The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  Had Hassan tried to kill him again? Of course it was Hassan. Stone had killed one of his men. One of the men he had seen accompanying Hassan to that hotel in Saint Rémy. How did he find Stone? What made Stone such an important target? Tomorrow, Fleming had some answering to do.

  Lucinda stirred and gave a fitful moan, then went back to sleep. He had put her life in jeopardy. Best he stay away from her, but … He moved his lips slightly across her arm and his tongue tasted her supple flesh. The taste brought back the time she had surprised him with a visit to his apartment on an early rainy morning. He remembered having to call in to the consulate and tell his boss he was taking the morning off.

  They slept until eight in the morning. The rocking of the boat from swells rolling in from the Mediterranean awakened them. The stab wounds were sore, but otherwise Stone felt good. His mind was clear and he seemed to be viewing the world from a different perspective. Lucinda slid out of bed and went to the head. She called from behind the door that she had to get back home. He rose and went forward to his cabin and brushed his teeth, washed, and started to put on his clothes. She came in and told him to wait until she changed his bandages. During the procedure, she avoided looking into his eyes and said little.

  Afterward, as she dressed in her stateroom, he ground coffee beans and brewed a pot of coffee. She emerged from her cabin wearing white slacks and a beige pullover with no brassiere. Again, she said little. After they had filled their mugs with hot coffee, they went up on deck and viewed the bright sky and the bay sprinkled here and there with whitecaps from the breeze. Stone wondered what was wrong, but years before his father had told him, that at times like this it was best to keep your mouth shut. In the past when he had violated that rule, which was often, it had always proved disastrous.

  So, of course, after a few more sips of coffee, he blurted, “Lucinda, is everything all right?”

  She went back to the stern and sat looking out to the sea. “I have many things to do back at the palace. We must call the police about this incident.”

  “I know a policeman, but I don’t know his number. An Inspector Colmont.”

  “Oh yes, Maurice. He is coming to the party.” She handed him her cellphone. “His number is on my contact list.” She looked at her watch. “We must set sail. The party, by the way, is what you Americans call black-tie.”

  “I remember going to parties here wearing my uniform,” he said, regretting the statement immediately.

  She got up and went forward to the bow. “I could use help hoisting the anchor,” she called back. As they pulled on the line, she said, “The Navy dress uniforms always look better on younger men.”

  The La Claire rested, securely tied to the slip next to Lucinda’s bayside villa. Stone picked up a hose to wash off the salt water from the deck. “No need,” Lucinda called. “I’ll have her cleaned later.” Her dour mood had vanished once they had hoisted anchor and caught the morning breeze in the ketch’s sails.

  At sea, Stone hadn’t been able to connect with Maurice Colmont to report the attack from the night before. He asked Lucinda for her cellphone. This time Colmont answered and listened while Stone related the details of the attack. Colmont interrupted, “What time of night did this occur? Were you and the contessa the only ones aboard?”

  “It must have been about ten o’clock and just Lucinda—the contessa—and I were aboard.” Stone answered, while watching Lucinda gather the wicker basket and her overnight bag. “Do you think it was more than just a random robbery attempt?”

  “Tell me, Mr. Stone, what do your instincts tell you?”

  Stone thought for a moment, watching Lucinda handing the food basket to a woman on her staff. “I think it was deliberate … and if so, I’ve put Lucinda’s life in jeopardy.”

  “Well, you may be right, but life is in many ways a gamble,” Colmont said, after a pause. “I will have the local authorities look into the matter, and then after speaking with my superiors I will let you know if we have learned anything of interest. You will be at the contessa’s party this weekend, yes?”

  God, the French were as bureaucratic as Americans. “Yeah. I’ll be there. Perhaps you’ll have some information for me.” Stone rang off.

  Lucinda came over and, taking her time, gave him a warm kiss. She touched his shoulder gently. “I must attend to my … other affairs.”

  Stone put his traveling case into the front trunk of the Porsche and wiped sea spray from the windshield. As he opened the car door, a young staff member ran from the villa carrying a round pillow.

  “Sir, the contessa wants you to use this for your ride back. She wants you to follow me to the doctor’s office. It is over there.” He pointed to a two-story building a few blocks away.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Sir, please, if you do not allow the doctor to examine you, Madame will be quite angry with me.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Camargue—May 9, 2002

  Early in the morning with the sun trying to break through a layer of low-hanging clouds, Hassan slumped in the back seat of the BMW as it headed west from Marseille to the salt marshes of the Camargue.

  Dr. Aziz Hussein had suggested to Hassan that they meet at a place midpoint between Montpellier, the location of his university, and Marseille. This time of year few tourists visited the Camargue, a remote wildlife preserve.

  Hassan remembered meeting Dr. Aziz in Brazzaville, Congo two years before. The scientist was working on disease control and spent most of his time in the jungles northeast of Brazzaville studying monkeys. A Palestinian brother had introduced Hassan to Aziz as they shopped for groceries at Brazzaville’s only supermarket. After the introduction, the three had walked along the street toward the Sofitel Hotel and passed the abandoned American embassy. An old French colonial mansion, the embassy showed damage to the façade and roof from one of the recent riots.

  “Would that all the American embassies look like this one!” Aziz had exclaimed, who stopped and smiled at the gray, dilapidated building.

  At the hotel restaurant, the three had relaxed over glasses of iced tea and gazed out the windows at the swift, muddy Congo River, carrying flotsam and broken trees toward the rapids. Kinshasa, the capital of the other Congo, Zaire, sat a mile across the river and, at least for a while, the two Congos were not exchanging artillery rounds back and forth. Hassan sipped his drink and listened to Aziz expound upon his work with the contagious diseases of central Africa. Aziz had impressed him with his scientific knowledge, but mostly with his zeal. The man fervently believed they lived in the time of Arab civilization resurgence. Hassan hoped so.

  “What are those lesions?” Hassan had asked, pointing to Aziz’s arm. “Are they from your work? Are they from some disease you contracted from the jungle?”

  “No. No. They are from the tumbu fly. They lay their eggs on laundry hung out to dry. You put your clothes on and the larvae then penetrate the skin.” He rolled down his shirtsleeves. “An American businessman I met told me I should iron my clothes before I put them on. It kills the eggs.”

  They had all laughed when Aziz had added that it was wise to take good advice even from your enemy. Hassan also had thought this was a man he could use someday for his plan.

  The BMW pulled into the parking lot of the Camargue Information Center; Hassan emerged, surveyed the surroundings, and then took the footpath that led away from the information center toward the open water of the Étang de Vaccarès. Aziz had told Hassan that he had visited the site a week prior specifically to look over the area for this meeting. He had sent written instructions to Hassan on when and where to meet. At one of the viewpoints overlooking the lake, Hassan saw Aziz with a heavy camera equipped with a long telescopic lens taking photographs of flamingos. The sun had warmed the lake water, which now gave off a heavy, tangy marsh smell.

  Hassan stopped and instructed Yazid and the driver to split up and meander around the area to look for anyone appearing suspicious. Then he approached Aziz an
d exchanged greetings, after which the two strolled along the path bordering the lake.

  “Did you see the white horses as you drove into the preserve?” Aziz asked. “They are wild horses. It is said our brother Arabs brought them here centuries ago when this place was ruled by our people.”

  “How much longer will it take to have the virus ready for shipment to America?”

  “Praise to God, it will be ready soon,” Aziz said, and continued to discuss the ecosystem of the Camargue.

  Aziz had lost weight since the last time they’d met. His face held a gaunt, faraway look. Very few of his sentences did not invoke some form of prayer. He had promised delivery of the virus a month ago. Hassan pressed him, tugging at Aziz’s sleeve. “I must know the quantity. Is it in liquid form?”

  Aziz stopped and whispered, “God willing, you will get the virus in fine powder form.”

  “But I’m sending it in wine bottles, you fool!”

  “It is so fine that it resembles liquid through the glass. Much easier to handle. It is my own design.”

  “No! It must be liquid!” Hassan moved quickly down the path.

  Aziz called after him, “Powder is much better to handle. Our people in America who receive the bottles will be better protected.”

  “Who cares if they are protected?” Hassan spit the words out. “They are soldiers! Especially when true martyrs wrap explosives around their bellies.”

  Hassan turned and rushed back to Aziz. “Give me an idea when you will be ready. I must have a time frame. The bottles have to be labeled and filled. It will be a delicate procedure to fill the bottles without spreading the virus. Then I must ship the cases to America.” He could feel the beginnings of a headache.

  “Do not be concerned, my brother, I have thought that part out. Have patience. I will be in charge of filling the bottles myself. I know the cautionary procedures. There will be no mishaps. Within the week, maybe two weeks, God willing, I will be ready.”

  “That’s what I mean! One week, two weeks, God willing this, God willing that … I cannot operate under conditions like this!” Some spittle flew from his mouth and landed on Aziz’s jacket.

  Aziz glowered. “If it were not for me, there would be no plan. Using my knowledge of genetics, I have engineered and replicated the virus.” Aziz pushed Hassan back. “I, with God’s help, have managed to isolate and stabilize this strain of virus. I avoided contamination and detection by the authorities. I did all of this alone.”

  Hassan put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the lake. Flamingoes and egrets were stepping carefully in the water. He suddenly wished he could enjoy this peaceful scene. Instead, in addition to his headache, he had a growing pain in his stomach.

  Aziz came up behind him. “You will be patient. You have no recourse.” Aziz’s breathing became heavy. “When the virus is ready, and God willing, it will be ready soon, I will notify you. Then you will proceed with the plan.”

  Hassan took his hands out of his pockets and placed them on the shaky wooden railing separating the path from the water’s edge. He had no choice but to wait. Aziz was in control, so he must bide his time. Aziz had possession of a virus, one of the most deadly known to science. If indeed he had reproduced it and they could transport it successfully to America, all would be well and good. If Aziz failed in the mission, Hassan would kill him.

  Côte d’Azur

  In the shade alongside the swimming pool at the Foundation d’Élan, Stone relaxed in a deck chair next to David, who busied himself editing his Esperanto manuscript with a red ink pen. Stone thought it odd that only a few of the fellows from the Foundation ever used the pool, so the tranquil setting allowed for reading and contemplation. The air smelled fresh from the surrounding pines and the salt air from the sea.

  The drive back from Villefranche had been uneventful, and the pillow Lucinda had insisted he take had eased the pain in his backside. Her physician had redressed the wounds, never asking the cause of the cuts. Stone did notice a number of sideward glances that suggested he was suspicious, but evidently Lucinda carried a lot of weight in the town.

  Stone tilted his cap down over his face and closed his eyes. What a night. Putting aside the unpleasantness with the would-be assassin, sleeping with Lucinda had been unexpected and fantastic. What had he been thinking when he dumped her eighteen years ago? He had given up an easy lifestyle on the beautiful French coast, married to the most exotic woman he had ever known. Since he’d left Villefranche, images of running his fingers through her soft, auburn hair kept returning.

  “Damn!” David exclaimed, jarring Stone from his daydream.

  Stone took a quick look from under the brim of his hat. Seeing David engrossed in editing his manuscript, he returned to his thoughts. Maurice Colmont’s remarks the day before at the Roman ruins still nagged at him. Perhaps the French intelligence officer was right; maybe he had been used as bait in the operation against bin Zanni. So what? He followed orders. Being a decoy was part of the job. He needn’t know all the details. The “need to know” policy was necessary in case of capture by the enemy. Yet even knowing and believing this, Stone realized he had not relinquished control of his life; he carelessly had let it slip away.

  Colmont was clever, trying to sow seeds of doubt. Maybe it was part of a recruitment approach by the Frenchman. Stone had used the technique numerous times in the past in attempting to recruit spies. Perhaps this weekend at Lucinda’s party, he’d try a pitch on Colmont. Come to think of it, how did Colmont know the contessa? Are the social circles along the Côte d’Azur so closed? Then again, she knew Jonathan Deville. A nice little network. If it wasn’t for people trying to kill him, he could get to like this place.

  He turned to David. “Wasn’t it about this time of day when we saw Margaux heading for the pool?”

  David replaced the top on his pen. His Panama hat sat low on his head. “I see. Instead of working on your new travel book, you’re mentally reviewing the attributes of that French maiden.”

  Stone grinned. “Just want to do my part for international relations. My contribution to the ‘People to People’ program.”

  “My God. I last heard that phrase from my mother. How old are you?” David sat up. “I give you fair warning, that French lady is not to be had.”

  Bruises appeared along the left side of David’s chest. Stone wanted to ask him about the marks, but thought he might come back and ask about the bandage on his shoulder. Then he’d have to come up with some story. No need to bring up last night’s attack. Perhaps a subtle approach. “How are things with you?”

  “How do you mean?” He looked away.

  “I mean … with your Esperanto? Any encouragement from that academic in Paris?”

  David lowered his head, concealing his face under his hat. “Not from the people in Paris, nor from anyone here at the Foundation.”

  “How much do you have invested in the project?”

  “Everything. My life.” David set his manuscript aside. “I’m counting on being published in order…”

  “In order for what?”

  “I teach at a prep school outside Philadelphia. If I get published, I’ll stay employed.” He set his jaw. “If I don’t, I may end up a Dharma bum here on the Riviera.”

  Shouts came from the direction of the walkway leading from the Harringtons’ residence. Trees and bushes hid the owners of the voices, which grew louder as they approached an open flight of stairs. Stone realized that they belonged to the Harringtons.

  “Oh, Lordy! Here we go again.” David jumped up and gathered his papers.

  Boswell Harrington popped into view. He raced down the stairs with his wife Helen following him. He’d just paused to steady himself using the pipe rail when she gave him a roundhouse blow over the head with a wooden-handled handbag. Stumbling down the next two steps, he turned and threw his arms up to ward off another bash.

  Stone shook his head. Here were the two paragons of the Foundation, impeccably dressed, screaming,
and battering one another. Next to him, David said something about wishing he were somewhere else. The argument continued, and Stone picked up verbal clues as to the cause. Helen sputtered the words, “Villefranche! Weekend romp! She’s nothing but Euro-trash!”

  Harrington yelled back, “For God’s sake, you’ll be there! Your hysteria has turned into paranoia!”

  She placed a well-aimed kick to his groin and he bent over. Groaning, he fell forward onto his wife and knocked her onto the steps. Stone jumped up and ran over to grab Harrington to prevent another blow. Both Harringtons turned on him.

  “Back off!” Harrington growled. “This is of no concern of yours!”

  “You heard him!” his wife yelled. “Mind your own business, you hack writer!” She pushed herself up from the stairs and started for Stone. Blood dripped from her left nostril.

  Stone backed away. “Just thought a bit of arbitration might help.”

  She caught Stone blindside with her bag and he felt a welt rise on his left temple. He ripped the bag from her hand.

  Harrington pointed at Stone. “Don’t you ever again interfere in our business! If you do, I’ll send you packing!”

  Mrs. Harrington scoffed, “This person obviously doesn’t know his place!” She wiped blood from her nose with the back of her hand.

  “I do know, Madame, that this is not the place for such nonsense.” He threw the bag to Harrington and back-stepped toward the pool. “And the place for foreplay is in the bedroom.”

  As Stone returned to the pool, he saw David heading for his cottage, who called back, “I can’t afford to get into any more trouble.” Then he rushed off.

  Now the pool was deserted. Stone picked up a towel and pressed it to his head. On inspection, the towel showed no blood.

  Margaux materialized from behind the vine-covered gazebo next to the stairs. She peered up the stairs at the Harringtons marching back to their villa. Her abbreviated top revealed a well-formed navel. At birth, did French doctors give an extra twist to girls’ umbilical cords to form such delicious bellybuttons? She ambled over to him wearing a smile that said—you got yourself into trouble. She delicately took the towel from his hand and examined the welt with her dark brown eyes. Then she looked at the bandage on his shoulder. “Tut-tut.”