The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  Yazid could not steady his coffee cup, and let it drop back in the saucer.

  “Forget about the coffee and take a bite of the roll. It is honey and sweet.” Hassan lifted his own cup steadily to his lips. “You must act as a decoy for me. This is your calling. Remember, this is jihad.”

  Tears flooded Yazid’s eyes. He began stuttering. Hassan realized he had to get him out on the street before he collapsed like a sobbing fool, or worse began yelling, “Praise be to Allah!” and waving his gun in the air. Has​san rose, yanked Yazid from his chair, and pulled him toward the door.

  A hard-looking French woman with a flattened nose led Stone, Frederick, and Mark up to the third-floor apartment that served as the French police lookout post. Colmont opened the door and made perfunctory introductions to members of the French surveillance team clustered near the windows. The hotel entrance lay directly below the apartment’s middle window. Stone looked around at the cameras, radios, and empty coffee cups. He smelled the acrid odor from the old cigarette butts in the ashtrays. Just like his surveillance days with the FBI when he had spent weeks on a stakeout.

  “The arrest team has three men in custody,” Colmont said, looking out the window. “We want to hold off bringing them out of the hotel until we get a fix on the other two men.”

  “Do they have Hassan?” Mark asked.

  “No,” Colmont answered. “We thought they were all there, but Hassan and another one are missing. We are searching the entire hotel in case they are hiding.”

  Colmont spoke rapidly over the radio in French with a man who answered in a slow monotone. Stone gleaned enough from the radio traffic to learn that uniform and plainclothes police had fanned out for two blocks looking for Hassan and the other terrorist.

  A cellphone rang and the French surveillance team leader barked an answer. After a few seconds, he turned to Colmont and told him the team had found explosives in Hassan’s room. They were evacuating the hotel. As Colmont shook his head, the radio blared, “Two suspects just came out of a pâtisserie!”

  On Hassan’s side of the street, two uniformed gendarmes intently searched the faces of pedestrians as they strode in his direction. Walking away from the policemen, Yazid, close to Hassan, breathed hard and muttered a prayer. Hassan tried to stop him from turning his head back in the direction of the police.

  “Walk steady, next to me,” Hassan ordered. “Do not look back.”

  When they neared an intersection, Hassan paused. If Yazid went left and he went right, the police might think they were just two friends off on their separate ways. He knew he had a better chance to escape on his own. His companion could explode at any moment.

  “We will shake hands now,” Hassan said. “Smile, so people will think we are relaxed. I will be in contact with you by cellphone.” He turned and started across the street.

  “Wait! Hassan, where shall I go?” he shouted after him. “Let us stay together!”

  Hassan cursed and looked back at the two gendarmes, who had stopped. One grabbed the sleeve of his partner and pointed in Yazid’s direction. Both started running toward him, one with a cellphone to his ear.

  Hassan moved quickly across the intersection, using three schoolgirls in blue uniforms as a shield. The shouts from the police stopped as Yazid fired off a shot.

  People around Hassan began running. Some dropped down on the ground and covered their heads with their arms. Hassan tripped over an elderly woman who had fallen on the curb. Pushing past a young couple huddled against a building, Hassan looked back and watched Yazid fire his automatic pistol at the police. He did not aim the gun, just pointed it with a wavering hand, shooting and screaming.

  The two gendarmes crouched behind a car and had yet to return fire. A man with a military-style haircut and wearing a dark suit brushed past Hassan and leaped into the intersection. He extended his revolver, aimed, and fired two quick shots. Yazid’s gun flew into the air and he spun around, staggered, and faced the shooter. Yazid looked over the shooter’s shoulder and caught Hassan’s eye. As Yazid’s lips formed a question, the shooter placed two more bullets in his chest. Yazid lurched backward, landing on the paving stones. His body jerked for a few moments and finally stopped.

  A police car with siren blaring and blue light flashing skidded to a stop in the intersection. People picked themselves up off the ground and ran. Hassan fled into the crowd. Three blocks later, he saw an entrance to an underground Metro station. He descended the stairs and hopped on a crowded train that had just arrived. After the fourth station stop, his breathing returned to normal. He pushed his way through the standing passengers to the large Metro map posted next to the car door. Somehow, he had to find his way to Montpellier.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Villefranche

  The prince floated into the mahogany-paneled salon of the Red Scorpion wearing a white, full-length thobe, a Bedouin cloak that touched his ankles. Abdul Wahab tried to gauge his mood as he rose to extend greetings to his father-in-law. A servant in a starched white jacket pulled out a dark wooden chair. Now seated at the head of the marble-topped table, the prince’s robed body enveloped the entire chair and he appeared suspended in space. Wahab wondered whether it ever occurred to the prince to forego his Arab dress, at least in his private quarters, and perhaps slip on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “The contessa has moved the last of her personal belongings down to her villa.” Wahab took his seat. He sipped the hot tea, watching the prince drum his fingers on the hard surface of the table. Wahab went on. “The palace is ready for bin Zanni and the medical people from Riyadh. We have hired two trucks to transport them up to the palace.”

  “It is a shame we could not convince bin Zanni to return to Riyadh for his treatment.”

  Wahab lifted his hands. “If he had, he would face more than just medical problems.”

  “Precisely.” The prince touched the delicate teacup sitting before him, and then withdrew his hand. “When will these people from Riyadh depart the Red Scorpion?” the prince asked.

  Wahab rose, went to the large window, and looked out. “They are stacking their equipment on deck now, Excellency, and in a few minutes the first group will cast off in the launch.”

  “And bin Zanni? Where is he now? How sick is he?”

  “My understanding is that he is growing weaker.” Wahab replied. “He is in transit, and he and his al Qaeda people should arrive at the palace early tomorrow morning. Neither the French nor the CIA have detected him.” He resumed his seat.

  “Are they still coming by helicopter?”

  “By a chartered tour bus. Who would suspect a tour bus? It is really quite clever.” Wahab smiled. “The little diversion in Marseille worked. My people reported that the CIA and the French shifted their attention away from Nice to protect the American consul general.”

  “Did you kill the consul general?”

  “No, Excellency.” He hesitated, becoming uncomfortable with the prince’s choice of words. “The plan did not work as envisioned, but the result was satisfactory.”

  The prince looked at him for a long moment through a pair of tinted glasses. “Please do me the courtesy of being more specific.”

  “Of course, my Emir.” Abdul Wahab had realized years before that he would never gain the prince’s full respect because he had placed his first wife, the prince’s daughter, in a secret sanatorium near Jeddah. He had no recourse; she had become deformed in both mind and body.

  “Well?” the prince pressed.

  “I engaged the Shiite, Hassan, to make an attempt on the life of the American consul general.” The prince continued to stare, waiting for him to continue. “Apparently, somehow the French learned of the plan and intercepted Hassan and his group. I received a call just before I came here. There were arrests and shootings in Marseille.”

  “So the CIA is not that foolish after all. The authorities in France take shootings as a serious matter. Can they trace Hassan to you?”

  “Not ver
y likely. Only in this matter—”

  “In this matter where Hassan was doing your bidding, let us hope the French do not follow a trail to you, especially at this time.” The prince started to rise from his seat, but settled down again. “I explained to you that I am uncomfortable with my involvement in this al Qaeda matter. Bin Zanni has become a burden … a dangerous one.”

  Wahab leaned forward. “Please be assured the rest of the plan is, as they say in the West, on track. Once bin Zanni is in the palace, the medical people will begin administering to him. In a few weeks, he will be well again and he will depart from France.” He sat back in his chair. “And we will be able to relax.”

  The prince pushed the checkered silk kuffiyah from his face and draped the headscarf back on his shoulders. “He will not be cured, as you well know. He has the same kidney problem as Osama bin Laden. The illness runs in their tribe.”

  Wahab nodded. Illnesses ran through the generations of the tribes, including his father-in-law’s. That is why the prince’s daughter had given him sick children. That is why he had married an Englishwoman with clean blood.

  The prince continued. “If bin Zanni is not stabilized quickly, he will have to stay here longer than we want.”

  “That is why we paid the contessa for a two-month lease of the palace.”

  The prince spoke softly. “We don’t want him to stay that long. But then again, if he is very ill … Perhaps it is time for him to be called to Paradise.”

  The covered afterdeck of the yacht provided fresh air from the evening breeze coming off the bay. Abdul Wahab stood alone at the brass rail and looked down into the indigo water. After a few moments, he looked up at the mountain. In the distance, he detected lights coming on in the upper windows of the contessa’s palace. Soon bin Zanni would be housed securely within its stone walls and the doctors would begin their treatments. He thought about the prince’s last words and wondered whether he’d interpreted them correctly. Had he really suggested killing bin Zanni? Pacing the deck, he decided to see what the doctors accomplished.

  The Marseille diversion had not worked as planned. Still, it had shifted the attention of the French and CIA away from Nice and Villefranche. Bin Zanni’s people would be able to transport the ailing man undetected to the palace. Out in the bay, a buoy tilted in the wind and its bell clanged intermittently. He stopped pacing. Had the French known about Hassan all along? Had they known about the assassination plot? Did they observe his meetings with Hassan? What about that fool Harrington?

  He shook his head, went to the starboard side of the ship, and squeezed the railing. Had Harrington killed Stone yet? He had managed to kill an American agent in Cuers some years before, but Stone was another matter. Strange … everything was working smoothly before Stone came on the scene. He had a habit of showing up at the most inconvenient times.

  Marseille

  At the entrance to the restaurant, Stone met Colmont, who gave him a firm handshake. “Hayden. I suggested this restaurant because it serves a classic Marseille bouillabaisse.” Colmont looked very pleased with himself. “With your people and mine we have enough for such a celebration.”

  Stone agreed the arrest of Hassan’s people had accomplished something, but Hassan had slipped out of their net. The French recovered explosives from Hassan’s hotel room and three terrorists were under interrogation. As a bonus, the two captured Syrians were on the French wanted list for the bombing of a French consulate in Cameroon. Colonel Frederick told him that Colmont’s stature would definitely climb in the eyes of his bosses in Paris.

  A waiter cracked open the side window to clear the air of cigarette smell that Stone figured was left over from the luncheon crowd. He chose a chair at the large oval table set with a light blue tablecloth, then spotted Sandra. She stood at the door, hesitating. Stone waved to her, at the same time searching for any change in demeanor due to her ordeal the day before. He detected none. Either she was a good actor, or just philosophical about the perils of her job. She came over and sat next to him. Her voice cracked. “Hi there.”

  Both watched Colmont vying with Colonel Frederick at the other end of the table over the preparation of bouillabaisse. Finally, Sandra shook her head. “How well do you know Frederick?”

  “We were both in Afghanistan last year. Before that we worked on a number of joint task forces.”

  She leaned toward him, her arm touching his. “He’s a breath of fresh air and your star has seen a change for the better. Claudia wanted to fire you. She called you a ‘trigger-happy cowboy.’”

  “Apparently my charm was wasted on her.”

  Sandra’s eyes lacked their normal sparkle. “I saw her this morning in Paris. The station chief has her under tow, except for her three-hour lunches.”

  “I thought you were … well, taking it easy after yesterday’s experience.” Seeing her eyes moisten, he changed the subject. “Try the wine?”

  She took a sip. “It’s passable.” She sighed. “And I’m okay. I flew to Paris this morning to see the shrink. The policy in the Agency is, if anyone has an experience like I had, we have to talk with a staff psychiatrist.” She rotated her glass on the tablecloth, then looked at him. “Did you get to talk with anyone after the shooting?”

  Stone laughed. “Remember, I’m not staff, so I guess my mental health isn’t all that important.”

  “Bullshit. It was Claudia’s responsibility to see that you talked with someone. You know, she really lives up to her reputation.”

  Colmont stood and asked the people seated to observe the owner leading two waiters into the room carrying tureens of steaming broth. “Ah, here is the first course,” Colmont announced. “First, we have the fish broth with some sauce rouille spread on the croûtes, no?”

  The waiters ladled the broth into everyone’s bowl and the smell of leeks and fennel rose with the vapor. Frederick remarked to Colmont that he had enjoyed a great bouillabaisse some years back at a restaurant up the coast at Cap d’Antibes, but Colmont dismissed any suggestion that it could compare with anything created in Marseille.

  Sandra nudged Stone. “I think we’re in for an evening of gastronomic sermons.” She laughed softly then asked, “Seriously, how are you doing? I mean after your two … encounters?”

  “You mean the gunfight after the party and when I threw that killer onto a picket fence?” He frowned. “I’m okay. Maybe I’m supposed to have nightmares or feelings of guilt, but nope, I don’t.” He sipped some wine. “I’m always happy being the one left standing.”

  Stone watched as Sandra concentrated on her broth and wondered how she could be thinking of his problems after what she had gone through. Her spoon wobbled ever so slightly when she brought the liquid up to her lips. Then he tried the broth and noted a lingering taste of saffron.

  “And you,” he whispered. “How are you really doing?”

  “It’ll take time.” She paused. “I’m never without my gun.”

  Once again, Colmont addressed the group to say that the second course consisted of an array of a half-dozen fish, which came to the table whole. The waiters spaced four platters along the table and commenced to bone and cut the fish. Two serving dishes filled with steaming buttered potatoes were set at either end.

  “You know,” Stone said. “I always thought bouillabaisse was a fish soup.”

  He spooned chunks of bass, red mullet, John Dory, and conger eel onto his plate. Sandra asked what kind of fish she had on her fork and he told her he recognized it as a scorpion fish, the same he had eaten in a fish stew at a restaurant in Archos. As he refilled his glass with a chilled chardonnay, he overheard Mark and Eric discussing what they expected to find when they arrived in Nice the next day.

  He interrupted them. “What are your plans now?”

  Mark answered. “Tomorrow morning Fred and I are heading back to Nice. We haven’t heard anything from the Major about our Arab friend, so we have to stay flexible.”

  “I’m staying here with Eric,” Sandra said. �
��We’ll try to get a lead on Hassan. We’ll find him. What about you?”

  Stone leaned back, having finished his second helping. “I’ll go up the road to Archos for the night, and then head to Nice and join the group.” He thought for a moment. “You know, I don’t get Hassan’s role in all this. He didn’t kill the Agency man in Nice, nor the woman officer in Montpellier.”

  “We’re not positive about our officer in Montpellier,” she corrected. “He could have been responsible for that killing.”

  Stone shook his head. “Hassan shows up in Saint-Rémy while bin Zanni passes through and sends one of his henchmen to kill me. What’s he up to? He’s a Shiite working with Sunnis. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “He may be doing them a favor, or maybe it’s a marriage of convenience.” She put down her fork, dabbed her lips with her napkin, and spoke close to his ear. “We’ve been tracking Hassan for some time now. He has contacts with a research institute in Montpellier. He also is interested in wines, in fact from your Archos area. We’re getting chatter from sensitive sources about some big attack.”

  Stone chewed on a succulent portion of conger eel while letting that information settle in. This was turning into a serious operation. Did everyone involved have a grasp on the situation? Stone went on, “Then there’s bin Zanni and his group. What’s going on there? You know he’s al Qaeda’s second in command.” He tilted his head in Colmont’s direction. “Will the French allow us to grab him?”

  Sandra frowned. “If he lives long enough.”

  “How’s that?”

  She whispered, “I’ll explain later.”

  He could take that bit of information a number of ways, but wouldn’t pursue it at present. The two of them already had violated the rules of tradecraft by discussing business in a public restaurant. Only remnants of fish remained on the platters. The tablecloth, once spotless, showed the stains and spills of a relaxed and enjoyable meal. Stone had overindulged and now faced a sleepy drive up the coast to Archos.