The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  The street Hassan chose to turn into was empty. An abandoned car sat halfway up on the sidewalk. Some of the steel grates on the shop doors were rusty. A thin cat with little fur remaining on its body opened its mouth at him, but no sound came forth. The Algerian could not be a policeman. They traveled in pairs. This man must work for Rashid, or those Saudis, he thought. Or perhaps someone else. No matter, this was an interference with his plan. Before he reached the cross street, Hassan stopped, put his foot up on a step, and pretended to tie his shoe. On the other side of the street the Algerian slowed his pace, then stopped and lit a cigarette. Hassan waited until his two men came around the corner and started down the street, then walked back toward the Algerian.

  The man took one step forward, then back stepped, and stopped. Hassan’s men quickened their stride and closed in behind the Algerian. Hassan moved up his side of the street and slipped out his gun. From his left pocket, he pulled out the tube-like silencer and began screwing it into the barrel of the pistol. The Algerian turned around and stumbled into Hassan’s men. They grabbed him and pushed him into an alley. Hassan ran across the street in time to hear the man curse in Algerian Arabic.

  “Hold him,” Hassan ordered.

  They slammed the man against the wall, but he lashed out with his feet. Kicked in the shin, Three Fingers let out a yell. Hassan took a deep breath, then put a bullet in the Algerian’s right thigh. He collapsed into a sitting position, moaning.

  “We do not have time to play games.” Hassan knelt and held the barrel of his gun on the Algerian’s genitals. “Who pays you?”

  “Your mother’s vagina!”

  Hassan shifted the gun and put a bullet in his left thigh. The Algerian screamed and flashed a gold right incisor. He looked to the sky.

  “Look at me. Is your master Rashid?”

  The Algerian’s face dropped for a second, enough to give Hassan his answer. He told the others to move away, then placed a bullet in the middle of Gold Tooth’s forehead.

  Three Fingers went through the dead man’s pockets and handed Hassan a cellphone, who turned it on and searched the list of calls. Rashid’s cellphone and home phone numbers appeared. Another number appeared frequently. He did not recognize the area code. When he punched in the number on the cellphone, an operator answered, “Foundation d’Élan.”

  From the dead man’s pocket came a book of matches from a bar known by Hassan’s people as an illegal drug dealer’s meeting place in Marseille. They also found scribbled notes in Arabic on pieces of paper, some euros, and an identity card. Three Fingers raised the dead man’s lip, revealing the gold tooth. He looked up at Hassan, who nodded.

  They hurried away from the body and headed toward the retail section of Marseille. Three Fingers bounced the gold tooth in his palm.

  “It is almost solid gold,” he said. “Maybe one hundred grams.”

  Chapter Eight

  Marseille

  “We should be at the consul general’s in about a half hour,” Fleming said as he downshifted the Porsche through the tight mountain curves. Despite their traveling at seventy miles per hour, a Mercedes was hugging their back bumper. Finally, Fleming waved the car past. “This car is yours for your stay here. Any trouble, take it to the leasing company in Archos.”

  Stone liked the feel of the open-air roadster. They rounded a bend in the road and he looked down at Marseille glowing in the golden sunset, stretched along the Mediterranean coast. The cocktail party at the American consul general’s residence would start at seven o’clock. Years before, as a young naval attaché, Stone had attended a number of consular social functions at the villa. He wondered whether it looked the same.

  “Your FBI friend, Jonathan Deville, came down from Paris. We’ll see him tonight.” Fleming switched on the car’s headlights. “He’s investigating our officer’s death in Montpellier. There’s a little bureaucratic tug-of-war concerning the killings of our two operatives. Since they were American citizens, Deville wants to conduct an investigation. At first, Langley said, no, they were deep-cover operatives. As usual, the Bureau won.”

  “Any specifics on who shot her?”

  “Yes, I meant to tell you. She was shot while driving. A witness told the police a motorcycle came up alongside her car and the driver placed two bullets in her head.”

  “So that’s why I’m getting this fast car?” Stone asked.

  “No. Not really. I just enjoyed driving it and thought I’d pass it on to you. The dead officer’s replacement is already here, but he’s not coming to the party.”

  “Will I meet him?”

  “You’ve met him already,” Fleming said. “It’s Mark. Your firearms instructor at the Farm. Langley believes that with all the shooting going on we need some heavy guns.”

  “Where does that place me?”

  Fleming gave Stone a quick look. “Don’t play coy. I checked your file this week. It says at one time you were an expert firearms instructor for the Bureau. That, and your counterintelligence background got you here. It blends well with the CIA’s ops function.” Fleming passed three cars. The tachometer needle reached six thousand rpms. “Back to Deville, I know you FBI guys have that bond, but this operation is on a need-to-know basis, so be careful what you say to him.”

  “Why is it you people in the DO still call me the FBI guy? How long do I have to work for the Agency to be one of you?”

  “Listen, if I went over to the FBI to work, I would always be the CIA guy. One has to be baptized from the start. And speaking about being clannish, you people take the cake.”

  Stone laughed. “Oh, the DO isn’t clannish?” He felt more at ease now that Fleming appeared less jittery than he did that afternoon on the Archos waterfront.

  “We’ve changed. We’re not the DO anymore. Now we’re the National Clandestine Service. Anyway, after the party, take the car back with you. We’ll meet in Saint-Rémy in a day or so.”

  They pulled up to the entrance of a villa that clung to the side of a hill and overlooked the Corniche Kennedy. The Mediterranean Sea edged the opposite side of the road and the sun was poised for its final dip into the sea. A swarthy young man opened the iron gate and they drove down the driveway. Fleming parked and raised the convertible top. Slate steps led up from the parking area to a patio overlooking the bay. Stone spied Jonathan Deville talking with a tall African-American man wearing wire-framed glasses.

  “Hold on a second,” Fleming said, adjusting his black bow tie. “I’ll introduce you to my buddy over there talking with Deville.” They walked over and Fleming introduced the African-American to Stone as Consul General Brooks. After a few minutes of exchanging pleasantries, the consul general pointed out in his subtle manner where everyone ranked in the evening’s pecking order.

  When Brooks began talking about office politics, Deville pulled Stone away, and they walked over to the rock-faced balustrade. They leaned against the railing and viewed the darkening city. Deville’s brown hair was, as usual, neatly combed. He looked lean and hard, and Stone figured he had not gained an ounce of fat since his Marine Corps days. His courteous Virginia manner served him well at country clubs as well as in diplomatic circles.

  “So you landed a grant at the Foundation?” Deville chuckled. “And your cover is a travel writer? Sweet.”

  “You know I’d like to talk about my assignment, but Fleming said I had to be discreet.” Stone smiled and turned around to face the other guests. “So Jonathan, how’s your lovely wife?”

  “Rhonda loves Paris. Being an artist, she’s involved with the annual embassy art show. Her painting is on this year’s art show poster.” Deville paused. “She wanted me to tell you to get your life back on track. I think she has a girl in mind for you when you come up and visit us.”

  “Tell her thanks.” Stone looked forward to being with a pleasant woman for a change. Whoever was sleeping with his ex must be getting sick of her by now.

  “You know the area around Archos could be a good source of material f
or your travel writing.” Deville motioned to a girl carrying a drink tray. “We did a murder investigation near the village of Cuers some time back. Pretty country.”

  “Cuers,” Stone mused. “Where have I heard that name before?”

  Deville looked over Stone’s shoulder and stiffened. Stone turned and realized Boswell Harrington had been standing behind to him.

  Harrington frowned. “Hello there, Hayden. Enjoying yourself? What’s this about Cuers?”

  Perhaps his afternoon business meeting went sour, Stone thought, then answered, “Mr. Deville here is from our embassy. He mentioned there are some interesting places around Archos that could be material for travel articles. The village of Cuers just came up.”

  “You’re wasting your time if you go there.” Harrington turned away and looked in the direction of Fleming, who was being harangued by a short, fire-plug-shaped woman with red hair styled in the shape of a pencil eraser. Straightening his tie, he looked back. “I must touch base with Fleming about some grant issues.” He sighed. “I was too hasty about Cuers. You’re new here and don’t know the lay of the land. I’ll tell you what … tomorrow morning I’ll see whether the young lady in our office, Margaux, can accompany you for a spin about the countryside. If you happen to pass through Cuers, you’ll know what I mean.”

  As Harrington moved on, Stone remembered that Cuers was the French village where his college roommate, Herb Walker, had died under what he had always thought were strange circumstances. The alumni bulletin provided few details: only that Herb had been cremated and his ashes scattered near a local Catholic church.

  Deville laughed. “Harrington is doing Fleming a favor by interrupting that loud mouthed redhead. See her poking her finger in Fleming’s chest? That awful woman is in from Washington and she’s driving the embassy staff crazy, including the ambassador.”

  A whiff of floral scent stirred Stone’s senses as long fingers slid down the left sleeve of his tuxedo. From behind, a woman glided around into his view. Her hazel eyes bore into his.

  “Lucy?” Stone said.

  “I always hated that name. It is now Lucinda.”

  “Contessa, it’s a deep pleasure to see you.” Deville bowed his head slightly and beamed his first smile of the night.

  Stone had last seen her eighteen years ago. His former lover had become more beautiful with time. The green beaded chemise perfectly complimented her auburn hair. She smiled at Deville, then turned back to Stone.

  Stone didn’t know what to say. First had come the surprise of recognizing her, then a wave of excitement, followed by a wish to flee. They had separated on less than good terms.

  “I saw you talking with Harrington and recognized your profile immediately.” Lifting her head slightly, she studied Stone’s face as if to see what time had wrought. She settled her gaze on the scar on his cheek.

  “Would you believe an irate woman did it?” Stone said, his defenses engaged.

  “Yes,” she said, then addressed Deville. “How are your lovely wife and your adorable children?” She went on to ask how the children were doing in their new school.

  Deville repeatedly attempted to get a word in and finally managed, “And how do you two know each other?”

  Lucinda pursed her sensuous lips. “The last time I saw Hayden was … oh, a few years ago … when you, Hayden, were a Navy officer … an ensign, no?”

  “Yes, I was assigned to Nice when we had a consulate there.”

  He allowed her to relate the story in the way he surmised she wanted it to be told. Deville continued to smile as he grabbed another glass of wine from a passing tray. Meanwhile, Stone retraced in his mind their affair as he remembered it. Her voice had a slight husky tone that Stone had forgotten.

  “Needless to say, Jonathan, I was very young and sheltered by an Italian mother and an Egyptian father. Hayden and I, if I recall correctly, attended a number of formal social gatherings together.” She looked at Stone, whose throat had become dry. “I remember at the last function all the officers wore bright white uniforms and we girls were in our party dresses … accompanied by our chaperones, of course.” She stopped and waved to a server to take her empty glass.

  “It was a beautiful summer.” Stone immediately regretted saying it.

  She glared. “So it was.” Then she gave Deville a kiss on both cheeks. Stone reached to take her hand, but she moved away, weaving past the guests toward Harrington.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Deville grinning. He waited for the inquisition to begin. Deville surprised him, as he held off his inquiries until Stone feigned going inside the villa to look at the consul general’s collection of ink drawings.

  “No way, Hayden. I want to know, and I want to know now. All the details. Oh man, your reputation is bona fide!”

  “Jonathan, we’re gentlemen and gentlemen never talk about their conquests.”

  “Conquest, you say. I knew it! Stone, if this got around you’d be the envy of every man on the Côte d’Azur.” He finished off the glass. “Well … except for Harrington over yonder.” Lucinda and Harrington had started a conversation with an older Asian couple, as Harrington’s wife watched her husband from the other side of the patio. “Word is the director of your foundation has been trying to score with the contessa for some time now, to no avail. If he finds out about you two, he may slip into your room some night and try to cut off your balls.”

  “Look, it was a long time ago, when we were young and the world was quiet.” Stone thought he recognized Lucinda’s emerald necklace, the one she’d worn for her twentieth birthday party. “What’s all this contessa business?”

  “Hey, it’s hereditary from her mother’s side. I heard that once she decided on being Roman Catholic instead of an Egyptian Copt, the Vatican gave its blessing.”

  “Imagine. I could have been married to royalty.”

  “Yeah, she would have gone down for the count.”

  “Enough of this sophomoric humor, let’s take a look at the consul’s art work.”

  They passed through the open doors and entered the living room. Stone headed for the etchings and Deville peeled off to talk with an acquaintance. Young women passed by carrying hot canapés on oval porcelain trays. Stone put two greasy ones, origin quite unrecognizable, on a napkin. He looked around the room and saw that Lucinda had come in with Harrington. Her eyes met his, and she turned away.

  Deville came up with a middle-aged man with graying at the temples, very icy blue eyes, and a red handkerchief stuffed in the top pocket of his tuxedo. He introduced the man as Maurice Colmont, whom Deville explained he had met the week before at a Paris INTERPOL function. Although Colmont spoke with a pleasant accent and assumed an upper class poise, he had large, calloused hands.

  After some banter, Colmont said to Stone, “I hope to see you when I visit Archos.” They shook hands and Colmont moved on to talk with Harrington and the contessa.

  When he was out of earshot, Deville whispered, “Colmont’s our new intelligence liaison contact in Paris.”

  Stone saw the guests easing toward the buffet laid out on the dining room table. He touched Deville’s arm. “I‘ve got to get back to my writing. Time to take a French leave. Walk me to my car.”

  On the path down to the parking lot, Deville whispered, “Have to tell you, Hayden, keep your wits about you. You’re not in the Bureau relying on trusted backup. You’re hanging out there alone.”

  “Thanks, that’s the feeling I’m getting. You know, everyone around here seems to be playing parts. No one is really who they seem.”

  “Neither are you, pal. Oh, be careful around Harrington. We’ve got some bad reports about him. In fact, I’m surprised the Agency put you up at the Foundation.”

  “Is Fleming aware of that?” Stone asked.

  Deville shook his head. “Don’t know. I deal with Fleming’s boss, the station chief in Paris, and I haven’t told him.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Politics, my man. The station chief
hasn’t been very cooperative lately.” Deville shook Stone’s hand and headed back to the party.

  Stone made his way down the dark pathway. He glanced up at the party guests on the terrace. When he saw Lucinda, he paused. She stood next to Harrington, her hand on his arm. God, she was still a beauty. Who would have thought he’d ever see her again? He continued down toward his car. A push on the button on his ignition key flashed the Porsche’s headlights. A dark figure jumped up from the front of the car. Stone challenged him. “What were you doing next to my car?”

  “It’s only I, sir. I dropped a guest’s car keys on the ground and I have found them, see?”

  “And who are you?”

  “It is I, Ali, servant to the consul,” he said, moving toward the gate. “You are leaving the party, sir? I shall let you out.”

  Stone slipped behind the wheel of his car and checked to see whether the Colt was still hidden under the seat. It was. He watched the little man open the gate. As he drove out, Ali called, “Have a nice evening, sir.”

  Stone drove the car out onto the Corniche and headed east toward Archos. A faint rose glow lingered on the western horizon. A short distance down the coast, he pulled to the side of the road and lowered the convertible top to enjoy the balmy night.

  As the canvas slipped into its folded position, he spotted in the rearview mirror a motorcycle partially concealed behind a parked truck about a hundred meters back. A brief glow from a cigarette revealed someone in the driver’s saddle. A car with yellow headlights approached and the figure on the motorcycle leaned farther behind the truck, as if trying to hide.