The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  Smoke from his cigarette hung in the still air and he moved a few steps away from the swirl. Hassan expected him to kill the American quickly and without complications. Hassan was that way, very efficient. He would be good in commerce, if he had a place to do business, but who can do business in refugee camps?

  Now the shopkeeper seemed to be arguing with the American. These Americans, these crusaders—very difficult people—no one liked them.

  Hassan’s people had helped his family when they all fled Palestine in 1967. Their two families were close long before they fled their homes. In Palestine they had cultivated citrus groves next to each other. There were no groves as beautiful in the refugee camps. The dirt there was hard and dirty.

  He watched the American wave to the shopkeeper and walk out of the shop. Outside on the street, the American strolled with his hands clasped behind his back. He stared into the window of each shop he passed, pausing now and then. Three Fingers watched his body movements. The man was right handed; therefore, his left side would be his weaker side. A narrow alley came up and the American hesitated, then turned into the entrance.

  When he looked around the corner, the alley was empty except for the man he was stalking. The American had stopped a few feet ahead and was looking down a slight incline at a house with a low iron fence in front.

  It was time.

  Three Fingers pulled the knife from his belt and advanced on the balls of his feet, the blade held high in his right hand. Coming from behind, he intended to reach around the right side of the American’s head and bring the knife quickly across the throat. If need be, he would follow up with a quick stab into the kidney area, then kick him down the incline.

  As the extended knife came around his neck, the American’s head jerked back and his right arm swung up, deflecting the knife hand. Three Fingers saw only the American’s left hand as it came around and crunched into his right ear. Surprised by the blow, the knife slid from his grasp. It clattered across the alley. The heel of the American’s right hand smashed up into his nose. Blood wheezed from his nostrils. His eyes blurred, but Three Fingers rushed forward.

  The American jumped back, removed his sunglasses, and placed them in his shirt pocket. His eyes looked like Hassan’s, icy. Three Fingers lunged again, but the American grabbed his right arm, yanked it forward, and threw him down the incline.

  As Three Fingers flew through the air toward the staked fence, he knew something bad would happen. He landed face down on the fence, the metal stakes penetrating his shirt and into his body. The wounds were serious, but not fatal. He flayed with his hands to push himself off, but then a heavy weight slammed against his back. The American had landed on top of him, pushing his body down six more inches until his chest met the crossbar.

  “The end has come,” Three Fingers whispered.

  An image of his elder son’s handsome face came to him as the American yanked up his head by the hair and whispered, “Go with God.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Saint-Rémy-de-Provence—May 7, 2002

  “Did anyone see you kill him? Were you followed? Did you use a gun?” Fleming’s questions shot out of the cellphone. “Shit, Stone, how does this affect the operation?”

  “As far as I know, it doesn’t. The guy was one of Hassan’s men. I don’t know how he found me.”

  “Where are you now?” Fleming asked.

  “In my hotel room looking out the window. All seems quiet. Have you seen our target?” At that moment, two large sedans drove through the square. “Hold on. The target is here. Two black Mercedes just passed by, heading toward the hotel.”

  “Wait a second.” Fleming was shouting in the background. He came back on the line. “We’re on them. Can’t talk anymore. Keep out of sight.”

  The line went dead. Stone hadn’t had time to tell Fleming that Hassan’s BMW was following the two Mercedes.

  His attempt at disguise had not worked, so Stone shaved off his beard. After another glimpse out the window, he lay on the bed. For the first time since he’d come to France, his gun lay on the nightstand next to him. After he had killed the man, he’d returned to the hotel by a circuitous route. He hadn’t heard police sirens. Evidently, no one had found the body. Hassan must suspect by now that something had happened to his man. What would be his reaction?

  While the soft light of dusk eased through the window, Stone stared at the ceiling. Outside the window sirens wailed. He jumped out of bed and took a look. An ambulance followed by two police cars nosed into the narrow street next to the church and disappeared into the old town. Someone had found the body.

  Dinnertime. Stone needed fresh air and a different scene, something to distract him, to get him out of his sour mood. In the short time he had been in the sunny South of France, two men had tried to kill him. This assignment has major downsides, he thought, taking a deep breath as he looked around the dingy room.

  No matter that Fleming had ordered him to stay out of sight—he would take the Porsche for a drive in the countryside. Jamming the Colt into his shoulder holster, he chose his leather jacket to ward off the chill and hurried out of the hotel. It felt good to get behind the wheel. The map showed the town of Les Baux not far away. Margaux had given him the name of a good restaurant there. Too bad she wasn’t with him. Every few seconds he checked the rearview mirror. He detected no surveillance. A short distance out of town, he passed Roman ruins. He would visit them the next day before returning to Archos.

  Hassan listened to the bearded man, whose dirty white skullcap sat crooked atop his greasy hair. He was relating how the police had found Three Fingers. The apartment smelled of burnt cabbage. Hassan motioned to his Iraqi driver to open a window to let in fresh air.

  “My brother, who sweeps the clothing store of a Frenchman, said a young boy found your friend on top of a spiked fence. It was very near the store. Some medical people came, but he was dead.” The bearded man raised his arms and looked up to heaven.

  “Did your brother see anything? Did anyone notice anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, my friend. He may have fallen onto the fence by accident, but it would have been difficult, my brother said.”

  The Iraqi driver spoke. “A strange way to die.”

  Indeed, thought Hassan. His unlit gold lighter lingered at the cigarette dangling from his lips. He would miss his friend. Three Fingers was someone he could trust, not only with his thoughts, but also for counsel. They were able to communicate without speaking. He looked at the driver, who was picking his nose. It was a wonder the dumb ox remembered to unzip his pants before he pissed.

  “I wonder how it was done,” the driver continued. “I mean, how did he get himself on the fence? Do you think it was the American?”

  “It is probable.” Hassan leaned back. “Yes, it was the American.” He thought a moment and then asked the bearded man, his host, “How many Saudis are here now?”

  “Seven. Two of them, those Sunni pigs, came from Marseille two days ago. It was they who made sure of the hotel and the food for the al Qaeda man, bin Zanni.”

  Hassan jumped up. “You know the name of the al Qaeda? Why did you not tell me this before? Are you sure?”

  “I learned only this morning.” The bearded man’s eyes pleaded. “My brothers just told me. They overheard the Saudis talking. They were quite excited.”

  Hassan sat down. The bearded man rose and offered him a tray of bread and hummus, which Hassan accepted and chewed slowly. Could it have been al Qaeda who killed his friend? If they did, they would think he would blame the American. Then he would take revenge and kill the American, leaving them free to take this bin Zanni to wherever they were going.

  Hassan asked for more bread and the bearded man placed the tray on the table next to him. Something troubled him. Why were those Saudis so concerned about Americans? Why not the French? Did they hate the Americans so much to have that one killed in Nice?

  The two North Africans came to mind, the man and woman he’d k
illed. Did the Saudis know he had killed them? Was it he they wanted to eliminate?

  At a soft knock on the door, Hassan and the driver were on their feet, guns drawn. Hassan motioned the bearded man to the entryway. After a few words, a short man was allowed to enter the apartment. The visitor had a message for Hassan. Abdul Wahab, the counselor to the Saudi prince, was in Saint-Rémy and wanted to meet with him as soon as possible.

  Hassan and Abdul Wahab found a seat in the back pew of St. Martin’s church. The only other people in the Catholic church were clustered in front at the altar. Wahab appeared amused by his choice of a church for their meeting. Hassan failed to see the humor.

  Wahab bent over and whispered, “Everything is going according to plan. We have encountered no problems. Part of our success is due to your help. We assume the American has been eliminated, and we are most grateful to you.”

  “I heard the important man has arrived. How long will he stay here?”

  “You have good ears.” Wahab smiled. “Also, we heard that you thought enough to make sure the hotel was safe for his arrival.”

  “There are many ears in this town, as well as eyes.”

  “Thank you for your assistance. I am glad Rashid recommended you to us.” Wahab handed Hassan a thick envelope. “This gift is given in the hope we can work together in the future. We will be in touch with you through Rashid.”

  Hassan watched him get up, walk to the front of the church, and depart through the right side door. He glided more than walked. He was a fop. When was the last time Wahab rode a camel in the desert? He opened the envelope and thumbed the euros. He would give this money to the family of his dead friend.

  The next morning Stone broke out of a deep, dark sleep. His dreams usually came in colored images, but this time the dream had been gray and white, with him wandering through his empty home in Virginia. For a brief moment, he forgot he was in Saint-Rémy.

  A door slammed in the hallway. He quickly reached for his gun on the nightstand. It sounded like someone was dragging a heavy piece of luggage down the hall, past his door, and then onto the staircase. Whoever it was let the suitcase drop step by step down the stairs, the noise diminishing as the bag made its way down to the first floor. The toilet bowl was trickling from the night before. Sunlight stole its way through the cracks in the closed shutters.

  He stretched, rolled out of bed, and went up to the window. With the shutter opened, he looked up at a rose- and pink-clouded sky. Below were the normal complement of sleepy citizens headed for work. In front of the church, farmers had erected stands for the daily market. He detected no sign of surveillance activity.

  After settling his hotel bill, Stone packed his car and set off for Archos. On the road south to the Roman ruins of Glanum, trees, pollarded the previous autumn, now burst with clumps of green leaves, which haphazardly clung to the pruned-back trunks and limbs. It took only five minutes to reach the ruins. A few early tourists were wandering around the monuments.

  The Roman arch and the tall mausoleum sat somber as they had for two thousand years, testaments of the refusal to bend to the ravages of time and vandalism. He strolled across the road and entered the Glanum ruins. After studying them, he found a level piece of marble in the midst of bright red poppies, where he sat and took in the quiet scene. From the direction of the parking lot, a man in a dark business suit and blue tie headed toward him. The man had a confident walk and a slight graying at his temples. Stone recognized him from the consul general’s party. He was the man Jonathan Deville had introduced to him and whom he said was his French intelligence contact in Paris.

  “Good morning, Mr. Stone. We met at your consul general’s party.”

  “Of course, Monsieur Colmont. What a coincidence meeting you here.” Stone tried to read Colmont’s face, at the same time wondering how long he had been under surveillance. Did the French witness the attack in Saint-Rémy the day before?

  “No coincidence at all. I wanted to see how you are faring after your short stay in Saint-Rémy.” Colmont dusted off the marble slab with his handkerchief and sat down next to Stone. “The last time I spoke with Mr. Deville, he asked that I check up on you.”

  “That was kind of him. We’re old friends.”

  “I thought it wise inasmuch as two of your American colleagues have not fared well recently. However, you seem to be more resilient.” He slapped both knees with his hands, waiting for Stone to speak, and when he didn’t, he continued. “Your colleagues have been working with us. The al Qaeda people are leaving this morning for Nice instead of tomorrow, so plans are a bit … hmm, in disarray.”

  Stone did not trust the Frenchman. Fleming had not mentioned a joint operation with the French, although it made sense. You just didn’t pull off a rendition operation in France without their concurrence. “I’m heading back to Archos,” Stone said. “The stay here was quite pleasant.”

  Pointing to a broken marble column, Stone mused. “I wonder … you know, back when these beautiful ruins were a living town, I wonder if the ordinary person knew the barbarians were about to destroy them? Tell me, Mr. Colmont, do you believe history repeats itself? Are the barbarians preparing to get us all again?”

  Colmont tried a smile. “Mr. Stone, be careful. You were lucky here. Your people used you as bait to find the al Qaeda leader, bin Zanni. They should have confided in us. We have been tracking him for a month.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, frowned, and put it back in his pocket. “Your people have to learn to trust us.”

  “How well do you know Jonathan Deville?” Stone asked.

  “We went to school together in Paris. As you know, years ago his father was a legal attaché at the American embassy.” Colmont laughed. “And now Jonathan is the legal attaché. A family tradition.”

  Stone smiled. “The old school ties. Works every time.”

  “His family has a history here in France, so…” He turned his hand back and forth. “And you, Mr. Stone? You come from the same organization as Jonathan, no?”

  “Yes.” Stone raised his right index finger and waved it back and forth. “But now I am a travel writer.”

  “I understand, Mr. Stone.” He rose.

  “Let me walk with you”

  They walked to the road and Stone saw Colmont’s black Citroen parked behind his Porsche. Colmont’s two men stomped out their cigarettes and climbed into the car.

  “Well at least they gave you a nice car.” Colmont sighed. “Make good use of it to tour our countryside in Provence. Do you intend to return to Cuers?”

  “I don’t plan to. My trip there produced more questions than answers.”

  “Sometimes in life that happens.”

  Stone glared. “So I was no more than bait?”

  Colmont shrugged, and then looked down at his shoes. “I hope we can work together on this operation. You are much more professional than your colleagues.”

  The two shook hands. Stone watched the Citroen drive off before he climbed into the Porsche. He sat a while and studied the Roman arch. The time he had gone trout fishing in Arizona came to mind. It was up in the Mogollon Rim country. He remembered tying a Royal Wulff wet fly to his line and thinking it was an interesting lure.

  That’s what he’d been since coming to France: just bait, a lure. A fucking Royal Wulff.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Villefranche—May 8, 2002

  Contessa Lucinda always felt relaxed with Philippe Monte, the man her father had hired as consigliere. Her father had fled Egypt after the political situation had made an Egyptian Copt’s opportunity for continued financial success difficult. Fortunately, most of her father’s holdings were parked in Swiss banks. Following the death of both her parents, Monte had continued to help Lucinda administer the family’s finances.

  Philippe Monte unbuttoned the jacket of his taupe Brioni suit. “I’ve always enjoyed this view, contessa. It is one of the best on the Riviera.” He swept his hand before him. “From up here on the mountain one can see the bays
of both Villefranche and Beaulieu. It is like sitting in an amphitheatre.” His trim gray moustache matched his close-cropped hair. “Look at the town of Villefranche down on the right and Cap Ferrat out there.”

  “Yes, it is gorgeous. I hope we can continue to enjoy it, however, we may need some luck.” She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. “Your report shows we are in debt to the sum of twelve million euros.”

  He nodded, then sipped his cappuccino. The morning breeze ruffled the white linen tablecloth. In the distance, a truck rumbled on the coastal road high up the mountain above them.

  Lucinda shifted her legs and adjusted her pleated skirt. “And all because of that unwise investment. Why did you allow Boswell Harrington to talk me into backing him on that Afghanistan scheme of his?”

  “I warned you against signing those promissory notes.”

  “It was your job to protest! For God’s sake, this is my birthright we are talking about!”

  He laid his report on the coffee table. “If you remember, you were more confident of Mr. Harrington’s—uh, shall we say, business acumen?—than listening to my concerns about the venture.”

  “We would have made a tidy profit if it had succeeded.” She removed her sunglasses and pressed her palms on her eyes.

  “Who was to know?” Monte sighed. “Who was to know one could buy that space age mineral from Angola at a cheaper price.”

  “I should have been smarter. Who has ever made money in Afghanistan except drug lords?” She pushed away her plate of fruit, then reached back and picked some grapes off a stem. “How much is this castle worth?”

  “Contessa! You are not thinking of—” He shuffled the papers on his lap. “You could realize, perhaps, twenty-five million euros for the whole estate here. With the furnishings.” He paused and said slowly, “But sales of this magnitude take a long time to find a buyer.”