The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  “What did he say?” Claudia turned completely around in the seat, bumping the driver. “I heard something coming out of your headphones.”

  “He’s checking with his people,” Fleming answered. “Also, he’s getting input from the drone overhead.”

  “Bullshit!” She turned back in her seat and ordered the driver to speed up.

  Their SUV closed the gap, and the other CIA vehicle moved up behind them. Fleming glanced back at the cars. The two sedans with the military contingent were lagging behind. He was about to tell Claudia that the formation was separating, when the Major yelled, “Slow down! Slow down! The drone spotted two more vehicles joining our targets.”

  “There are now four al Qaeda cars ahead!” Fleming yelled. “They have four cars!”

  “So do we. Let’s take them!” Claudia yelled.

  The driver looked over at her and then back at Fleming through the rearview mirror. He took his foot off the accelerator.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Claudia glared at the driver.

  Just then the “abort” signal came from the Major and Fleming reached forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder to slow down.

  Claudia yelled, “Don’t countermand me!” Spittle flew from her mouth.

  “Mission is aborted,” he yelled. “The Major has aborted.”

  “He’s not in charge here! Keep driving!” She leaned forward in her seat.

  Accelerating, the SUV twisted down the mountain road. Warm air from the valley flew in from the open window. They came down out of a thicket of pine trees and leveled off onto the valley floor. Now fifty meters separated them from the terrorists’ sedans. As the al Qaeda cars neared the intersection, the last car in the al Qaeda group braked hard. Smoke came from its tires as the vehicle spun and halted sideways in the road.

  Fleming yelled into the phone that they had a “situation.” Bearded men in dark clothes leaped from the car and opened fire. Claudia crouched against the door. The driver slammed his seat back, and with his head lowered, peered over the steering wheel.

  The front windshield exploded and a piece of glass gashed the right side of Fleming’s forehead. Claudia fired her automatic through the shattered windshield. Fleming grabbed his machine gun and lowered the back window.

  The driver accelerated and drove onto the right shoulder of the road. Clangs and pops came from the body of the car as terrorists’ bullets found their mark. Only 9mm rounds, Fleming realized. Thank God.

  The SUV fishtailed on the gravel and sped past the terrorists’ car. As they passed, Fleming shoved his machine gun out the side window and raked the terrorists with a steady stream of fire. He did not release the trigger until the magazine emptied. A loud ringing pained his eardrums.

  The driver slammed to a full stop. Fleming fumbled for a full magazine and reloaded. The three leaped from the car shooting, using the car as a shield. The team cars pulled up and the members emerged firing, laying down a withering crossfire. In less than a minute, the shooting ended.

  Fleming looked around as the al Qaeda sedans reached the intersection, then sped off in three separate directions. With one hand holding a handkerchief on his forehead to stop the bleeding and the other pointing his machine gun, Fleming approached the terrorists’ car. He coughed on the lingering gun smoke. His ears continued to ring. Bullet holes riddled the car doors and fenders. Escaping air hissed from the engine compartment.

  All four al Qaeda were dead. On inspection, none fit bin Zanni’s description. The team took photographs and fingerprints of the dead, then dispersed.

  On the way back to Nice, Claudia refused to speak to Fleming.

  Nice, France—May 11, 2002

  Claudia glared at the soldiers sitting on the floor of the safehouse. The military people looked at each other, and took their time getting up. The Major asked whether he could use the Agency satellite phone to call his headquarters. Fleming handed him the phone, but Claudia grabbed it from him. “We’ll need this phone, Major.”

  The team filed out. The last one slammed the door. The meeting had gone as well as expected, Claudia thought. These military types had to be kept in their place. Know who’s boss.

  Fleming rose from his chair, went to the window, and opened it. Claudia lowered the volume on the radio. She’d never believed in the sound-masking technique of using radio noise to block hostile eavesdropping. Most of what the CIA’s Office of Security came up with she considered just gimmicks to make a case officer’s life miserable.

  She looked over at the blonde officer from Paris. “So tell me what happened in Marseille while we were trying to capture bin Zanni.”

  Sandra leaned her head back and looked at the ceiling. She described her meeting with Hassan. “He seemed suspicious at first, but eventually he settled down. He revealed little about his trip to Nice, and never mentioned going to Saint-Rémy. My sources advised that he showed a lot of interest in wines and vineyards recently.”

  “Is that all you came up with?” Claudia huffed. “Seems like a waste of time.”

  “This operation is being run by the Station in Paris. It has nothing to do with your mission.”

  “How so? Your man, Hassan, was in Saint-Rémy and in contact with bin Zanni’s babysitters. It definitely has a connection.”

  “What I meant to—”

  “Anything else to report about the Marseille meeting?”

  “We picked up two people either surveilling Hassan or countersurveilling Hassan’s meeting with me. We’re close to identifying one of them. French liaison is working with us on that angle.”

  “We have to keep the French out of this. This is our show.” Claudia stifled a yawn. She still had jetlag.

  “My station chief doesn’t see it that way. Our liaison with the French is delicate and—”

  “Anything else about Marseille?” Claudia asked, tapping the armrest of the chair.

  “Nothing, except that the man, Stone, from Archos was a great help.”

  Claudia looked at Fleming. “Is Stone that trigger-happy FBI cowboy I met at the Farm?”

  “That’s a gross exaggeration,” Fleming said. “He’s retired FBI. He’s now one of our Independent Contractors. Our division chief at Langley approved him?”

  “Fire him. He’s a loose cannon. Get someone else.” Claudia turned to her assistant. “You start working on a replacement for him, and make him an Agency veteran.” She turned to Fleming. “I want Stone out of France by the weekend.”

  “Hold on there,” Sandra interjected. “We have cover considerations. We can’t pull him out of that foundation. I spent a lot of time and used a lot of influence placing him there.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Paris Station cares. I suggest you speak to my station chief about this first.”

  Sandra impressed Claudia. She appeared smart and someone had told her she’d gone to an Ivy League college, or was it one of the Seven Sisters. The Agency needed people like her.

  Claudia had sat for over an hour. “That’s enough for now. I’m going back to my hotel to make some calls.” She pushed herself out of the chair and headed for the bathroom. “Fleming, locate bin Zanni,” she called back. “Sandra, you and I will have an early dinner tonight. Find a nice restaurant. I like mussels.”

  Claudia took a cab for the short distance to her hotel. She walked into her room and headed for the glass doors leading to the balcony. The doors opened onto a view of a black Mediterranean Sea. The operation had been a disaster. No doubt, some people at Langley would use it as an excuse to criticize her. Neutralize her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Villefranche

  The contessa glided across the sun-dappled patio wearing a black off-the-shoulder gown. The Harringtons were standing next to the wrought iron railing, admiring the panoramic view of Villefranche below. The two were still dressed in casual clothes.

  “Helen, dear, I am so happy you two pulled yourselves away from the Foundation to attend my little get-together.” She gave
Mrs. Harrington a two-cheek kiss, which Helen accepted with a forced smile. “I trust your rooms are satisfactory. I put you up on the higher level.”

  “Thank you for the invitation,” Helen said. “You’re most gracious.”

  Taking Boswell Harrington’s hand, the contessa said, “You are wearing a new ascot. Very becoming.” She motioned for the two to sit and summoned the young Austrian servant to take their drink orders.

  The late-afternoon sun bathed the stone walls of the palace and warmth radiated back onto the patio. Shade from the Aleppo pines smoothed the glare from the low-hanging sun. After the girl took the drink orders, the contessa sat in the chair next to Harrington, who occupied himself with adjusting the ascot tucked under his cream-colored shirt.

  “Let us discuss our business deal before we drive down to the villa for the party,” she said, as she smoothed the shoulder of Harrington’s blazer. “I am confused about some of the details.” She smiled at Helen. “Do you mind if your husband and I talk business?”

  Helen shook her head. “No.”

  Harrington spoke. “Our business plan involves purchasing a Turkish shipyard that builds yachts for the world’s mega-rich. A yacht like the one down there, owned by the prince.” He pointed to the Bay of Villefranche, now a mosaic of soft and hard blues formed by cloud shadows and shallow depths. “We want the prince to provide the financial backing for the deal.”

  “You don’t know anything about shipbuilding,” Contessa Lucinda laughed.

  Helen leaned forward. “How would you know that? He sails my father’s boat at Nantucket all the time.”

  “Yes, of course, dear Helen, but we are talking about running a boatyard, not sailing off for a cocktail party at sea.” She tightened the clasp on her emerald earring. “You are not leaving the Foundation and heading off for Turkey are you?”

  “No. The idea is to buy the shipyard, then flip it over to another buyer.” Perspiration formed on his upper lip. “I know one of those Silicon Valley-types who is having a yacht built there now. It is a year overdue and he’s quite anxious to take delivery.” Harrington took the martini from the Austrian girl, picked out one of the olives, and popped it into his mouth. “He’s one of your guests tonight. I’ll approach him and plant the seed about buying the shipyard.”

  “Well, that should prove interesting.” The contessa toasted the two with her flute of champagne. “Now, and I hate to be boorish, but what is my finder’s fee?”

  “I think you will be very happy with the arrangement. I worked it out with Abdul Wahab, the prince’s … oh let’s call him, major domo.”

  “I wish my major domo, Philippe Monte, was here while we are discussing money. But do go on.”

  Helen rose from her chair. “Excuse me. I suppose we’ll be heading down to the party soon. I want to change, and since you two are talking business…” She strode off to the guest room.

  Harrington waited a few moments until his wife was out of sight and then moved his chair closer. “Lucinda, any chance of us being alone this weekend?”

  “You are here with your wife. I have over fifty guests coming to the party down at my villa. I do not want to discuss our ‘getting together.’”

  “Damn it, you know how I feel about you.”

  “I believe your wife knows also. Our relationship, dear Boswell, is strictly business.” The contessa moved her face closer to his. “How much money am I going to make out of this deal?”

  “You’ll get from three million to four million euros.”

  “That is vague. Please explain.”

  “Well, the deal is complex.”

  “Go on.”

  “In order for me to get the financial backing from the prince, I agreed that I would convince you to lease your palace to the Saudis. We’ll discuss it tonight at the party. Abdul Wahab is most anxious to move on the lease.” He gulped his drink.

  The contessa placed the flute on the table next to her, sat back in her chair, and stared at Harrington. He was grinning at her in that ridiculous manner, his upper lip almost touching his nose. This fool with his receding hairline, sitting across from her and drinking her liquor, and having been responsible for losing twelve million of her euros, now has hatched a plan to move some Arabs into her family’s palace.

  She fantasized inviting an aroused Harrington to her bedroom where, when they were in flagrante delicto, she would put a knife to his balls. She blinked twice and then delicately lifted the flute from the table and took a sip of champagne. “Please explain this little idea of my moving out of my palace.”

  “They want to use your palace to hold some sort of conference. All you have to do is move down to your villa on the water for a month, maybe two. You certainly can use two or three million euros.”

  “Yes, thanks to you. And I thought you said it was three to four million?”

  “Lucinda, you must trust me.”

  There was a long pause. “Of course, darling. Tonight Philippe Monte and I will discuss this with—what’s his name, Abdul Wahab? You be there to make the introductions.”

  “Of course. Damn it, I thought you’d be happy. And after the party—”

  “Oh, here comes my escort for tonight.” The contessa rose. “You know Hayden Stone.” She glided up to Stone and kissed him gently on the lips. “Hayden, you look splendid in your tuxedo.” She glanced back at Harrington. “Are you dressing, or are you going ‘as is’?”

  Dusk brought enough chill to the air that Stone appreciated the comfort of his jacket. He and Lucinda strolled along the open promenade that separated her villa from the bay. Strings of white lights stretched along the masonry wall overlooking the water. The whole staff had come down from the palace. Attired in their black and white uniforms, waiters carried silver trays filled with drinks and canapés for the arriving guests.

  “Do you remember your way around the villa?” Lucinda asked, and then stopped a young man, inspected the quality of the shrimp, gave her approval, and the man moved on.

  “It’s as I remembered it.” Stone thought of the last party he had attended at the villa years before. At least four times this number of people had been invited to Lucinda’s eighteenth birthday party. Her father had spared no expense for his only daughter. Stone had always liked the old man, and he believed her father liked him.

  They paused at the marina next to the seawall. Two bearded men were waiting at the slip for the prince’s launch to arrive from the Red Scorpion. Stone looked up the mountain and saw, in the distance, the contessa’s palace, sitting alone on a treed ledge, a dull buff mass of stone turned to rose in the last of the sunset.

  “Lucinda, I always wanted to ask your father why your place up there on the mountain is called a palace.”

  “Centuries ago, it was one of the Pope’s palaces. He gave it to my family for their backing in some war.”

  “It resembles one of those mosques in the Middle East,” Stone said. “You know, ones that were formerly churches.”

  “Maybe that is why the prince wants to rent it.” The contessa pulled her black lace shawl up over her shoulders, partially covering her emerald necklace.

  “You’ve rented your palace!”

  “Yes, and as you Americans say, to make a long story short, he will pay a lot of money to rent it for a month. He wants it for some conference he is having.” They circled back toward where the guests had gathered. “Harrington has made the arrangements.” She stopped and looked at him. “Do not be so surprised. I need the money.”

  “Do you trust Harrington?”

  “Of course not, I do not trust any man.” She smiled. “You know, Hayden, your cold gray eyes fit you perfectly.”

  Philippe Monte approached and she took Stone’s hand. “I have to consult with my consigliere. Please Hayden, while you are playing my escort, call me Contessa.”

  Stone stood alone and wondered whether the contessa’s demeanor would thaw before the end of the weekend. The kiss on the lips back at the palace was for Harrington’s ben
efit. Just what is my role here tonight? No doubt, she was distracted with the palace lease deal.

  He looked around for familiar faces. Half the men had come in formal dress, the others wore blazers or, in the case of the rich Americans, jeans and turtlenecks. Conversely, all the women appeared expensively attired. He’d overheard that the casual Americans were members of the dot-com crowd from California who were wise or lucky enough to have sold their companies before the Wall Street crash of 2000.

  Jonathan Deville passed through the gilded iron gate accompanied by his wife, Rhonda. The two looked lost. Stone hurried over and gave Rhonda a hug.

  “How have you been?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you since you and Patricia—oh, I am sorry … I forgot, your divorce.” Rhonda was French, plump, and always appeared happy to see him. “Tell me, Hayden, is there any chance you and Patricia will get back together?”

  “Very unlikely.”

  “You are sure? Good. Then I will say, I never did like her. She was not for you, but back in Paris there is a perfect woman for you. Cultured, rich, and, of course, French. The perfect distraction for you.”

  “I told you, Stone,” Jonathan laughed. “She started plotting the minute I told her about your divorce.”

  Rhonda discussed their children and their plans for when Jonathan retired; they wanted to live in France as long as the dollar held up to the euro. “Tonight we’re staying in the palace in the room next to you,” she said, and pushed her finger in his chest. “I’ll be listening to hear if you have any midnight guests.”

  Before Stone could retort, Maurice Colmont joined them.

  “You met Maurice at the consul general’s party last week,” Deville said.

  “We met again this week in Saint-Rémy.”

  “Yes, we did, Mr. Stone, and I see that you managed to return safely.”

  Stone motioned for a waiter to bring drinks. Colmont gave his attention to the Devilles, yet repeatedly glanced back at him.

  “This is proving to be an interesting evening, my friends,” Colmont said. “A royal prince in attendance at the party.”