by Arthur Kerns
“You have no manners! No couth!” she scolded. “That was ‘not cool,’ as they say in America!”
“I only kissed you lightly on the lips.”
“No. No. No.” She shut her eyes and shook her head.
“Well, I smelled your hair and also kissed your forehead.” He grinned. “Which one is frowned upon in France?”
“You know what I mean. Harrington was speaking with the contessa. That is a private thing. It is ill-mannered to listen in on something like that.”
“Oh. Well, I couldn’t understand what was said, so I didn’t hear anything.”
“It does not matter. You tried to listen.”
“So you know Harrington is involved with Lucinda?”
Margaux walked away and then pivoted. She rested her hand on the table next to the phone. An elderly female customer walked by and Margaux exchanged quick pleasantries with her. When the elderly woman passed, Margaux moved closer.
“Lucinda?” She pursed her lips and tilted her head. “So that is why you were so interested in the conversation?” She took a deep breath, her eyes moist. “Well, it seems Lucinda is also interested in you. Today, Lucinda’s secretary called with an invitation for you to attend her party in Villefranche. It is on Saturday. I left the message for you in your mailbox.”
She turned and headed for the kitchen, and then Stone remembered the license number. “Margaux, please write down the license number of that car.”
She stopped, gave him a long look, and said, “I have forgotten the number.”
Stone had just passed through the side gate of the Foundation when his cellphone rang. Lucinda, he hoped, but no, the voice belonged to Mark. “Hey, Pal. I’m here in Nice with Fleming and the team. We’re covering the Saudis, hoping to get a lead on bin Zanni.” It sounded like he was catching his breath. “Claudia has arrived from Washington to take charge of the operation.”
“What should I do?”
“Well, Fleming thinks she’s come to town to break up all the furniture. If I were you, I’d lay low. On second thought, I’ve planned a surveillance on Hassan tomorrow in Marseille. I could use your help.”
Chapter Seventeen
Marseille—May 10, 2002
The thirty-two foot cabin cruiser, moored in Marseille’s crowded inner harbor, rocked gently in the wake of a passing fishing boat. Stone and Mark had settled themselves in the galley and, from a distance of fifty meters, had a clear view of the fish market set up along the edge of the quay. Fishmongers with their collapsible aquamarine-colored tables spread out their daily catch of fish, shellfish, conger eels, and other staples for the kitchens of serious Marseille cooks. By eleven in the morning, the inspecting, judging, and deciding for the evening meals was now at full tempo.
Inside the cramped cabin Stone relaxed on a canvas chair, gray from years of weather, his bare feet propped up on a box of spare parts for the boat’s marine diesel engine. Through an open side window, he scanned the colorful parade with binoculars. He felt a certain contentment with the moist warmth on his skin, feeling the rhythmic motion of the boat under him, and hearing the caws of the gulls overhead. He was at home with the deep smell of sea and fish.
“There’s beer in the fridge,” Mark said.
Mark arranged a series of eight by ten photographs on the table. Gray hairs speckled his three-day growth of beard. One by one, he picked up the photographs and studied them. Stone had concluded that here was a guy who felt comfortable in situations like this. Typical of someone who had risen through the CIA’s paramilitary division.
“These were taken yesterday at about the same hour,” Mark said, almost as if he was examining a scientific specimen. “It’s the best template we have, given the time constraints.” He restacked the photos. “What we want to do, is spot people who don’t belong out there.”
In a half hour, Hassan and a blonde-haired woman were expected to appear in the market area. Mark and Stone would take photographs of the two and, more importantly, take pictures of any suspicious individuals in the vicinity who might be interested in the couple.
“I can’t believe the Agency conducts surveillance with beer on the menu.” Stone shook his head, got up, and reviewed the photographs. In his thinking, it was a long shot to find anyone out there on the quay who didn’t match with the people in the previous day’s photographic mosaic. For him, the photos were of minimal help. All the people he saw through his binoculars looked like they belonged.
“You FBI folks have a reputation for being tight-assed. Go have a beer and bring me a sandwich, will you?” Mark laughed, and then, through the cabin’s mesh-covered front windows, searched the crowd. “Imagine all the good meals that are going to be cooked tonight in this town. This is a gourmet’s paradise.”
“I’m getting to like Marseille. It has a certain charm.” Stone agreed, pulling two sandwiches out of the small refrigerator. He passed a beer to Mark and took a bottle of water for himself.
Mark mused. “It’s a tough town, but the people have a good, earthy sense of humor.”
Stone unwrapped his sandwich and climbed up to the semi-enclosed bridge to get some fresh air. Puffy white clouds blowing in on a soft sea breeze spotted a royal blue sky. Images returned of his navy days, the visits to the ports along the Côte d’Azur and, of course, Lucinda. He should have called her when he returned to Archos.
Stone frowned and took a bite of his chicken sandwich. Kissing Margaux had been a dumb move. She was young and would probably get the wrong impression. It was all he could do to handle Lucinda. He smiled. That is, if anyone could handle her. And why did Lucinda phone Harrington? What was that all about? Stone laughed. What the hell was wrong with him?
Mark looked up from the cabin. “You okay, Partner?”
“Yes. Yes. My new life as a single man has fascinating complications.”
Mark shook his head. “No lurid details, please. I’m happily married and will be away from my wife for at least another month. Don’t get me thinking about sex.”
“Tell you what, I’ll lend you one of my travel books. Reading it will dull your senses.”
Mark went back inside and a few moments later called out, “Show time!”
Stone jumped up and slipped down into the cabin. Through the binoculars, he recognized Hassan moving with athletic grace from one vendor’s table to another. He wore a leather jacket, a white, open-necked shirt, and tan slacks. At his side sauntered a tall blonde about thirty years old. She was talking with Hassan and gesturing at fish on the trays. Her face looked familiar. The two continued to pass along the line of tables, examining the displays of seafood.
Mark phoned Eric, the surveillance agent positioned on the wharf. Then, with his camera, equipped with a long telescopic lens, he snapped every two seconds. Stone searched the crowd for anyone looking out of the ordinary. Finally, Mark stopped taking pictures. “If you see anyone who looks suspicious, let me know.”
“Right,” Stone said, scrutinizing the blonde. He had seen her before. “Hey, I know her.”
She was the CIA officer he’d met in the American Embassy in Paris, the one who had created his legend at the foundation and gave him the name Finbarr Costanza.
Mark whispered, “Yep, she’s one of us.”
Hassan found himself following the blonde and trying to keep track of her chattering. He had never met a Canadian woman before and wondered whether they all talked as much as she did. He found her slight lisp intriguing. It was good to be away from his comrades and the worry about whether Aziz would come through with the virus.
“Do you do any cooking, Hassan?” she asked, as she looked at a particularly odd fish with a large mouth.
He shook his head. “Back home, the women cook.”
She would be good in bed, what with her strong back and solid legs. He wondered why he did not think more about having sex with her. Maybe he just enjoyed the change in routine she provided. Since they had met in Avignon, when they sat along the Rhone River and chatted, he
’d considered her merely a pleasant diversion.
“How did the story you were working on in Nice go?” she asked. “Did it get published in your Beirut newspaper?”
“The story?” He studied her. “Oh, it will be published next week.”
“I would like to read some of your work.”
He smiled. “Do you read Arabic?”
“Afraid not. Will you return to Nice?”
“No time soon. I will stay here in Marseille for a while.” He put his hand on her shoulder as they squeezed between two large women with sacks of fish. “When do you have to return to your aunt in Avignon?”
“After lunch.” She spun around. “Oh, let me pay this time.”
He shook his head. “Arab men do not allow a woman to pay for a meal. It is tradition.”
“Hum, I’ll have to remember that. Did you have some good meals in Nice?” She pulled back her long blonde hair with both hands and looked up at the sun.
“Yes. The food is good there.”
Why was she asking all these questions about Nice? He pretended to be interested in some painted clay pots placed next to a tray of mussels. What was it about Nice that aroused her interest? It was very peculiar.
“Look, there’s a seahorse on this tray.”
He studied her eyes and her mouth for some sign of deception he hoped not to see. It would be good to trust her.
The seahorse dropped onto the ground. “Damn.” Her movements were controlled and quick in a way that surprised him. She picked the seahorse up and threw it back onto the tray.
Stone picked up the change in Hassan’s body language. “Shit. Something’s up.” His body had stiffened as he looked down at the CIA woman when she bent over and picked something off the ground. The stare lasted a second longer than normal.
“What you got, Partner?” Mark shifted from scanning the crowd to Hassan and the woman.
“He looks like he didn’t like something he heard. He’s acting different.”
Mark watched for a moment. “You’re good. Yeah, where’s that big-toothed smile?”
“Should we do something?”
“Not yet. She still has a task to perform. I’ll call our legman and give him a heads up.”
Mark phoned Eric, the operative positioned a block away, and told him to enter the market area.
“Look,” Stone said. “I think she picked up on Hassan’s change in mood.”
The CIA woman pulled her cellphone from her purse and appeared to try to make a call. After a few moments, she banged the phone shut in her hand and then looked at Hassan with exasperation. She handed him the phone.
Hassan took the phone and pushed some buttons, put it to his ear, and then shook it. With one hand raised in resignation, he returned the phone to her and she let him drop it in her purse. He offered his own cellphone to her, but she waved him off. They walked off toward the row of outdoor cafés.
“Bingo,” Mark said. “We’ve got his fingerprints. Now I’ll signal her.”
Mark pulled a silver flashlight-shaped instrument from a box and aimed it at the CIA officer.
“I’m directing a laser beam in her direction. It should set off a vibration on her ankle bracelet. Two pulses indicate a warning.” Mark pressed the button twice.
“What if she’s in real trouble?”
Mark looked around, “I hold it down steady and hope she runs faster than he does.”
Hassan and the female agent strolled to a restaurant facing the north side of the old port. Mark put down his binoculars. “I’ll go ashore and move closer to them in case she needs assistance.”
“Wait a minute,” Stone interrupted. “We’ve got a bogey … no, two bogeys.” Stone focused on two men standing at the edge of the market.
“Where?”
“Look straight ahead, over that blue and orange striped umbrella with Orangina printed on it.”
Mark searched with his binoculars. “Yeah. Okay, but what two guys? There’re a hell of a lot of people out there now.”
“One’s dressed in a coat and tie. The other guy, as a lady said last night, is pretty ugly.”
“Oh yes. I see them.” Mark aimed the camera and started taking photographs of the men. “Do you know them?”
“They were pointed out last night as bad guys. I think illegal drugs. They’re hooked up with the director of my foundation at Archos.”
Mark phoned Eric, instructing him to follow the new two targets, then said to Stone, “I’m heading for the restaurant to make sure our gal’s safe.”
Stone stayed with the boat and acted as command control. Eric surveilled the two men, while Stone watched Mark position himself near the restaurant. An hour later, Stone got a call from Mark. “Hassan and our blonde are leaving. Our guy seems to have settled down. If things go according to plan, she’ll take the bus back to Avignon.”
A few minutes later, Mark called again. “Hassan split and is headed for the commercial section of town. I’m going to get on the bus and ride with her to Avignon. Call Eric and get his location.”
The call to Eric went unanswered, but a few moments later, Eric called back. His two “rabbits,” as he called his targets, had followed Hassan from the restaurant for three blocks and then broke off. “Now they appear to be splitting up. Which one should I follow?”
“The man in the suit.”
Five minutes later, Eric called and said the man wearing the suit had gotten into a Renault sedan and was heading out of town. Stone told him to get the license.
“I’m doing better than that. I’m shadowing him.”
“How will you do that?”
“I’m on my motorcycle. I’ll call later.” The line went dead.
After a bit, boredom set in and Stone started some housecleaning. Beer and soda cans, in addition to paper wrappings, littered the boat. Finished, he sat down and let out a sigh. No use in delaying the call to Lucinda.
“How are you?”
“I am fine. Also, I am very busy,” Lucinda said, and then called out to one of her staff to chill the wine. “The party is tomorrow night, you know. So much to be done.”
“That’s right. I’ll have to get my tux shirt cleaned.”
“I am glad you are coming,” she said, almost inaudibly.
“Harrington will be there?”
A pause and a long sigh. “Yes, and he is bringing his wife.”
“Good.”
“I know what you are thinking, Hayden. You are acting silly, like you used to years ago. Be prepared to be my escort.”
The mobile phone on the boat’s table buzzed. Stone recognized Mark’s cellphone number.
“That’s great, dear,” Stone said. “I’ll let you get back to your chores.”
“Hayden, please come early.”
Stone picked up the mobile phone. Mark was outside a hamlet near Avignon. The CIA officer and he had gotten off one bus. Now they were on another one heading back to Marseille. He had talked with Eric, who had followed the Renault sedan to a chateau outside of Arles. Eric had spotted a single-engine plane he suspected was surveilling the Renault. “Our allies, the French, seem to have joined in on the fun,” Mark said. “By the way, did you ever submit a contact report to Fleming on that Frenchman you met in Saint-Rémy? You know, your meeting at the Roman ruins?”
“How did you know about that?”
“I always keep tabs on my students,” Mark answered. “Remember, Claudia is in town and she runs a tight ship. Don’t give her an excuse to fire an old FBI agent.”
“I’ll message the report to Fleming on my computer tonight.”
“Thanks for your help,” Mark said. “By the way, the name of our blonde is Sandra.”
Chapter Eighteen
Provence, France
Claudia jerked her head around and hollered at Fleming, who was sitting in the back seat of the SUV studying a crumpled French roadmap, “How long before we reach the highway?”
Fleming studied the open map on his lap as he rocked back an
d forth with the movement of the vehicle. Hanging from his ears were two white buds connected to a cellphone. He pointed to the cellphone. “I’m getting a message from the Major.”
Fours days before, Major Simon, in one of the sedans of the four-vehicle convoy, had flown down from Germany with members of his extraordinary rendition team. The team had previous experience working with the CIA rounding up leading Islamic radicals throughout Europe and spiriting them to locations where they could be interrogated. The last snatch Simon had orchestrated led to information that prevented an attack on the Oscars ceremony.
Message received, Fleming pulled one of the buds from his ear. “We’re about five miles from a major intersection. The road winds down through this forest. We have a drop of about fifteen hundred meters.”
“We should take them down,” she shouted, then turned around and faced front. “Tell the Major to start making a move.”
Fleming closed his eyes, shook his head in disbelief, and then radioed her instructions. The combined military and CIA operation consisted of twelve people in three sedans, and the Mercedes SUV in which he was riding. The two BMW sedans they were tailing held at least eight members of al Qaeda, and one of them was their target, bin Zanni.
“We haven’t seen any oncoming traffic for about ten minutes,” she shouted. “This is a perfect place. What’s holding him back?”
“He’s waiting for the drone to gain enough altitude to see whether the road behind us is clear.”
The four vehicles drove in close formation down the two-lane blacktop. Patches of dirty snow under Alpine brush hugged the edges of the road. Around a sharp bend in the road, Fleming glimpsed the two BMWs. They appeared to be slowing down.
“Tell that man we’re going to commence the operation now!” Claudia pulled a Glock automatic from her black handbag.
Fleming complied. The response from the Major was as expected. “Tell her to get fucked. I’ll decide when we move.”