by Arthur Kerns
“Never leave home without it.”
A cleaning woman passed Stone as he entered the cozy library. Bookcases lined two of the walls and there were more book-laden shelves in an adjoining room. The room smelled fresh, but with a comfortable hint of old books. In a side office, Margaux took off her reading glasses and rose from her chair. She walked over and handed him a book. “It is strange you’d want to read your own book,” she said.
“I want to make sure they put all the commas in the right places.”
She tried a smile while leading him to a long wooden table with a brass lamp sitting in the middle. As he sat down, she excused herself then hurried out of the room carrying a stack of books.
The book she had handed to him had his name under the title, or rather his nom de plume, and a picture of the Marib Dam in Yemen on the cover. Some scholars believed the Queen of Sheba built the dam during the Biblical time of Solomon. The water stored by the huge structure accounted for Roman records of a fertile land in ancient times. Arabia Felix they had called it, where now desert spread for miles. The CIA ghostwriters at Langley impressed him. It had taken them only a few weeks to put the book together and place it in the Foundation’s library. Stone had worked in Yemen two years before. Whoever decided to compile this book wanted to stay on territory familiar to him.
On the inside of the dust jacket, he found his photograph and a short biography. It read that he had been a history teacher at a Norbertine Preparatory School in Delaware and enjoyed travel and adventure. Well, the travel and adventure part was on the mark. The photograph came from one of the Agency files. His associate at the time, Tanya, had taken the photograph when they visited Marib. He flipped through the pages then became aware that Margaux had returned to her desk.
Stone plugged his laptop computer into the receptacle next to the lamp and clicked on the Internet icon. Finding no e-mail messages from his two children, he cleared out his junk mail and checked the stock market. He still didn’t have the means to send Fleming a secure communication. He would remind him tonight at the consul general’s party.
His wristwatch indicated noon. He called over to Margaux, “Do you know a good place to eat in town?”
“Sorry,” she said, and without looking at him, got up and left the library again. David stood at the door as she passed by.
When he reached Stone’s table, David grinned. “She knew where that line of questioning was going. Listen, she gets hit on all the time.”
Stone feigned innocence, but David was right. He found Margaux interesting and he had wanted to have lunch with her.
“Come on, I’ll show you around town.”
Reaching the Archos waterfront, David pointed the way along the narrow quay next to small fishing and pleasure boats tied up and bobbing in the water. A row of four-story townhouses, some façades refaced, looked over the harbor. Cafés and shops occupied the ground levels, and table and chair settings extended from their entrances onto the walkway. Fishermen hauled fresh fish from their boats and passed them to cooks wearing stained white aprons. Harbor smells mingled with the scents coming from the kitchens. David pointed to a restaurant with a bright red awning and said he favored the lunches there.
“Let’s make sure we sit in the shade,” Stone said. “I forgot my hat.”
They agreed on a table and ordered drinks and sandwiches. Stone began watching customers whom he assumed were regular patrons heading for their favorite tables. Their only concern appeared to be what was on the daily menu. On the walkway, two Scandinavian blondes giggled by. Damn, Stone realized. While he rode the crowded morning Metro in Washington, these people were enjoying themselves like this every day. He looked over at David. “You know, my grandfather used to say he didn’t care how long he lived, as long as it was in a nice place.”
“Where did he live?” David asked.
“Philadelphia.”
“Your grandfather and W. C. Fields?” David then pointed to a burly man speaking to a seated couple. The man wore a white silk shirt and tan slacks. A heavy gold bracelet hung from his left wrist. “That gentleman is Margaux’s father. He owns this place and a vineyard nearby. So, what do you think of him?”
“Looks like he carries some weight in this town,” Stone answered as the waiter set their sandwiches on the table. “By the way, I had my meeting with Harrington this morning.”
David took a gulp of iced tea and murmured, “How did it go?”
“He seemed a little preoccupied. Had to rush off to a business matter in Marseille.”
“He’s been running up and down the coast lately.” David leaned back in his chair. “At first, some of the fellows thought the Foundation was in trouble, but it seems most of the business he’s conducting is of a personal nature.”
The lunch finished, and as they were in the process of splitting the bill, Charles Fleming approached their table. “Glad I spotted you two here. Mind if I join you?” As usual, Fleming’s tie was loosened. He appeared distracted.
“Have a seat, Mr. Fleming,” David said. “What a pleasure. Down from Paris to check up on us?”
“Just drove down to check on an embassy-sponsored delegation at an institute in Marseille, so I decided to pop over and see how my scholars were doing here at the Foundation. Part of my duties as cultural attaché.” Fleming ordered a soda with ice. “David, I spoke with the professor at the Sorbonne about your Esperanto dictionary and he was most … fascinated.”
“Any indication he would like me to come up to Paris and talk about it?”
“I think he said he would have to check with someone in his department. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Not very encouraging,” David sighed. “Thanks for the information.” He threw some euros on the table and left the restaurant, walking away with his head bowed, hands thrust deep into his pockets.
Stone gave Fleming a quizzical look. “What was that all about?”
Shaking his head, Fleming sighed. “Interesting character, David.” He downed his soda and suppressed a burp. “Really is deep into that Esperanto stuff. Unfortunately, no one gives a shit about Esperanto. The up and coming dead language is Latin.” He dropped some coins on the table. “Let’s walk.”
They strolled along the quay until Fleming motioned for them to proceed out onto a wooden pier with small craft lining both sides. The two had a clear vantage point to observe anyone on the waterfront who might be watching them. Also, it would be difficult for someone to pick up their conversation even with electronic devices.
“Had a meeting with the director of the Foundation this morning. Evidently, he bought my legend. He mentioned that my publisher gave me a big advance.”
Fleming held his handkerchief to his nose, holding it so no one could read his lips. “What’s your take on that guy?”
“A tad slippery.”
“So I hear. Keep your wits about you and just try to blend in with the woodwork. I’ll pick you up about five o’clock today and drive you to the consul general’s place for the party.” The white of the cloth contrasted with his dark skin, now shiny with perspiration. “Afterward, I’ll get a ride to my hotel. You keep the car. You’ll need it.” He forced a smile. “Consider it part of that big advance your publisher gave you.”
“A car will be handy. I’ll also need a coding device to attach to the computer.”
Fleming reached into his pocket and handed him a USB flash device. “Insert it when you message me, take it out when you’re finished. Follow the instructions on the screen.” He continued to scan the waterfront and the surrounding boats. “Let’s move on. No, wait.” He turned back toward the bay.
“What’s the problem, Fleming? You’re jittery.”
“We have a situation. We’ll probably need you to go to a town up north by the name of Saint-Remy-de-Provence.”
“That’s an historic area.”
“Stone, this is a job, not a vacation.”
“My cover is a travel writer. It’s logical I would go to a place
with history.”
“Sorry. What I mean to say is this is a new situation and it’s moving very quickly.”
“What’s moving quickly?” Stone asked.
“We have a lead on bin Zanni, the Al Qaeda chief of information. He may pass through Saint-Rémy.”
“When do you want me to leave?”
“In a day or so. I’ll let you know.
Chapter Seven
Marseille
Hassan rapped three times on the door and waited. A brown eye peered through the peephole. The door opened and a man with only three fingers on his left hand ushered Hassan into the hotel room. A second man with a shaved head and dark complexion was slumped in a chair watching the local news on a battered television set balanced on a bent metal stand. The screen emitted a green-gray glow and shadowy figures. Someone had just used the toilet. Hassan went over to the bathroom door and closed it. Without speaking, he went to the window and inched aside the shade. Delivery vans crowded the trash-laden street below.
His man, Three Fingers, had picked a good location. Anyone watching this room from the street would have a hard time remaining undetected. He turned to Three Fingers and the dark man and pointed around the room. Then he touched both ears indicating someone might be listening. Three Fingers rose and turned up the volume on the television set.
“Any word from our friends at home?” Hassan asked softly in Arabic.
The two men shook their heads.
“Have you detected any surveillance?”
“Possibly a week ago,” the dark one answered. “But not in the last two days.”
Hassan peered out the window again, looking for the man he had spotted twice that day. There was no sign of him on the street, or anyone else resembling a police agent. He eased into a shaky wooden chair and motioned for Three Fingers to begin his briefing.
“The woman in Montpellier was replaced by a man yesterday. Tall and older than the man killed in Nice. He is very careful. Not like the woman. We saw others interested in him.”
“The French are following him?” Hassan found it interesting that people were following the American replacement so soon.
“No. The people are Maghreb, North African.”
“And the American who was killed in Nice? Was he replaced?”
Three Fingers whispered, “Soon we will learn who the replacement is. Possibly tonight at the American consul general’s party.”
Hassan closed his eyes and rocked back on two legs of the chair. His plan appeared at times impossible to pull off. He hoped the simplicity of his vision was its strong point. There were so many unknowns, so many side issues. It was best he move quickly.
Hassan left the hotel and walked down a street lined by six-story buildings. The date of the building, 1880, appeared on the arch of an apartment’s doorway. Vagrant grass and weeds grew out of the façade. He recalled there were similar buildings in sections of Beirut.
Rashid waited for him on the sidewalk. He wore a new dark suit, but the buttons pulled at his ample waist. The two went through the motions of shaking hands while both looked up and down the street. Hassan glimpsed a view of the old port of Marseille three blocks away. The aroma of a mid-day meal being prepared nearby drifted through the air. Satisfied they had not been followed, Hassan allowed Rashid to lead the way through the door.
They started up a wide marble staircase stained by years of use. Rashid’s shoes clicked on each cracked, polished step. When they reached the third floor, they entered the office of a wine wholesaler. Rashid stepped forward and exchanged greetings with the fat, balding owner who had come around from his desk. The Frenchman offered coffee and motioned for them to sit. Hassan scanned the office. The top of the owner’s desk was stacked with invoices and piles of bouchons, corks from wine bottles. With the coffee cups passed around, Rashid began the negotiations. “My friend here from Beirut would like some advice in shipping some wine to the United States. He would like to ship—” He turned. “How many cases, Hassan?”
“About thirty. Ten each to New York, Washington, and Los Angeles.” Hassan brushed away an annoying fly.
“So why not go to a distributor, a company here in Marseille that does such things?” asked the wholesaler.
Rashid moved forward in his chair. “I have convinced my friend here that I know where he can get some very excellent wine for his people in the United States.”
The owner lit a Gitanes cigarette and the smoke drifted toward the open window. He closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders. “Does not your religion forbid alcohol?”
“It forbids us to drink it, not sell it,” Rashid said.
“Convenient interpretation, no?”
Hassan spoke up. “I have funds to invest from a charity in Beirut. The funds entrusted to me must bring back an income for refugees. My cousins have restaurants in these three cities and they desire to become, as they say in America, upscale. Excellent wines from France would help.”
The owner continued to smoke.
“I have contacts in the business, as you know,” Rashid said. “My friend here needs assistance in selecting only the best vintages. We must ship the cases soon and with no complications.”
“It’s possible.” The owner pointed to Rashid. “You and I will get a selection together.” He looked back at Hassan. “I’ll need money. As a guarantee. We can call it a no-interest loan, right? You Muslims cannot accept interest, no?” His stomach rolled with a deep laugh.
“My friend will tell me the amount and I will have it delivered to you,” Hassan said. “Euros?”
“Very good.” The wholesaler mashed out the cigarette.
“Oh, and as Rashid will explain,” Hassan added, “I have found some very excellent wine from Cassis. I will be including two cases for each destination.”
The negotiations concluded, Hassan and Rashid left the building and walked in the direction of the old port.
“I thought the meeting went well,” Rashid said. “But I have a problem. I don’t understand why you are sending this wine to America. And if you are sending wine, why in such small lots?”
“I want to learn how it’s done, and if it is possible for such a venture to bring money in for our cause.” The open area of the port came into view as they neared the end of the street. “I can’t be held at fault for wasting our funds from the Persians.”
Rashid cleared his throat and spat. “They are not Arab.”
“They are our allies in the Faith. We must put some issues aside.”
Noonday shoppers crowded the daily fish market and the two began bumping into passers-by. Rashid asked, “Where are you headed?”
“I am meeting someone here.”
“A brother?” Rashid asked.
“No … an acquaintance.”
“Is this the friend you met in Avignon?”
Hassan stopped. “Yes. How did you become aware of her?”
“I watched you after our meeting there.” He laughed. “And then you were seen having dinner with her in Aix a few days ago.” Rashid bid him to continue walking. “She’s not American is she?”
“Canadian.”
“Ah, that explains why she doesn’t display her body for all to see. They are modest, those Canadians, no?”
Hassan put on his sunglasses. “The sun is very bright here in the market.”
Rashid agreed. “And the market crowd is too much for me. I will return home to Arles.”
They shook hands and separated.
Hassan found the young blonde studying the light blue trays holding the fishermen’s morning catch. She wore a flowered skirt that stopped just above her ankles. Her blue long-sleeved blouse was open discreetly at the neck. He walked up behind her and touched her shoulder lightly. She turned, removed her sunglasses, and appeared to want a kiss. Hassan placed his cheek next to hers.
“What a great market.” She pointed to a tray stacked with moray eel reaching four feet in length and John Dory, an odd-looking fish with a huge spiny head and long f
lat body. “And look over here.” She stopped before a tray of octopi, one about to slither over the edge and plop onto the ground.
Mingling with the local shoppers, who were arguing with the fishmongers, they debated where they should have lunch.
“British Columbia has a fish market like this one. It has the same fishy smells,” she said. “You might not like it there though,” she teased. “There is a lot of rain and clouds. Not like here.”
The sun warmed the top of Hassan’s head and made him sleepy, yet relaxed.
“Were you interviewing the man I saw you with?” she asked.
“Who? Oh, the man in the suit? No, not really. He is setting up an interview for the story I told you about.”
“For your newspaper in Beirut?”
“Yes … You know, I love the way you speak … the sound of your voice.” He touched her arm for a second and then looked around. “This market area can be part of my article. There are markets like this all along the Mediterranean coastline. They all look alike, and even the catch of the sea is the same.”
They had a light meal at one of the cafés along the waterfront. She told him she had to take the early afternoon train back to Avignon to tend to her elderly aunt. After lunch, they walked to a taxi stand. As they waited for a taxi to take her to the train station, he asked, “When will we meet again?”
“You can call me on my cellphone when you come to Avignon. When will that be?”
“Soon, but tomorrow I must go to Nice to write my article.”
It was while having lunch with the woman, as he cut into the ripe tomato covered with oil and basil, that he had spotted the man for the third time that day. From his facial features, Hassan believed him to be an Algerian. The man had stood before the trays of fish in the marketplace, but did not speak to the fishmongers nor examine the fish. Repeatedly he had turned his head in Hassan’s direction. After Hassan had put the blonde-haired woman into the taxi, he started toward a quiet section of the city. A few moments had passed when Three Fingers called him on the cellphone. Three Fingers said he was accompanied by the dark man with the bald head from the hotel room. They were three blocks behind Hassan, but only one block behind the Algerian. They had been countersurveilling Hassan from the time he had left the hotel. The Algerian had materialized soon afterward and followed Hassan to the market.