The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  The last time Hassan had gone aboard the Red Scorpion, Wahab had tried to bribe him to join in an alliance against their mutual enemy, the Americans. As a show of good intentions, Wahab told him an American intelligence officer was following him. Of course, Hassan knew he was being followed, and he supposed the Saudis knew that he knew. Hassan had told Wahab he was appreciative and would think about his proposition. All Saudis, especially this Wahab, thought they could bribe anyone with their money. Apparently, the two North Africans he’d killed that night in Nice were either in Wahab’s employ or Rashid’s.

  “We are only a few minutes from the harbor,” the Iraqi driver said.

  “Park as close as possible. We will all go aboard the yacht.”

  The two men in the front seats stiffened and glanced at each other.

  “Take your guns,” Hassan ordered.

  The driver parked near the quay. Few people were walking along the waterfront. The three men found a stone bench next to the landing site and sat down to wait. They watched the Zodiac leave the yacht anchored off the point and head toward them, throwing off a flat wake. A breeze ruffled the water creating short whitecaps. Gulls circled overhead searching for fish scraps.

  Hassan thought for a moment, then asked, “That man, Ali, who works for the American consul general … how did you learn he worked for these Saudis?”

  Three Fingers spoke. “We contacted Ali after the party at the American’s villa. We asked him who had replaced the American killed in Nice. He was jumpy. I laughed and asked if he had to take a piss.” Three Fingers paused to light his cigarette. “‘Ali, go to the bathroom,’ I said. ‘Stop shaking.’ Ali started to whine like some lamb. ‘I am in great danger,’ he cried.”

  “And then?”

  “Ali told us he was also working for these Saudis. During the party last night, the Saudis told him to place a tracking device on the car of an American writer. He watched the American leave, followed by a motorcycle driven by someone working for the Saudis.”

  The yacht’s tender approached the quay. On the craft, Rashid sat next to Abdul Wahab, the spokesman for the prince who owned the Red Scorpion.

  “Continue,” Hassan said, watching the boat approach.

  “Ali told us that just before we came, his Saudi bosses had told him the driver of the motorcycle had been killed. They wanted to know if he had told anyone about the tracking device. Ali said he swore to them on his family’s name that he had not. He said he was sure they now would return and kill him.”

  “Ali’s family wallows with swine.” Hassan rose to greet Rashid, who was standing in the bow of the boat.

  “Allah be praised,” Rashid called out to Hassan. “Come aboard, we have a meal ready for you on the yacht.”

  Hassan motioned for his companions to follow him and Rashid held up his hand.

  “No. Very sorry. I have an invitation for only you, Hassan.”

  “Then I will forgo the gracious offer of a feast aboard the yacht, and we will confer over here on the benches.” Hassan turned to the driver. “Please, go to that store and get us some cold drinks.”

  Rashid spoke rapidly with Wahab, who spat out a curse, and then turned back toward the water. He continued to coax him and finally Wahab yelled at the boatman. “Call the yacht and tell them I am staying ashore.” Wahab disembarked, presented Hassan with a switched-on smile, and said, “Please, let us sit.” Three Fingers grinned as they walked over to the benches.

  Hassan, Rashid, and Wahab spoke of recent events in the Middle East. They all agreed the times were bad but, God willing, they were about to improve. Eventually, Rashid eased out of the conversation and let Hassan and Wahab talk. After a time, Wahab unbuttoned his blazer and leaned toward Hassan.

  “We need your services. Our friend, Rashid, has assured us that you are not only trustworthy, but very professional.” He looked around to see whether any passersby were near. “The intelligence officer we warned you about the last time we met was killed. He has been replaced and we fear this new American is in a position to disrupt our plan.”

  “What plan?”

  Wahab paused. “We have a very important person traveling through this region. We do not want him to be discovered.”

  “One American can disrupt your plan?” Hassan looked over at Three Fingers, who was listening. “With this plan and this very important man who is coming, how can we be of assistance to you?”

  “We must be assured the American does not interfere with our man’s travel.” Wahab turned to Rashid, who nodded his head. “We intend to be very generous.”

  “We will need funds now to pay our expenses. Is it in Marseille where we will watch the American?”

  “No. It is possible he will travel to a town called Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. We would like for you to go there and look for him.” He retrieved an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I believe the funds in this envelope will be more than adequate to compensate you for this favor.”

  Hassan looked over at Three Fingers and then at Rashid. “Rashid will be our mutual contact.” He saw that Wahab seemed pleased. “Where is the American now?”

  “He is staying at a Foundation in Archos, near Marseille,” Wahab answered, then handed a photograph to Hassan. “This is his picture.”

  Hassan glanced at the photograph, and then slipped it into his pocket. The negotiations concluded, all shook hands and Rashid and Wahab boarded the Zodiac. Hassan watched the craft head back to the Red Scorpion. He lit a cigarette with his gold lighter and blew a long stream of smoke into the air.

  “Who is this very important man?” Three Fingers asked. “Al Qaeda?”

  “I am sure he is, my friend.” Hassan handed him the envelope containing the money. “We shall go to Saint-Rémy and find the American … and the al Qaeda man.”

  “Do you think Rashid suspects we killed the Algerian with the gold tooth?”

  “Probably.” Hassan then recalled that the telephone number for the Foundation d’Élan had appeared on the call list of the dead Algerian’s cellphone.

  Hassan and his two men returned to the BMW. In the front Three Fingers unfolded the yellow Michelin map, while in the back seat Hassan studied the face in the photograph Wahab had given to him. It had been taken close up while the American was sitting alongside a short blond-haired man with a faint moustache. Masts of moored sailboats stood tall in the background. The American looked older than the young man he had watched die two weeks before. It was not the scar on the American’s cheek that held his attention; it was his eyes. He remembered other men with that same look in the Afghan training camp.

  Chapter Eleven

  Côte d’Azur—May 5, 2002

  The staff had Sunday off, so Stone brewed his own coffee. He perused the Middle East travel book in the name of his alter ego, Finbarr Costanza. Reading the book didn’t help him solve the problem of how he should play the part of a writer. Suppose another writer at the Foundation asked him to critique their work? Could he fake it? Doubtful. His stomach growled and he searched the kitchen cabinets for something to eat. Finding only staples, he decided to go into town to find an open brasserie.

  As he approached the town, a change in the wind brought dirty clouds in from the sea and Stone smelled the coming of rain. A few blocks back from the waterfront, he found a table at a café. He had just finished off his croissant and opened the weekend section of the Financial Times when his cellphone rang. Fleming wanted to see him at the American consulate in Marseille at eleven o’clock, a forty-five minute drive.

  Strong gusts brought a cold drizzle to Marseille. The green neon signs in the pharmacy windows brought no feeling of warmth to the city, now turned dismal. Stone parked the Porsche on a side street off the Rue Armény. At the consulate’s front gate, French police checked his passport and allowed him to proceed onto the grounds. The security measures set in place at the consulate general because of the worldwide terrorist threat had changed the atmosphere of the old stone building. Years before,
as a naval officer, he could walk up to the front door and ask to speak to an American. Not now.

  A locally-hired French guard led him down into the garden and to the entrance door. Fleming stood in the lobby holding a large paper bag. They shook hands and then rode a two-person elevator to the top floor where Mark was waiting in a cramped office. He had last seen Mark at his firearms training session at the Farm in Virginia. The rich aroma of meats and herbs from the sandwiches in the sack held by Fleming competed with the dry, woody smell of the attic office.

  As they ate, Fleming began by saying, “Mark is replacing Stacy, the officer killed in Montpellier. His job is to go there and gather information on a high-level al Qaeda leader. Sensitive sources report he’ll pass through the area in the next couple of days.” Fleming turned to Stone. “You’ll proceed to Saint-Rémy, sit and wait for this al-Qaeda guy, who might use the town as a base of operations. One big problem—to date we have no name or description for him.”

  Mark seemed to have no problem with the assignment, but Stone was amused. Finally, Fleming had given him a specific task. At last, a job to do besides avoiding getting himself shot. “I’m to go to a little French town and play the tourist?”

  “Like I told you in Paris, your cover is a travel writer. So, go travel and write.” Fleming handed him a packet. “Here’s your itinerary and hotel reservation. We’ll be in contact by phone.”

  Mark looked at Stone. “You put my excellent teaching to good use the other night.”

  Fleming removed his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. “Yes, that’s another topic on the agenda. It’s a shame that man had to be killed. Now understand, I’m happy you are alive, it’s just … I may have some difficulty with the authorities. Some French jurisdictions might want to go through the legal process. Just a formality, understand?”

  “Bullshit!” Mark exclaimed. “What about our two people who were murdered?”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Stone added. “Do the cops know my name? Have they been tracking me?”

  “No. Yes.”

  “It’s a good thing I got rid of the tracking device yesterday.”

  “That was against my instructions. Where is the device?”

  “On the bumper of a tour bus headed for Rome. When did the French pick up the signal on my car?”

  “Yesterday. They followed what they thought were some narcotics traffickers to Cuers. During the surveillance, they picked up two signals and realized that one was coming from your car. Then they realized the drug people were on your tail, so they identified you. They learned you were an American who attended the consul general’s party, so they called Jonathan Deville in Paris, who then called me.”

  “The French are pretty efficient,” Stone said. “But then, they have the advantage of working on their own turf.” He stood up and stretched. “If they didn’t start tracking me until yesterday, how will they connect me with the shooting?”

  “I’m not sure they will. I’m just trying to anticipate a problem.”

  “How do drug dealers fit into all this?” Mark asked.

  “Yeah,” Stone said. “Yesterday, you told me they could be al Qaeda.”

  Fleming frowned. “I told you about the bodies of a man and woman found near the body of Huntington, the CIA officer killed in Nice. Yesterday, Deville said the police told him they found a vial of poison on one of the victims. Same kind of poison that killed our man. The two victims were connected to the drug trade in Marseille. Both came from Algeria, and both had connections with al Qaeda. The French told us the people who followed you yesterday were connected with those two.”

  “So they killed Huntington?”

  “Seems that way, but we don’t know why. Plus we don’t know who killed them, or why.”

  “Maybe Huntington killed them before he died,” Mark offered.

  “The French investigators doubt it. One was sliced with a knife, and no knife was found on our officer’s body.”

  The three listened to the rain as it hit the roof. Stone thought the unanswered questions were intriguing as well as disquieting. “I’d like to know how the drug people got a lead on me. Maybe someone at the Foundation fingered me?”

  “I doubt it. We did our homework. The Foundation appears to be safe.”

  Stone shook his head, thinking of what his friend Deville told him at the consul general’s party about Boswell Harrington being dirty. “Maybe.”

  “How does this tie in with Hassan?” Mark asked.

  “Again, we don’t know.” Fleming pushed the remains of his sandwich into the bag.

  “Any more on Hassan’s location?” Stone asked. “And what about the yacht Hassan was seen visiting in Nice? The Red Scorpion?”

  “Don’t know, but you two should keep an eye out for Hassan both in Montpelier and Saint-Rémy,” Fleming said. “As for the yacht, we have someone working on that angle. Stone, as you asked in Paris, what are these Saudis, who are Sunni Muslims, doing hanging around with a Shiite like Hassan? A lot of this doesn’t make sense.”

  Stone paused, then asked, “What did you learn about the guy I shot?”

  Fleming rose from his chair and almost hit his head on a low-hanging wooden beam. “The gun the police recovered from the body was the same one used to kill Stacy, our female officer in Montpelier. We assume he was the assassin.”

  Mark laughed. “Now that’s what you call closure. What are you worrying about, Fleming?”

  Stone said, “One other thing—that servant of the consul general, the one I think put the tracking device on my car, what are you doing with him?”

  “The guy’s name is Ali. We’re doing nothing for the moment. I told the CG and he agreed that for now we know who the spy is and we can watch him. Take him out and we’ll have to start looking for his replacement.”

  Stone walked over to the window and watched the rain.

  Fleming continued. “The terrorist you shot—the police say he was killed with a .45 caliber weapon. I thought I gave you a 9mm Glock in Paris?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Fleming stared at Stone. “You did a good job for us shooting that man, but still … these complications with the French.”

  Mark interjected, “Fleming, my man, you’re assigned to Paris. The CIA put you in this cozy slot because of your administrative abilities. You can keep Stone out of trouble with the French. If you can’t, both of us are out of here.”

  “Make the problem go away,” Stone added. “And don’t give them my name.”

  “Don’t worry. Just keep your mind on the job.”

  Outside the consulate building, Stone and Mark huddled under an overhang. The rain poured and brought a clamminess that went through Stone’s thin cotton windbreaker.

  “Listen,” Mark said. “Fleming is trying to cover his ass. Two people killed on his watch. Career-wise, that’s not good. Like a navy captain running his ship aground, no way can you make admiral after that happens.”

  “I know. I just hope he keeps his bearings.”

  “He’s got a lot of people upstairs, like Claudia, working full time to place all the blame on him.”

  The rain eased up. Mark leaned closer. “I’ll have a packet of exit documents and passports sent to you in case you have to make a quick escape.”

  “Thanks. I may need them.” Stone pulled up the collar of his jacket. “Let’s make a run for it.”

  They shook hands and hurried to their respective cars. On the drive back toward Archos, the rain followed Stone up the coast. Arriving, he made a quick stop in the center of the town and found a charcouterie still open. A prepared lamb stew and a bottle of local red wine both looked good and the proprietor packaged up his meal. Stone added a custard tart.

  Back at the Foundation, the grounds were deserted. Stone sidestepped the puddles on the walkway to his cottage, as he imagined David sulking in his room about the negative Paris reaction to his Esperanto dictionary. No visit from him.

  A visit from Margaux would be pl
easant. Still, he hadn’t figured her out. She seemed too interested in his writing. Stone remembered what his father had told him years ago when he learned that his son had been assigned to the Nice consulate. Only French men understood French women. Or they thought they did.

  A wood fire in the hearth warmed the living room. Stone made himself a drink. Why do the French insist on having such small ice cubes? He glanced out the window at the rain. After a few swallows of Irish whiskey, he turned on the radio and flopped into the armchair.

  He mulled over what Fleming had said about the terrorist he shot. He had been an accomplished killer who had killed a female CIA officer. How many other Americans had he killed? No bad dreams about that bastard. He must clean and oil the Colt.

  Since he had to go to Saint-Rémy, he would ask Margaux about the town and the surrounding area. Too bad she couldn’t accompany him. She was a pleasant traveling companion. He got up and walked to the kitchen to freshen his drink. He chuckled. “God, my mind is back on sex. The juices are flowing again.”

  The radio station played light jazz. The wood in the fireplace burned with sharp cracks and put off little sparks. It smelled like mesquite wood, but looked like juniper. A good fire to stare at.

  With a topped-off drink in hand, he went to the French doors and peered out onto the wet lawn. The town of Archos was barely visible through the mist. At home on Sunday afternoons this time of year he watched golf tournaments, but the television in his cottage only carried CNN and the regional French stations. One was a TV station from Nice. Lucy lived near there.

  Lucy. Now Contessa Lucinda. Funny he hadn’t thought about her. Maybe it was the finality in the way she had said good-bye at the party in Marseille. Years ago, he hadn’t handled that romance well, but hell, he was a kid just out of college. He had learned a lot since then. Then again, four months ago his wife had walked out on him.