The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  “No.” Stone hesitated. “Sounds like Harrington is trying to stir up trouble between you and me.”

  “Why did you not call me?” Lucinda said, in a low tone. “I can come there if you need me.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t want to put you out. I know you’re busy.”

  A long silence.

  “Yes, of course. It seems you are being well taken care of. Goodbye.”

  “Lucinda…” The line went dead.

  Stone sighed, then said, “The contessa thinks you and I have something going on.”

  “But yes, I would feel the same way.” Margaux’s cheeks flushed. “That is, if you and I were—”

  “That bastard Harrington. I have to admire him in a way. Here he is about to lose a prestigious position, all his money, and probably go to jail, yet he finds time to be jealous of a woman who won’t…”

  She smiled. “It must hurt him to know that the contessa has turned her attention elsewhere.”

  Stone got up and slowly climbed the stairs to his bedroom while Margaux went to the kitchen to clean the dishes. He paused at the top landing.

  She turned from the sink and looked up at him. “I will lock the door behind me. Tomorrow, I will make sure your coffee and newspaper arrive at the usual time.”

  “Great. Thanks for dinner and … everything.”

  In his bedroom, he cracked open a window and crawled into bed. Margaux had been a comfort. She seemed to continually surprise him. The front door shut and all was quiet. He checked to make sure his gun was under the pillow.

  He closed his eyes. Why had Harrington tried to kill him? Was it jealousy over the contessa, or had Abdul Wahab put him up to it? And if so, why did the Saudis want him dead? Maybe Frederick or Fleming had some intelligence they had neglected to share.

  Then there was his relationship with Lucinda. That had taken a quick turn for the worse. Tomorrow, he would call her. Before he fell asleep, he wondered whether someday his life might become less complicated.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Marseille

  Hassan’s train from Marseille to Arles took a little less than an hour. By the time he emerged from the station, the sun had set and the air had begun to cool. He debated whether to call and ask Rashid to pick him up, but decided against it. Certainly, the police had a telephone tap on Rashid’s home phone. Instead, he searched for a car rental company and found an open storefront operation. The lone woman attendant was attempting to handle four impatient customers queued in front of the counter.

  Standing in the back of the line, he realized he had only one passport and an assortment of credit cards, not all in the passport’s name. All of his other forged documentation had been abandoned in the hotel room and now were in the possession of the French police.

  An American middle-aged couple, both large in girth, were arguing with the attendant. The disagreement concerned the mileage on the car they had just returned. Finally, the attendant came from behind the counter, marched out of the office with the couple in tow, and headed for the car parked outside the entrance. Hassan followed at a discreet distance. She opened the door and pointed to the mileage indicator on the dashboard. They all went back into the office, the couple now subdued. The car’s keys hung in the ignition. Hassan calmly walked over, got in, and drove off.

  The fuel gauge read less than a quarter tank, but that was enough to reach Rashid’s residence. The CIA and the French will certainly watch his villa, he reasoned. Perhaps the French already had Rashid in custody.

  As he eased past the entrance to Rashid’s estate, he searched for surveillance. If he drove by again, he would definitely arouse the suspicion of any lurking policemen. Then by chance he spotted a gray van backed up into the trees about one hundred yards south of the entrance gate. A mile farther down the road, he pulled over and checked the map he’d found in the glove compartment. It showed a winding road some distance on the other side of the villa. He would drive there, hide the car, and walk through the vineyards to Rashid’s main house.

  Hassan crept up the stairs to the second floor of the villa and found Rashid’s study. He peered into the dark-paneled room and saw Rashid at a large oak desk, working numbers in a green ledger. Next to him a computer screensaver displayed colored fish swimming in random directions. Hassan caught the faint smell of a tomato-based casserole in the room. An empty dinner plate sat on a long credenza against the wall.

  Startled when Hassan dragged an armchair up to the desk, Rashid gasped and slid back in his chair. “How did you get in here?” He drew his black silk robe over his white pajamas. “Why did you not call? What—”

  “I came in the back way. You should lock your doors.” Hassan unzipped his jacket and sat in the chair. He spread out his legs and let out a sigh as the pain in his groin and side subsided. “Police are watching outside on the road.”

  “Why are the police watching me?”

  “No more questions.” Hassan readjusted the position of the gun in his belt and quickly relayed the story of his men’s arrest in Marseille that afternoon. “The police must know we have been working together. That is why they are out there watching you.”

  “I do not know how they could—”

  “Obviously, they have been following your Saudi friends.” He pointed. “You were the one who involved me with bin Zanni and al Qaeda. Now the police know about me.”

  Rashid pulled his robe tight around himself, and then covered his face with his hands. “This is not good.” He paused a moment. “We must get you out of here, out of the country.”

  “I need money,” Hassan said.

  Rashid opened his desk drawer and pulled out a bulging envelope, then shoved it back. He grabbed his wallet.

  Hassan rose, took the wallet from him, and emptied it of bills. “Where is bin Zanni now?” He reached over, pulled the envelope from the desk drawer, and thumbed through the euros.

  Rashid raised a hand in protest, then dropped it. “I just heard he is going to a palace in Villefranche. He will be there tomorrow morning.” He began to rise, but was pushed back into the chair. “You are not taking all of my money, are you?”

  “What palace?”

  “The prince has leased a palace from some contessa.”

  “Were the six cases of wine delivered to the address in Montpellier?” Hassan asked.

  “Twenty-four cases were sent to the wholesaler earlier today. The six cases you’re concerned about are going by truck to Montpellier tonight.”

  Hassan stuffed the money in his pockets, went to the window, and pulled back the heavy draperies. Down below, a panel truck was parked outside a two-story barn a few yards from the main house. Ancient trees with wide-spread limbs shielded the chateau from the road. “Is that the truck going to Montpellier?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Call the driver and tell him he will have a passenger with him tonight.”

  Rashid obeyed, and when he hung up Hassan returned to the desk. “You involved me with this Saudi, Abdul Wahab, who wanted me to kill the American agent, Stone. I wondered why he did not kill Stone the same way he killed the other two CIA agents. Why have me do it?” Hassan sat on the edge of the desk. “Then I realized he wanted to shift the attention of the Americans to me and away from him and al Qaeda.”

  Rashid protested; said that he was unaware of any such plan on Wahab’s part.

  “It was the same with him wanting me to kill the American consul general. Have the CIA and French come to Marseille and look for me.” He looked down at Rashid and said softly, “Where does this Stone live?”

  “At the Foundation d’Élan in Archos. Where that man Harrington is the director.”

  “I suppose you know Harrington.” Hassan pulled out his automatic and released the safety. “I want you to call the Foundation.”

  “But I do not know the number. Who would I ask for?”

  “Ask the operator for the number.” Hassan waved his gun back and forth. “Then, when you reach it, ask to spea
k to Mr. Stone.”

  “What do I say when he answers?”

  “Tell him bin Zanni is going to the palace of a contessa in Villefranche.” Hassan pointed the gun at Rashid’s face.

  “I cannot do that! Wahab will kill me!”

  He placed the barrel of the gun to Rashid’s forehead. “I will kill you if you do not.”

  Rashid fumbled for the phone. The operator gave him the phone number, but he had to dial three times before his nervous finger got all the numbers correct. It took a few minutes for the operator at the Foundation to connect Rashid to Stone’s cottage.

  “Are you Mr. Stone?” Rashid asked.

  Hassan motioned with his gun for him to continue.

  “It is of no importance, who I am.” Rashid then relayed the message to Stone. After repeating it, he hung up.

  Hassan looked down at him. “Now the French and CIA will be heading back to Nice.” He raised the gun high above Rashid’s head. “And the police will be knocking on your door.”

  He hit Rashid hard on the top of his head with three blows from the butt of the gun. Rashid fell forward, his smashed head landing on the ledger. The heavy bond paper slowly absorbed the blood oozing from his scalp.

  The phone rang and Hassan froze. He picked up the receiver and listened as the truck driver said he was waiting down in the driveway. Running down the stairs, he went out the front door and crossed the gravel yard to the truck, where the driver stood smoking.

  “Is the wine loaded?”

  “It is.” The driver turned his back, opened the back of the truck, and pointed to the six cases. Hassan pulled out his gun and slugged him. He then dragged the man into the barn. Donning the driver’s coat and beret, he drove slowly out the gate and headed down the road for the Autoroute to Montpellier. He felt relief when the surveillance van remained motionless.

  At the kitchen sink, Stone splashed water on his face. He thought about the call he had just received. At first, the brief message hadn’t made sense, so he’d asked the caller to repeat it. Not only was the message puzzling—that bin Zanni was heading for the contessa’s palace—but also the caller had a thick Middle Eastern accent. He thought for a moment. Trick or no trick, Frederick has to know right away.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Nice—May 15, 2002

  Stone drove from Archos to Nice through an early morning mist. He parked a block away from the safehouse. Entering, he found the place deserted, so decided to search the team’s computer for any messages on bin Zanni. He found none.

  An hour later, Frederick and his group stormed in and suddenly the apartment felt claustrophobic. From the second floor, Stone looked down on the outline of a Roman ruin adjacent to the Matisse Museum. Light drizzle spotted the window, obstructing his view. Behind him, a dozen CIA and military people from the rendition team mingled, speaking in hushed tones. Maurice Colmont and his deputy from DST, French Intelligence, conferred with Frederick at the kitchen door. The meeting would begin in a few minutes, so Stone went over to the faded couch and sat next to Mark.

  “You remind me of a boxer who leads with his head,” Mark said, as he examined Stone’s bandaged nose.

  “You should have seen me yesterday.”

  Frederick broke away from Colmont and moved to the center of the living room. He announced that Colmont would present an update on bin Zanni’s whereabouts.

  Thumbing through an assortment of notes, Colmont turned to his deputy, spoke with him for a second, then announced, “I wish to provide you with some background information on how we located bin Zanni. Last night, Mr. Stone here received a call from a man named Rashid, who said bin Zanni was going to a palace in Villefranche.” He scanned the faces in the room. “My people listened to the same conversation. Because of Rashid’s connections with Hassan, we had put an electronic listening device on his telephone. This man Rashid also did business with Abdul Wahab, the spokesman for the Saudi prince, whose yacht presently is anchored in the Bay of Villefranche.”

  Frederick interjected, “We think we know why Rashid called Stone.”

  “Correct,” Colmont said. “Shortly after the telephone call, my agents entered Rashid’s villa. We found him bludgeoned to death. Outside the villa, we found one of Rashid’s employees unconscious but alive. He told the agents that a man matching the description of Hassan attacked him and stole a panel truck. We think Hassan had Rashid make the call. Why? Because we think he wanted to divert us from Marseille.”

  “Any lead on Hassan’s whereabouts?” Stone asked.

  “We have a clue,” Colmont answered. “The workman said that before Hassan knocked him unconscious, he asked if six cases of Cassis wine had been loaded in the truck. The wine was to be delivered to an address in Montpellier. After this meeting, I will fly there and join two of Colonel Frederick’s associates to search for Hassan.” Colmont took a deep breath. “Hassan is a very dangerous man. We suspect he may be engaged in … well, as you Americans say, ‘we shall see.’”

  Frederick looked at Colmont. “As for bin Zanni?”

  Colmont put his notes in his pocket. “We have multiple contacts who have reported that a tour bus arrived at Contessa Lucinda’s palace early this morning. As some of you know, the contessa leased the palace for two months to the Saudi prince. My sources report that the palace is full of medical people and armed men. Lights were on in the palace until dawn. All is quiet now.”

  “Can we be assured bin Zanni is still there?” Stone asked.

  Frederick spoke up. “Headquarters advised that yesterday sensitive sources overheard bin Zanni has kidney stones and an enlarged heart. That’s why the medical people are there. I would say he’s being treated as we speak.”

  “Any plans to go into the palace and extract him?” asked the major in charge of the rendition team.

  Colmont spoke up. “Absolutely none. My orders from Paris are that we are to watch and keep bin Zanni and his people under surveillance.” He shook his head. “That is all that is permissible. Under no conditions are we to launch an assault.”

  The members of the rendition team looked at each other in disbelief. Mark groaned and Frederick looked at the floor. Heavy drops of rain pelted the window.

  “That’s the situation,” Frederick said. “We’ll stay on an alert status until further notice.”

  “One more thing,” Colmont said. “We have the palace under observation both from lookouts in villas owned by cooperative citizens and from a camera aimed at the only road leading to the palace. We will know if anyone leaves the palace.”

  “And he’ll know if we try to get in,” Mark murmured to Stone.

  After the meeting, Stone, Frederick, and Mark left the apartment and meandered through the Cimiez gardens next to the museum and across from the safehouse. The rain had let up to a fine drizzle that beaded Stone’s jacket. He breathed in the fresh smell of rainwater dripping from the pines. The three stopped under the shelter of a large olive tree and studied the walled ruins of the Roman public baths.

  “Damn French.”

  “Mark, trust me,” Frederick assured. “Colmont would love to go in there and wreak havoc, but Paris is wary of the Middle East reaction.”

  “If we can’t do anything here, we may as well go to Montpellier and help Sandra,” Stone said.

  “No, I want you two to stay here. Maybe poke around the neighborhood of Villefranche and see who’s coming and going from the prince’s yacht. Your FBI friend, Jonathan Deville, is returning from Paris. He may have received some guidance from his headquarters.” Frederick motioned for them to continue walking. “The Bureau and CIA don’t want bin Zanni to get away, but they don’t necessarily want us to capture him. It would present problems, to say the least, to keep him in prison.”

  “Let me know if you decide to act unilaterally,” Stone said. “I know of a way to get in the palace without going in the front door.”

  “I figured you did,” chuckled Frederick. “Why don’t you give your friend the contessa a call?
However, be careful … she’s been working with Colmont and French intelligence for years.”

  Stone stopped and shook his head. Why hadn’t he realized that? “She’s a spy?”

  “No,” answered Frederick. “She’s what we call an ‘agent of influence.’ A good contact for the French, especially since she travels in high circles.”

  Stone remembered saying to Jonathan Deville at the consul general’s party that everyone around there seemed to be playing parts and no one was really whom they appeared to be.

  “Can’t blame her,” Frederick added. “She needs all the friends she can get.”

  Villefranche

  When Stone approached Lucinda, waiting in the marble foyer of her villa on the Bay of Villefranche, she moved gracefully toward him, came close, kissed his right cheek, his left, and then brushed his lips with hers. He detected a new perfume. Flowery, with a touch of lavender. She studied his face and touched the bandage on his nose.

  “Harrington sent two of his thugs to kill me.”

  “That is preposterous! Why would Harrington want to kill you?”

  “He’s jealous. I’m sure he knows about us.” He winked.

  She tossed her head. “What about us?”

  Her eyes shot from him to the boats in the bay. She sniffed. “Perhaps that was one of the reasons, but it must be more than that. Harrington is a desperate man. He has been dealing with that cunning Saudi, Abdul Wahab.” She moved closer. “Are you are telling me everything?”

  “Have you been forthcoming with me, Lucinda? Have you told me everything?”

  Pushing him away, she said in her husky voice, “I want to go to town and have lunch.” She went out the entranceway and upon seeing his Porsche, added, “I like your car.”

  The Porsche hugged the narrow mountain road that curved around the bay from the contessa’s villa to the town of Villefranche. She had asked Stone to take this road so she could admire the view and he’d obliged. The rain had passed and the countryside glistened. As he shifted through the gears, he tried to gauge her mood.