearby. The lad started to fidget. I guess he was uncomfortable, being so close to a stranger. I turned so my back was against the rail. No one was paying us any attention from the hotel or the road, so I drew my right arm across my chest. I glanced around one more time, and rammed my elbow into the side of the lad’s head. Then I stepped across and caught him before he hit the ground. He was heavier than he looked, but I was still able to support him with one arm while I reached into my pocket. I took out a flexicuff, fed one of his arms through a gap in the metalwork, bound his wrists together, and set off towards the road.
The drive took twenty-two minutes, which was plenty of time for me to call the Embassy and arrange for them to have to the police scoop the boy up and keep him out of circulation until we saw what happened next. It turned out that the Rue Robert Schuman was in an industrial area that spurred off one of the major arterial routes from the north west of the city. It led to a T-shaped development, probably built in the 1980s judging by the design of the small factories and warehouse units that were lined up on both sides. I counted twelve of them. Unit four was at the left-hand end of the crossbar. I couldn’t help thinking Truly had chosen well. There were no houses nearby. No offices, or schools. With the nearby businesses closed for the night the whole area was deserted. An ideal situation, if he needed to move people and supplies around unnoticed.
Without waiting for me to tell him, the driver turned to the right and didn’t stop until he’d gone another hundred yards. Then I climbed out and made my way back on foot. The other units all showed signs of occupation, but number four looked derelict. Its windows were boarded up. There was no company name. Patches of rust were showing through the peeling paint on the metal cladding. And there was only one vehicle – a jade green Ford Focus – parked anywhere near.
As I moved closer I saw the Ford was occupied. Two people were sitting in the front seats. They were both men. It was easy to guess who they were. And after another ten yards, I could confirm it. They were the two guys who’d been sitting by the door at the hotel bar.
I continued in the shadows at the edge of the pavement until I was level with the car. Then I drew my Beretta with my right hand, took hold of the passenger door handle with my left, and pulled.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I said, in French. “You now have two choices. Put your hands on the steering wheel. Or be shot in the head.”
Neither of the men made a move.
I tried again in German.
They were both stock still for another 20 seconds. Then the driver put first his left hand, then his right, on the wheel. The passenger followed suit, very slowly.
“Very good,” I said, pulling two more flexicuffs from my pocket.
I dropped one in each guy’s lap.
“You first, I said to the driver. “Cuff your friend’s wrists together.”
He did as I instructed.
“Now, you,” I said to the passenger. “Take care of your friend. Make it good and tight.”
He also complied without a word.
I checked the cuffs to make sure they were secure, then patted the guys down for weapons. They both had 9 mm pistols. A Ruger P-85, and a Colt 2000. I took the guns, tucked one into the waistband of my jeans, and slipped the other into my coat pocket. Then I took their phones, switched them off, and slid into the back seat behind the driver.
“Did you see a taxi drop two men at unit four in the last few minutes?” I said.
Neither of the men responded.
I jammed the barrel of my Beretta into the bone just below the driver’s right ear, and repeated the question.
“All right,” the driver said. “Yes. We saw the taxi.”
“You followed it here?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We were paid to.”
“Seems like a good enough reason,” I said. “Now, think about when it arrived. Describe exactly what happened.”
The driver shrugged.
“It pulled up outside,” he said. “The door to the building opened. A man came out. The men got out of the taxi and went inside with him. Nothing dramatic.”
“Did it sound its horn?” I said.
“No.”
So someone had seen it arrive. They’d been watching.
“Was the man who came out armed?” I said.
“Yes.”
“What with?”
“The usual. An AK.”
That sounded like overkill, for the suburbs. But then, we were talking about drug dealers.
“How many people are inside?” I said.
“Don’t know.”
I increased the pressure on the Beretta.
“I don’t know,” the driver said.
“Is Kevin Truly inside?” I said.
“I don’t know who that is. You think the people who pay us tell us their names?”
“Were you told to expect any other people or vehicles?”
“Yes. Another taxi. The two men are supposed to leave in one.”
“At what time?”
“We weren’t told a time.”
“What else were you told to do?”
“Wait here. Make sure... never mind.”
I gave him another prod.
“Make sure no one was snooping around,” he said. “Stop anyone who tried. Call a number if there was a problem.”
“What number?”
He reeled off a series of digits.
“Is that their regular number?” I said. “The one you normally use to contact them?”
“No,” he said. “It’s just for this job. For problems, only. It changes every time.”
“Well, there’s certainly a problem now,” I said. “And the bad news is, the window for calling numbers has closed for the day. But it’s not all doom and gloom. There’s still something left for you to do.”
Neither of the men responded.
“In fact, three things. And they’re all simple. First, I want you to drive up to the building and stop in exactly the same place the taxi did, earlier. Second, wait for thirty seconds. And third, if no one has come out by then, sound your horn. Two long blasts. No more. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely, crystal clear? Because you’ll need to do a better job than you did of stopping me from snooping around.”
“We’re clear.”
“Do those three things, and nothing else. Nothing to warn whoever’s in that building that something is going on. Because if you deviate in any way at all - do you know what will happen?”
The driver pressed his head sharply back against the Beretta for a second.