The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

Now, no one was in sight. Their footsteps echoed down the hallway. The men’s restroom came up on the right. She said she would wait for him outside.

  Inside, the lavatory had three toilet stalls and two urinals. The bright white room smelled of disinfectant. The stalls were empty. Quickly, he relieved himself at one of the urinals, then went to the washbasin and splashed water on his face. In the mirror, he watched himself slip off his belt and wrap one end around his left hand.

  He eased the restroom door open and stuck his head out. Sandra was alone in the hallway. She was putting her cellphone back into her purse.

  “Please come here and look at this,” he said. “It is very strange.”

  “Really, I’m not interested in…” She hesitated and slowly moved to the door.

  “Come, come,” he entreated. “It is most interesting.”

  At the door, she leaned forward and peered in. At the same moment, he wrapped the belt around her neck and yanked her into the lavatory. Kicking the door shut, he dragged her by the neck and pulled her across the white tiled floor to a urinal, slamming her head against the porcelain.

  She resisted forcibly and her strength surprised him, but with the pressure on her throat, she would soon lose consciousness. She repeatedly tried to hit him in the face and kick him in the shins. He applied more pressure to the belt, just enough to cut the flow of blood to the brain. He wanted her to be alive when he raped her.

  Using both feet, she kicked away from the wall. He lost his footing on a wet spot on the tile floor and both fell. She flailed with her arms and elbows. He rolled on top of her, but the belt came loose and she let out a yell.

  The scream startled him and he tried to cover her mouth, but she flipped him over. As she scrambled to her knees, her cellphone dropped out of her purse. She grabbed it, and by the time she pressed the third button on the phone, he was on his feet. A hard blow to the side of her head, and her body rolled over twice on the floor, stopping at the brace of a toilet stall.

  Hassan crawled over and turned her over on her back. Tiny wet bubbles puffed from between her lips. Pausing to make sure she was unconscious, he ripped her white blouse open, retrieved his pocketknife, and cut the front band connecting the cups of her brassiere. Pulling the brassiere aside, he groped her breasts with both hands, and then jerked up her skirt.

  It was then that a thin three-inch silver wire attached to a very thin metal cylinder inside the right cup of her brassiere caught his eye. He reached down and fingered the apparatus.

  Then all went black.

  “Sandra. Wake up.” Stone patted her face with a wet paper towel. She opened her eyes and mouthed some words Stone couldn’t make out. He helped her sit up and held her as she stared at Hassan lying on the floor, a splatter of blood on the white tile next to his head.

  Finally, she asked in a hoarse voice, “Did you kill him?”

  “No,” Stone said, as if it hadn’t been the right decision.

  Standing, she took off her blouse, removed the torn bra with the listening device, then rolled it into a ball.

  “Thanks for saving my life … now stop looking at my boobs.” She put on her blouse. Fastening the two buttons Hassan hadn’t ripped off, she adjusted her skirt. He reached out to help. “Christ, I can do it myself! Go over there and search him, before he wakes up.”

  “Here, put on my jacket. Good thing you signaled me on the cellphone,” Stone said. “And that Mark asked me to run over here to Marseille to do a countersurveillance of your meet with this son of a bitch.”

  Stone went through Hassan’s pockets, removed a black automatic pistol, and placed it on the floor. By the time Sandra had composed herself, he had laid out Hassan’s identification, a number of calling cards, and some notes scribbled in Arabic next to the gun.

  “Let’s copy everything down,” he told her.

  She knelt next to him. “If the asshole stirs, please hit him again. Harder.”

  “We’re not letting this guy walk, are we?” Stone asked.

  “We don’t know what he’s up to, only that it’s big.” Sandra covered her face with her hands. “If he’s loose, we have a better chance of finding out…” She started to tremble.

  “Okay.” Stone put his hand on her arm. “Help me with this stuff.”

  With both of them copying the information, it took only a few minutes, even with tracing the Arabic script. Finished, they replaced all the articles in Hassan’s pockets.

  “What about his gun?” Stone asked. When Sandra shrugged, he suggested, “It’s a Russian make. I know how to mess with the firing pin.”

  “Do it, Sport. Then let’s get out of here.”

  It didn’t take long for Stone to alter the firing pin and put the gun back in Hassan’s jacket. Meanwhile, she had gotten up and was leaning against the wall next to the door with her eyes closed. She breathed deeply.

  “We’re all set to go,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. One last thing.” Sandra took two quick steps toward Hassan’s inert body and placed three hard, accurate kidney kicks. She stood back, took a deep breath, and then added two more for good measure deep into his groin.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Nice, France—May 13, 2002

  In the living room of the safehouse, Stone leaned back in a padded armchair and stretched out his six-foot-two inches. A strong wind had blown in from the north, and thin gray clouds hid the sky. Pressure from the wind thumped against the apartment windows.

  He planned to enjoy the performance he knew his friend, Colonel Gustave Frederick, was about to deliver. Frederick had left his pinstriped suit in Washington and dressed down for his trip to Nice: English cavalry twill slacks, a dark blue Italian turtleneck sweater, and a lambskin leather jacket. He had even modified his waspish nasal tone, used for the conference rooms at Langley, to a harder military voice, more appropriate for field operations.

  With the wall to his back, Frederick looked over the group while slapping a notepad in his palm as if it was a swagger stick.

  “Please address me as Fred, unless you are more comfortable with my military rank, Colonel.”

  The major in charge of the rendition team nodded, then turned to his men and smiled. Like a fisherman, Frederick was reeling in his audience.

  “We have had a change in operational structure. Claudia had to travel to Paris for a briefing and will stay there to handle the most challenging task of operations logistics. Our meetings in the future will include our French colleagues.” He waved the notebook in the direction of Colmont. “Namely Monsieur Colmont and his deputies. Let us not forget that this is a Franco-American effort, and a successful outcome is in the interests of both our republics.”

  Stone smiled. Fred hadn’t changed over the years. He still seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice.

  “Now, we must discuss yesterday’s incident. Mark, Stone, and Sandra have been working a separate counterterrorist operation in Marseille. Yesterday, during surveillance, the target, Hassan Musab Mujahid, attacked one of them. He may have identified that officer as CIA. We allowed him to escape so we can continue to identify his network. Agreed, Monsieur Colmont?”

  “Agreed, Colonel. I believe we are coming up with some valuable information.”

  Fred continued. “However, the immediate problem facing this task force is to locate the al Qaeda information minister, bin Zanni, and then capture him.”

  Colmont spoke up. “I have been told that bin Zanni and his henchmen are in the alpine district near Grenoble.”

  At that moment, Fleming’s cellphone rang, and he hurried into the kitchen. Fred had just asked Colmont to discuss some of the political problems he faced with the bin Zanni operation when Fleming rushed back into the room. “Excuse me! I just talked with Claudia in Paris.” He read from his notes. “Mark, that conversation you intercepted yesterday at the Vieux-Port? Paris was able to transcribe it. Bottom line, there’s a plot to kill our consul general in Marseille.”

  Colmont jumped up
from his chair. “Pardon. This is a French criminal matter. I must know the details and inform the authorities in Marseille.”

  “Roger that,” Fred said. “We’ll head over to Marseille immediately. Major, you stay here in position with our French counterparts in case bin Zanni is located.”

  Marseille

  This time Hassan decided not to wait for Rashid outside the wine wholesaler’s building as he had done at the last meeting. Instead, he entered the vestibule of the tired Marseille building and found a worn wooden bench with yellowed newspapers stacked to one side. To lessen the pain, he kept his legs spread as he gingerly eased himself down. The air smelled of cooked fish. The sun pierced through a window above, capturing specks of floating dust.

  That morning Hassan had done his best to do a countersurveillance, but his head throbbed and his genitals ached. He had difficulty urinating and when he did, blood appeared.

  After waking up on the lavatory floor of the Palais building the day before, he had limped in a daze back to his hotel room. He explained to Yazid and his driver that he had taken a bad fall. The Iraqi driver had bandaged the cut on his head and Yazid had found a pharmacy to buy pain medication. At one o’clock in the morning with his mind a bit clearer, Hassan had taken a shower. It was then he remembered the short, thin silver wire and cylinder tucked into Sandra’s brassiere. The soap had dropped from his hand as panic set in.

  From out of the bright sunlight, Rashid entered the building lobby and came over to him. In a whisper, he said, “So, have you set your plan to…” He stopped, stepped back, and stared at the bandage on Hassan’s head. “What happened to you, my friend?”

  Hassan rose and motioned toward the stairs. They started up, but after a few steps, Hassan became nauseous. At the first landing, he excused himself and limped into a restroom.

  A stream of pink urine dripped out into the urinal, accompanied by a burning sensation. That morning he had thrown up his breakfast of bread and cheeses an hour after he had eaten. The pain in his head returned.

  Zipping up his fly, he went over to the basin and washed his hands. In the mirror he saw his face covered with sweat. The tap provided only tepid water. When the sink filled, he put his face down into the water, and held it there. He lifted his head. Even though his body ached, his mind seemed clearer. Where was that Western bitch now? For whom did she work? It had to be the CIA. They knew about him. He must move fast.

  The top button of the bald wholesaler’s gray shirt had not seen a buttonhole in years. From behind his desk, he slouched his ample body into a chair and dragged on a cigarette. A crumpled pack of Gitanes stuck out of his shirt pocket. He acted as if he had trouble remembering Hassan and Rashid, even though their previous meeting had been only a week before. This time they sat without being offered a cup of coffee from the stained pot on the credenza.

  “You’re the ones who want to send a few cases of wine to the United States. How many? Twenty, thirty?”

  Hassan said, “I want to send thirty cases of wine, ten each to New York, Washington, and Los Angeles. We should have the cases ready in a few days. We need to know where to deliver them.”

  “There may be some problems.” The bald man leaned forward and waved his cigarette back and forth. “The flics are looking at all the shipping of wine lately, especially to the United States. I do not want to get caught in some illegal business.”

  “Excuse me,” Rashid said. “What are these flics?”

  He threw his hands in the air. “The police.”

  Perspiration oozed down the back of Hassan’s shirt. His head ached at the thought of another problem. The vision in his right eye began to blur. He hoped Rashid would allay this pig’s concerns.

  “We assure you, sir, this is a legitimate transaction … small, but quite legal.” Rashid leaned toward the man. “If there are those who engage in illegal enterprises, that is no matter to us.”

  The fat man stabbed at them with his index finger. “What is on the labels of your wine? How old is it? Are you sending rare vintages?”

  “They are nouveau wines,” Hassan spoke up. “They come from near Marseille, from a village called Archos.” He put his mind on alert. The wrong word spoken now could ruin the whole plan. “I do not understand about these ‘rare vintages.’”

  The bald man slumped back in his chair and began rotating the seat on its creaky swivel. He looked up at the ceiling and Hassan expected a lecture.

  “The big scam today is selling rare vintages of French wine to rich Americans.” The bald man used his hands again for emphasis. “Those fools will pay thousands and thousands for a bottle with the labels of a 1784 or 1787 Chateau Lafite or a 1961 Petrus filled with nothing but six-day-old wine. Do they know? Of course not. They are collectors, not drinkers.”

  Hassan relaxed, and the dampness in his shirt settled into a not uncomfortable chill. Turning to Rashid, he suggested they show the bald man the labels they would use.

  “Here, see the label for yourself,” Rashid said. “We will even give you a complimentary case of wine for your own inspection.”

  On that note, the bald man sat up and scribbled notes on a pad, then threw the pen down. “I will ship the wine for you.” He handed Hassan a piece of paper with an address. “This is where you deliver the cases. Oh, I must add some additional handling charges. You understand?”

  Hassan and Rashid descended the two flights of stairs to the lobby and stopped at the doorway. Each one took turns leaning out the door and looking up and down the street. They saw no one who appeared suspicious.

  As Hassan started out, Rashid grabbed his sleeve. “I do not understand all this. Why are you so intent on sending this wine to America? How much can you or your organization expect to make from all the trouble?”

  Hassan wiped his brow with a handkerchief and, seeing it soiled, shoved it back into his pocket. He did not need a debate with Rashid now.

  Rashid continued. “The important thing is what you plan to do about the American consul general. Abdul Wahab is very intent about this, and I told you he says that you already have been paid—”

  “My people are in contact with a man who is employed at the consul general’s home. I do not want to be specific, but the results will please Wahab.” Hassan leaned against the doorway. He handed Rashid the piece of paper the bald man had given him. “Send twenty-four cases of wine to the wholesaler today.” He pulled a card from his shirt pocket. “Now, here is another address. Today, send six cases of the green labeled Cassis wine to this location.”

  “This address you give me for the six cases is in Montpellier,” Rashid exclaimed. “I do not understand. Why not ship these six cases with the rest of the lot?” Rashid traced the address with his finger.

  “I want them to go separately. After my friend has inspected the wine, he will send them to the wholesaler. It is something I want to do.”

  Rashid looked at Hassan and shook his head. “Habibi. My good friend, you have taken a bad fall. You really should go back to your hotel and sleep. You have much to do in the next few days.”

  Hassan said, “Shukran. Thank you. I agree.” They left the building singly and disappeared in opposite directions.

  Hassan wandered back toward his hotel. He did not relish sitting in a cramped room with four other men, watching a badly-tuned television. The day before, two more men had arrived from Syria to bolster his team. These two Syrians would go to Montpellier and follow up on the delivery of the six cases of bottles to be filled with the virus. Yazid would continue contact with Dr. Aziz in Montpellier, and the Iraqi driver, as incompetent as he was, would unfortunately remain his right-hand man.

  At a brasserie, he stopped and ordered an espresso and a pastry. For almost ten minutes, he sat and tried to relax, hoping the throbbing in his head would cease. He sniggered when he recalled telling Rashid that he had an informant at the consul general’s residence. The source, Ali, was in the pay of both him and Wahab. When Wahab learned that bit of information, he would begi
n wondering what other mutual sources the two had in France.

  Afternoon pedestrians crowded the streets. Hassan left the brasserie and continued on to his hotel. He wondered what progress Aziz had made with the virus fabrication. The espresso seemed to have relieved his headache and the pain in his groin hurt less when he walked slowly. Also, his stomach had calmed. He rounded a corner and spotted the front of his hotel two blocks away. Good. The bandage on the back of his head needed changing.

  “Hassan. Hassan!”

  He stopped and looked around.

  “Here! Come in here!” Yazid stood in the door of a pâtisserie and motioned for him to enter.

  “What is the urgency?”

  “The police are at the hotel. They are all over.” Yazid spoke in Arabic, causing the French proprietors of the shop to dart quick looks from behind the glass display case. “When I passed, I saw one of the police looking out the window of our hotel room.”

  “What can we get for you?” shouted the storeowner, his pencil-thin moustache arched in suspicion.

  Hassan pushed Yazid toward the shopkeeper and told him to buy two pastries, but Yazid’s body trembled. Hassan cursed low and pushed him aside. He pointed to two honey-covered rolls under the display counter and asked the shopkeeper if they could sit at one of the two tables. The man scowled and suggested they also order coffee.

  Hassan led Yazid to the table and sat him down hard on the metal-framed chair. In a low voice, he said, “Repeat what you just told me.” Hassan listened carefully. “So have the police arrested our comrades?”

  “I do not know.” He glanced out the window. “But there are police heading in our direction.”

  “Do you have a gun?” Hassan asked, feeling for his own gun in his jacket.

  Yazid nodded.

  “Drink some coffee and take a bite of the pastry,” he ordered, and glanced out the shop’s glass door for signs of the police. “We must be calm. It is important I escape and go to Montpellier. Do you understand?”