The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  Fleming groaned, “This terrorist business has really changed embassy life. Lucky for us the French have placed the police here full time.” He pointed to two green-blue buses parked a few yards away. They resembled armored American school buses.

  Stone detected that something was amiss. The purposeful stride of the Parisians he had noted while walking to the embassy was absent. People dashed from the square toward the side streets. Then riot police jumped out of the two buses, assembled, and in a phalanx, slow-marched toward the square. Shouts and commotion came from the direction of the Metro entrance, from which people waving banners and placards were spilling out.

  “Well, we’re not going to a restaurant in that direction,” Fleming said. “Quick, before the cops tell us to go back inside the embassy.”

  The two hurried across the avenue onto the strip of park that paralleled the Champs Elysées, their dress shoes crunching on the soft gravel path. Fleming motioned to slow down, and they turned toward the roar. Demonstrators poured across the square, disrupting traffic and banging cars and trucks with stakes and rocks. They advanced toward the police line that looked too thin to hold back a mob.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Stone asked.

  “North Africans in from the banlieues, the suburbs. I guess they’ve decided to burn some cars here instead of in their own neighborhoods for a change.”

  Stone found himself walking backward along the path watching the demonstrators. “Are they pissed off at Americans?”

  “Of course, but today they’re more pissed at the French authorities. They have no jobs.” Fleming looked around. “They’re probably heading for the Presidential palace, which is in our direction. Let’s go before they catch up.” Fleming steered him toward a white, elaborately designed building gracing the park. “That’s our restaurant.”

  The employees at the door of the restaurant were locking up in preparation for the coming horde, but Fleming talked their way beyond the glass doors. He leaned close to Stone’s ear. “This is the Pavillon Elysée, one of the hidden jewels of Paris and only a few steps away from the embassy. Great food.”

  The noise, the color, and motion fascinated Stone. “Let’s stand at the door and watch.”

  “Careful of flying glass. I’ll get us a nice table and come back.” Fleming asked a waiter whether given the commotion they could still get lunch. The Frenchman appeared nonplussed with the riot outside the restaurant. “Certainement.”

  Stone watched the rioters, mostly male, bob in and out of the clutches of the police. An individual in a hooded sweatshirt made an ill-timed turn into the arms of two policemen, who threw him to the ground. One clubbed at the man’s backpack while the other ground the man’s face into the gravel.

  “If there are any gasoline bottles in that bag they’ll break,” Fleming said, who now stood behind Stone. “I think we’re safe here.”

  Only one other table in the establishment was occupied. At the far side of the room two French businessmen, impeccably dressed, talked in low voices with quick hand gestures. Chrome and slate tables covered with pale blue tablecloths stiff with starch held blue vases with two white flowers placed in the center. Muted light came from the skylights above.

  “This is probably the best place for us to talk and not be overheard.” Fleming smiled. “And as I said, the food is great.”

  Fleming chose the Paris Deauville—a salad with crabmeat, prawns, apples, and grapefruit. Stone ordered the Paris Oslo, smoked Norwegian salmon in a salad with horseradish.

  “I see the menu interests you,” Fleming said. “You’ve come to the right place.”

  “The cuisine of Provence interests me. I hope to pick up some tips while I’m down there.”

  “Oh, I see. Someone has already told you where you’re headed. Well, just remember to keep your wits about you. Young Barrett Huntington didn’t and—” Fleming’s eyes clouded.

  Stone let a few minutes pass while Fleming took a sip from his water glass. Finally, Fleming gathered himself then whispered, “Your cover is a travel writer. We managed to get you a three-month fellowship at the Foundation d’Élan, an arts institution in Archos, a village near Marseille.”

  However, being sent out under his true name and not a false identity worried Stone. “What if someone took my picture when I came to the embassy?”

  The shouting diminished outside the restaurant. Fleming looked toward the door. “I think the demonstrators are moving on.” He turned back to Stone. “You’re a writer sponsored by the American government, so you would naturally stop by and check in.”

  He went on to discuss his light cover as a writer, details of emergency contacts, arrangements for funds during Stone’s stay, and his car in Archos. “You’ll receive additional instructions at our meeting in Provence next week.”

  Carefully choosing his words, Stone asked, “So, what are the details on the death of the fellow in Nice?”

  An explosion went off nearby, a muffled pop. It didn’t sound like any high explosive Stone recognized.

  Fleming looked past Stone. “Molotov cocktail … sounds like they’re near the Presidential palace. My wife and I really looked forward to this assignment.” With a resigned expression, he gazed down at the table and ran his finger around the edge. “I guess you have to take the good with the bad. Are you married?”

  “No longer, but I have two kids. Both in college.” He waited for Fleming to answer his question about the murdered officer.

  “My wife and I have two kids, also. Getting off the African circuit was a blessing. Here in Paris we have better schools and we don’t have to worry about our kids catching malaria, but then this latest problem with two murders—the one in Nice and the other one in Montpellier…”

  The waiter came with their meals and poured the wine. Fleming spoke to him in rapid French. He bowed and moved on to another table.

  “Who was the officer in Montpellier? And do we have any leads? Do you think the same person murdered the officer in Nice?”

  “We have the whole gamut of usual suspects.” Fleming forked a prawn from his salad. “The primary suspect in Huntington’s death—that’s the fellow you’re replacing—is a man by the name of Hassan. The female officer in Montpellier was not really tracking any particular individual. She was working on an industrial chemical project. Her spotting function was a secondary duty. Her death is really puzzling.”

  “So where’s Hassan?”

  “We’ve lost track of him. The French are searching for him, too. They’re being cooperative. Of course, we do well on the working level with French intelligence. We leave policy and bombast to our superiors.”

  Stone now heard only faint noises in the distance. He wondered what was burning from that Molotov cocktail. The restaurant had reopened and patrons rushed in talking about the riot. He looked at Fleming. “Do you have a photo of this Hassan or any other information on him?”

  “After lunch, back in the office, I’ll show you the photos.” He continued in a lower tone. “Hassan came in from Marbella on the Italian Riviera. Our people from Milan passed him off in Nice. Huntington followed him around for about a week.”

  Stone matched the lower level of Fleming’s voice. “Did he provide a report of his activities in Nice?”

  “He sent us regular reports by e-mail. By the way, you’re getting a laptop computer yourself. I’ll show you how to transmit your reports securely.”

  They left the restaurant, and instead of going back into the embassy, they walked around the Place de la Concorde. The acrid smell of tear gas lingered in the air. Parisians had returned to their routines. On the crowded sidewalk near the Hotel Crillon, Stone bumped into an old FBI friend, Jonathan Deville. It had been a year since they’d last met. After a few moments of banter, Deville gave him his telephone number and they agreed to get together.

  Stone and Fleming continued down the street. Fleming asked how he knew Deville and, not waiting for a reply, added, “Deville’s the FBI’s Legal Attaché he
re in Paris. Now I suppose I’ll have to tell him something about your connection with the Agency.” He sighed. “You never know if the Bureau can keep a secret.”

  They turned onto the Rue Saint-Florentin and then through the security checkpoint at the Hotel Talleyrand. The American Embassy owned the historic building and used it as an annex. Fleming explained that for security reasons most of the American staff had moved to other locations throughout the city. The two walked through the high-ceilinged lobby and passed by visitors attending the annual embassy art show. They rode the elevator to the basement level and Fleming led him through narrow hallways. The smell of heating oil hung in the air. Machinery hummed behind green doors. As they turned a corner, a number of heavy metal doors with narrow grilled windows came into view.

  “That’s where the Nazis put important résistance prisoners.” Fleming stopped and opened one of the doors. “During World War II the Talleyrand building was Gestapo Headquarters in Paris.”

  The cell could hold two people. Stone thought he smelled a hint of sweat and urine, but decided it was only his imagination. They continued down the hallway and came to a door with a black spin dial lock. Fleming spun the combination and pulled open the door. “Our version of a SCIF,” he said.

  The air inside the room was stale. Stone sat at a grey metal table while Fleming went to retrieve Hassan’s dossier. Returning with the folder, a laptop computer, and a cellphone, Fleming instructed him to look through the file while he went back to his office to make a phone call to Washington.

  As Fleming left, the door to the hallway opened and a woman with pale-blonde hair wearing a well-cut taupe suit entered. She stopped and looked down at Stone, searching his face with her green eyes. She wore no rings on her left hand.

  “You must be Hayden Stone. I arranged for your cover at the Foundation d’Élan. You’re a travel writer, who writes under the name of Finbarr Costanza. I suggest you assume a passive role at the foundation. Don’t get too chummy with the people there. Maybe grow a beard.”

  “How come I don’t have an alias?”

  “No time to go through the backstopping process. Our people at Langley are overwhelmed.” She looked Stone up and down. “In situations like yours, it’s easier to get on the Internet, block all references to your FBI background, then create some about your writing career.” She frowned. “Hope you enjoy your stay on the Riviera.”

  Hurrying to one of the side rooms, she sat down with her back to him, and turned on a large screen computer. He opened the file folder, and then looked back at the blonde through the open door. Where had she come up with the name Finbarr?

  In the file, he learned that Hassan’s true name was unknown. His Gulf State passport listed him as Hassan Musab Mujahid. An asset in Beirut reported he was born in one of the refugee camps in southern Lebanon and he spoke with a Palestinian accent. Members of the Shiite terrorist organization Hezbollah referred to him as Abdul Fahad. He attended a university in Basra, Iraq. The photographs showed a well-groomed man in his early forties. Pockmarked cheeks touched the edges of his thick black mustache. His eyes looked empty.

  Fleming returned and dropped into a chair across from him. He scribbled a few notes on a yellow legal pad then looked up at Stone. “Did you meet my boss at Headquarters? Ms. Claudia?”

  Stone smiled.

  “I won’t bore you with the conversation I just had with her, except to say you’re under orders not to get yourself dead. At least not until I get my ass out of here.” Fleming closed his eyes and smiled. “Comprendez?”

  Stone held up Barrett Huntington’s reports. “These are just routine surveillance logs. Did Huntington ever relay any concerns for his safety? Did he come up with any contacts that Hassan met in Nice?”

  “His reports are pretty … thin, but remember this was his first assignment,” Fleming frowned. “And no, he never indicated he felt in anyway threatened. It was a light one-man surveillance. We have dozens of these going on in France alone.”

  “Yes, I understand. Before I forget, there is mention here of a yacht Hassan boarded in Nice harbor. Any follow-up on that?”

  “It belongs to a Saudi prince. Real rich and real religious.”

  “A Shiite hobnobbing with a Sunni?” Stone asked. “Ever since the schism a thousand years ago, the two have been at each others’ throats.”

  Fleming lifted his hands. “Don’t know about that, but there is one thing not in the folder that the French told us. Probably doesn’t mean anything, but at the same time Huntington’s body was found, the bodies of two Algerians, a man and a woman, were found two blocks away.” He rose and stepped to the door of his office. “Read over the file again while I check my email.”

  Picking up a pencil, Stone began making doodles on a legal pad. He wondered whether Fleming had a handle on the operation. Had he done his homework? After what he had said about doubting that Jonathan Deville and the FBI could keep a secret, either Fleming didn’t know Stone was a retired Bureau agent or he didn’t care. Maybe he had too much on his mind. He recalled Frederick’s remark in Washington about how nervous people make mistakes. At lunch, Stone had begun to feel uneasy about the assignment. Already two CIA officers had been killed and the killer or killers were still loose. Was someone planning for him to be next on the list?

  Chapter Five

  Côte d’Azur—May 1, 2002

  An hour out of Paris, settled in a first-class seat on the high-speed TGV train from Paris to Marseille, Stone folded his newspaper and admired the French countryside. Now and then, he spotted villages hosting centuries-old stone churches and chateaux. In the pastures, white Charolais cattle grazed on the lush grass. The pastoral scene and slow rocking of the train relaxed him. His fellow passengers in the carriage, mostly middle-aged French couples, buried themselves in their newspapers and books.

  For the first time since his divorce, Stone began to enjoy the relaxed state that comes with having to care only for oneself, especially when traveling. Was it a passing euphoria—or one of the steps in a final separation?

  Stone reached into his travel bag and took out a tour book on Provence. The previous night in Paris, he had purchased the stiff green-covered book at W. H. Smith on the Rue de Rivoli before walking to his favorite café, tucked in an alley two blocks from the Louvre. Having a book to read made him feel less self-conscious when eating alone. The meal had been good; he’d especially enjoyed the escargot, moist with a lot of garlic. Nothing like immersing himself in the French lifestyle to get his mind off unpleasant personal matters like a divorce.

  He had been staring toward the end of the carriage when he detected a man, about twenty-five with short, medium-brown hair, studying him from five rows away. The man wore a collared shirt under a dark-blue, textured sweater. Stone had seen young French intelligence agents like him a few years before on a trip to Bordeaux. The French used rookies to tail low-level targets, which he now assumed he was. The young man looked away with almost an embarrassed look.

  Stone returned to flipping through the pages of his tour book. Through past experience he knew if he were under surveillance, there would be at least two agents on the team. The other agent probably would be about the same age as this fellow. Stone placed the book on the seat next to him and rose. He turned and faced the other end of the car, then started for the lavatory. In the seat directly behind him sat a young brunette who abruptly turned her head toward the window. Stone passed her and went into the toilette. He washed his hands and wiped his face with the wet towel. He balanced himself as the train swayed. Easing the door open, he saw the brunette pulling a valise from the overhead rack. Meantime, she peered forward over the backrest as if examining the items Stone had left on his seat.

  Stone slipped out of the restroom and came up behind her. Startled, she shoved the valise back into the rack. As she eased herself back into her seat, Stone looked down, smiled, and asked in French, “When will the coffee cart pass by?” She gave a startled shrug. Stone’s daughter attending col
lege in California was not much younger than this junior officer. At that moment the snack cart came crashing through the door and Stone said, “Aha. There it is.” He took his seat. The young man who had been sitting in front of him had disappeared.

  When the cart approached, Stone ordered coffee and a baguette sandwich with thinly sliced ham and cheese. Munching his snack, he reasoned it was natural that he would be under surveillance. Fleming and he had had lunch the day before in a restaurant close to the embassy, and surely the French knew Fleming was intelligence. Despite Stone’s cover as a writer sponsored by the American embassy, and despite the fact that he should meet Fleming who was the embassy’s cultural attaché for that program, a competent intelligence service would double check. Then again, the French had a lot more on their plates than to investigate some second-rate writer. No. They must have picked up some pattern he had provided them. Maybe his Paris hotel had been used too often by the Agency. Maybe the Agency had used the Foundation in Archos once too often for cover purposes. Anyway, with these two green agents assigned to him, the French obviously didn’t consider him all that important. Good.

  An hour later, the train eased into the Marseille station. Stone lugged his two suitcases down from the carriage onto the platform, looked up, and took in the open expanse of the building. Pigeons flapped overhead under the high glass ceiling. Shafts of sunlight angled down on the passengers waiting in the staging area.

  Ricard, the driver from the Foundation d’Élan, an older man without a smile, wearing a tweed jacket and nondescript tie, found him at the station entrance. The rosette in his lapel identified him as a veteran of some French military action. Walking from the station to the Renault sedan, Stone didn’t detect surveillance. He had either been turned over to more seasoned agents or the surveillance had been paused. No matter. He would ignore them for the time being.