The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  “Holy shit,” muttered the Major over the radio. “Hostage situation?”

  “No, appears to be some internal cleansing,” Stone offered.

  Frederick broke in. “Squad Two, we’re going in. Quiet.”

  The five live captives struggled in their restraints. He concentrated on inspecting their faces, trying to avoid looking at the severed heads. The bound men had long beards and the Semitic features of men from the Arabian Peninsula.

  Stone then studied the heads on the table. Their long hair and beards draped into the blood pools on the table.

  Frederick and the team filed in through the door. In night-vision display, the black-clad group resembled panthers stalking a meal. Frederick came to his side.

  At the foot of the stairs, Frederick held up an arm to halt. He tapped Stone. “Take Mark and Deville and use that hidden passageway. I’ll take Squad Two up the stairs.”

  It didn’t take long for Stone to locate the arched entrance to the passageway at the far end of the basement, behind a furnace. As he was about to enter the staircase, the door at the top of the main stairs banged open and the basement lights snapped on. Frederick pushed aside his night-vision screen and watched a bloodied-faced man tumble down the stairs. Two armed men wearing black business suits followed. Halfway down the stairs one gave out a shout when he saw the attack team at the bottom of the stairs. Then came the muffled popping from the Squad Two’s MP-7 silencers. The two terrorists tumbled down the stairs. Members of the team threw the bodies aside and scrambled up to the main floor.

  Stone hurried Deville and Mark into the hidden passageway. He used the micro-light to guide him up the narrow, winding steps, his shoulders brushing against the stonework. A flash grenade exploded from somewhere above them. When they reached the exit panel that led into the library, Stone heard shots and yelling coming from the other side. He slammed open the wooden panel and rushed into the library. Four men were looking the other way out the door leading to a hallway. All were armed.

  One of the terrorists spun around and saw Stone. He opened his mouth to yell. Stone and his companions opened fire. All four collapsed to the floor, but not before one of the terrorists put a bullet in Mark’s right thigh.

  Mark grabbed his leg. “Son of a bitch! That burns like hell.”

  Stone and Deville scrambled over the dead terrorists and peered up and down the hallway. Two of the Major’s men in the kitchen area signaled that the hallway was clear. Stone reloaded as he absorbed the noise and smells of combat.

  The library’s back door banged open and two terrorists stormed in, spraying bullets. Calmly, Deville dropped the two with short accurate bursts from his machine gun.

  Stone looked down at the round, jagged hole in the front of his bulletproof vest. Only a bruised rib. No broken flesh.

  Deville ran to the door and looked out. Without turning his head, he gave the “all clear” sign.

  “Keep an eye out!” Stone yelled. He knelt next to Mark and started wrapping a compress on the wound. “We’ll get the medic to look at this.”

  Frederick rushed in, breathing hard. “The medic is dead. These bastards are tougher than I expected.” He yelled into his radio microphone, “Squad Two leader! Situation report!”

  “Main floor is secure,” the Major reported. “Target not located. We’ve found no medical equipment.”

  Pushing aside his radio microphone, Frederick searched Stone’s face. “Any ideas?”

  “He’s got to be upstairs. The most logical room large enough to handle a lot of medical gear is the contessa’s bedroom, on the third floor.”

  “Fuck! We’ve got to shoot our way up the main staircase to the second floor, clear it, then move up to the third floor.”

  “Not necessarily,” Stone said. “If I can get to the second floor bedroom I stayed in the other night, I can use another hidden passageway that leads to the contessa’s bedroom.”

  Frederick half-smiled. “I’m sure you can find your way to her bedroom, but what’s the best way to take control of the second floor?”

  “The back staircase,” Deville said. “It’s narrow, but a flash grenade should clear away any bad guys.”

  The Major stuck his head in the door and shouted, “Let’s go! We’re behind schedule!”

  “Mark, you stay put,” Frederick said. “Cover our escape route.” He looked at Stone and Deville. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Stone looked around the library. Bullets had pierced two of the antique maps hanging on the wall. He recalled studying them the morning after he had slept with Lucinda. Good thing her father was no longer alive to see the damage to his palace.

  It took two grenades and wounding of two more of the attack team to make a bridgehead on the second-floor landing. Stone raced up the stairs and waved Deville on to the bedroom, firing his machine gun down the hallway. Slamming through the door, Stone lost his balance and fell to the floor. Two terrorists with handguns began firing, but Deville came in from behind him and leveled them.

  Stone shouted to Deville, “Make sure the balcony is clear!”

  He entered the closet and slid open the panel, then when Deville returned, they scrambled into the passageway. They squeezed up a circular stone stairway that ended at a door without a handle.

  “How does it open?” Deville asked.

  “There’s a recessed lever above the door.” Stone’s throat was dry. He repeatedly swallowed so he could speak, then pointed his flashlight upward. “There.”

  He pushed the lever and the door swung open into a large closet. Some of the contessa’s dresses had been left hanging in a corner. As he brushed past her clothes, he detected her perfume. Shouts came from the bedroom through the closet door. He tried to radio Frederick that they were prepared to enter the bedroom, but the stonework in the palace interfered with the radio transmission. “Damn,” Stone said. “We may have to go it alone.”

  “Not good, pal. We don’t know what’s behind this door.”

  Stone moved around in the large closet until, after three more attempts, his radio message got through.

  Stone whispered to Deville, “Better have fresh magazines in our guns.” He slipped in a forty-round magazine. “Okay, good buddy … open the door carefully on the count of three.” He held up one finger … two … three.

  They eased into the enormous, high-ceiling room. Stone went right, Deville left. They encountered a bizarre scene. On a bed in the middle of the room, a body lay wrapped in a white shroud. Medical instruments and paraphernalia lined the right side of the room. Some of the equipment lay on its side. An odor of gunpowder and feces hung in the air.

  Three terrorists knelt behind an engraved desk, turned over to act as a barrier. Lucinda had mentioned to Stone years before that the desk was an eighteenth century antique. The terrorists were aiming at the hallway door. Stone caught sight of two more terrorists pacing outside on the balcony.

  Unaware of Stone and Deville, the terrorists continued to shout among themselves. The situation felt surreal. Stone motioned to Deville to take out the men on the balcony. He stepped forward, waited until Deville was in position, and then opened fire.

  Stone emptied his magazine and then used his Colt .45. A few last shots came from the balcony and Deville came back. “All taken care of.”

  While Deville gathered the weapons on the floor, Stone radioed Frederick to come in. He looked at Lucinda’s shattered antique desk and sighed. Then he went over to the shrouded body. With his knife, he slit the cloth away from the face and stood back. Deville came over and stood next to him. The two stared down at the face. The left side showed damage from a gunshot wound, but the right side was identifiable. It was the al Qaeda leader, bin Zanni. Someone had gotten to him first. Frederick and the Major burst into the room. They went to the bed and looked down at bin Zanni’s body.

  “I hope he’s in hell, not paradise,” Frederick spat. “Damn it! All this for nothing!”

  The sound of approaching police sirens came
from the balcony door. Stone yelled, “Let’s get out of here!”

  Over the radio, the Major ordered the extrication phase. Team members snapped digital photographs of the terrorist’s faces, took DNA samples, and then scrambled out the room.

  Stone was the last to leave the contessa’s room. He lingered, surveying the damage. Lucinda would blame him. He’d never see this room again.

  Frederick popped his head back in the door. “Move it, Stone!”

  Pockets of terrorists remained on the third floor. The attack team sprayed bullets as they descended the three floors to the basement. Once there, the Major took a quick team head count. With everyone accounted for, they helped the wounded and carried the dead medic into the tunnel. Stone closed the door behind them.

  Chapter Thirty

  Côte D’Azur—May 17, 2002

  On the empty road overlooking the gleaming lights of Villefranche, not far from the tunnel entrance, two vans pulled up to the spot on the mountain road where the attack group waited. Colonel Frederick shook the hand of the Major, who took one step back and saluted. All extended quick farewells, and then boarded their respective vans and sped off in opposite directions. The Major took his people to Beaulieu, where a speedboat was waiting to take them to a submarine lying offshore. Stone rode with Frederick, Mark, and Deville back to the safehouse.

  Charles Fleming greeted them at the door. He still appeared miffed about being left behind. He and Stone helped Mark into the kitchen where a doctor and a nurse were waiting. They lifted him onto the kitchen table and the doctor began working on his leg. After a few minutes, he said, “Lucky for you the bullet passed through. A few damaged muscles, but they’ll be able to take care of that out on the naval hospital ship. It’s standing offshore.”

  “Good for you, old buddy,” Stone said. “The CIA takes care of you staffers.”

  “Stuff it, Stone,” Frederick quipped. “We take care of all our people. Even you independent contractors.”

  Once assured Mark would recover, Stone and the other two let the doctor finish bandaging his wound and filed back into the living room.

  “It seems while you and your people were en route to the palace, bin Zanni had visitors,” Fleming explained. “We intercepted a radio message that the palace was under attack. At first, we thought they were referring to you guys, but we knew you couldn’t have gained entry that soon. After a few more messages, we realized that other Saudis were attacking them. We tried to contact you.”

  “We were probably in the tunnel,” Stone said.

  “Whom were they sending the messages to?” Frederick asked.

  Fleming shrugged. “Anybody who would listen, I guess.”

  “Did they get any response?” Stone said.

  “Just one. Something like, ‘Burn in Hell.’ Our directional finder indicated it came from the vicinity of the prince’s yacht.” Fleming walked over to a table and picked up the report. “We should have more information after we’ve done some traffic analysis. Meanwhile, we also got a call from our friend, Monsieur Colmont, in Montpellier.”

  “This should be good,” Deville murmured.

  Fleming continued. “It helps explain what I just told you. Colmont’s people, who were stationed in the lookouts, spotted about a half-dozen men coming ashore from the prince’s yacht. They drove up to the palace and barged in. That’s when the French heard shots. After about two minutes of gunfire, everything went quiet. The men from the yacht never came out.”

  The colonel asked, “Did Colmont say anything else?”

  “Yes. He said his people reported that about twenty minutes later all hell broke loose inside the palace. Machine guns going off. Explosions. I guess that was when your team went in.” Fleming threw the report on the table. “When the gendarmes arrived and tried to go in, they were met by a few of bin Zanni’s people, who decided to shoot it out.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Only that bin Zanni’s body was found. Oh, another thing—Colmont said he was puzzled about some of the events. He asked that you give him a call. He figures you may be able to help him sort out some of the details.”

  Two hours later, Stone and Frederick walked out of the safehouse into the fresh dawn air. “Are you heading back to Archos, or are you going to drop by and see your contessa?” Frederick asked.

  Stone considered the remark snide. After all, they had wrecked Lucinda’s palace and the colonel well knew their relationship. “After a couple of black coffees, I’m leaving for Archos,” he answered. “Any objections?”

  “Just stay here at the safehouse. Get some shut-eye. Later today I want you to fly to Montpellier and give Sandra a hand.”

  “Okay, but let’s go over what just happened,” Stone said. “We were in one hell of a firefight, our people got shot up, and for what? To take a look at a dead man. Where was our intelligence on this operation?”

  “Take it easy, pal. We had bin Zanni located and we moved in. That was the objective. Mission accomplished.”

  “But why did the prince or someone from his yacht have bin Zanni killed?” Stone pressed.

  Fleming came out of the safehouse and joined them, lighting a cigarette—the first time Stone had seen him smoking. “Maybe I can answer that.” He waved out the match. “From what our Intel has picked up, and this just came in, the prince was the one who ordered bin Zanni killed. Seems it was more of a preemptive strike. The prince got bin Zanni before bin Zanni got him. Among other things, it seems bin Zanni liked the prince’s yacht and wanted to use it for some suicide attack.”

  “Satisfied, Stone?” Colonel Frederick growled.

  “Okay, so it was a matter of timing. The prince got to him before we did.” Frederick and Fleming exchanged glances. Stone continued. “Now, about the two CIA officers who were killed? Who killed them? And why? It wasn’t Hassan.”

  Fleming took a drag on his cigarette. “No, we don’t think Hassan killed them or ordered them killed.”

  “You got one of the assassins, Stone,” Frederick said. “After the consul general’s party.”

  “But what would be a motive for killing the two officers? If we learned that, we could identify the ringleader.”

  “You’re thinking like a cop,” Frederick huffed. “We’re in a counterterrorist war.”

  “Damn it, I’m bringing logic into the equation, Fred.” Stone turned to Fleming. “Harrington, the director at the foundation, is involved in narcotics. He tried to have me killed. Would he have anything to gain in killing CIA people?”

  “Nothing that we know of,” Fleming answered. “However, he’s been working with the prince’s right-hand man Abdul Wahab, who has been trying to get in on the drug trade in Marseille.”

  “Jonathan Deville told me Wahab was involved with terrorists. Also, we know from the contessa’s party he and Harrington have some business arrangement.” Stone thought for a moment.

  Colonel Frederick had become quiet and looked at the ground.

  “Wahab could easily talk Harrington into killing me,” Stone said. “He knew Harrington was jealous of me because of—”

  “Your lady friend,” the colonel said, without looking up.

  Stone glared. “Wahab is the logical suspect. He’s the one we should get, but he’s probably out to sea on that yacht. One more question—Hassan’s man tried to kill me in Saint-Rémy. Why?”

  Fleming cleared his throat. “Maybe Wahab had something to do with that, too. Hassan met with him in Nice just before the two of them went to Saint-Rémy.”

  Stone stared at Fleming, then looked at Frederick. He shook his head. “So you had a surveillance on Wahab?” he snapped. “Am I part of the team or not? That information would have been useful to me.”

  Frederick straightened up and put on his enough-of-this-discussion look. “Abdul Wahab has been on our screen for some time. The Agency got interested in him when he was in Afghanistan last year … same time you and I were there.”

  “So now what?” Stone asked. You two pricks
!

  “As I said, Hayden, I want you to go to Montpellier and assist Sandra and Eric. They’re zeroing in on Hassan. They could use your help.”

  At exactly three forty-five in the morning, an hour after the police had entered the contessa’s palace, Abdul Wahab, sleeping fitfully in his hotel suite, received a call from his aide. Half asleep, he instructed him to call back in a half hour. The dinner at the German restaurant had disagreed with him. Even the sedative had not settled his stomach.

  In a semi-sleep, the dream returned. In the shimmering desert, he floated toward the expansive black tent of the prince. A group of sheiks gathered in flowing white robes, their backs turned to him. When he approached, they closed ranks and would not respond to his entreaties.

  The phone rang again, pulling him out of the dream.

  The aide pleaded, “I must speak with you, sir. It is most important.”

  “Bring me coffee.”

  Slipping from beneath the silk sheets, he turned on the lights and put on his paisley robe. The aide knocked on the door and rushed in from the sitting room. “Sir, please come out onto the balcony.”

  Wahab obliged and the aide pointed to the nearby mountain. Blue lights flashed around the palace and a string of ambulances snaked up the road to its entrance. Sirens wailed singsong fashion in the distance.

  He tried to clear his mind. “When did this start?

  “About an hour ago, sir. The gunshots have stopped.”

  “Gunshots?” Wahab eased into a deck chair. A servant appeared, carrying a tray with a serving of coffee.

  “One of our men heard gunshots coming from the palace. They lasted for some time before the police came.” The aide paused. “All the lights in the surrounding villas came on, as they are now.”

  The servant poured Wahab a cup of steaming coffee. After a moment, he instructed his aide, “Give me some time. Pack my clothes and then return. We go to the yacht.”

  “Too late, sir. See? The yacht is leaving.”

  Wahab rose and went to the banister. The Red Scorpion had hoisted anchor and, with its running lights on, was heading out toward the open sea. He looked back at the palace and let out a slight belch.