It was true. The area of Nice in which they were living had a high percentage of ethnic North Africans.
Abdul shrugged. It really did not matter who pushed the stroller, and in time Kiah would probably change her ideas. There was no need to hurry her.
They ambled around the marina. Abdul had thought that maybe Naji would like to see the boats, but it was Kiah who reacted. She was amazed. She had been a boat owner, but she had never seen vessels like this. The smallest cabin cruiser seemed astonishingly luxurious to her. On some of them the owners were cleaning or painting or just sitting having drinks. There was a handful of large ocean-going yachts. Abdul stopped to look at one called Mi Amore. Crew in white uniforms were washing the windows. ‘It’s bigger than the house I used to live in!’ Kiah said. ‘What is it for?’
‘It’s for him.’ Abdul pointed to a man in a big chunky sweater sitting on the sun deck with two young women who were underdressed for the weather and looked cold. They were drinking champagne. ‘Just for his pleasure.’
‘I wonder where he got all that money?’
Abdul knew where the man had got the money.
They walked around the marina for an hour. There were four cafés, three closed and one open though not busy. Inside it was clean and warm, with gleaming silver coffee machines and a briskly efficient proprietor who smiled at Naji and told them to sit anywhere they liked. They chose a table by the window with a good view of the boats, including Mi Amore. They took off their coats and ordered hot chocolate and pastries.
Abdul cooled some of the drink on a spoon and fed it to Naji. He loved it and asked for more.
If this afternoon went according to plan, Abdul’s mission would be over by nightfall.
After that he could no longer pretend, to his employers or to himself. He would have to face the fact that he did not want to go home. But he had enough money for several months of idleness, and he was not sure the human race had that much time left.
When he looked at Kiah and Naji, he felt sure of one thing: he was not going to leave them. He had found a quiet contentment in his life with them, and he would never give it up. He knew what was happening in Korea, and however much time he had left – sixty years or sixty hours or sixty seconds – all he cared about was spending it with them.
He saw two small vessels enter the marina, a speedboat and a fast dinghy, both white with red and blue stripes and the word POLICE in large letters. They belonged to the Police Judiciaire, which was the national serious crime force, a bit like the FBI.
A moment later he heard sirens, and several police cars entered the marina from the road. Ignoring the No Entry signs, they drove along the quay dangerously fast. Kiah said: ‘I’m glad we’re not in their way!’
Both cars and boats approached Mi Amore.
The police jumped out of the cars. They were heavily armed. They all had pistols in holsters at their belts, and some of them were carrying rifles. They moved rapidly. Some spread out along the quayside while others crossed the gangway quickly and boarded the yacht. This had been planned and rehearsed, Abdul was glad to see.
Kiah said: ‘I don’t like those guns. They might go off by accident.’
‘Let’s stay here in the café. It’s probably the safest place.’
The white-uniformed crew of the Mi Amore all raised their hands in the air.
Several of the cops went below decks.
One with a rifle went up to the sun deck. The big man spoke to him, waving his arms angrily. The cop seemed unconcerned, holding his rifle and shaking his head.
Then a big muscular cop came up on deck hefting a large sack made of heavy-duty polythene imprinted with the words: Caution – Dangerous Chemicals in several languages.
Abdul recalled a night-time scene on a dockside in Guinea-Bissau, and men unloading sacks like that by lamplight while a limousine waited, its engine turning over. ‘Bingo,’ he said softly to himself.
Kiah heard and looked at him with curiosity, but she did not ask for an explanation.
The crew were handcuffed, led off the yacht, and pushed into the back of a van. The big man and his girls got similar treatment, despite the man’s outrage. A few more people emerged from below decks and they, too, were handcuffed and put into vehicles.
The last person to be brought up from below looked familiar.
He was a podgy young North African man wearing a green sweatshirt and grubby white shorts. Around his neck was a string of beads and stones that Abdul had seen before.
Kiah said: ‘It can’t be Hakim, can it?’
‘Looks like him,’ said Abdul. In fact, he knew. The men running the enterprise had decided, for some reason, that Hakim should accompany the consignment all the way to France, and here he was.