The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

Lucinda. They had met at a New Year’s Eve party given by some society group in Nice. Single US Navy and Marine Corps officers assigned to the Nice consulate were invited to attend as escorts for the young French debutantes. Stone first saw her sitting at a table with two older couples and several young women. He had debated whether he should approach and ask her to dance. The people at the table looked important and very rich, and probably one of the couples made up her parents. Just as he decided to move on, the Marine captain standing next to him said that after he returned from the bar he would target the broad with the nice tits. He’d looked in Lucinda’s direction.

  By the time the Marine captain returned, Stone was dancing with her. She had a beautiful accent and her auburn hair flowed softly over her ears. She kept turning away when she asked short questions about the weather, where he lived in America, and what he had studied in school. When she did face him, for those short moments, she seemed to have trouble concentrating. She clutched his hand and moved in closer as they danced.

  The dance ended, and he suggested they walk over to the refreshment table. While sorting through the hors d’oeuvres, the Marine walked up, but before he could say anything, Lucinda took Stone’s arm and asked him to introduce the Marine to her. At the same time, she waved to one of her girlfriends to come over.

  When her girlfriend walked up, Lucinda said, “This young captain is going to ask you to dance.” Turning to the Marine, she added, “Are you not?” Her girlfriend grabbed the Marine and pulled him onto the dance floor. Lucinda looked up at Stone, ran her hand along the single gold ensign’s strip on his sleeve, and asked whether he would like to join her for New Year’s Day dinner at her parents’ villa. Her eyes were a hazel green.

  The log fell off the grate in the hearth and scattered sparks onto the floor.

  Chapter Twelve

  Côte d’Azur—May 6, 2002

  Stone decided to add physical exercise to his daily morning routine, hoping it would help his mental alertness. He looked forward to taking the trip to Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. A hard knock on the cottage door interrupted his sit-ups. Ricard, the French veteran, stood on the step holding a package. A slight mist hung over the lawn, and Stone asked whether he wanted to come in. He declined, and Stone joked about all the packages he was receiving.

  “You have many friends, Monsieur. You are lucky.”

  When Ricard left, he unwrapped the package on the kitchen counter. It contained two American passports under different names with numerous entries and exits stamped in the pages; his photograph appeared in each one. A thin stack of credit and business cards accompanied the passports. The package also contained a pair of French automobile license plates. The short note enclosed read:

  To assist you in your travels. M.

  Mark had come through with the promised false identification. Just a bit of insurance, in case the assignment turned sour. Colonel Frederick was a good friend for handing him this contract, but Frederick was a realist, and Stone had better become one too.

  He shuffled the papers on the table. A disguise would be good to use in Saint-Rémy, just a light alteration of his appearance to confuse his adversaries. He decided not to shave off his two-day-old beard. Already the growth was beginning to hide the scar on his cheek. He must not look American, so he would pack only continental-style clothes, and his footwear had to be European. He packed clothes for three days.

  On the way to the Porsche, he stopped by the library to tell Margaux he was going on a research trip. “Up through the Luberon and onto Les Baux. Maybe Saint-Rémy,” he told her. No need for anyone at the Foundation to know his exact destination.

  She suggested he visit Arles. “Van Gogh lived there,” she said. “It has an interesting Roman arena where they have bullfights.”

  He also needed to switch cars. The Boxster handled well and he would have preferred to keep it, but too many people had the car’s description. Fleming had given him the name of the automobile dealer where he could exchange it. In the showroom, another Porsche caught his eye, a black Carrera 911 with manual shift. Once on the highway, he noticed the difference in handling. With a lot more power on the highway he felt in tune with the car as his hand coaxed the gearshift through the positions.

  He left the Autoroute and cruised the back roads toward Saint-Rémy. Ancient plane trees, probably planted by Napoleon for the comfort of his marching infantry, bordered the two-lane road. The invigorating smells of awakening vegetable and herb gardens on either side of the road drifted in the open windows and, despite the gray afternoon sky, Stone settled into the world of Provence.

  At Saint-Rémy, he parked the car in the treed parking area in front of the hotel where Fleming had reserved a room for him. The white, four-story wooden structure sat across the square from an old church. A café with outdoor tables and discolored umbrellas bordered one side of the plaza. Next to the church, a sign pointed to the walled old town of Saint-Rémy. Townspeople moved about as if determined to finish their tasks before the day ended.

  The hotel receptionist wearing black-framed glasses didn’t return Stone’s cheerful “Bonjour.” She demanded his identification and he passed over one of his new passports under an alias. He knew the terrorists had an informal spy network of guest workers in France and he had no intentions of helping them identify him.

  The young porter led the way up three flights of stairs and showed him to a room overlooking the square. It was a perfect position to sit and watch. He was glad he’d brought a pair of binoculars. Over the darkening town, steel-colored clouds seeped a soft mist. Lights from building and street lamps started coming on, casting reflections off the wet streets. Passing cars splashed people hurrying home from work. Despite the rain, he decided to take a short walk into the old town and look for the restaurant the concierge had recommended.

  By the time he entered the narrow lanes of the old town the drizzle had wet his hair. None of the other men he passed on the narrow streets wore hats. What happened to the beret? He pulled the jacket hood up over his head. Darkness dropped on the town. If he continued to wander the alleys he could lose his way. He retraced his steps toward the lights of the square. Dinner would have to be at the hotel. The next day he would carry a town map as he pretended to pursue his travel writing assignment.

  Hassan and his two companions pulled up to a two-story apartment house in a simple working class neighborhood of Saint-Rémy. The Iraqi driver parked the BMW in the one remaining space in the back of the building. The three hurried up the flight of stairs and knocked on the first door on the second floor. A bearded man wearing a stitched white skullcap answered and Hassan was met by the sweet smell of moussaka and Allah, be with you.

  “I have dinner for you, my brothers,” the bearded man said, and led them to a wooden table where they hastily ate the meal set before them. Their host returned from the kitchen and told them, “You may sleep there tonight.” He pointed to the cushions scattered on the floor.

  Hassan asked, “Any luck learning about the important man the Saudis are protecting? The al Qaeda leader?”

  “Our brothers are alert. If the Saudis stay here, they will have to eat. They can eat food only prepared in the permissible manner, halal, so our friends in the restaurants are watching for them.”

  Hassan showed him the photograph of Stone. “I am also looking for this American.”

  The man studied the face. “There are few Americans in this town, and they come in buses for a day and then leave. This man I have not seen.”

  “Tomorrow, we will walk through the town and find this ‘very important person’ Abdul Wahab spoke of. If the American is here, he may lead us to him.” Again, Hassan considered it odd that Wahab and his Saudis were so concerned with these Americans.

  The next morning, Stone threw back the thin blue blanket from his double bed. In his bare feet, he walked across the cold floor to the bathroom and, after relieving himself, brushed his teeth at the rust-stained sink. In the mirror, the stubble hid his scar. The sh
ower needed a good scrubbing. He stepped into it, closed the torn plastic curtain, and tried to enjoy the hot water.

  After drying himself, he dressed and went over to the window, pulled back the curtains, and swung out the shutters. The morning sky was cloudless. Sunlight brought out the earth tones of the town below. Across the square, the old town huddled amid tight, winding streets. The gray church looked like it had planted itself into the ground centuries ago. The people below moved about at a relaxed, early morning pace. His black Porsche was still under the tree where he’d parked it the night before.

  At the café on the plaza, he sat in one of the curved wooden chairs with rattan backing and enjoyed coffee and yogurt. Finished reading the newspaper, he returned to his hotel room, pulled a chair to the window, and then watched the activity below. Soon he became restless. The CIA believed the high-level terrorist would travel through the town, but would someone so high profile risk traveling through this busy section of town, or would he hide out in an outlying area? The only face he knew was Hassan’s, and he was not part of the Saudi group. He called Fleming.

  “Mark and I are on the road now,” Fleming answered, sounding annoyed. “We should get into your area by dinnertime.” The phone transmission faded in and out. “The rendition team has left from Germany, but won’t be in position to act for a day or so.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Walk around. Look for people who fit the obvious profile, like you’re supposed to.” Fleming hesitated. “And watch out for that guy Hassan. You saw his picture. If you see him, follow him.”

  “Who are these people from Germany?”

  “The rendition team? They’re the guys who will snatch this terrorist. Don’t worry about them, your job is to spot anyone suspicious.” The cellphone faded out for a few seconds. “ … fancy hotel that could hold seven or eight rich Arabs.”

  “Look for a hotel? Any name?”

  “Hang on.” Stone heard Fleming talking in the background with Mark, then came back on. “It looks like an old mansion, with gardens and trees. Don’t know the name. Ask around. Stay in touch.”

  Stone shook his head. Soon a horde of armed people would descend upon peaceful Saint-Rémy, looking for a phantom terrorist.

  At the front desk, he was given two possibilities that fit Fleming’s description of the hotel. One was close by, on the road toward the Roman ruins of Glanum. He decided to walk along the outside of the high wall surrounding the old town to get a feel for the locale and then search for the hotel. The light breeze through the sunlit olive trees caused shadows to dance on the paving stones. On the upper floors of centuries-old stone-faced townhouses, homeowners had thrown open shutters painted blue, green, or maroon. Shopkeepers unlocked doors for customers, who parked and hurried into the shops. Stout older women watered window boxes holding brilliant red and blue flowers.

  Stone enjoyed the setting and slowed his pace, but remained vigilant, searching the faces of the men passing him. Before long, he found a hotel that matched Fleming’s description. The wide two-story structure looked like a mansion that years before had belonged to a family of importance. It sat back a hundred feet or so from the residential street surrounded by tall sycamores. He crossed the gravel drive and climbed the four worn marble steps to modern glass entrance doors. Inside the hotel, his shoes squeaked on the waxed floors as he approached the unmanned reception desk. Off to the left he saw an unoccupied dark-paneled library lined with bookcases. The only sound came from the slow ticking of an antique clock on the mantle of a stone-faced fireplace. Beyond the reception desk, tables and chairs filled a glass-enclosed patio that overlooked a treed garden resembling a park. A voice came from behind him. “Monsieur?”

  The concierge regarded him with an inquisitive look. He wore a pressed suit with a crossed-keys pin, Les Clefs d’Or, in his lapel. A gold pen in his right hand tapped the notebook held in the left. In French, he asked Stone whether he required assistance. Stone responded in Italian-accented French, “I am seeking accommodations for myself and my family.”

  The concierge closed his eyes and waved the pen back and forth. “No. No.” He then asked Stone in French whether he spoke English.

  Stone continued the charade, answering in English, again with an Italian accent. “I wish to see your hotel. My family will be coming. My wife, children, and I need a nice place for us. Perhaps tonight or tomorrow night.”

  “Impossible. Very sorry. We are fully booked. Perhaps next week.”

  “Ah, but you have such a big hotel!”

  “A party has reserved the entire hotel for the next four days. They will be arriving this afternoon.” He motioned Stone toward the door and then stopped. Three men had exited a BMW sedan parked in the lot and were approaching the entrance door.

  “More people to turn away,” Stone said. The men wore dark clothes and the one in the middle had a full moustache. As they came up to the door, Stone pointed to the library and said, “I’ll just take a quick look in there while you’re taking care of these people.” Before the concierge could object, he left. The man with the moustache entered first. Stone listened as he introduced himself to the concierge as Hassan Musab Mujahid. Then he inquired about the party arriving from Toulouse. The concierge advised that the party of seven was expected in the late afternoon.

  Stone edged out the side door and hurried through the gardens to the street. He turned left and jogged to the end of the block, then positioned himself where he could spot Hassan and his men when they drove out of the hotel parking lot. Leaning on a tree, he dialed Fleming’s number on his cellphone. No answer. The Porsche was a good five minutes away, and even if he ran to get it, he probably wouldn’t get back in time to follow Hassan’s car. He decided to stay put.

  The BMW eased out of the driveway and turned in the opposite direction from where Stone stood. Two men were in the front, but Stone couldn’t see whether more men sat in the back. He watched the car drive off, then walked back to the Boulevard Victor Hugo, crossed over, and entered the old town through an arched gate in the wall.

  Options came to mind. Get the Porsche and return, sit on the street, and wait for the terrorist group to arrive. Then again, if they’re half as good as the CIA believed, they would set up countersurveillance and spot him. No sense being “made” at this point. Better stay away from the hotel. Meanwhile he had to contact Fleming.

  Buildings of varying shades of gray and tan defined the narrow winding streets of the old town of Saint-Rémy. The worn tile roofs looked incapable of keeping out the rain. A car occasionally inched past him, barely missing him and the fronts of buildings. From a timeworn marble fountain, water trickled out of the mineral-stained mouth of a stern lion. The fountain clung to the side of a building, and above it ivy climbed to the eaves of the roof. He found Rue Lafayette with its few smart shops lining the street close to the St. Martin church.

  His cellphone rang. It was Fleming. “I spotted Hassan,” Stone told him, then gave a quick rundown on what he’d learned at the hotel.

  “Good work. Now just stand off. We’ll handle surveillance of the hotel and the rest of the operation.” Stone listened as Fleming related the same information to someone in the background. Fleming came back on the phone. “Your job is basically done, but stay another night in case we need you. Did Hassan see you at the hotel?”

  “I don’t think so, and I’m out of the area now.”

  “Good, we’ll be in touch.”

  While Stone slipped the phone back into his pocket, he spotted a boutique displaying men’s sportswear. Buying clothes didn’t interest him so much as he was curious to see how a French designer would skillfully blend a modern shop with honey-yellow hues into a cold stone building. He walked in and gave a cheerful hello to the proprietor, which was not returned.

  Earlier that morning, the bearded man at the apartment house had told Hassan that two local restaurants were to deliver halal food to a hotel outside the old town. Hassan decided he would go to the ho
tel and try to identify the important Saudi, even though members of his advance party might see him. When he had arrived at the hotel, he identified himself as a member of the Saudi delegation and the concierge told him the others would arrive that afternoon. The concierge appeared to feign not remembering any of the names of the people who would be arriving. Before leaving, Hassan casually asked whether many guests had to be turned away.

  “No, not many,” the concierge replied.

  “And who was the gentleman who came in a few minutes before us?”

  “Oh, the Italian gentleman. Unfortunately, he and his family must look elsewhere.”

  Before Hassan had gone into the hotel, he and his two companions had parked on the street for an hour to make sure no Saudis were in the vicinity. While waiting, Hassan had seen the familiar-looking man enter the hotel. Something about the man’s motions or body language made Hassan suspect he was not European. When he did not see the man inside the hotel, his suspicions increased. Now, standing next to the car, Hassan showed Three Fingers the photograph Abdul Wahab had given him. “I am certain it was this American. He is on foot. Go into the town and find him.”

  “And when I find him?”

  “Kill him. However, be careful of him. When it is done, contact me.”

  After an hour searching the narrow lanes of the old town, Three Fingers spied the American inside a boutique. From the street, he watched the American take his time trying on sweaters. One particular light blue sweater seemed to appeal to him. As he replaced it after examining the garment, the proprietor, appearing irritated, refolded it and set it back in its original position. The American continued to select items of clothing, hold them up for examination, then discard them; the shopkeeper closely followed him around the shop, refolding the clothes.

  From down the street, an elderly man and woman approached carrying groceries. Three Fingers raised his cellphone to his ear, looked down at the ground, and pretended to carry on a conversation. The couple passed him and he put the phone back in his pocket.