The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  Two Americans in black fatigues grabbed Jason and carried him to the open door of the helicopter. Stone triggered his M4 in short bursts of three and four rounds at the Taliban, coming in from all sides. The helicopter lifted, throwing dirt and dust in his face. He grabbed a nylon strap hanging from the craft and wrapped it around his left arm. As the rising machine jerked him up, he slowly spun beneath it, spraying bullets at the Taliban until the helicopter lifted him into the black.

  When the helicopter landed at the forward outpost, he learned that Jason had died en route. The right side of Stone’s jacket had been shredded and blood had soaked down to his ankle.

  What if he had listened to Jason when he’d wanted to mount their ponies and head back to the village through the mountains? Perhaps they wouldn’t have come under fire from the Taliban patrol in the valley.

  He drained his glass, got up, turned off the gas to the fireplace, locked the doors, and went to bed.

  The next morning, Stone looked out the kitchen window. Early traces of green showed in the backyard lawn and here and there sprouts of crocus and narcissus broke through the edge of the flowerbed. An overcast March sky, gray and listless, dulled the rest of the landscape. He went out to inspect his garden.

  The grounds required attention. In the vegetable garden, brown twigs from the former year’s tomato plants lay bent alongside dead weeds. No sign of life. By this time there should be movement in the earth along the two asparagus rows. He knelt down, poked with a stake into the dirt, and unearthed an asparagus crown. Gnarled and stringy, it felt cold and lifeless. For thirteen years he had harvested a good crop. Three years before, early in the season, he’d covered the new shoots with hay and produced white asparagus. That year his wife and he had invited friends over for a Sunday afternoon and enjoyed the yield with champagne.

  Somehow a garden was no longer important. It was time to move on. He had been thinking about the offer from his friend in Malibu to go in with him on a dive boat. The fellow FBI inspector had promised a lucrative return from well-heeled tourists along with good diving off the Channel Islands. Maybe he’d also open a small restaurant on the beach. Put some exotic dishes on the menu, from Afghanistan maybe. A drop of rain hit the back of his neck. He dropped the dead asparagus crown and returned to the house.

  Langley, Virginia—April 23, 2002

  Jeffrey looked around the spacious office. The spacious seventh floor office of the CIA headquarters overlooked the expanse of Langley forest. Pines hugged the compound perimeter and oak trees in the distance struggled to open their buds against the chill. Howard, the chief of the European Division, had planted mementos from his many foreign assignments throughout his office for visitors’ edification. Soft classical music floated down from the speakers in the ceiling.

  Jeffrey, the head of the CIA’s Near East Division, had asked his counterpart, Howard, for a meeting. When he entered Howard’s office, he immediately recognized Claudia standing at the window, wearing a dark blue dress that had fit better when she weighed less. The three settled into low couches facing a round coffee table. In the center of the table, a large art book from the Musee D’Orsay lay unopened.

  “Bad business with the death in Nice.” Howard sighed. He studied his manicure.

  “Barrett Huntington was third generation in our business,” Jeffrey said. “He was on loan from me to you, remember?” He waited for Howard to make eye contact.

  “Come now, it isn’t as if my people in the European Division were negligent, Jeffrey.”

  “I can barely staff my posts in Lebanon and Cairo.” Jeffrey’s voice rose. “Then I lend you a good officer and he gets killed.”

  Howard adjusted his Hermes tie. “We’re all stretched thin in resources.”

  “That’s not why I’m here,” Jeffrey continued. “The rumor mill all the way to the basement barber shop has it that my division held back pertinent information from the station in Paris. In other words it’s my fault that my officer temporarily under your charge was murdered.”

  “Surely nothing like that would come from this office.” Howard glanced over. “Claudia, have you heard anything of that nature?”

  Claudia, the branch chief in charge of special projects in Europe had supervised Huntington. She pushed her reading glasses back on her nose and Jeffrey glimpsed a thin layer of moisture on her forehead.

  “Certainly not,” Claudia said. “We can’t put stock in rumors.”

  “Tell us, Claudia,” Howard continued. “What are the results of the investigation into young Huntington’s demise? A full inquiry was conducted, yes?”

  “Our French colleagues reported his death to our consulate in Marseille.” She shuffled papers in her hands. “The French conducted a criminal investigation. He was poisoned.”

  Jeffrey grimaced. “How long did it take for you to realize that one of your people was murdered? He was one of us, you know, the DO.” He looked for some response from Howard, who still cherished the CIA moniker for the Directorate of Operations, even though it had been replaced with a more mundane label. Seeing none, he continued, “My understanding is that it took two days before you knew what happened.”

  “His control officer in Paris was off meeting with some other operatives.” Claudia took off her glasses and stared at the ceiling. “We have a lot going on in the area.”

  Howard said, “We know you’re upset about this case. It is most unfortunate.”

  “Yes, both for Barrett Huntington and his pregnant wife.” Jeffrey took out his pen and pretended to make a note on his pad. “You know he was one of our best picks from the Ivies two years ago. An Arabic scholar.”

  Howard sighed and turned to Claudia. “Give us a quick wash on what happened.”

  “Our French colleagues reported that he was stabbed in the leg with a quick-acting poison, a chemical composition similar to that used by the Russians and the Bulgarians. He was found lying off an alley in Vieux Nice. No witnesses. His identification was missing. He’d been issued a sidearm, but the French didn’t mention anything about that.”

  “They probably stole it,” Jeffrey said. “How did they identify him?”

  Claudia looked at her notes. “He was clutching his cellphone. Whoever killed him didn’t notice it in his hand.”

  “I thought all operational cellphones were non-attributable,” Jeffrey said.

  “I don’t know.” Claudia seemed flustered. “Maybe it wasn’t through any numbers on the phone that they knew he was—”

  “Bad tradecraft.” Jeffrey frowned. “I suppose all your contact numbers in France and Italy have been compromised.”

  “We’re attending to that.” She scratched in her notepad.

  “Well, Claudia, what about Huntington’s target?” Howard pressed. “That Arab he was shadowing?”

  “No trace of him. He’ll surface.”

  “Is he a suspect?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Probably,” she answered.

  “Christ.”

  Howard stood and walked to his desk to check his calendar. He looked over his shoulder. “Jeffrey, lunch in the dining room?”

  Claudia rose.

  Howard peered at her over his glasses. “Claudia, I want a replacement for our young officer. Right away.”

  “We’re in the process of—”

  “No CIA staff members. Look into the ranks of the Independent Contractors. Someone seasoned. Not young, understand?”

  “We have a number of retired officers who—”

  “No one connected with the CIA. Maybe someone with a military or operations background who has seen action.” He invited Jeffrey to precede him to the door.

  Montpellier, France

  Stacy felt relieved. The meeting at the university in Montpellier had gone well. She had received good information that she knew the CIA analysts back in Langley could use. The golden sun warmed her arms as she drove her Volkswagen back to her flat. She would relax on her patio, enjoy the spring afternoon warmth, and prepare her report.
<
br />   An afternoon stroll would be perfect, but following the alert from the Paris Station, she had kept a low profile. Huntington’s murder in Nice had confounded them all. One did not come to France expecting to be murdered.

  One more month and she would complete her tour and return to Virginia. She missed her two daughters; they were growing up, one five years old, the other seven, and she knew they needed her. Ned was a good father, but still, they needed their mother.

  At the traffic light, she fumbled in her briefcase and made sure her notes were tucked in the brown envelope. As she returned her attention to the road, a white sedan appeared in the rearview mirror. It had not been there the last time she’d looked. Two men, both unshaven, stared through the windshield. Her hands felt clammy on the steering wheel.

  She signaled a right turn and when the light changed, steered to the right. The car behind her did the same. With a quick turn of the wheel, she reversed her turn and went left, cutting across the path of an oncoming truck. She floored the accelerator and glanced in the rearview mirror. The white car followed.

  The street turned into a country road with plowed fields on either side. The white car moved up close to her rear bumper, then made a quick move up along the left side of her car. She braked hard and let the car shoot past just far enough that she could bring her left front fender across the pursuer’s right rear fender. The white car spun out of control and nosed into a ditch.

  She executed a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn on screeching tires and sped off in the opposite direction, barely missing a motorcycle.

  Reentering the town, she slowed. The car was not in sight, just a lone motorcycle behind her. At a pedestrian crossing, she stopped and rubbed her aching temples. She looked back in the mirror. Still no car.

  Then the motorcycle’s engine revved twice outside her door. She looked up. The driver was wearing a helmet with an opaque visor. He pulled an automatic pistol from inside his jacket and pointed it at her.

  “That’s a Berretta,” she murmured. “Like the one I carried in Sierra Leone.”

  Avignon, France

  Avignon sparkled in the morning light. On the Place du Palais, the expanse facing the immense Papal palace, Hassan sat at the wobbly table with Rashid, a portly man with a trimmed beard and dark, heavy eyebrows that met over a slender nose. Tourists milled about the outdoor café speaking in a variety of languages.

  Rashid waved his hand. “All this belonged to us. From Spain, up across the Pyrenees, into southern France.”

  Hassan sipped his coffee and watched the crowd from behind his sunglasses.

  “Are you a student of history?” asked Rashid, and then answered his own question. “Yes, of course you are. You studied in Baghdad.”

  “Basra,” Hassan corrected him. “I studied in the south of Iraq, in Basra. Remember, I am Shiite.”

  “Baghdad was the center of the great Abbasid Caliph.” Rashid looked over at a German couple arguing noisily two tables away from them.

  “It was the Umayyad dynasty from Damascus who conquered and held Al Andalus.” Hassan pulled a cigarette out and lit it with a gold lighter. Rashid reminded him of an uncle in Lebanon, overweight much too early for his age, and given to pompous pronouncements.

  Rashid smiled. “Yes. You are right. So, you people from the marshes do learn your history.”

  “There are no marshes near my home in Palestine.” Hassan knew Rashid was trying once again to pry into his background. Hezbollah had given Rashid enough information about him. This Sunni bastard need not know more.

  “Yes, of course,” Rashid continued, touching his nose with his white linen handkerchief. “The Umayyad conquered Spain and then invaded France.” Rashid sipped his coffee and sighed. “Look at that fortress, that palace. Home to the Pope, head of the Christians, leader of the crusaders, the despoilers of our culture. They spent their time there with whores.”

  Hassan regarded the man in front of him, who wore handmade Italian shoes and a jacket sporting a Paris label draped over his shoulders. He thought of his own life in the refugee camp when he was a boy. His father had only one jacket, which he wore every day. He had it on when the Israeli plane bombed their shack.

  “What have you learned about the man and woman who killed the American?” Hassan drew on his cigarette and watched the smoke float off.

  “They were from Marseille,” Rashid whispered.

  Hassan waited for Rashid to continue. He had the impression the fat man enjoyed parceling out information.

  Rashid bent forward again. “The man and woman you killed both had criminal records and spent time in prison. The man was involved in illegal drugs.”

  Hassan crushed out the cigarette. “He was a believer … a Muslim. Whom was he working for?”

  “No group we know of. However, there are so many groups, with so many points of view.” Rashid smiled again and shrugged. “We, as they say in America, keep bumping into each other.”

  Hassan did not smile. “I gave you the American’s wallet. Was there anything in it that revealed who he worked for?”

  Rashid gave a Levantine cluck of the tongue. “The information in it was worthless. He had business cards that indicated he was a wine consultant from San Francisco. There was no money in the wallet. Did you take it?”

  “Of course. I will use it to pay for the coffee today,” Hassan said. “By the way, do you not own some vineyards near Arles?”

  “Yes, that is true.” Rashid seemed pleased Hassan knew of his business venture.

  “How do you know you make good wine? We Muslims cannot drink it.”

  Only Rashid’s lips produced a smile.

  Neither spoke for some time. The sun now was overhead and the shadows across the Place du Palais had disappeared. Hassan breathed deeply and reached into his pocket for some Euro coins. He would leave this man and take a walk along the Rhone River. Perhaps he might take an overnight trip on one of the riverboats. He inched down his sunglasses and studied Rashid. “Why would those two people want to kill me? Did they know who I was?”

  Rashid waved his index finger back and forth. “No. No, my friend. You are becoming too suspicious. It was merely coincidence.”

  Hassan handed the waiter money for the two coffees.

  Rashid said, “Before you leave, I wanted to tell you that your meeting aboard the Red Scorpion went quite well. Abdul Wahab was most impressed with you, as I knew he would be. I suspect he will want to do business with you.”

  Hassan rose and looked down at Rashid. “You and I will meet at the appointed time.”

  Hassan’s shoes clicked on the pavement as he headed for the Rhone. Passing in front of a tourist shop at the end of the Place du Palais, a young woman with white-blonde hair emerged carrying postcards. She bumped into Hassan and her postcards spilled onto the sidewalk. Hassan bent down and helped her pick them up.

  “Pardon,” she said. “Je regrette.” She brushed her hair back from her face and looked up with bright green eyes.

  The two spoke for a while, laughed once or twice, and then ambled toward the river. There on the riverbank, they sat on a stone bench and watched the boats glide past.

  Chapter Three

  Northern Virginia

  Claudia sped her dented white Volvo out of the CIA headquarters gate, and turned south onto the George Washington Parkway toward Rosslyn. The road was slick from a departing shower that left a raw chill in the air. Through the line of trees on the left side of the parkway, a misty Georgetown appeared across the Potomac River. Two long rowing sculls from Georgetown University glided downstream, the rowers dipping and lifting their long oars in unison. She exited the Parkway at Key Bridge and made her way through Rosslyn toward the Fort Myer military base. If she made all the traffic lights, she would not be late for the Tuesday noon lecture. The Association of Former Intelligence Officers sponsored the monthly gathering, which provided a good networking setting for the intelligence community. Maybe she would spot someone there to replace Barrett Hu
ntington. The morning meeting had not gone well. Knowing her boss Howard, he would hound her until she got the French operation back on an even keel.

  Five red lights. She arrived late and had difficulty finding a parking space in the officer’s club parking lot. Huffing up the staircase to the second floor dining room, she found a seat next to Rachel, who had been in her new officers training class twenty years earlier. On Rachel’s first overseas assignment, she had lost an eye when a terrorist bomb exploded outside her embassy office window; since then she refused all foreign assignments. They began comparing notes on the latest position changes in their respective divisions.

  Before the main speaker began his address, Claudia asked Rachel whether she knew of a good replacement for her officer murdered in Nice. At the same time, a tall, dark-haired man wearing an expensive gray suit came in and sat two rows in front of them.

  Rachel, transfixed by the man, nudged Claudia. “I recognize him. A few years ago we did business together on a Middle East terrorist case. He works part-time for the Agency.”

  Claudia gave the man a quick once-over. He had a scar on his left cheek. She leaned over and whispered, “Name? Background?”

  “Hayden Stone. Has counterintelligence background,” she whispered back. “Retired mid-level executive. Familiar with the Middle East.”

  “What agency?”

  “Hmm … well, the Bureau.”

  “I’ll find someone else. He’s the last thing I need right now. You know I don’t trust the Bureau or FBI agents.”

  The cellphone in Claudia’s purse played the theme from Mozart’s symphony number forty. She glanced at the phone, pushed back her chair, and hurried out to the lobby where other people paced with cellphones pressed to their ears. Her aide had bad news. Ignoring formalities, and without comment, Claudia switched off her phone. She returned and plopped back into her chair. “I’ve lost another officer this morning in Montpellier. I need someone now!”