The Riviera Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  As Stone and Sandra burst through the door, the frightened schoolteachers screamed, one telling Sandra a man with a gun had descended into the basement. Stone ran to the far end of the school hallway and found another door leading down into the basement. He shouted back, “I’m going down to get Hassan! Tell Colmont!” Then he proceeded down one stair at a time, holding his gun out with both hands.

  The high ceiling of the basement was crisscrossed with rows of pipes and vents. The low hum of machinery back-dropped a slow drip landing in a dirty metal basin. The smell of heating oil mixed with the warm, stuffy air.

  Oil stained the floor. Be careful, Stone told himself. Don’t slip. He tried to control his breathing so he could hear better.

  From above the ceiling, came shouts. Colmont had arrived with his men. One foot at a time Stone moved along the side of the large boiler. He stopped when he saw a body dressed in a coverall lying on the floor. That would be him if he were careless.

  To his right, he glimpsed Hassan cut across an open area throwing a shot in Stone’s direction. The bullet glanced off the side of the boiler casing with a clang. Hassan disappeared into a storage room. Slipping behind the boiler and using it for cover, Stone looked past the metal plates and saw the door Hassan had entered. The wall with the door was set at an angle. Then Hassan’s face appeared from around the doorway. He fired another shot at Stone.

  The bullet hit the wall behind him and pieces of plaster fell on his shoulder. He crouched alongside the boiler. His heart pumped hard and no matter how he tried he couldn’t slow his breathing. He had to forget it. Accept how his body reacted. Hassan was a pro. Trouble was a stray bullet could break the bottle Hassan was holding and spread the virus. Then they’d all be dead. Still, the bastard had to be taken down.

  As Stone inched forward, Hassan popped from behind the doorjamb and fired another shot, then withdrew. Stone raised his gun and aimed where Hassan’s head had appeared. He moved the gun sight slightly to the right so that his bullet would hit the wall an inch from the door. Given the angle, he figured the slug would ricochet along the wall and strike Hassan in the face. Hassan’s gun appeared from behind the doorframe. Stone paused a second, and then squeezed off a round just as Hassan’s face appeared. Chunks of the wall splintered into his face. He let out a curse in Arabic, then jumped from behind the doorjamb and fired two shots at Stone, missing again.

  “You’re trapped, Hassan! Give up!” Stone felt more confident knowing Hassan was hurting. He started to move to the other side of the boiler. Bullets skimmed along the floor in the exposed area below the boiler, barely missing Stone’s feet. Leaping, Stone grabbed onto a valve pipe, and hung to the side of the boiler. He heard Hassan run toward the other end of the basement and open what sounded like a metal door. Stone dropped to the floor and rushed along the boiler. He spied Hassan staring down the lighted hallway, took quick aim, and squeezed off a round. The bullet blasted through the wall next to Hassan.

  “Don’t move!” Stone ordered.

  Hassan turned slowly and held up the wine bottle. Blood ran from a long gash down his cheek.

  “It’s over! Drop your gun!” Stone yelled. “Place the bottle on the floor!”

  “This is a school with hundreds of children,” Hassan said with a smile, lifting the bottle for Stone to see. “Here is enough poison to kill them all.”

  “I don’t care about French kids,” Stone said. “I mean it, Hassan! Lay the bottle on the floor!” Stone aligned the sights of his Colt .45 on Hassan’s forehead.

  “Tell me, Crusader, do you have a family? Do they own an olive grove?” Hassan started toward the blower for the ventilation system.

  “Don’t give me that crap! People like you gave all that up for the Islamic jihad!” Stone’s finger tightened on the trigger, and he lowered the gun sights to Hassan’s chest.

  “I am not one of those al Qaeda, who are the living dead. I am a Palestinian!”

  Salty beads of sweat burned Stone’s eyes. “If that’s true, I’m sure we can make a deal. You people will do business with anyone, won’t you?”

  Hassan’s face twisted in hatred. His gun swung up, but not fast enough. Stone’s two slugs hit the middle of his chest and shoved him back through the doorway. The bottle slipped from his hand and, dropping on Hassan’s shoe, rolled unbroken across the floor.

  Hassan didn’t shake or convulse like other men who had died at Stone’s feet. Instead, he lay still and muttered, “The smell of an orange grove in spring.” Then he let out a long sigh. Stone reached for the wine bottle, but stopped before touching it. He backed away, and then realized Sandra and Colmont were standing next to him.

  Denouement

  Côte D’Azur—May 18, 2002

  In the dark of Saturday morning, Stone had a vivid dream. At first, he though he was in Southern California, because he was standing in bare feet next to a pleasant ocean. Bent pine and cypress trees lined the shore. Around his dwelling grew orange and lemon trees. Then he saw broken Doric columns and what he took for as Roman ruins scattered in his citrus grove. An elderly man in a faded, blue suit drifted toward him, a man with fierce almond eyes that matched his dark, pockmarked skin. The face became familiar the closer he came.

  With a bloody hand, Hassan offered him a lemon.

  Stone awoke with a start, then lay sleepless for two hours. Eventually, he threw off the sheets, went downstairs, and searched for soft music on the radio. His skin tingled. Too wired to sleep, he stood at the French doors to watch the sunrise.

  Dreams or no dreams, Hassan no longer posed a problem, at least not in this life. However, Abdul Wahab, last seen in London, was another matter, and his folder remained open.

  Morning light brightened the inside of the cottage. Slowly, his surroundings became a warm yellow. A long shower helped relax him. While toweling, he phoned the Foundation’s administrative office and asked them to send over his usual coffee and rolls.

  The coffee arrived, rich and strong, the way he enjoyed it. Today, he found on the tray freshly baked croissants that flaked in his fingers. No newspaper came, but it suited him just to sit in his robe outside the kitchen door in the dry, clear air. On his second good swallow, his cellphone rang.

  In a high-pitched voice Lucinda asked, “Hayden, is that you? Do I have the right number?”

  “Yes, dear. How are you?”

  “Do not, ‘yes dear’ me. Ever.” Her voice went up what seemed a few decibels. “Where are you right now?”

  “I’m sitting outside my cottage in Archos having coffee. Why?”

  “My palace is a shambles! The police are all over!” She caught her breath. “They are still carrying out dead bodies. They will not allow me to go inside my own home!”

  “Have you contacted the prince about this? He rented the place.”

  She answered slowly. “He is gone … his yacht is gone…”

  “Is your consigliere there? Do you want me to come and help?”

  “He will be here shortly.” She paused. “Tell me, and do not lie—did you have anything to do with the police raiding my palace?”

  “Lucinda, the last thing I would want is for the French police to raid your palace. I swear.”

  After a moment’s silence, she said, distinctly, “I do not believe you.” Again silence. “Never write me. Never call me. Never even wave to me if you see me in a café.” The line went dead.

  With a long sigh, he took the phone from his ear and clicked it off with his thumb. A breeze from the sea whistled through the pink oleander.

  “Trouble at the palace?” Margaux stood with the sun behind her, revealing her long legs through her sheer white-linen skirt.

  “If you would like to hear my sob story, I’ll go into the kitchen and get you a cup.”

  “No coffee for me.” She sat in the other wrought-iron chair. “But I’ll have one of your croissants.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to get any more weekend invitations from the contessa.”

  “She w
ill be lonely without you and without Mr. Boswell Harrington. You have not heard the news?”

  Her lips had a trace of gloss, her hair pulled back in a chignon. “You look ravishing this morning,” he said, and wondered what likelihood the special attention to her appearance was for his benefit.

  “Thank you, but I must tell you. Monsieur Colmont called me at home. The police arrested Boswell and Helen Harrington last night for dealing in illegal drugs. I just left my office. The Foundation is in turmoil.”

  “That’s a surprise. I figured he was too clever to ever get arrested.”

  “Both Harringtons are going to be in our French jails. Oh, and Colmont said you were a big help to him with the Ebola terrorist plot. He said he admired your professionalism. The whole episode is on the television.” She broke off a piece of croissant and waved it in her hand. “Today, I look for another job in Toulon. It is not too far away. Everyone in the office believes the Foundation will disappear.”

  He tried to assure her it wouldn’t, that important people in New York would not allow it.

  She disregarded his assurances. “When do you plan to leave now that your work is done?” She crossed her legs and began swinging her foot. She had applied fresh polish to her toenails.

  “I suppose I must leave in a few days, but I want to return. Would you like me to come back?”

  She concentrated on her fingernails and shrugged.

  “The real estate market in Washington is very good now. I can sell my house, make a lot of money, and move here to Archos.”

  She arched one eyebrow and asked in French. “What would you do here?”

  “I could write.”

  She looked up to the sky and laughed.

  “Or I could be a travel agent.”

  She puffed at the sky. “Not many English speakers come here. No, I think maybe you would come here for a reason that might not end well.” She shook her head. “I am fond of you, Hayden, very much, but at heart you are still a sailor.” For the word, you, she used the familiar French, tu.

  “Margaux, I have changed since coming here, believe me.” He grinned. “I think maybe I’m ready to stay ashore and not go to sea.”

  She rose from the chair and pointed her finger. “See, mon chéri?” she said, then in English. “You said maybe. When it is not maybe, I will help you find a home here.” She thanked him for the croissant and waved good-bye. After a few steps, she turned back. “David has left the Foundation. He asked me to tell you he was grateful. His book has been accepted. Evidently, Monsieur Fleming made some calls on his behalf.”

  “I’ll have to buy his book when it comes out.”

  Margaux smiled. “And will you read it? An Esperanto dictionary?”

  “Maybe I’ll wait for the movie.”

  As she walked away, he admired the sway of her hips. Now why had she used tu instead of vous? What had she meant by that? Some private code there? Damn, two beautiful women had said good-bye to him before he was able to finish his first cup of coffee.

  He gazed about the grounds of the foundation. The various greens of the trees and the pale-stone color of the surrounding buildings had a particularly strong glow. Luminous reds, blues, and yellows sparkled from the flowerbeds alongside the cottage. Everything seemed alive. Everything seemed to be the way it should be.

  The cellphone rang again. He hoped to see Lucinda’s telephone number on the caller identification, but it was Colonel Frederick’s number.

  “I’m at the Nice airport, walking to my plane,” Frederick shouted above the noise in the background. “Something very interesting has come up. Right up your alley. You know your way around Africa, don’t you?”

  The End

  Glossary of Terms

  Agent/Asset - Person who is recruited by a case officer to obtain intelligence

  Blown/Burnt - Spy who has been exposed

  Brush Pass - Momentary person-to-person contact to pass intelligence

  Bug - Covert listening or recording device

  Case Officer - Staff officer of an intelligence agency, handles agents

  COS - Chief of a CIA station posted to an embassy

  DST - Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, the French National Police who conduct counterespionage and counterintelligence. Equivalent to FBI.

  Dry Clean - To evade surveillance by hostile intelligence service

  Extraordinary Rendition - Kidnapping of spies or terrorists for interrogation

  Legat - Legal Attaché, FBI agent attached to a US embassy

  Legend - Life story created for a covert officer or agent

  Mossad - Israel’s spy agency

  MI5 - British Secret Intelligence Service (Internal)

  MI6 - British Secret Intelligence Service (External)

  NOC - Non-official cover. CIA equivalent of Russian deep cover spy. They have no diplomatic immunity.

  Parole - Password used to confirm identity between agents

  Safehouse - Place where spies can hide from hostile security services

  Sleeper - Deep cover officer/agent

  Target - Person, place, or thing of intelligence interest

  Tradecraft - Mechanics of/proficiency in espionage

  Acknowledgements

  I want to thank the members of my writing group, the Sheridan Street Irregulars, especially Betty Webb, for their support over the years. My ongoing thanks to my readers Judy Starbuck, Deb Ledford, Virginia Nosky, and Marty Roselius, who read and critiqued every page of the completed manuscript. Also, a note of appreciation to the late writer Sam Orlich, who championed this story.

  Of course, thanks to my agent Elizabeth Kracht of Kimberley Cameron & Associates, who has so worked hard on my behalf.

  Finally, I want to express my gratitude to my wife, Donna, for her constant help and support.

  More from Arthur Kerns

  The African Contract is available now!

  In the savannahs of Namibia, a boxcar sits, locked and watched. There is no limit to how many people would die from what’s inside. There is no limit to how many people would kill for it.

  Hayden Stone is brought back into the CIA to help navigate the choppy diplomatic waters between the U.S., Canada, England, South Africa, and any number of other players in a mission to prevent the worst of weapons from falling into the wrong hands. While representatives from other countries are there to help him, Hayden knows the only person he can trust is himself, and that once the weapon is located, all bets are off.

  His mission will take him into palatial mansions and parched-earth slums, into the shadowy world of black ops and the chaos of an endless war. It will lead him directly into the crosshairs—but whose finger is on the trigger?

  Coming in June 2016: The Yemen Contract!

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