The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  She gazed down at the Bay of Villefranche as she had done from the time she was a little girl. Sleek white boats cruised back and forth from their anchorages out to the Mediterranean Sea. As a girl, she would make up stories about who sailed on the boats and what adventures the seamen had or were going to have. The big American warships would anchor for weeks in the middle of the bay, their little gray boats ferrying sailors to and from the dock.

  “My family has lived here for centuries,” she said. “We lived here when this region belonged to Italy and, I think, the Grimaldis. I will not sit here and watch it disappear. Never!”

  She clapped her hands, summoning the servant, and asked Monte, “Would you care for anything more to eat?” He declined. After a few moments she asked, “Are you positive we cannot sell or lease out the land in Tuscany? Can you not come up with some ideas?” She tapped her shoe, looking for the servant.

  “The property in Tuscany is already mortgaged, and then there is the question of your brother’s compliance. He, or at least his wife, might protest the sale.”

  Her brother, who lived in and out of a sanitarium in Livorno, proved to be a financial and emotional burden for her. And his Russian wife tried to intrude in the family affairs. She looked at Monte. “I apologize. Thanks to you, I have final say regarding family enterprises. My brother’s compliance is merely a formality. His wife is of no consequence.”

  The young Austrian servant scuffed in her sandals over to their table. Lucinda ordered her to clear the dishes from the table and bring fresh coffee. The girl arched an eyebrow and then sauntered off with the tray. She pushed the door into the kitchen, and after a brief pause, Lucinda heard a sharp crash of broken china.

  “Has the staff been paid their salaries?” Lucinda asked.

  “I am pretty sure there were sufficient funds to pay them this month. I will check.”

  A single cloud cast a moving shadow across the bay toward the white yacht that had anchored the night before. Lucinda then thought of her sailboat tied up next to her beach house. It was a ketch with a teak deck that her father bought and taught her to sail. Hayden Stone had sailed with them that summer. Her father had said that Stone was a natural sailor. “He has salt water in his veins.” When the weather improved, she would take the boat out for a sail.

  “Does that monstrous white yacht belong to the Saudi prince?” she asked.

  “Yes, that is the Red Scorpion. It was anchored over in Nice, but I suppose the prince wanted a change in view.”

  “Harrington would like to do business with the prince,” Lucinda said. “He has asked me to provide an introduction. Therefore, I am planning an affair this weekend. We will hold it down at the beach house.”

  Monte frowned, then let out a long sigh. “Contessa … your finances?”

  “Please, don’t be dramatic. The food will come from our farms up in Provence and the wine from our depleting wine cellar.” She looked up at the pink-tinted clouds. “We still have those farms. Perhaps I will end my life as a milk maid.”

  “And a very elegant one, I must say.”

  “Perhaps the prince may help me with my finances … directly or indirectly.” Monte frowned, and she continued. “Yes, I know, I’m courting trouble, but I do not intend to marry him.” She straightened her skirt. The women in her family had a history of marriages of convenience, but not to Muslims. “Harrington wants the prince to finance the purchase of a Turkish shipyard specializing in yachts for wealthy Americans,” she continued. “The arrangement is very vague, but I will receive what is called a finder’s fee. Is that what it is called?”

  “That is the term.”

  Looking off to Cap Ferrat, she said, “Too bad Mr. Bill Gates is married. He has a lovely house over there on the Cap.”

  “Not a suitable match for you, my dear. Besides being married, it is reported he refuses to wear a tie.”

  They laughed and finished their coffee.

  “Contessa, regarding your properties in Tuscany—as you know, my cousin works on your vineyards and he has been doing some digging for new vines. He has uncovered a number of artifacts.”

  “When did this occur?”

  “Recently.” He pulled out a silver cigarette case and motioned if it was permissible to smoke.

  Lucinda nodded.

  He lit his cigarette. “You are aware that Italian laws are strict with regard to the sale of antiquities.”

  She nodded again. “Yes.”

  “As a result, the prices on the international market of these exquisite pieces have risen in the past few years. My cousin knows one of the last of the respectable tombaroli. This man says the vineyard to the west of your farmhouse sits on a Roman villa.”

  “You are suggesting I allow some grave robber to dig on my property and sell what we find? Which I suppose is illegal?”

  “Well, the Italian government says it is illegal. There are those who would contend that what is found on your own property is yours, period.”

  Lucinda placed her slender, manicured finger to her chin and thought a moment. “How much can I make selling those pieces?”

  “I have another cousin who knows a buyer in Zurich who has seen photographs of the pieces. He has offered to pay up to three million euros for the first lot. That sum would keep the bankers satisfied for a few months at least.”

  “Good. Tell him to proceed, but I want you personally to supervise the matter. I am not to be embarrassed by problems with the authorities. Moreover, I want to see those photographs.” She thought for a moment. “There may be a particular piece I want to keep for my collection. Especially anything Etruscan.” She stood. “Now, I must be getting the guest list together. I am inviting Harrington, the prince and some of his retainers, and of course the American consul general. Do you have any other suggestions?”

  “Let me phone the consul general. He may have some ideas for the guest list … say some visiting American business people or notables. The bigger the stew, the better the chance of finding the perfect morsel.”

  She laughed. “Philippe, you just made that up. My dear, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  The two walked along the terraced path to where he had parked his car. As they strolled, he told her that because of her cash flow problems, he had returned her Bentley to the dealer, but the manager, a longtime friend of his, had agreed to lend her a Maserati in its place.

  She waved as he drove off. On the way back to her library she decided she would phone the manager of her Tuscan estate and get his version of the story about the proposed archaeological excavation on her property. He also may have some idea how much Monte and his cousin expected to realize from the scheme. As for the weekend party, she would extend invitations to her friends Maurice Colmont and Jonathan Deville. With their connections, both could possibly be of help in her financial predicament.

  Not until Lucinda had checked off the last name on the guest list did she instruct her secretary to add the name Hayden Stone.

  Stone had been in her thoughts since the night at the party in Marseille. Lucinda believed chance encounters, like coincidences, had meaning, just as one’s life had purpose beyond mere existence. She would rely on her instincts.

  Marseille

  The people in Beirut had assured Hassan that the new man, Yazid, would be a good replacement for the deceased Three Fingers. Now here Hassan was, parked on the shoulder of a major highway on the outskirts of Marseille, looking down at this fool Yazid, performing one of his daily prayers.

  “How long does he take with his prayers?” Hassan demanded. “We cannot stay along this roadside much longer. We are attracting attention. This is not good.” Hassan looked up and down the highway. “In Marseille, we must find someone less absorbed in religion.”

  The driver answered him with wide eyes. “But he is performing his prayers, sir. He is a holy man.”

  “Praise be to Allah. We are soldiers, not mullahs.” Hassan looked down at the prostrate figure. The man would be good wit
h a bomb strapped to his belly and sent into a government building, but he would be useless on an assassination or a mission that required thought. “After Palestine is free, there will be time for prayer and poetry.”

  Yazid finished his prayers and hurried to the car, his head lowered. Hassan ordered the driver not to stop the car until they reached their destination. He settled in the back seat and pulled out his worry beads. After fingering them for a few seconds, Hassan shoved them back in his pocket. They were behind schedule with his plan. The brothers in America were impatient to receive the shipment. The next day he would meet with Dr. Aziz Husseini. He would urge him to move faster with his formula. Rashid would return from Nice after sucking the asses of the Sunnis, and then he and Rashid would meet with the distributor again about the wine shipment to America.

  He sighed, thinking of his dear friend, Three Fingers, and hoped the brothers in Saint-Rémy had attended to his burial. The two men sitting in the front seat of the car were unreliable; indeed, he needed a trusted collaborator.

  The car passed by the Marseille-Provence airport. Soon they would reach the safehouse. It amused him how quickly the Saudi, Abdul Wahab, had left Saint-Rémy with the al Qaeda functionary, bin Zanni. Hassan had caught a glimpse of the fabled terrorist leaving the hotel. Bin Zanni had needed the support of two men to walk the short distance to his car. Hassan stared out the window. Odd. The man was not old, and Hassan had not heard he was ill. And why were they taking him to Nice?

  Wahab and his easy Saudi money. Hassan felt the inside pocket of his jacket for the thick envelope of currency Wahab had given to him in the church in Saint-Rémy. Again, the question came to mind: Did Wahab kill Three Fingers to make Hassan believe the American had done it? What purpose would that serve? No. The American had killed his friend. This American was more skilled than the CIA man he’d watched die in Nice. Another puzzle—why did the Saudis kill the CIA woman in Montpellier? Was the CIA getting close to catching bin Zanni? On the other hand, were they onto his own plan in Marseille?

  The week before, on the car trip from Nice to Saint-Rémy, Hassan had decided that Wahab planned to use him as a diversion. If something went wrong with the assassination of the CIA man living at the Foundation in Archos, the CIA and the French would be looking for him, Hassan, the Shiite. They were clever, those Saudi Sunnis. No matter … he would kill the American when the time was right, and then handle this Abdul Wahab.

  Yazid in the front right seat chanted a Koranic verse. Hassan went for his beads, thought otherwise, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Saint-Rémy-de-Provence

  The conversation that morning with Maurice Colmont at the ruins of Glanum continued to nag at Stone. He pulled the car off the quiet two-lane country road onto a dirt farm path and came to a stop. Was the Agency using him as a decoy? The only specific operational instructions he had received since arriving in France were to go to Saint Rémy and look for a phantom al Qaeda functionary and a terrorist named Hassan. The latter may or may not have been responsible for the deaths of the two CIA officers. He was certain the Agency had an anti-terrorist program in place, but the details were being withheld from him. Why? Because people lower on the chain like himself needn’t know.

  Meanwhile, it seemed as if he had been led into the middle of an open field, while the Agency sat back and watched to see what would happen. Despite being targeted twice, the assignment hadn’t been all that bad. After all, he now stood in the quiet Provence countryside, warmed by the Mediterranean sun and taking in the smells of a spring morning.

  Back in the car, he turned on the ignition, hesitated, and then leaned back. In Saint Rémy, Fleming’s last words were to keep out of sight. Disappear into the woodwork. Okay, that he would do. He decided to phone his friend Jonathan Deville in Paris.

  “They let the target get away,” Deville said, and Stone could picture him shaking his head. “I wonder sometimes if our colleagues are really serious about all this, or is their fumbling due to resources being stretched too thin.”

  “Fleming could use more people,” Stone said. “and better intelligence. There’re too many bad guys running around here, and we don’t know who they belong to.”

  Deville lowered his voice. “I heard you had another nasty altercation. Apparently, you’ve become a lighting rod. Why don’t you lie low for a while? Come up to Paris and stay with us for a couple of days. Paris is good for the soul.”

  “That’s sort of what Fleming suggested,” Stone said. He remembered Deville telling him at the consul general’s party that his wife wanted to introduce a girl to him. Then Lucinda came to mind. She was on good terms with the Devilles. “Listen Jonathan, I do need a diversion, but I don’t know if I can get to Paris.” He paused. “You wouldn’t have Lucinda’s phone number handy, would you?”

  “Christ, Stone, I suggested comfort for the soul, and immediately your mind goes carnal.” Deville chuckled. “Wait a second.” Back on the line, he continued, “From the contessa’s reaction at the party the other night, I would say you’re heading into more trouble, but anyway, here’s her number.”

  After ringing off, Stone immediately punched in the contessa’s phone number. Then, before pushing the Send button, he snapped the phone shut. What would he say to her? And how would he say it? He hadn’t thought this out.

  He started the car, waited a few minutes, then turned off the engine. The call would be awkward. The win-lose odds were not in his favor. What the hell. If he didn’t call now, eventually he would. He had to remember to call her Lucinda, not Lucy. He phoned. Feeling relieved when told she wasn’t available, he left his phone number with the woman he assumed was Lucinda’s secretary.

  As Stone pulled the car out onto the road, he felt a familiar sensation; a sixth sense told him he was being watched. The only other car on the road was behind him, a good mile away. It followed him for a while, then turned off at an intersection. Ten minutes later his cellphone rang. Stone knew it was Lucinda even before he saw the number displayed on the screen.

  “Hello … Lucinda.”

  “You called me?”

  “Please hold on until I pull off the road. I’m driving.” Stone eased onto the shoulder of the road. Give both of us time to catch our breath. After a moment, he said, “Lucinda, I’ve been meaning to give you a call.” He waited, but she didn’t respond. “The party at the consul general’s house was a pleasant affair, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, it was,” she said in her husky voice. “As it so happens, I just sent you an invitation for a little party I am giving this weekend.”

  “How nice. I’ll be there.”

  After a long pause, she asked, “How is it in Archos?”

  “I’m on the road right now. Just left Saint-Rémy and am heading back.” Stone found himself running out of light conversation. “The weather in Archos … I heard it’s overcast. How’s it there in Villefranche?”

  “Sunny and warm. I’m watching sailboats down in La Rade, the bay.”

  “Sounds wonderful. Do you still have La Claire?”

  “I would never part with my father’s boat,” she said. He detected her voice break slightly. “You are only two hours away. I can have a lunch packed, and we can take her for a sail.”

  “Great. I’m on my way.”

  “The boat is tied up at my villa’s slip down on the bay. You can find your way, no?”

  When Lucinda hung up, he stared at the phone and murmured, “Well, as Mom used to say, life has its twists and turns, doesn’t it?”

  La Claire’s rigging hung smartly and her teak deck shone a golden brown from a fresh oiling. Stone looked over the craft’s lines: still long, sleek, and strong. Lucinda’s father had loved the boat and had shared the nuances of her personality with him. Stone had considered that sharing by Lucinda’s father a generous gift.

  “Hello there. You made good time,” Lucinda called from the boat. She wore a navy blue turtleneck blouse and white shorts tha
t flattered her long tanned legs. “Come aboard.”

  Stone hesitated as he realized his dress shoes would scuff the deck. He leaned against a piling and began to remove them.

  “We have footwear for you,” she said. “Did you bring a bathing costume? Of course not. No problem, you may use my brother’s clothes and his shoes, if they fit.” She offered her hand. “My brother looks the same size as you, and he will never use them.”

  Now came the moment Stone had dreaded. During the drive to Villefranche he’d wondered how he would handle the greeting. Would they kiss hello or just shake hands? Lucinda’s palm felt moist, and he guessed she worried about the same thing. She solved the problem by giving him two bises, the French salutary kiss, one on each cheek, then pointed him toward the forward cabin.

  There he found swim trunks and a blue- and white-striped pullover laid out on the bunk. Next to them lay an expensive sweater with tissue paper still in the sleeves. New boat shoes, which happened to be his size, rested in a store box. All he suspected had been purchased that morning from a very expensive local shop.

  “My, you do look like you are ready for a sail,” Lucinda said when he emerged from below deck. “Let us cast off. We can lunch while we are underway.”

  “Aye, skipper,” Stone said. “It’s been some time since I’ve been on a ketch. Just tell me what to do.”

  Lucinda used the inboard diesel to ease the boat away from the dock, toward blue water. She killed the engine and asked Stone to pull the halyard to raise the mainsail. She handled the mizzenmast. The craft leaned slightly from the light breeze, and with the trickle from water passing along the sides of the boat and slight creaks from up in the standing rigging, they were underway.

  “Please take the helm,” she said. “You know how she handles.”

  The polished wooden wheel felt familiar in his grasp. Images returned, only half-remembered: the helm, wooden and scarred in familiar places along the spokes; the soaring height of the mainmast overhead; the mizzen swinging close in front; Lucinda’s father sitting in the cockpit across from Stone, stuffing his pipe with Turkish tobacco and gazing out across the sea.