by Arthur Kerns
Rachel pointed in the direction of Stone and then turned back to Claudia. “He has all our clearances.”
“What’s his name again?”
Washington, DC—April 25, 2002
“Good to see you.” Colonel Gustave Frederick gave Stone a firm handshake and the two walked up the white marble stairs into the lobby of the Army & Navy Club. The club was enjoying a busy lunch day, a favorite venue for members to conduct low-key, but important business. The maître d’ led them across the thickly carpeted dining room to a table adjacent to French doors overlooking Farragut Square. Frederick ordered a scotch; Stone ordered an Irish whiskey, neat.
Frederick had returned from Afghanistan the week before, where he had led a counter-insurgency operation. Stone had been on his team. The drinks came and they ordered lunch. The thick glass in the doors muted the traffic noise outside. Frederick leaned back and grinned. Whenever Frederick lifted his chin, looked down his long patrician nose, and raised his heavy brown eyebrows, Stone knew to expect a surprise.
“I have a feeling you’ll enjoy an assignment to the South of France,” Frederick said. “Hasn’t warmed up yet, but then again, the crowds haven’t arrived.”
Stone rotated his drink on the white linen tablecloth. “I appreciate your thinking of me, but after Afghanistan I think I’ll take a break.”
“An acquaintance called me yesterday afternoon on the secure line and inquired about you. It seems his branch has a need for someone with your background. I gave you a five-star recommendation.” Frederick paused. “It would be a good change for you, especially now that you’re unattached—or do I say single?”
“Divorced,” Stone said, repositioning the heavy silver forks to the left of the flowered china plate. “It seems I have a knack for losing partners. Marital and professional.”
“Jason’s death in Afghanistan wasn’t your fault.” Frederick leaned forward and looked intently into Stone’s eyes. “You could’ve been the one killed on that helicopter.”
“Yeah,” said Stone. “Anyway, my golf game needs work. Then again, I may go out to California and try some sailing. I’d be near my two kids.”
“Tee-times are hard to get in the Washington area, but the sailing is great along the Côte d’Azur.” Frederick leaned back again and took a long swallow of scotch.
Stone cut into his halibut and wondered why he could never prepare fish like the chef did at the club, with a slight crust on the outside and moist within.
Frederick sliced into his filet. “I hope this meal meets with your gourmet standards. Come to think of it, you may pick up a few cooking tips in Provence.”
“I think I’ll stop cooking for a while. Start eating out.”
“Look Hayden, it’s been six months since the World Trade Center attack. The new war is the one we’re fighting in Afghanistan. Firefights with a touch of the espionage game we played during the Cold War. That’s the shadow war you’d go to in the South of France.”
“Does sound interesting,” Stone said. “However, I’m looking forward to a change.”
“My understanding is they will invite you down to the Farm, beat around the bush, then ask if you’ll accept the job.”
Stone played with his coffee cup. “Where in the South of France?”
“Does it matter?” Frederick smiled. They both looked out the glass doors at the people hurrying along the sidewalk in the light drizzle. “Be very careful with these people,” Frederick whispered. “They’re nervous about what’s going on over there, and nervous people make mistakes. Stay focused. And ask for a big bonus. They’ll pay it.”
Southern Virginia—April 28, 2002
The twin turboprop glided toward the deserted runway. Stone peered out the fogged window of the aged plane. Small craft dotted the Chesapeake Bay. At least one, he reckoned, was a CIA patrol boat. The plane braked to a halt and the passengers disembarked from the spartan aircraft used by the Agency to haul equipment and drop new case officers during their parachute training. Stone descended the shaky portable ladder onto the runway and breathed in the smell of Virginia pines. The sun felt warm on his face.
A nine-passenger brown van waited on the tarmac. The driver stood alone and waved them toward the open door. The group hauled their luggage from the plane. No one spoke.
For almost ten minutes, the van creaked over a macadam road, passing isolated bungalows set back among the pine trees. An occasional pickup truck drove by. At a complex of tired-looking buildings, the driver deposited the group in front of a two-story wooden barracks. A man with a Virginia Tidewater drawl handed out room assignments, keys, and instructions on base rules and procedures. Stone also received a white sealed envelope.
His room on the second floor of the barracks reminded him of the bargain motels in Texas where he stayed when he was on the road as an FBI agent: clean, but providing only the essentials. He threw his suitcase on the bed and opened the envelope. A hand-written note told him to go to building seven. A hand-drawn map was enclosed. They expected him in an hour. He unpacked and then stretched out on the bed. With his eyes closed, he smelled barbecue cooking. The mess hall must be nearby.
After a half hour, he rose, brushed his teeth, and headed off for his meeting. The newly constructed building number seven stood alone in a pine grove. A black sedan with a Washington, DC license plate was parked in the shade. He touched the hood of the car—it felt warm, and he estimated the car had been sitting there for less than an hour.
Let’s see what they have to offer, he thought as he approached the door. The only information he had about this assignment had come from Colonel Frederick during their lunch. The day after his meeting with Frederick he had received a phone call from a man who refused to identify himself and who asked whether Stone was interested in a deployment. Stone said that he would like to learn more. The same man called again an hour later and gave him instructions on when and where to meet the plane.
A gray-haired man in the brown suit who had flown on the same plane greeted him at the door. Stone recognized his voice as belonging to the caller. He led Stone down a hallway to a Secure Compartmentalized Information Facility, commonly called a SCIF. Already seated in the tight room were a large woman and two men in dark blue suits.
One of the men, pointing a gold pen, was speaking in CIA jargon. “Claudia, you should not misinterpret our coming down here to assist in the interview. We know your plate is full, and with this recent development—” He stopped, got up, and shook Stone’s hand. “I’m Howard.” He motioned for Stone to take a seat. Like most Agency people, he had offered only his forename, which might or might not be his true name. Stone surmised that Claudia’s bosses had come down from Langley to do a bit of micromanagement.
The room’s metal door sealed shut with a long hiss of air. The air-conditioner turned on as Claudia began speaking. Without making eye contact with Stone, Claudia quickly explained that the Agency had brought him to the Farm to determine his suitability for a special assignment. Then she shot off a series of questions about his knowledge of surveillance techniques and Middle East matters. Stone found it difficult to complete his answers before she fired off another query.
At last, she looked up in his direction, but not at him as FBI agents do when they look directly into the eyes of individuals they are questioning, intending to peer into the mind and psyche. She just presented an expression, with eyes unfocused, one aimed at something on his face, the other on space beyond his left ear. Her face was a vague presentation, lacking personality, similar to the faces seen when walking the corridors of Agency buildings and used to mask their identities, if not souls. With only lips moving, she asked, “Have you had a full-scope polygraph examination?”
Howard interrupted. “Claudia, that information is in his file. Let’s do move on with the business at hand.” He rested his elbows on the table, showing off his gold cuff links, and smiled. “Mr. Stone, are you available to go to France for up to ninety days?”
Stone nodded. He
found the tension between Claudia and her superior annoying, but at last he was about to learn what they expected of him in France.
“We have a number of people scattered around Europe who sit and wait for terrorists to pass by. When the bad guys are spotted, you watch them and report their movements. That’s the gist of it.”
“Where in France will I be stationed?”
Howard let out a long sigh. “Ah … the South of France.” He looked down at his notes, then back at Stone. “But don’t expect it to be a vacation.”
“I won’t. I’ve worked for you people before.” Stone leaned forward. “Sounds like a naval picket duty operation. How soon do you expect me to be on station? Will I be operating solo?”
“You don’t need to know that now,” Claudia said.
“Best we move quickly on this, Claudia,” Howard said. “Mr. Stone, we have your background. You are right for the job. You will go to Paris, meet up with your handler, be briefed further, then be sent to your post.”
“We have your plane ticket,” Claudia interjected. “You leave tomorrow evening. Pack for the long haul.”
“Change that ticket for two days from now,” Howard said. “I told you, Claudia, tomorrow he has firearms training and the crash-and-bang course.” He turned to the gray-haired man. “Please take Mr. Stone to the classroom.”
“We’ve planned an espionage tradecraft refresher session for you,” the gray-haired man mumbled.
“Just a refresher, Stone. We know you’re a professional.” Howard laughed. “I wish I could take the crash course with you. There’s nothing more fun than banging up a government car.”
“There’s one more thing,” Stone said. “The question of fees and expenses.”
Howard took an exaggerated breath, then removed a three-page contract from his briefcase and pushed it across the table. Picking it up, Stone flipped through the pages. He crossed out the figures for his fee and expenses, carefully doubled the amounts, initialed the changes, and signed the contract. He smiled as he pushed it back to Howard, who, without looking at the new figures, said coldly, “Agreed.”
As the conference room door slammed behind him, Howard was shouting, “God damn it Claudia, please try to—”
The next day’s program started early in the morning. On the schedule, it was listed as a course in defensive driving. Stone went out with an instructor in an old, dented car with a well-tuned engine. The instructor made him drive at speeds exceeding one hundred miles per hour and then execute emergency turns and maneuvers. Later on, he and the instructor took turns in separate cars, trying to knock each other off the road.
After lunch in the camp mess hall, he met his firearms instructor, Mark. They drove in a twenty-year-old pickup truck to the firearms range. The sun hovered behind low-lying cloud cover, which Stone figured would dull the gun sights in long-distance shooting. The range was a basic setup, a cleared area with covered shooting positions. Shooters mounted fresh paper targets on fir stakes after each session. Old, warped tables, positioned under metal corrugated roofs, held an assortment of firearms and ammunition.
Stone felt at home. The smell of gunpowder and cordite brought back memories of his FBI training. Under J. Edgar Hoover, guns were an integral part of the FBI culture. All agents, whether a lawyer, accountant, chemist, or linguist, learned how to shoot, and trained constantly throughout their careers.
Mark was a retired CIA operative, rehired as an independent contractor. He walked with a shuffle, his light brown hair falling down onto his forehead.
The first weapon Mark handed him was an M4 assault rifle with a folding stock. Mark explained how even though the weapon was accurate at a distance of one hundred yards it had its drawbacks; very fine-grained sand caused the gun to constantly jam.
Stone smiled. “I’m not going to the Middle East. I’m going to France.”
Mark frowned. “I have to make a phone call.” When he returned, he said, “Let’s take the M4 and the AK-47 back to the gun shack. We’ll work with a nine millimeter Glock twenty-six.” In the shack he also handed Stone a collapsible automatic rifle that could fold into a shoebox. “The Agency designed and fabricated this baby. A lightweight sniper gun with a Swiss telescopic sight. Takes a 7.62 mm cartridge.”
Stone repeatedly fired the Glock at distances of ten, fifteen, and twenty-five yards. He never liked the modern automatics. They were reliable and sound, but guns like the Glock and Sig Sauer lacked the beauty and feel of the Smith & Wesson model 19 revolver he had trained with at Quantico.
His dislike for the weapon showed on the target. The shot holes were scattered across the paper. As Mark handed him a fresh target, he suggested Stone use a two-hand grip. He did and his shot pattern improved.
At last, Mark called a break and the two sat down on the wooden table. Stone took big swallows of water and threw the empty plastic bottle into a trashcan. “So you didn’t know I was going to France?”
Mark shook his head.
“You thought I was going to the sand box?”
“The word didn’t come down to me that you were the replacement for that young fellow who got killed in France.” He slid the bolt action of the sniper gun back and forth. “With all that’s going on here, sometimes there’s a breakdown in the communication chain.”
So, he was replacing someone who was killed. No wonder Howard hadn’t flinched when he doubled his fee. Stone waited for Mark to continue.
“I trained that guy in firearms right here. About three months ago.”
A seagull cried over the bay. As Mark adjusted the telescopic sight on the gun, he said in a near whisper, “As you know, he was poisoned last week in Nice. So I guess Paris Station will insist you go down there with a sidearm.”
It paid to sit and listen. One found out all sorts of information. Stone picked up another bottle of water off the table. “Now that sniper gun you’re holding … what’s that all about?”
He grinned. “They didn’t tell you much, did they?”
“Enough to get me here.”
“This is what I know.” Mark handed him the sniper gun. “If certain people from the Middle East pass through your bailiwick down there in the South of France and there isn’t time to send in an Ops team to grab them, you’re going to be told to take them out.”
The two stared at the targets dotted with bullet holes. Mark looked at his watch. “Time for me to check in with my wife.” He slid off the table and instructed Stone to break down the sniper gun and then reassemble it. “Oh, I just heard. Another officer got killed. In the town of Montpellier.”
As Mark walked away, he called back. “Pull a Colt forty-five and some ammo from the shed. See how it feels. If you can get hold of an old Army Colt over there, get one. They pack more punch than any nine millimeter.”
“A Colt forty-five automatic. Now that’s my gun of choice,” Stone said. Especially since he didn’t know what he was walking into.
Chapter Four
Paris—April 30, 2002
The plane from Dulles International Airport touched down at Paris Roissy Charles De Gaulle into a soft, misty French morning. Stone passed through the airport arrival formalities, claimed his luggage, and then hailed a cab. Outside the terminal, the moist chill surprised him; after all, it was April. He tried his French on the taxi driver, who hinted the hotel would be difficult to locate. Stone said he doubted it since the hotel was located in the First Arrondissement, a well-known neighborhood. The driver glared in the rearview mirror, then returned to maneuvering through the rush-hour traffic.
The drive into Paris was not as bad as the last time when he’d visited with his ex-wife. That had been a quick trip. They had both hoped it would restart their marriage. It hadn’t. All week it rained. His one good memory of the trip was an excellent spinach soufflé at a restaurant near the American Embassy.
An upscale kitchen supply store and an antique map shop flanked the narrow hotel entrance door. Outside the establishment, people and cars clogged the nar
row street. Workers unloaded trucks parked halfway over the stone curb; other Parisians hurried to their jobs elsewhere. Insults in French, accompanied by hand gestures, answered car horns. Stone lifted his luggage up the entrance steps, but had to give way to a group of Americans exiting for a morning bus tour of Paris. He smelled coffee brewing, turned, and saw a brasserie across the street, where he knew he’d find delicious pastries and rolls. Paris churned in the morning light. Too bad he had to leave the next day.
After checking in at the reception desk, he crammed his bags into the tight elevator and creaked up to the third floor, where he settled into his equally confining room. After unpacking he set off for the American Embassy. Pausing on the front steps of the hotel, he looked over at the brasserie. It looked tempting, but his contact at the embassy wanted to meet for lunch. Rue Saint-Honoré was down the street to the left, and it would take him to the embassy.
The street life of Paris fascinated him. People hurried along the narrow sidewalk and shopkeepers occupied themselves with their chores. Young fathers in business suits held their chattering children’s hands as they headed for a school located in a grey 18th century building.
The American Embassy sat off the busy Place de la Concorde, where rush-hour traffic sped around the huge plaza. Uniformed police stood beside barricades in front of the embassy with compact machine guns dangling from their shoulders. Stone had to show his passport to a French policeman before he was allowed to pass.
At the gate, a white guardhouse served as a pedestrian checkpoint. Inside, he asked the on-duty US Marine, a lance corporal in a crisp khaki blouse, to call his CIA contact at the embassy, Charles Fleming. The Marine instructed him to wait in the guardhouse.
Five minutes later, Fleming pushed through the heavy security door. He came up to Stone, took his arm, and with a smile, led him out the door. “Let’s do lunch.”
A middle-aged African-American wearing French designer glasses, Fleming seemed not to have the time to adjust his tie, or perhaps he thought such things unimportant. He led Stone out onto Avenue Gabriel, then stopped under the tall plane trees.