The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  The prince studied him, then asked, “What form of assistance did they request?”

  “They want the CIA and the French intelligence to be distracted when they make their move. A distraction will cause the CIA to concentrate their forces away from this area.”

  “And of course, you have an idea.”

  “Yes.” He did not want to elaborate, and tried to think of another topic to discuss, but the prince continued to stare. “We made arrangements for an attack on the American consul general in Marseille.”

  “Why are we involved in all this?” The prince put his cup and saucer on the table.

  “We must be involved in this wave of the future or become irrelevant,” Wahab said, folding his napkin.

  The prince rose from the cushion and stretched. He went to the brass railing. “Once when I was young, I swam in the surf. Swimming back to shore, and believing I had mastered the ocean, I stepped through the water toward the beach, elated, when suddenly from behind a huge wave knocked me down and pushed my face into the coral sand.”

  He looked across the bay, removed his glasses, and again wiped the lenses. Keeping his gaze on the white sailboats skimming across the water, he replaced them, carefully slipping the earpieces under his kuffiyah. “I remember many years ago, my father introduced me to my first American. The man was from Oklahoma and he called himself an oilman. He wanted my father to grant him a concession to drill oil and he promised that if my father fulfilled his wish, both of them would profit. My father said he was true to his word. I liked that American. He, my father and I went out in the desert many times and hunted with falcons.”

  Marseille

  Hassan sat at the sidewalk café in the old port of Marseille waiting to meet Rashid. Sunday morning brought out the city dwellers, strolling along the docks and enjoying their breakfasts with friends and family. Dogs sat under their master’s tables. Hassan was paging through a local newspaper when Rashid approached.

  “A fine morning, Hassan. The drive from Arles was quite pleasant.”

  Without speaking, Hassan motioned for him to take a seat. A waiter immediately came up and took the order for two coffees.

  Rashid settled himself, then spoke in Arabic. “Our friend in Nice has sent me with a message. He has a proposal for you, a most important assignment.”

  Before he could continue, Hassan said, “I do not take assignments from him or his people.”

  The waiter returned with two coffees. When he moved off to serve another table, Rashid pushed his chair closer. “Pardon. An unfortunate use of the word. I meant to say, a request.” He poured three spoonfuls of sugar into his cup and then mixed it in, clicking his spoon. “We must talk, but not here. Perhaps we can walk around the dock next to the water.”

  “We will discuss the matter tomorrow,” Hassan said.

  “It is an urgent matter. Please, after our coffee, let us take a leisurely walk?”

  Hassan spoke in a low voice. “What about my urgent matter? Are we not going to the wine wholesaler tomorrow? Am I not traveling up to Arles to look at the wine bottles and the cases?” He moved his face closer to Rashid’s. “Well, my friend?”

  Rashid looked off toward the moored fishing boats crowding the inner harbor. Slowly, he nodded.

  “Very well then,” Hassan said. “After our coffee, we shall take your leisurely walk around the harbor.”

  As Rashid paid the bill, Hassan watched him leave too generous a tip. Along the quay they stopped where the fish market set up during the week.

  Hassan lit a cigarette and faced the water. “So what is this urgent matter Wahab is concerned about?”

  Rashid looked around and spoke quickly. “A few days ago, bin Zanni barely escaped capture by the CIA. His group has him hidden, but he must travel to Nice very soon.” He continued, whispering in Hassan’s ear, “Abdul Wahab wants you to create a diversion here in Marseille. He suggests you kill the American consul general. That would cause the crusaders to draw off their forces and bin Zanni can travel to Nice.”

  “Kill him, or attempt to kill him?” Hassan asked.

  “Either way, it would be a major distraction. The consul general is an easy target … only one guard according to our source.”

  “Why is Wahab asking me to do this?”

  Rashid thought a moment. “I suppose he trusts you.” He looked around. No one was near. “Perhaps his people are all occupied with bin Zanni.”

  Hassan turned from the water and looked hard at him. “And perhaps … what else, my friend?”

  “Abdul Wahab said he paid you to kill that American in Saint Rémy and was astonished to learn last night that the American is still very much alive. He will accept the American consul general as a substitute.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Côte d’Azur

  Heading back from Nice on the Autoroute in only light Sunday morning traffic, the Porsche hummed along at eighty-five miles per hour. In less than two hours, Stone eased through the narrow streets of Archos. After squeezing into a tight parking place, he headed toward the waterfront. From the gray stone church perched on the side of the hill, bells tolled for the last mass.

  He wanted to avoid meeting Margaux. At the opposite end of the quay, he spotted a bistro sporting a blue awning and matching shutters on the upper floor windows. He found an unoccupied table facing the harbor. A young waiter, after taking his time arranging a new place setting two tables away, came over and took his order for a café au lait, rolls, and goat cheese. He suggested a side dish of assorted olives and smoked peppers.

  A French family sat at the table next to him, the father and mother doting on the boy and girl. The girl, about six, practiced her French wiles on her father, who pretended he didn’t notice. Stone thought of his daughter and wondered what she was doing at that particular moment. How were she and her brother coping with their parent’s divorce?

  The boats tied up along the quay creaked as they rose and fell on the soft harbor swell. The meal came and Stone concentrated on the cheese, which had a smoky flavor that complemented the red and green peppers. The olives were big and not too meaty.

  On the drive back to Archos, he had thought about Lucinda and relived the moments they had shared in bed, surrounded by the glow from the burning logs in the fireplace. He accepted the fact that her face and husky voice would reappear in his daydreams, at least for a while.

  Now as far as Margaux was concerned, the next time they met, would she suspect he had slept with Lucinda? Would she care? They were merely acquaintances. So what was the problem? There was none. The cellphone in his breast pocket vibrated. The number on the display belonged to Fleming.

  “How was the party in Nice?” Fleming asked. “Hobnobbing with the rich and famous?”

  “Your sources are very good.”

  “Just talked with Jonathan Deville and before that with your new buddy, Maurice Colmont, but that’s not why I called,” Fleming hurried on. “Someone by the name of Colonel Frederick from the CIA Director’s office has replaced Claudia. Frederick arrives in Nice tomorrow and wants a meeting of all the operatives.” He gave Stone the location of the meeting. “It appears you and Frederick are old chums,” added Fleming. “You know Claudia wanted to fire you, over my objections of course, but it seems you’re back big time thanks to the colonel.” He paused. “See you tomorrow.”

  Stone wondered what had triggered Claudia’s animosity. Something he had said? Maybe she didn’t like his looks—reminded her of someone? As in many times in the past, he probably would never know. Still, it would be worth looking into for future reference.

  Stone thought of Harrington as he waited to pay his bill. The man didn’t fit into the mold of the director of a distinguished arts foundation. At Lucinda’s party, Deville had mentioned that Harrington’s reputation was spotty. In addition, Harrington had lured Lucinda into leasing her palace to the Saudis, no doubt for his own personal gain. Lastly, the bastard wanted to bed Lucinda. Had Harrington pushed the building bloc
k off the parapet? If so, was jealousy over Lucinda the only motive?

  Stone left the restaurant and headed for his car. As he inserted the key into the ignition, he decided to keep an eye on Mr. Harrington.

  Stone rounded the flagstone path to his cottage and halted. Harrington and a stocky man emerged from David’s house. The door slammed behind them as they hurried in the opposite direction, toward the administration building. He let them gain some distance, then continued toward his cottage. Harrington had been wearing the same tight grimace he had during had the altercation by the pool. David’s door stood ajar, and some cursing came from within. Stone walked up to the door and listened. The swearing was accompanied by the sound of furniture being moved. He pushed open the door.

  David looked over. “Please go away.” He knelt on the floor, and started gathering papers.

  “What happened to all your documents?”

  “What does it look like? Our esteemed director paid me a visit.”

  “Just what is that man’s problem, David?”

  “You’re part of his problem. Another is he likes to take out his tribulations on other people. Like me, for instance.”

  “Explain.”

  David went over to the couch and slumped down. “He doesn’t like you. It’s more than that … it sounded like … well, he thinks you’re spying on him.” He cocked his head. “Are you reporting on him to the Foundation’s board of directors in New York?”

  A carved wooden cuckoo clock on the wall came to life and chirped eleven times. Stone walked to the window and looked toward the administration building. After a moment, he turned. “Harrington is involved in some dirty business. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Tell me everything he said when he was here.” Stone eased himself into a chair.

  “He wanted to know what I had learned about you.”

  “He had asked you to report on me?” Stone asked.

  “Yes, last week, but I never told him anything, because I had nothing to tell him.”

  “That was when you got those bruises on your body, right?” Stone asked. “What was he looking for? What did he want to know? Did he mention the contessa?”

  “No, he never mentioned her. He wants to know about certain people here. For instance, he’s suspicious of that fellow, Ricard … you know, the driver.” David’s leg began a nervous twitch. “He came in today with that troglodyte thug of his and was incensed about you. For some reason, you’ve become his bête noir.”

  “I’m sorry, David. I think he’s pissed off because I’m friends with the contessa, whom I gather he wants as his lover. You got caught in the middle.”

  “He hates you, but—” He thought for a moment. “At the same time, today it seemed as if he feared you.”

  “Let me suggest you avoid him,” Stone said, to which David gave him a “no kidding” look. “Maybe I can give you some information you can feed to him. It may keep him off your back.”

  “Okay,” David said. “Harrington wanted to know who you were friendly with. I told him Margaux.” He lowered his head. “He also asked where you went on Thursday. You were gone all day. I didn’t know.”

  Stone thought a moment while studying the man sitting in front of him. “You know, we can help each other. Keep me informed about Harrington and those thugs of his.” Stone got up and walked to the door. “And I’ll talk with Fleming in Paris about getting that manuscript of yours published.”

  Marseille

  The cabin cruiser bobbed at its mooring in the Marseille Vieux-Port. Inside, on the galley table, Mark fiddled with the controls on the voice recorder attached to the parabolic microphone. That morning he’d used the device to pick up Hassan and Rashid’s conversation while they stood on the quay. As he replayed the disc, he strained to understand the words, pressing the earphones to his head, hoping that would help. Unfortunately, Hassan and Rashid had spoken mostly in Arabic, a language Mark didn’t know. A few words and phrases were in French, which he did understand, and from those he tried to make sense of the conversation. In frustration, he threw the headphones on the table and decided to send the recording to Paris for a complete transcription. He’d clearly heard the words: Saudi, American consul general, Abdul Wahab, Nice. He would phone Fleming this bit of information.

  Fleming answered on the second ring and immediately interrupted Mark. “A meeting is scheduled for tomorrow in Nice.” Fleming went on about the importance of the meeting. Mark finally managed to tell Fleming about the surveillance and the conversation he had recorded.

  “It doesn’t sound like much, at least from what you’ve told me,” Fleming said. “Send it to Paris by the courier who’s passing through Marseille this afternoon.”

  “I wish we could get a translation now,” Mark said. “There’s something about the words and the way they said them.”

  “Look, the important thing is the meeting tomorrow. The word I get is that this Colonel Frederick likes to kick ass, so let’s not offer ourselves up.”

  After the call, Mark prepared the computer disc for delivery to Paris Station. He had forgotten to ask Fleming about Rashid. Eric, the CIA operative, had identified Rashid after the last surveillance when he’d followed the man to his estate on the outskirts of Arles. Rashid lived in a mansion surrounded by a large vineyard, which Paris Station considered odd, with the Muslim restriction against consuming alcohol. The station had queried French intelligence about him, but they had yet to receive any feedback.

  After their meeting at the Vieux-Port, Hassan and Rashid had separated, agreeing to meet the next day, Monday, at the wine wholesaler’s office. Hassan strolled out of the port area of Marseille toward the Palais du Pharo. Ten minutes later, he found himself looking up at the edifice standing high on a bluff at the entrance to the harbor. The sun was overhead. The days were getting warmer and longer.

  Sandra was waiting for him in front of the Palais, sitting on the edge of a low wall with a 35mm camera dangling from her neck. A narrow black felt band fixed her blonde hair back into a ponytail. She was swaying her white running shoes back and forth. He approached and she jumped down from the wall. The top three buttons of her white blouse were unfastened displaying a deep cleavage. Hassan took note. He kissed her on the cheek and detected a different scent of perfume. A touch of vanilla?

  “We will have a wonderful view of the city on the other side of the building.” She took his arm. “I want to take some photos for my aunt in Avignon.”

  He searched for the subtle change in her demeanor she had displayed during their last time together when she had shown too much curiosity about his work as a journalist and his travel to Nice. But today, he found her changed again. No longer was she the virginal young Canadian. She was, as the British said, “fetching.” The complications and delays in his plan, plus the problems with Dr. Aziz, had made him tense. It was natural for suspicions to follow, he reasoned.

  “This building is not old,” she said with her slight lisp. “Napoleon III built it, but he never lived here. It has a fine auditorium. I’ve attended some of their seminars.”

  They found their way through the interior of the Palais and emerged on the north terrace, which provided a high vista above the harbor. Sailboats and fishing skiffs dotted the choppy waters farther out on the Bay of Marseille.

  She pointed. “Over there is the Saint-Jean Fort, and behind it is the La Major cathedral.”

  “What is the name of the fort?” he asked.

  “Saint-Jean. The Knights of Saint-Jean built it in the Twelfth century. And over there—”

  “Ah yes, before those crusaders sailed off to pillage Jerusalem,” he interrupted.

  She took a few steps away and focused her camera on some sailboats. After a few photographs of the Vieux-Port and the city, she turned back to him. “I don’t suppose you’ll want copies of these photos for your album then?”

  Now rankled, he started along the path on the north side of the Palais. Today, she se
emed coquettish, and he had not had a woman since the whore in Athens. That had been an unpleasant experience. The woman had been a favorite of his, and he’d slept with her on his last three trips to Greece. Then the brothers had told him she was reporting to the police. She had to die, but knowing she had three young children, he had left a good sum of money on the table next to the bed—after he strangled her.

  Sandra caught up to him. “You know, Hassan, until recently we in the West never realized that your people in the Middle East were so bitter about the crusades. Be truthful … is this something your people recently conjured up as offensive, or have you always held a grudge?”

  How dare she! He had an urge to beat her, then take her forcibly. He looked away to the spires of a church on top of the hill looking over Marseille. She was exquisite, and an infidel. Sweat formed on his forehead and he felt a hardness forming in his groin.

  “Come on now, don’t take it personally. I think it’s a legitimate question.” She moved next to him and he glanced down the front of her blouse–noticing her lace brassiere. “I mean look at the cathedral over there. How many in the world are now mosques? Hey, you guys did away with the whole Byzantine civilization.”

  “Did you see a restroom in the building?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Let’s go, enough of the scenic vistas. Besides, the wind is picking up.”

  Inside the Palais, groups of people were wandering toward a meeting room. Outside the room, a handmade poster announced an underwater archaeological seminar. Beyond, along a hallway the rooms appeared unoccupied. She led the way down the corridor, then stopped and looked around. Undecided and a bit nervous, she said, “I’m sure this is the right way”

  As he followed her, Hassan reviewed the events of the past hour. They had encountered few people during their walk around the grounds. No one had seen them take this corridor. As far as he could determine, no one could place him here with the girl.