by Arthur Kerns
The Riviera Contract
A Hayden Stone Thriller
Arthur Kerns
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2013 by Arthur Kerns
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
Second Diversion Books edition June 2016
ISBN: 978-1-938120-92-3
Also by Arthur Kerns
Hayden Stone Thrillers
The African Contract
The Yemen Contract (Summer 2016)
Principal Characters
Hayden Stone, former FBI agent, now CIA operative
Hassan Musab Mujahib, terrorist
Contessa Lucinda Avoscani, love interest of Stone
Abdul Wahab, terrorist
Boswell Harrington, head of the Foundation d’Élan
Sandra, CIA operative
Jonathan Deville, FBI agent assigned to Paris
Mark, CIA operative
Charles Fleming, CIA official
Colonel Gustave Frederick, CIA official
David, a writer, scholar
Claudia, CIA official
Margaux Reynard, French employee at the Foundation d’Élan
Rashid, wine entrepreneur
Philippe Monte, consigliere to Countess Lucinda
Dr. Aziz Husseini, scientist
Maurice Colmont, French intelligence
Prince Mohammed Al Tabrizi
Chapter One
Nice, France—April 20, 2002
“Think a lot of yourself, young man? Well, start on your obituary and try to make it interesting.”
Barrett Huntington’s uncle had tossed out this barb a few months back as the two sat in the dining room of the family’s Wall Street investment firm. His uncle had made a call to a friend in Langley, Virginia, to arrange for Huntington to join the CIA. A number of Huntington’s New York colleagues had gone to work for the Agency, following the attack on the Twin Towers. The ashes of two fraternity brothers lay in the mound of rubble in southern Manhattan.
Now here he sat, after three days in beautiful Nice on the French Riviera, watching Hassan Mujahid’s movements. This morning on the hotel terrace in the shade of a wide-limbed olive tree, his middle-aged quarry quietly ate yogurt and fruit. Finished eating, Hassan leaned back in his chair, unfolded an Arabic-language newspaper from Beirut, and drank two Americanos, wiping his black moustache after each sip. Hassan’s body movements interested Huntington. Were all killers so polished? Or just the professional ones?
Huntington was enjoying this, his first operational assignment with the CIA. Who wouldn’t enjoy working in Nice, where the sea shimmered and the ochre-colored homes were haphazardly stacked Braque-like up the palm- and pine-covered hills? A twinge of guilt tugged at him. His wife, pregnant with their first child, was alone back in McLean, Virginia. She loved France and if she were sitting there next to him at the quaint wooden table, she would be noting the golden color of the hotel walls and, with closed eyes, breathing in the fragrance from the potted flowers placed in the sun. However, he was watching a terrorist who hadn’t changed his attire in three days: tan slacks, white shirt, and a black leather jacket. Huntington spread honey on his warm baguette, content to wait.
After breakfast, Hassan broke from his routine. He skipped his morning swim in the hotel pool set flush against the soaring cliff of Chateau Hill. Instead, at precisely nine o’clock, he slung a travel bag over his shoulder and left the hotel. Huntington followed, maintaining a discreet distance. Turning away from the old town, Hassan sauntered along the road overlooking the sea and rounded the bend toward the yacht basin.
Ten minutes later, on the Quai Cassini, Hassan settled onto the shady side of a long wooden bench. Within minutes an inflatable Zodiac boat piloted by a uniformed man pulled up alongside the quay and took him aboard. As the Zodiac roared off, Huntington saw that Hassan scanned the dock, as if looking for someone he had left behind. Using his monocular, Huntington watched the Zodiac as it headed for a large white yacht. On its stern, the yacht’s large gold letters declared RED SCORPION.
Two hours later, faithful to his task, Huntington observed Hassan return from the yacht and start walking toward town. Huntington followed on foot for a half hour until, without warning, a black BMW sedan pulled up to Hassan and he jumped inside. Huntington, with no means to follow, broke off his surveillance. Frustrated by losing his quarry, he was left with only the car’s license plate number.
A little after seven that evening, Huntington sat in the hotel lobby and watched Hassan rush down the narrow staircase of the hotel and across the reception area. He tossed his room key at the receptionist and pushed through the front door, then turned right and headed for the old section of Nice.
Huntington folded his International Herald Tribune and placed it on the coffee table, where a short red-haired woman speaking German with her companion snatched it up. He watched the second hand on the wall clock advance thirty seconds, then rose and walked to the door. The young receptionist called after him, “Monsieur, your room key?”
“I’m only going for a stroll.” His CIA training instructor at the Farm had said to always keep your hotel key to prevent the receptionist from placing it in your mail slot. No need to advertise to anyone that you were out of your room.
“Oh, Monsieur Rowell,” she added. “Will you be having breakfast tomorrow morning on the terrace as usual?”
“Mais oui.” The name Rowell still sounded odd to him, even after two months on the job. The people at the CIA Headquarters had told him he would receive a pseudonym when he became operational, but they had neglected to tell him that a computer program, not he, would select the name.
From the hotel entrance, Huntington glanced at airport lights blinking from across the dull, choppy bay, and then looked to the right toward the city of Nice. The sun had dropped below the horizon and color was draining from the buildings. Hassan had a good hundred-meter lead. Huntington zipped up his windbreaker and followed him along the Promenade des Anglais. The mist blowing in from the bay tasted of salt.
He hoped his target would eat a quick dinner and return to the hotel early. It was difficult to conduct surveillance alone and not be detected. He stepped aside for two lovers huddled under an umbrella. Odd, he thought, as it wasn’t raining. The woman’s eyes, from beneath a black scarf, met his for an instant too long.
When Hassan turned right, Huntington surmised he was heading for the Cours Saleya, the flower market. For a few seconds he lost visual contact, then spied Hassan wearing a jacket as black as his hair. They had taken this route the night before when Hassan had stopped for seafood in a café on the market square. Tonight he kept walking.
Shop lights turned on as people hurried in both directions along the cobblestone street. Not many tourists were seen in March. The cellphone vibrated in his shirt pocket. Pulling it out, Huntington saw his Paris control’s number displayed on the screen.
Hassan took a quick turn up a narrow, unlit alley. Without answering the call, Huntington shoved the phone back in his pocket and followed. The clatter from the market gradually diminished behind him as he moved through the darkness. Ahead, at the far end of the alley, tiny shops lined a softly-lit square. He
liked the street lighting in Europe. So unlike the harsh glare found in American cities.
His cellphone vibrated again. Was Paris calling with feedback on the Red Scorpion? He raised the phone to eye level to read the caller’s number. It was not familiar. At the same time, he tried not to lose contact with Hassan, moving ahead in the shadows.
A bulky shape lunged from the left and jabbed Huntington hard in the thigh with what appeared to be the tip of a folded umbrella. He felt a sharp prick followed by a burning sensation extending up into his groin. Then numbness quickly set in. He crouched into a defensive position and fumbled for his Glock. The attacker’s face morphed into the likeness of the man Huntington had just passed on the promenade. A second figure, a woman, hissed, “Allons y! Vite! Vite!”
Huntington stumbled toward where he had last seen Hassan. He forced his legs along in the direction of the square, wanting to get away from the couple. There was no pain, just a soothing relaxation. His mind seemed to be shutting down. His legs glided him toward the pleasant glow of the shops, where he saw Hassan, his back turned, looking in a store window.
The small square glowed soft yellow, whirling all around him. He staggered and swayed. Hassan turned from the shop window and stared at him. The cellphone vibrated in Huntington’s hand as he spun around and hit the stone pavement. Strange, he thought, looking up at Hassan. He appears as confused as I am.
Looking down at the body, Hassan was perplexed. What had happened? This young man, who was registered at his hotel under the name of Rowell, had been shadowing him. As a precaution, a member of his cell in Nice had conducted countersurveillance and learned that this man consistently showed up at the same locations as he did. He theorized the young man must be a British agent, as he was too well dressed and mannered for an American. Now he had fallen dead at his feet. Baffling.
He knelt and felt Huntington’s throat for a pulse, but found none. No blood appeared on his clothes, but his bowels had emptied. He reached into Huntington’s jacket and took out his wallet. Perhaps a card or note would provide some additional information on this man’s identity. He removed a hotel key from the pants pocket. The handle of a black Glock protruded from a leather shoulder holster. Hassan reached for it then stopped. He didn’t need to take something that the police could trace to this man.
Footsteps echoed from the alley. He stood. The last thing he needed was to be arrested by the French police for robbery or murder. A woman wearing a black scarf, accompanied by a large man, came forward into the light. Hassan stepped back into the shadows, and then headed down a side street at a quick, but controlled, pace. No sense in arousing suspicion on the part of any passersby. He glanced back and saw the large man following him. The woman stayed in the square bent over the body. Two local thieves, he surmised. Most inconvenient.
Hassan pulled a knife from his coat pocket. He thumbed the release button, and the five-inch blade snapped out. The large man continued to close the distance between them. Taking advantage of a nightlight shining from a butcher shop’s window, Hassan spun around and faced his pursuer. The large man broke stride, quickly leveled an umbrella, and thrust it toward him. Hassan shifted to the right, sprang forward, and neatly sliced open the left side of the man’s throat. The umbrella fell to the ground as the man grabbed at his neck, trying to stem the flow of blood. Hassan lunged, stabbing deep into the front of the man’s throat.
From the square, the woman raced toward Hassan holding an automatic pistol. She stopped and slid into a shooting crouch, fumbling the gun with both hands. Hassan took two steps, leaped, and twisted his body in mid-air. His right foot snapped into the side of the woman’s head. She fell next to the curb and the gun slid across the cobblestones, clanging into an open sewer. As the woman moaned, Hassan wrapped his arm around her neck and, with a jerk, snapped the vertebrae.
Her partner was knelt as if in prayer, bloody hands unsuccessfully holding back a bubbling flow of blood. Hassan waited. When the man fell sideways on to the street, the air stopped fizzing from his slit windpipe.
Hassan listened and searched the street in both directions. He heard no sound except for the dripping of water from a building’s roof. Very well done, he congratulated himself. He paused over the man’s body and studied the face. Not French. Algerian possibly … definitely Maghreb. Too bad, killing a Christian would have been more enjoyable. He searched his two victims’ pockets and found money, but no identification.
He picked up the umbrella. A needle protruded from the tip. He had seen a picture of a similar poison device in an old Bulgarian intelligence training manual. Whoever these people were, they had killed the young agent and their technology was dated. Perhaps members of some fringe organization from North Africa. He decided to take the umbrella with him. Back at the hotel, he would use the key to search the young man’s room.
Chapter Two
Nice—April 22, 2002
Abdul Wahab gazed down at the crew of the Red Scorpion washing down the yacht’s decks. Leaning on the brass railing of the upper deck, he tilted his face up to the sun. His trimmed moustache and goatee matched his head of thick black hair. He looked down again and searched the harbor. Below, the yacht’s Zodiac tender cast off with a wide-open throttle and headed toward the nearby pier. The prince’s guests had lunch reservations at a restaurant in downtown Nice. As usual, the prince stayed aboard.
Wahab entered the pilothouse and walked over to the vessel’s wheel and binnacle. His father-in-law, Prince Mohammed Al Tabrizi, had pronounced that, despite the array of high-technology navigation instruments, a helmsman in his gold-braided uniform would stand before the polished oak and brass helm and steer the Red Scorpion. A bit old-fashioned one might say, but it did impress visitors.
The prince owned the three-hundred-foot yacht, a sleek white craft that had three levels extending beneath where Abdul Wahab stood. The large windows of the pilothouse overlooked the bow onto the crowded harbor of Nice. The constant noise of small craft passing close by, as well as the smells from the restaurants along the waterfront, gave some of the guests onboard a closed-in feeling. He mentioned this to the prince and suggested they move around the cape to Villefranche, where an open bay fronted the town lying at the base of a mountain. Also, it so happened that a palace sat halfway up the mountain, which the prince might lease for the ailing bin Zanni, the al Qaeda chief of information.
Wahab stepped past the humming electronic equipment, the green lights blinking numbers and symbols, and went back out onto the open bridge. The report he’d received on the assassination in Nice puzzled him. His two people from Marseille had killed the CIA man, a request from bin Zanni’s people. However, later that night someone had killed his two Marseillais. The police had found them lying in the street not far from the CIA man’s body. The police were not suspected, as the two had not been shot; the man died from a slit throat and the woman from a broken neck. At first, Abdul Wahab suspected thieves had killed them, but no one had taken their money or jewelry.
Probably the CIA had killed them. He would retaliate; the CIA had an agent in Montpellier. Perhaps he would use the services of that Shiite, Hassan. No. He would save the heretic for a later time.
McLean, Virginia
Hayden Stone went to the hall closet, pulled out his tweed jacket, and walked out onto the redwood deck. He squinted his gray eyes against the late-afternoon breeze and watched the driver toss the last carton in the back of the moving van. The truck, filled with Stone’s ex-wife’s possessions, eased away from the curb with loud hissing from its air brakes, made a deft turn around the cul-de-sac at the end of the street, and roared by the house with its two tall chrome exhaust pipes belching smoke.
The last time Stone had spoken to his former wife she’d said, without bothering to look into his eyes, that he didn’t fit into her career plans. He had known for years he hadn’t fit into her life. So now, she lived on the other side of the country, close to their two children’s college.
He went back into th
e house and lit a fire in the hearth. After a few moments staring at the blue flames from the gas burners, he went over to the bar and poured himself a large Irish whiskey. Tonight, he would drink a little too much, not to forget, but to remember.
The fire soon took the chill from the room. The movers had kept the doors open all day while they hauled out the furniture she had claimed as booty from the divorce. Next to his chair sat the whiskey bottle and half-full glass. He tried to think of something good about his marriage, but came up with only sour remembrances.
He shook his head and bent over to pour more whiskey. As he did, his side hit the arm of the chair and a jolt of pain stabbed along his waist. Three weeks earlier in the eastern mountains of Afghanistan, a bullet from a Taliban AK-47 had torn a piece of flesh from his right side. The nurse in the forward camp who had stitched up the wound said that with his “love handle” shot off, he would be unbalanced for the rest of his life. Apropos, he’d thought.
Visualizing the brown, hard mountains of Afghanistan, Stone sipped his drink and thought of his colleague, Jason. The two had found refuge in a friendly Pashtun village after Jason had been wounded in the chest. The villagers had declared the two of them “protected guests,” the tribal tradition that kept them from the clutches of the Taliban circling the village like jackals.
In the black of night their rescue helicopter came in and hovered over the village square. He dragged Jason from the house and they struggled toward the dull red strobe light pulsating from the nose of the craft. Muzzle flashes from Taliban guns appeared at the edge of the village. Bullets whined past his head and rounds thudded into the dirt around his feet. Streams of red gunfire shot like strobes from the helicopter’s guns. From somewhere amid the roar of the helicopter’s rotors, he heard, “Fast! Move fast!”