The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  “It would be nice to go to the little place we frequented years ago. When we were young,” she said, holding her hand out the window as if she wanted to catch the air. “You mentioned that Jonathan is coming down from Paris. Tell him he can stay at my villa.” Her jeans matched her pale-blue sweater. He always liked it when she didn’t wear a brassiere. Around her head, she had tied a Hermes scarf, heavy with French blues and yellows. Large sunglasses hid her eyes. She turned to him. “Are you here to write your book?”

  “I’m not here to write,” he answered. “Surely, Colmont told you that the last time you two spoke?”

  She heaved a sigh. “Monsieur Colmont indicated that you are a spy. I am surprised you did not tell me that when we had our talk. You know … after we made love.”

  “That was one thing that didn’t come up.” He looked over. “All right, I did say I was writing a book. I did say I was a writer. Who’s to say I’m not?”

  “You have a hard time with the truth.”

  He pulled the car off the road and parked under a twisted cedar tree. A goshawk screeched, flapped off, and glided down toward the bay. The town of Villefranche glimmered below along the shore. Lucinda lifted her face and looked out the open sunroof.

  “Would you please take off your sunglasses?” he asked, as he removed his own.

  She turned to him and gestured “why” with upraised shoulders.

  “So I can see your eyes. I want to know what you’re thinking.”

  “I know what you are thinking, Hayden Stone, even with your sunglasses on.” She slid her glasses off. “You think because we have slept together that things are back as they once were.” She shook her head. “They are not. Maybe if you had been honest with me—”

  “The girl, Margaux, means nothing to me. She is only a friend.”

  “Probably. Besides, she is too young for you.”

  “Then it’s because Colmont told you I was a spy?” Stone laughed. “A spy doesn’t go around announcing ‘I’m a spy.’ That can backfire on you.” He pushed his head back onto the headrest. “Actually, I’m not a real spy … just sort of a consultant. I’m retired from the FBI. I told you that the other night, right? Besides, you work for French Intelligence, don’t you?”

  “It matters not, really,” she spoke softly. “I want you to know you may stay anytime you want at my villa, but I will never visit your room again.” She slipped her sunglasses back on. “Are you still taking me to lunch?”

  The Red Scorpion eased around on its anchor with the changing tide. A flock of screaming seagulls circled above the fantail, waiting for the ship’s cook to throw the remnants of breakfast overboard. Abdul Wahab gazed across the bay to the port of Villefranche. How nice it would be to have a relaxing lunch over there, perhaps with a lovely woman?

  That morning a frantic call from Harrington had added to his problems. Once again, Harrington had failed to kill Stone, and the attempt had resulted in the arrest of two of Harrington’s henchmen. His voice frantic, Harrington had said he did not know how long his men could resist police interrogation. If and when they talked, Harrington would be implicated.

  Wahab tried to calm him, advising that he should return to the United States, but Harrington had argued that it required a lot of money. Finally, Wahab agreed to send one of his men with a suitable payment. It crossed his mind that a bullet in the head would have been a more suitable payment.

  At the contessa’s party he had remembered the effortless way Stone had moved from one person to another. That man, Stone, was a form of djinn, an apparition, always showing up at awkward times and seemingly impossible to kill. He must find that photograph of Stone and study his face. Without a doubt, he had seen Stone before, but where?

  Harrington, on the other hand, was a minor problem compared to the prince, who had grown irritable since the arrival of bin Zanni. He should not have told the prince that bin Zanni’s men had barred the two of them from visiting the palace. To complicate matters, those same men constantly flowed back and forth to the yacht to use the communication gear. He suspected that the prince believed he was being used by bin Zanni, and the prince was not a man to be used. Worse, the prince surely blamed him, Abdul Wahab, for this quandary.

  The open-air restaurant Lucinda had suggested sat above a woman’s boutique having a sale. On the sidewalk below, the shop displayed clothing tagged en vente. A smoky glass partition shielded the luncheon patrons from the noise and fumes from the few passing automobiles below. Down the street, Stone saw the landing where the motorboats picked up and discharged passengers for the yachts anchored in the bay. He had watched the Red Scorpion’s launch depart, carrying a group of bearded men in dark suits.

  Despite Stone going through his repertoire of jokes and bons mots, Lucinda maintained a detached air. The only emotion she showed during the lunch was when she complained about strangers living in and soiling her palace. Resigned to her mood, Stone settled back and nibbled at his disappointing salad. It was enough to be in the presence of a beautiful chic woman. More than one man at the adjoining tables had turned from his companion to eye her.

  The waiter had gone for the check when Stone’s cellphone buzzed. Colonel Frederick was brief. He wanted Stone to return to the safehouse now.

  “Business.” He put the phone away. “I have an important meeting.”

  She looked down to the street as if something had attracted her attention.

  He leaned next to her. “It’s a secret mission.” She continued to look at some tourists walking along the street. “I wanted you to know.”

  She glared at him. “I do not care.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  Lucinda pressed her napkin on the table. Her dark hazel eyes bored into his. “I want you to understand something.” She paused for a moment. “My father truly liked you.”

  “I liked him. He was a good man.”

  “He told me you would come back. I think he expected to see you again. He, of course, never did.”

  Stone squirmed in his chair. His mind churned. How long would it take to return Lucinda to her villa and then head off to the safehouse?

  She looked down at her empty plate. “Remember when we would go to the cinema and see the films of Jean-Luc Godard? You told me I reminded you of the actress, Jean Seberg. Remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “I read in the newspapers that your FBI people in Washington were not nice to her. She finally killed herself. Did you have anything to do with that harassment?” Shaking her head, she forced a laugh. “Of course, would you tell me if you did?”

  “I had nothing to do with that. Most of us in the Bureau didn’t even know the program was going on.” Stone glanced at his watch. He had become uncomfortable. “Lucinda, I’m sorry for coming back into your life and bringing up bad memories for you. That was not my intention, but you’re right. I’m sort of a bastard.”

  “Ah, you are much more than that. Shall we go?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Nice

  A burly army sergeant with a red crew cut ushered Stone into the safehouse, where Colonel Frederick stood flipping through a black folder. Frederick looked up. “We’re taking down bin Zanni. I just got the green light from Langley. We need help with the attack plan on the palace.”

  The assault team milled about the safehouse, checking their weapons and radio equipment. One of the military women cracked her knuckles every few minutes. Stone sat down at a table covered with maps and drawings. This was all a step-up from a police raid, but the same basic scenario. He picked up a pencil and began drawing. Tossing down the pencil, he placed his hands over his eyes and tried to visualize the layout of the palace.

  In time, his rough sketch revealed that the inside of the structure was not as large as it appeared from the exterior. Most of its bulk consisted of thick stone walls attached to a tall, crenellated keep. His big problem was that he couldn’t remember the locations of all the hidden passageways winding throughout the palace.


  Frederick called everyone in the room to order. “Colmont and his men are busy in Montpellier, looking for Hassan.” He scanned the faces before him. “Meanwhile, the television is plastered with news about the attempt on the American consul general in Marseille.” He paused. “We may assume bin Zanni and his henchmen believe our attention is directed there. If they’re going to let their guard down, it’s now.”

  “So, what do we do?” Mark asked.

  “The Major and I came up with a basic plan. Stone is fleshing it out.” Frederick grabbed a chair, turned it around, and straddled it, hanging his arms over the slatted back. “We want to keep it simple. We don’t have time for a complicated strategy. Thanks to Stone, we don’t have to go in through the front door. He knows of a tunnel from the outside that leads into the basement. We can sneak in and have the element of surprise.”

  “How do you know about a tunnel?” asked one of the Major’s men.

  “I discovered it some years ago.”

  “Not good enough.” Mike sat down next to Stone. “It could have collapsed. It might be blocked now.”

  “That’s why I’m leaving after the meeting to do a recon,” Stone answered. “While I’m there, I’ll place a series of electronic markers along the path to guide us at night.”

  “There will be ten people going in.” Frederick turned to Fleming. “I know you want to go in with the team, but I need you here to handle the command post. Also, if the situation goes south, I can trust you to finesse the French.” Fleming didn’t look happy.

  Frederick turned back to the group. “Stone will lead us through the tunnel until we get into the building. Then the Major leads with four people, followed by me with Stone, Jonathan Deville, who should be here soon, then Mark and Sergeant Wilson. We all will have night-vision equipment, firearms with noise suppressors, flash grenades, and medical gear.” Frederick stood up. “We go in together, we go out together.”

  The Major spoke up. “What about explosives?”

  “No high explosives,” Frederick answered. “Stone isn’t certain about the stability of the structure.”

  Stone leaned back and folded his arms. Not to mention what Lucinda would do if she learned he had blown up her palace.

  Frederick looked at Stone. “Map all the pathways to the most logical rooms where we’ll find bin Zanni.” He turned back to the others. “Remember, bin Zanni is our target. You all have his description and photo. Anyone else we get is a bonus.”

  “When do we go in?” asked someone in the back.

  “Tomorrow morning at zero two hundred.” Frederick looked at his watch. “That’s about eight hours from now. The operation is to take no more than twenty minutes. We leave no evidence that points to us.”

  Stone looked out the car window at the Bay of Villefranche a thousand feet below. “We’re lucky. There’ll be little moonlight tonight.”

  Mark guided the Porsche along the narrow mountain road overgrown with grass and brush. When Stone saw a dip in the road a few hundred yards ahead, he told him to slow down. “Leave me off at the bottom of the hill. That way when I get out, no one at the palace will see me.” He checked his flashlight to make sure it worked, then counted the electronic markers in his backpack.

  “Only a handgun?” Mark asked.

  Stone nodded.

  “You have a silencer and extra magazines?”

  Again a nod. “I’ll call you in about an hour for the pickup.” The car eased to a stop and Stone jumped out.

  As Mark turned the car around, Stone stood in the silence of the empty hillside, then jogged along the road until he found a path leading down the hill. He recognized the scat along the trail. Goats had passed by recently. The landscape had changed over the years. Even though trees grow and bushes die, rock formations usually remained the same. He searched for the white ledge that he remembered extended downhill, looking directly over a pink hotel down by the bay. He saw no pink hotel. Now numerous condominiums and villas crowded the water’s edge.

  After ten unproductive minutes, he started sweating. The sun sat on the horizon. If he returned unsuccessful, Frederick and the rest of the team would not be happy. A noisy dove flushed by his approach through the grass directed his attention to a low coppice of trees. Behind a scrub under one of the trees, he spotted the cave entrance. He could have easily passed it by. Now behind schedule, he checked to make sure no one was in sight. He pushed the bush aside and slipped into the dark entrance. His flashlight shot a beam of bright light down the length of the tunnel. The air felt cool.

  A few feet into the tunnel bats hung from the ceiling. They had not been there when he and the contessa had explored the tunnel years before. He progressed at a steady pace. Rocks littered the floor. A moment later, he stumbled and fell forward. He got up on his knees and took deep, steady breaths. Slow down. Concentrate.

  He continued down the tunnel, the rubber cleats on the bottom of his boots gripping the damp, hard surface. Years before, when he and Lucinda had searched the tunnel, it had taken about thirty minutes to travel from one end to the other. However, they had made their way carefully, stopping now and then to debate whether they should continue. This time, he figured it would take him only ten to fifteen minutes.

  The passage twisted and bent along the way, something he had forgotten. The dank, cool air chilled his face as he pushed deeper into the tunnel. At last, he reached the corroded steel door leading into the basement of the palace. By his watch, it had taken twelve minutes.

  He pressed his ear to the cold metal. No sound from the other side. He switched off the flashlight and looked for light coming though the cracks. No light.

  With his hands flat on the door, he pushed. It didn’t budge. He remembered that when he had opened the door from the other side, he’d found it hard to pull. Also, it had creaked.

  Again he pushed, this time with more force, and the door scraped along the floor. It opened two inches. Still no light came from the other side. He pushed the door until it hit the antique breakfront. Debating whether to turn on his light, he decided against it. Still, one goal was to pick up the broken padlock he had thrown on the floor a few days before. Just in case someone noticed it and slipped it back on the hasp.

  As he searched along the floor, a furry object brushed past his hand. Jerking back, he slipped and hit the tunnel wall. “Damn!” came out before he could stifle it. Seconds passed. He remained motionless. No sound came from the basement.

  He moved to the door again and turned on his flashlight. A fat black rat ran beneath the breakfront, then scurried off. On the floor, the rusty padlock looked dull in the beam of light. As he picked it up, the basement lights went on and excited voices speaking Arabic came from the top of the stairs. He extinguished his light and pulled the creaky door shut as quietly as possible, but it jammed.

  For a minute, he listened to the men thump down the stairs, arguing. Stone detected three distinct voices. They spoke in rapid Arabic, punctuated with the words “medical” and Inshalla, God willing. Finally the name bin Zanni was mentioned in a reverential tone.

  Stone pushed his face against the door and tried to see the men inside the basement. As he did, the door creaked. The men stopped speaking. He held his breath.

  A long moment passed. Then someone with a deep voice hollered from the top of the basement stairs. In subservient tones, the men in the basement acknowledged the order and rushed up the staircase.

  After the last man closed the door behind him, Stone yanked the steel door shut. He switched on his flashlight and double-timed it back through the tunnel to the exit.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Villefranche—May 16, 2002

  A waxing crescent moon hung low in the sky, just enough to require a slight uplifting of the eyes to see it. Now and then, Stone referred to the electronic markers he had positioned along the trail. The attack team followed close behind. They slipped through the underbrush, careful not to break or stir the branches. Halfway to the tunnel entrance, a
covey of black grouse flushed to the right. The team dropped to the ground and froze. A balcony light went on in a whitewashed villa sloped on the hill a hundred meters away, and a man in a blazer emerged through a sliding glass door and came to the railing. He looked over the edge and searched the landscape, then lit a cigarette, waved out the match, and went inside. Frederick, who was kneeling next to Stone, motioned to wait. When no further sound was heard, he used his clicker to signal “resume advance” and they continued toward the tunnel.

  At last they came to the tunnel entrance. The team gathered inside and Frederick whispered, “Everyone check your equipment. Make sure your radios are on. Stone, take point.”

  They hurried single-file through the tunnel. Stone switched on the micro-light attached to his headband. The rest of the team followed, each holding on to the person’s shoulder in front of him. After two minutes, Stone passed the order down the line for all to switch on their flashlights. In less than ten minutes, they reached the steel door. Stone whispered over the radio, “Flashlights off. Go to night vision.”

  Two men eased the door open until it hit the old breakfront. A strange odor came from the basement that Stone had not detected a few hours before. After a pause, they screeched both the door and breakfront aside.

  Stone slipped past and entered the basement. Through his night-vision display, he noted the stairs leading up to the main floor of the palace then scanned the room through the eerie green and strangely two-dimensional glow from the screen. “Shit!” He crouched and aimed his MP-7 assault weapon toward the far end of the room. In his radio microphone, he said, “There are five people on the floor, bound and gagged.” He rose and crept forward. “Three more in the corner.” He paused. “They’ve been decapitated. Heads are lined up on a table.” Bile rose from his stomach. He swallowed hard.