The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  Decision time. Should he make a beeline back to the party for support and blow his cover? Not a viable option. Besides, this may be the guy who shot the CIA officer.

  He reached under the seat and pulled out the Colt. Assuring a round was in the chamber, he laid the gun next to him. With the gearshift in Drive, he pressed the accelerator. The car shot onto the roadway. In the rearview, a single headlight switched on and moved out from behind the truck.

  “Let the games begin.”

  He maneuvered the Porsche in and out of traffic, but not to elude the motorcycle. He wanted to get a feel for how the car handled, for he suspected the person behind him would wait for the twists and turns on the mountain pass ahead before making a move.

  The traffic thinned as the residential areas passed by and he began the climb into the Massif. During the ascent and through the first turn, Stone tested the rocker switches on the steering wheel used to shift the gears of the Porsche. The motorcycle closed the distance between them.

  Two more turns and the motorcycle was directly behind Stone. It came up along his left side, which he didn’t want. He inched over onto the centerline to block the motorcycle.

  A few seconds later, with no oncoming traffic, the motorcycle roared out again onto the left side of the road and came up next to the Porsche. Stone downshifted two gears; the Porsche decelerated and the motorcycle flew past. The driver fired twice with his automatic. He missed.

  Now in front of Stone, the motorcycle began weaving back and forth. Stone kept his position until the driver moved to the right side, where he wanted him. The motorcycle slowed, nearly touching Stone’s right door. Stone grabbed the Colt, shifted one gear up, took a quick look at the driver, and squeezed the trigger twice. A flash hit the top of the handlebar and the motorcycle veered and scraped along the guardrail, throwing off sparks.

  Stone saw a curve ahead. He tossed the Colt on the seat, downshifted, and steered the car through the turn, barely sticking to the road. With his eyes fixed on the road, he saw the single headlight come up again in his peripheral vision. At a straight section of the road, the roar of the motorcycle and the glare of a headlight in the left side mirror alerted him that the driver had recovered and was coming in for the kill.

  Stone swung the car back and forth. Behind him, the motorcycle did the same. A one-hundred-and-eighty-degree reverse spin at this speed was out of the question. The taillights from a tractor-trailer in the right lane loomed ahead. He floored the accelerator, got a lead on the motorcycle, and passed the truck, braking until he was directly in front of the truck’s bumper. The truck driver blew his horn and flashed his headlights.

  Veering quickly to the right, Stone turned onto the shoulder of the road and let the truck pass by. From under the truck’s raised trailer, he saw the motorcycle pass on the other side. The low clearance of the Porsche scraped rocks and brush, but he controlled the car and moved back onto the hard surface directly behind the truck’s bumper. The motorcycle was now ahead of the truck, looking at an empty road. Stone turned off his headlights.

  The driver of the motorcycle weaved in and out of the left lane. After a minute the motorcycle moved over onto the right shoulder, zigzagging back and forth in the gravel. The truck driver drove past, leaned on the horn, jerked to the left, and then sped ahead. Now alongside the motorcycle, Stone fired twice. The motorcycle spun out of control and flipped over the low guardrail.

  Stone switched on his parking lights and pulled to the side. He wanted to get a look at the assassin. In the glove compartment, he found a flashlight next to a full magazine for the automatic. He reloaded the Colt.

  The gravel gave way underfoot as Stone walked back along the guardrail. Down the slope, among low bushes, the motorcycle’s headlight was pointed into the ground. The only other light came from the moon. A moan came from the gulley below, followed by the sound of branches breaking. This bastard was plenty tough.

  With his flashlight Stone searched the brush. A face looked up into the light. Stone climbed over the guardrail and slid down the incline.

  “I saw you go off the road,” Stone said in French. “May I help?” He moved closer.

  The terrorist was confused. Blood seeped from a circular burn hole in the left sleeve of his jacket.

  “Yes. Please help me.”

  His helmet came off and Stone saw he had a close-cut beard. “What’s your name? What should I call you?”

  “Why is that of importance?”

  “Because, asshole, you don’t look French.” Stone brought up the Colt and aimed.

  The driver cursed in Arabic and pulled a gun from his belt.

  Stone squeezed off two rounds into his chest. “It’s not nice to kill a lady.”

  Chapter Nine

  Côte d’Azur

  Stone made his way back to his car, hugging the outside of the guardrail and hoping to stay out of sight of passing motorists. As he opened the door to the Porsche, the driver of a van slowed down and offered assistance. Stone feigned zipping up his fly and the motorist honked his car horn twice and sped on.

  By the time Stone reached the outskirts of Archos, his neck muscles were aching. A stiff drink was in order. He pulled into the parking lot of a café on a hillside overlooking the port. As he exited the car, he looked down. His shoes and the bottom of his trousers were caked with mud. Deciding against going into the restaurant, he walked to the far end of the parking lot and pulled out his cellphone.

  On the second ring, Fleming answered and immediately ordered, “Go into secure voice mode.”

  Stone punched in the code then held the phone screen to his eye until it identified the pattern of his retina. After a few clicks, the amber display indicated their conversation would be private. Stone related the details of the shooting.

  Fleming remained silent until he finished, then said, “Let’s do a quick review. No one saw you. The assassin is definitely dead. You are unharmed and back in Archos.”

  “I should have retrieved his gun.” Stone kicked a rock with his shoe. “You could make comparisons with the bullets that killed the officer in Montpellier.”

  “No problem. The French can do that when they find the body. I’ll contact them now, before the gunman’s buddies find him.”

  “What will be the French reaction if they find out I’m responsible?”

  “Oh, about the same reaction you would have if some French spy came into your home town and shot up the place.” Fleming thought it funny and laughed. “Excuse me, but you know yours is the best news I’ve heard in a while. I can’t wait to tell Claudia.”

  Stone put the phone in his pocket and returned to the car. Buckling up, he thought about the dead terrorist. It had been nothing more than a matter of self-defense, and he had done well. This was no holiday in the South of France; that’s why Frederick had sent him the Colt .45. He turned on the car and listened to the warm engine hum. Odd. During the gunfight it never occurred to him he might end up the corpse. He drove back to the Foundation d’Élan.

  The grounds of the Foundation were dark except where the solar-powered lamps illuminated the walkways. He parked near his cottage and checked the outside of the car for bullet holes; there were none. Inside the car, he retrieved three shell casings, but couldn’t find the fourth one. At least he’d had the presence of mind to retrieve the two casings at the roadside scene. Tomorrow he might find the missing one in the car, but for now he wanted a drink of that Irish whiskey sitting on the kitchen counter.

  Côte d’Azur—May 3, 2002

  After the short trip from the Red Scorpion, Abdul Wahab jumped from the Zodiac inflatable boat onto the dock and immediately pulled out his cellphone to call Rashid in Arles. “What is happening in Marseille this fine Friday morning, my friend?” Wahab motioned to his driver standing by the Bentley Arnage to wait for him.

  “Ah, all is well here,” Rashid answered. “As I sit here looking at the vineyards, I expect a fine harvest and—”

  “How fortunate for you. I rec
eived word this morning from Mr. Harrington that a certain Algerian whose services we lent to you has met with an accident in Marseille.” Wahab listened to silence for a minute. “You know who I’m referring to … the man with the bright dental work.”

  “Yes. Yes. That is very sad.” Rashid coughed. “The crime situation in Marseille is getting worse.”

  “Mr. Harrington is concerned about how this affects his business there. So am I.”

  “No need for concern,” Rashid insisted. “The matter had nothing to do with our business arrangements here.”

  “So, what was he doing for you when he met his end?”

  “Nothing important, really. As they say, he was in the wrong place.”

  Wahab walked over to the Bentley. The driver opened the back door for him. He climbed in and waited before continuing the conversation, listening to Rashid breath hard on the other end of the line. Wahab continued. “This man Hassan, whom you are helping with a shipment of wine, do you still trust him?”

  Rashid coughed twice. “Yes. I think he is someone who can help us … although we must watch him.”

  “Yes. I agree, but then again we must be careful of everyone.” Wahab paused. “Mr. Harrington, who as you know, can be difficult at times, is not pleased with what happened to his man. I can’t afford to have Harrington displeased.” Again, a long pause. “Understand?”

  “Yes, my sheik.”

  “I want a meeting with Hassan.”

  “When would be a good time, sir?”

  “Today. I want both of you here. We will have lunch.”

  “But sir, it will take some time to—”

  Wahab rang off and slipped the cellphone into the pocket of his blazer. He thought for a moment, then instructed the driver to take him to his favorite museum in Villefranche.

  Stone planned to spend Friday morning on his patio, surrounded by pots overflowing with brilliant flowers, reading his day-old newspaper, and drinking coffee. The birds were especially noisy and a soft, warm breeze floated in from the bay. Thin white clouds dotted the sky. He had awakened with a headache, but had no nightmares during the night. Today, he would call Fleming and ask whether the French police had any information on the terrorist he’d shot. Otherwise, he intended to lie low at the Foundation.

  Margaux crossed the lawn and stopped before him. She let out a long sigh. “Monsieur Harrington has instructed me to accompany you to Cuers.”

  “Margaux. Please sit down.” He pushed a chair toward her. “Let me explain. Last night, Harrington suggested you might be able to show me around places like Cuers and I agreed.”

  She sighed again, a bit exaggerated, and eased primly into the chair.

  “I don’t mean to impose on you,” he continued. “It’s the weekend. I’ll make other arrangements.”

  “No, no. It is just that I work all week, then I must come to work on the weekend.”

  “Some coffee?” Stone asked. “Let me get another cup from the kitchen.”

  She waved her hand indicating no and rose from the chair. “When shall we go?”

  “Let’s make it at eleven o’clock and find some interesting place to have lunch on the way.”

  “Why Cuers?” She frowned.

  “I want to visit the church where my friend had his last rites.”

  “So you are taking me to church?”

  It was the first time he had seen her smile.

  Once they left the motorway, they proceeded north on a secondary road toward the village of Cuers. Margaux’s royal blue scarf blew around her head. Gold bangles on her wrist clicked when she pointed out local landmarks. A mile out of Cuers, Stone’s cellphone rang. Fleming’s number appeared on the display. He pulled over to the side of the road and parked under the shade of a tree. Excusing himself, he stepped away from the car, punching the phone’s keys for secure mode.

  “Where are you right now?” Fleming demanded. “I need your exact location.”

  Stone gave his location and added he was with Margaux from the Foundation d’Élan.

  “Figures you would be with a girl. I just wanted to confirm that it’s you we’re tracking on satellite. To make a long story short, a tracker beacon was placed on your car, probably by the same people following you now.”

  “What people? How far back are they?” Stone searched up and down the road.

  “About four miles away. The French picked up the signal this morning and told us about it. They’re tracking the people who are following you.”

  “So let’s see … I’m being followed by Hassan’s group, the French, and the Agency?”

  “It’s not Hassan’s group,” Fleming said. “It’s someone else.”

  “Who are they?”

  “We think they’re connected with some Saudis in Nice.”

  “So they’re probably al Qaeda?” Stone moved his hand to his shoulder holster.

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “That’s great. Before you get off the phone, any information on the terrorist I shot?”

  “None yet,” Fleming said. “By the way, don’t try to find your beacon. Leave it. Just have a good time with your friend. And remember we’re watching you.”

  Stone returned to the car. “My editor in New York wants more rewrites on my next book. Time to go to church.”

  She gave him another smile.

  The church in Cuers stood alone, gracefully aged. Stone and Margaux found a side door open and inside the dark interior met a curate with a shy smile who had emerged from the sacristy. He spoke little English, so Margaux asked in French about the American Herb Walker.

  The curate took them to an office beyond the baptismal font and searched the records in a thick ledger. Flipping through pages, he found Walker’s name and the date of his funeral. Since few Americans had died in Cuers, he said he remembered performing the funeral service. The cause of death was not noted, but a notation reflected that he had been cremated and his ashes spread in a nearby vineyard. They thanked the priest and departed, but not before Stone lit a votive candle before a side altar.

  Back at the car, a bony-faced man in clerical garb approached them and tipped his black, wide-brimmed hat.

  “Pardon. My name is Father Dominic.” He spoke with a stilted French inflection. “I was informed you were inquiring into the demise of an American here in Cuers a few years ago.”

  After shaking hands, the priest suggested they sit at a table at a nearby ice cream shop. They settled under the faded awning. The cleric placed his large hat on the chair next to him. His haircut looked like a razor cut.

  “Did you know my friend?” Stone asked.

  “I recall very little about him, except I believe he died of a stroke. He was Catholic and we performed the last rites. Of course, there was a funeral, but I believe the pews were empty. I never spoke with him.” Father Dominic looked away from Stone’s stare.

  The waiter came and asked whether they wanted something. Father Dominic asked for a glass of water and continued. “Now I remember. A friend of his flew in from New York City and handled the funeral arrangements. How did you know him, Mr. Stone?”

  “We were friends in college.”

  “So you are here to pay your last respects, as it were.”

  “Yes. I lit a candle for him. Do you know what he was doing here in Cuers?”

  “He was in real estate investments, I believe.” The priest brushed dust from his cassock.

  “I guess he enjoyed the wine here in Provence,” Stone said.

  “I was told he had no interest in wine. A typical American, he liked his beer.”

  Father Dominic gave Margaux directions to a vineyard where he said he believed Herb’s ashes were scattered. Then he put on his hat. A slight breeze lifted the brim as he rose from his chair. Stone looked down at the man’s shoes. Strange for a French priest to wear British-made brogues.

  Margaux recited the priest’s directions as they rode, and eventually they found the vineyard. The surrounding area was hilly and not far fr
om a stand of ancient oaks. During the ride, Stone failed to detect any cars following them, yet he couldn’t relax and enjoy the scenery. Where was the surveillance? Why was he of interest to these people? The attack on the road after the Consul’s cocktail party nagged at him, and looking over at Margaux he wondered if he was putting her life in danger. They got out and walked along the rows of trimmed vine plants. On the way back to the car, he asked Margaux, “Why were you so quiet when we spoke with Father Dominic?”

  “That cleric had a strange accent. He is not from Provence, and he is not from Marseille.”

  “I found it odd that he sought us out,” Stone added. “Also, he didn’t know Herb very well. Herb loved wine.”

  As Stone turned the key in the ignition, Margaux lifted herself off the car seat and removed a brass shell casing. After examining it, she placed it into his palm. “Ah, this is what was pinching me all this time. Yours?”

  Chapter Ten

  Nice

  Hassan slouched in the back seat of the BMW sedan, jiggling his misbaha, the worry beads his father had given him when he was a boy. Three Fingers sat in the front next to the driver, an Iraqi; the two spoke softly to each other. Hassan had told them he wanted quiet, so he could think. He instructed the Iraqi to remain within the speed limit on the Autoroute to Nice. No need for the police to stop them for speeding. The exit for Cannes passed. It would not be long before they would arrive in Nice and meet with Rashid and the Saudi, Abdul Wahab. Along the way, he studied the clean farms and settlements. In many respects, the countryside resembled Lebanon and Palestine. Once again, the theme played in his mind: His civilization was older than here in the West. His people were as intelligent. Why were they not also blessed? Because the West did not allow it. It was not in their interest. Well, the time had come for change.

  His fingers clicked one bead next to another. He wondered if he would detect any anxiety on the part of Rashid, who by now knew his man had been shot while following Hassan. Rashid had set up this special meeting with Abdul Wahab. It was very important, Rashid had insisted.