The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  “Exciting, no?” Rhonda gushed. “With a prince and a contessa in our midst?”

  “The prince will be glad to get off his yacht.” Colmont looked hard at Stone. “What with all those people on board.”

  “How so?” Deville asked.

  “Tuesday, a large delegation flew in from Riyadh and boarded the yacht. Then the yacht moved from Nice harbor around the cape to anchor here.”

  “Maybe that’s why the prince wants to rent the contessa’s palace,” Stone said.

  “I was not aware of that, Hayden.”

  “The contessa told me a few minutes ago.” Stone looked at Deville. “I guess when we check out tomorrow, the Arabs will move in.”

  The waiter arrived with champagne and they decided to move on to the long table holding assorted hors d’oeuvres and rich-smelling canapés. The china and silverware reflected the flames from the candelabras. The American Consul General came by, spoke briefly, then became distracted by a group of boisterous Californians.

  The contessa slipped in between Rhonda Deville and Colmont, but before she could speak, a waiter rushed up and told her the prince’s launch had arrived. She addressed the group, “Please come help me greet the prince and his entourage.”

  Colmont lagged behind, pulling out his cellphone. At the same time, he motioned to Stone to join him. Completing his call, he clicked the phone shut. “Most interesting. Why would the Saudis rent the contessa’s palace at this time?”

  “And why would all those people come from Riyadh?” Stone added. “Any connection with that fellow we’ve been chasing?”

  “Very possible,” Colmont said. “Let us keep our ears open tonight, yes? Meanwhile, the contessa could use our help.”

  “Before I forget, Maurice … any information on the man who tried to kill me on the yacht?”

  “None,” Colmont answered. “And no body has been recovered from the bay.”

  As they headed toward the dock, Colmont whispered, “It is good that you are here at the party.”

  Stone wondered why he thought so.

  Boswell Harrington watched as the contessa, with Stone at her side, formally greeted the prince as he came up from the dock. The prince wore a flowing white thawb, the robe touching the ground, and a matching kuffiyah draped over his head. He spoke English with an Oxford accent. A black, spade-shaped beard grew on his puffy, pale face. After the requisite introductions, the Saudis separated in stages and mingled with the other guests. Harrington stood aside and waited for an opportunity to pull Abdul Wahab away from the prince. He wanted to firm up the details of the palace lease.

  Harrington had noted that initially Stone had been at the contessa’s side, but when the Saudis joined the other guests, Stone melted into the background. Now the contessa’s soirée took on the appearance of a business meeting. When he saw his chance, Harrington approached Wahab and suggested they converse privately. He pointed to the covered observatory atop the villa. Wahab agreed, and the two climbed the outer stairs and found themselves alone with the twinkling lights of Villefranche spread around them. A cruise liner had anchored in the bay and displayed a line of white lights strung from the rigging stem to stern. The party guests milled below them while Vivaldi strings played from hidden speakers.

  “I believe one could call this observatory a belvedere,” Harrington remarked, sipping his scotch on the rocks.

  “Please stop playing the pundit.” At least a foot taller than Harrington, Wahab glared down his long nose. “Has the contessa agreed to lease her palace to the prince?”

  “I talked with her, and she’s inclined to let the prince move in. It’s only a matter of the amount of payment.” Harrington wanted to light up a cigar, but couldn’t remember whether Wahab objected to tobacco.

  “I told you the price is five million for one month and two more for an additional month if it is required.” Wahab sipped a ginger ale. “Time is of the essence. When will the palace be available?”

  “The contessa is conferring with her consigliere now and plans to discuss it with you tonight. I see no problem.” Harrington looked out at the bay and decided to bring up his own project. “About the other matter … the financing for my deal?”

  “My friend, first, if the prince is denied the palace, there is no, as you say, deal.” Wahab leaned over, staring Harrington in the eye. “Also, this is my money we are talking about. I have decided I will finance the opium coming from my old Afghani war comrades. I will ship it to Marseille.” He looked hard at Harrington. “You will get a generous finder’s fee for making the arrangements with those people you know who take delivery in Marseille.”

  Harrington walked over to the railing, thinking. Count to five before you say anything. He drained his glass. “That wasn’t our agreement. That’s not the deal.”

  “My money. My deal.” Wahab placed his drink on the railing and adjusted his black tie. “Your last deal ended up a fiasco. You lost the opium and the money to the authorities. The money belonged to the contessa, yes?”

  Harrington turned away. This was unexpected. The money he’d counted on to retire to Carmel, California had just evaporated. That morning, his wife had told him his horoscope for that day looked ominous. He said, “This isn’t, as you Cambridge graduates say, cricket. Perhaps I should look for other financing.”

  Wahab scanned the guests below him. “Does the contessa know her money was lost in an illegal narcotics transaction? I am under the impression she thought you were bringing in rare ores from Afghanistan. Is that not so?”

  Harrington wanted another drink. He had to accept the situation. He had no leverage. The contacts in Afghanistan belonged to Wahab. Question was, how much would he get? Odd, a Saudi with all his money and connections wanted to get involved with illegal drugs. For what purpose?

  Wahab interrupted his train of thought. “Who is that man down there with the contessa?”

  “Oh, that’s a new fellow at the Foundation,” Harrington answered. “Some hack travel writer.”

  “The two of them seem to be getting along quite well.” Wahab stared hard. “You led me to believe she was your paramour.”

  “They’re just old friends.”

  “Does that writer have a scar on his cheek? And did he take a trip to the countryside this past week?”

  “Yes, on both accounts,” Harrington answered. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because he is CIA, you bloody fool!” Wahab took a deep breath and moved away. “And he is supposed to be dead,” he whispered. He came back to Harrington. “You can make up the money you lost on this deal by killing him. One hundred thousand euros. No, I’ll be generous. Two hundred thousand!”

  Harrington felt a sharp pain in his stomach. “What do I look like, a hit man?” He shook the ice in his empty glass and looked at Wahab out of the corner of his eye. How dare he? Fucking raghead! They pantsed his kind at prep school!

  “I have no time to play games,” Wahab said through his teeth. “We must close the lease arrangement with the contessa. This will not be the first American agent you’ve killed. Three years ago you killed, or had killed by heroin overdose, that American agent at Cuers, the one who got too close to your little drug operation.”

  “How did you—”

  “The person you had administer the heroin told us.” Wahab straightened up to his full height. “Kill Stone, and make it quick. Now let us go down and start the negotiations for the palace lease.”

  Harrington followed Wahab toward the stairs. He tried to think how this man knew about him killing the agent in Cuers. He must have an informant in his organization.

  At the top of the landing, Wahab paused and turned back to Harrington as the Devilles mounted the stairs behind him. Wahab repeated to Harrington the sum he was willing to offer the contessa for use of the palace. His carelessness surprised Harrington. Jonathan Deville’s facial reaction showed that he’d overheard Wahab.

  Once again down among the guests, Harrington touched Wahab’s arm and suggested, “W
hy not just make the check out to me? I’ll make sure the contessa gets a fair sum.”

  For the first time that night, Wahab laughed loudly. “Harrington, Harrington … you are incorrigible.”

  An aide to the prince rushed up and announced that the prince was about to depart for his yacht. Wahab and Harrington looked at each other, then hurried over to the contessa, who was conferring with her consigliere and the two Devilles.

  “Contessa, excuse me, if I may?” Wahab interrupted. “Have you reached a decision on the lease of your palace to my prince?”

  “Is there some urgency involved?” she asked, slipping her hand under Jonathan Deville’s arm.

  “I’m sure the prince would like to know your decision on the lease before he boards his launch.”

  “Tell me the arrangements as you see them and the fee you propose.”

  “Contessa, please let me handle the fee matters,” Harrington urged. “All you need to do is agree. Abdul Wahab told me the prince wants to move in Monday, if that suits you?”

  Philippe Monte coughed and gave Harrington a skeptical look.

  Wahab smiled. “As Mr. Harrington indicates, time is of the essence.”

  The contessa paused for a few moments. They all looked over at the prince, who had completed his farewells and was heading in their direction. She took a deep breath, nodded to Monte, and then addressed Abdul Wahab. “As soon as my consigliere here, Monsieur Monte, receives the check for seven million euros, I will move down here to the villa. That sum is for five million the first month and an additional retainer of two million for the second month.”

  “But contessa, did not Mr. Harrington tell you the sum was—” Wahab said.

  “Here comes your prince to bid farewell,” she smiled. “And you have such good news to tell him.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Villefranche

  Following the departure of the prince and his retinue to the Red Scorpion, the soirée quieted down. Stone strolled back and forth along the veranda with the Devilles and Maurice Colmont.

  “The contessa seems to have been successful with the lease arrangement,” Rhonda Deville said. “Although I sense she is concerned about something.” She searched in her purse. “I’m going off to freshen up before we drive up to the palace.”

  The three men moved away from the other guests. When Stone thought he could speak privately, he asked Colmont, “Who was that tall man with the prince? The one who seemed to be his confidant?”

  “You must be referring to Abdul Wahab,” Colmont said.

  “He’s a wealthy Saudi who is married to one of the prince’s daughters,” Jonathan Deville added. “Obviously, he’s in charge of the lease negotiations for the palace.”

  “Evidently he and Harrington had some misunderstanding,” Stone ventured. “I saw the two of them up in the observatory having an intense conversation.”

  “Most observant, Hayden,” Colmont said. “I also watched them.”

  “I don’t trust Harrington,” Deville said. “Our office has gotten rumors that he’s dirty. He doesn’t seem to have the contessa’s best interests in mind.”

  Deville then related that he and his wife had overheard Wahab and Harrington on the staircase discussing the terms of the lease. He had let the contessa in on how high a figure she could demand.

  “Mr. Harrington has many faces,” Stone said.

  “Or a face that changes, like a chameleon,” Colmont added.

  “I agree, Maurice,” Stone said, then faced Deville. “Jonathan, you did the contessa a good turn and she certainly needs friends.” Over Deville’s shoulder, he saw Lucinda talking her way past a group of guests and heading toward them. “Before she gets here, what do we have on this Wahab?”

  “He’s well-connected with the Saudi establishment, but it seems he’s trying to polish up his Islamic fundamentalist credentials,” Deville said. “He has terrorist connections.”

  Colmont leaned forward. “Somewhere I believe I read he was in Afghanistan last year. Hayden, you have been there, no?”

  “Why, Maurice Colmont, are you sharing intelligence with us?” Deville laughed. “Now who said our governments didn’t cooperate?”

  “Wahab has a certain presence, doesn’t he?” Stone said. “He looks familiar.”

  “We find it interesting that the prince is so intent on leasing the palace,” Colmont said, taking Stone’s arm. “Another matter—yesterday, north in the mountain region, your people tried to capture the al Qaeda functionary, bin Zanni, and failed miserably. People were killed. Paris is very upset.”

  “I was in Marseille.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  Stone paused, wanting to change the subject. “Do you see a connection between bin Zanni and the lease of the palace?”

  “There is some speculation—” Colmont stopped as the contessa joined them.

  “Well gentlemen, did you enjoy our soirée?” She moved in between Colmont and Deville. “Before I forget, thank you, Jonathan dear, for that—how do you say? —financial tidbit?”

  A strained smile crossed her lips as she avoided Stone’s gaze. The music selection coming through the loudspeakers had changed. An old song by Johnny Mathis replaced the concert strings of Vivaldi. A few couples started dancing.

  How would she react if he asked her to dance? Oh, what the hell. “Contessa, as your escort, may I have this dance?”

  “Just one dance, Hayden. I must attend to my guests.”

  Stone guided her to where the other couples were dancing. The lights surrounding them appeared softer. Images of past dances on the veranda with her in his arms flashed in his mind. It would be comfortable to return here. Oh, so comfortable.

  She spoke before he could. “Yes, I remember this song. I remember all the times we danced to it.” She looked away. Gently, he steered her from the other couples and then slowed the pace of the dance. His lips came close to her face, but she turned her head away.

  “The song is almost over,” she whispered, and then her body stiffened. “God, here comes Harrington.” Her voice broke and her eyes welled up. They stopped dancing.

  “Contessa, we’re heading up to the palace,” Harrington said, as he bumped into Stone. “Oh, sorry about that Stone, didn’t mean to interrupt your dance, but my dear wife is feeling a bit under the weather.”

  “Of course. It appears everyone is leaving,” Lucinda observed. “I think I will let the staff handle the clean up. Tomorrow is moving day for me.”

  As Harrington left, he glowered at Stone. Colmont and the Devilles came over and thanked the contessa for the evening. She let out a deep sigh, and then said to the Devilles, “I will drive you back to the palace in my car.” She took Rhonda’s arm. “You and your husband are such good friends.” Slipping her other hand through Jonathan’s arm, they started toward the exit. She looked back at Stone. “And you still dance well.”

  “Be careful, Boswell, there’s a curve ahead.” Helen Harrington grabbed the armrest of the Mercedes. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “I’d be glad to pull over and let you drive. Otherwise, be quiet. We’re almost to the palace.”

  “Just be careful.”

  Lately, it seemed she had to do most of the thinking for them, at least with respect to the Foundation’s business. Other matters had preoccupied her husband, one being the contessa. Obviously, the bitch continued to rebuff him. Helen recognized his moods: edgy, whiny, and mean. “Just how much will we get from your Arab friends?”

  “At least two hundred thousand euros,” Harrington said. “Probably more.”

  “Christ, Boswell, you talked millions, not thousands!” Helen leaned toward him. “Get this straight. I’ve had enough of this place, enough of the Foundation, enough of—” She stopped, leaned back, and looked out the passenger window.

  “Abdul Wahab has gotten obstinate,” Harrington continued. “He reneged on the deal. He won’t give me the money to finance the transaction.” Harrington eased up on the accel
erator as the car approached the palace. “I’ll get only a finder’s fee for providing the contacts in Marseille.”

  “Two hundred thousand euros?”

  “No. That’s a separate deal.” Harrington pulled in front of the palace. An elderly man emerged from the front door and walked toward car. “Abdul Wahab wants me to kill Hayden Stone.”

  “Really. When?” Helen’s throat muscles tightened, making it difficult to breath. The muscle spasms had been occurring a lot lately.

  “The sooner the better.” The old man offered to open the door for Helen, but Harrington motioned him to wait. “Oh this is rich, my sweet. You’ll enjoy this bit of information, being an alumna of the New Left. Stone’s a CIA agent.”

  Helen took deep breaths. She looked out at the darkened palace, with only a few dim lights coming from windows scattered on the face of the massive structure. She wanted so much to return to California, but how would they be able to afford it? “Boswell, you’re becoming an assassin? Or is that too nice a word for a hit man?” She looked at his face, which seemed to be aging more each week. In college, when they’d crashed in that apartment on the hill above Haight-Ashbury and spent the long afternoons lying naked, smoking dope, and discussing Marxism, his features were crisp and sharp. So much for youth and dreams.

  “You said two hundred thousand to kill Stone?” she asked. Maybe they could kill that little slut Lucinda along with the fascist pig Stone.

  Stone climbed the palace’s marble staircase to the second floor and found the door to his bedroom. The contessa’s staff had turned on the lamps and readied his bed. The ice bucket was full, as was the wooden liquor cabinet. All the furniture, nothing newer than one hundred years old, sat in the same place he remembered the last time he had slept there years before. Palaces and castles do not change much over time.

  The smell of age hung in the room, yet he saw no dust. The polished wood floor bordering the edges of the frayed Persian rug reflected light from the lamp. An original print by David Roberts hung on the wall next to the door. The scene, the contessa had told him, was in the Middle East, a place called Gaza. In the picture, ruins lay in the foreground and a bleached town spread out on a hill in the distance. He had seen a copy in a London shop and it, like a whiff of perfume evoking the memory of a past lover, had brought him back to this room.