Côte d’Azur—May 1, 2002
An hour out of Paris, settled in a first-class seat on the high-speed TGV train from Paris to Marseille, Stone folded his newspaper and admired the French countryside. Now and then, he spotted villages hosting centuries-old stone churches and chateaux. In the pastures, white Charolais cattle grazed on the lush grass. The pastoral scene and slow rocking of the train relaxed him. His fellow passengers in the carriage, mostly middle-aged French couples, buried themselves in their newspapers and books.
For the first time since his divorce, Stone began to enjoy the relaxed state that comes with having to care only for oneself, especially when traveling. Was it a passing euphoria—or one of the steps in a final separation?
Stone reached into his travel bag and took out a tour book on Provence. The previous night in Paris, he had purchased the stiff green-covered book at W. H. Smith on the Rue de Rivoli before walking to his favorite café, tucked in an alley two blocks from the Louvre. Having a book to read made him feel less self-conscious when eating alone. The meal had been good; he’d especially enjoyed the escargot, moist with a lot of garlic. Nothing like immersing himself in the French lifestyle to get his mind off unpleasant personal matters like a divorce.
He had been staring toward the end of the carriage when he detected a man, about twenty-five with short, medium-brown hair, studying him from five rows away. The man wore a collared shirt under a dark-blue, textured sweater. Stone had seen young French intelligence agents like him a few years before on a trip to Bordeaux. The French used rookies to tail low-level targets, which he now assumed he was. The young man looked away with almost an embarrassed look.
Stone returned to flipping through the pages of his tour book. Through past experience he knew if he were under surveillance, there would be at least two agents on the team. The other agent probably would be about the same age as this fellow. Stone placed the book on the seat next to him and rose. He turned and faced the other end of the car, then started for the lavatory. In the seat directly behind him sat a young brunette who abruptly turned her head toward the window. Stone passed her and went into the toilette. He washed his hands and wiped his face with the wet towel. He balanced himself as the train swayed. Easing the door open, he saw the brunette pulling a valise from the overhead rack. Meantime, she peered forward over the backrest as if examining the items Stone had left on his seat.
Stone slipped out of the restroom and came up behind her. Startled, she shoved the valise back into the rack. As she eased herself back into her seat, Stone looked down, smiled, and asked in French, “When will the coffee cart pass by?” She gave a startled shrug. Stone’s daughter attending college in California was not much younger than this junior officer. At that moment the snack cart came crashing through the door and Stone said, “Aha. There it is.” He took his seat. The young man who had been sitting in front of him had disappeared.
When the cart approached, Stone ordered coffee and a baguette sandwich with thinly sliced ham and cheese. Munching his snack, he reasoned it was natural that he would be under surveillance. Fleming and he had had lunch the day before in a restaurant close to the embassy, and surely the French knew Fleming was intelligence. Despite Stone’s cover as a writer sponsored by the American embassy, and despite the fact that he should meet Fleming who was the embassy’s cultural attaché for that program, a competent intelligence service would double check. Then again, the French had a lot more on their plates than to investigate some second-rate writer. No. They must have picked up some pattern he had provided them. Maybe his Paris hotel had been used too often by the Agency. Maybe the Agency had used the Foundation in Archos once too often for cover purposes. Anyway, with these two green agents assigned to him, the French obviously didn’t consider him all that important. Good.
An hour later, the train eased into the Marseille station. Stone lugged his two suitcases down from the carriage onto the platform, looked up, and took in the open expanse of the building. Pigeons flapped overhead under the high glass ceiling. Shafts of sunlight angled down on the passengers waiting in the staging area.
Ricard, the driver from the Foundation d’Élan, an older man without a smile, wearing a tweed jacket and nondescript tie, found him at the station entrance. The rosette in his lapel identified him as a veteran of some French military action. Walking from the station to the Renault sedan, Stone didn’t detect surveillance. He had either been turned over to more seasoned agents or the surveillance had been paused. No matter. He would ignore them for the time being.
The city of Marseille proved an initial disappointment. The buildings looked neglected, and the streets needed sweeping. Too shabby, Stone judged. However, his mood changed a few minutes outside the city, with glimpses of the sea and a whiff of salty air. By the time the car passed through the Foundation gate at Archos, Stone had absorbed the warmth and earthy smells of Provence. The estate stretched over five acres along a limestone cliff in sight of the fishing village of Archos. Ricard led him to his cottage. Despite a severe limp, he insisted on carrying the largest of Stone’s bags.
A tidy flower garden bracketed the front door of the cottage. Stone paused and caught the familiar fragrance of jasmine, last remembered from a stay in San Diego. He pushed open the pale blue door and walked into a bright, open living area. The first floor had a dining alcove, a comfortable kitchen, and a sitting area furnished with blond wooden furniture. A porcelain vase filled with fresh peonies sat on the dining table. He smiled. Everything was tastefully arranged; even his former wife would be stretched to find fault with the décor.
Upstairs he unpacked his suitcases and enjoyed a long shower. Afterward, he stepped through the French doors onto the balcony. The manicured lawn below extended to a line of bent pine trees that partially concealed the sparkling indigo Mediterranean. Noisy yellow and red birds zipped between the buildings of the Foundation. This had to be one of his best assignments. Then again, what appeared too good to be true usually was.
He had to keep in mind that the man he replaced was murdered. Barrett Huntington had been a rookie, but the kill had the touch of a professional. Worse, the Agency could only guess the assassin’s identity, and they had no clue as to what had provoked Huntington’s murder. Stone would mind Fleming’s warning back in Paris, to keep on his toes.
The wicker chair creaked when he leaned back and lifted his feet onto the balcony railing. Here in Archos, he would read a novel or two but, for cover purposes, he would write. Not bad. Much better than going back into the mountains of Afghanistan, wearing panty hose under his trousers so he wouldn’t get saddle burns riding the short Afghan horses all day.
His daydream ended abruptly with a knock on the downstairs door and a mellow voice. “Hello there, new colleague. Welcome to Élan.”
Stone went downstairs, opened the door, and was greeted with, “Welcome, dear Finbarr Costanza. Of course, that’s not your name, just your nom de plume. My name is David. I’m the resident scholar on Esperanto.” David’s eyes searched Stone’s. “The universal language?”
Stone detected a Chicago accent and inhaled a strong whiff of cologne. A slightly built, blond-haired man wearing a khaki sport coat and matching creased walking shorts stood before him. His skinny legs were planted sockless in a pair of worn boat shoes. His blue eyes searched for some response.
After a moment’s pause, Stone presented a grin and a handshake.
David took a deep breath and unbuttoned his jacket. “Am I the first to greet you and your—” He looked around. “Are you single?”
“Recently divorced, and I intend to stay that way.”
“Sorry. Understand. Don’t mean to intrude. I just stopped by to see if I could be of any help.” David started to move away from the door.
“That’s very kind of you,” Stone tried to say in a soft tone. Fleming had cautioned him that among artists he should appear to be sensitive. “Where and when do we eat around here?”
“God, Hayden. May I call you Hayden? Didn’t the staff tell you anything? I’ll be glad to pass by and accompany you to the dining room. Dinner starts at seven, but cocktails are at six. That’s where you’ll meet all our interesting people.”
“I would enjoy a cocktail. What’s the dress code?”
“Riviera casual, and I know you writers enjoy your libations.”
Stone watched the man walk away. David had a bounce to his step as if he had found a new friend.
For his initial appearance before his fellow scholars, Stone selected a pair of white linen slacks, an Italian silk shirt, and tan loafers. He wondered whether the CIA had placed any other operatives at the Foundation. When he had posed that question to Fleming in Paris, he received a noncommittal shrug. If he had time, he might play a harmless version of Spot the Spook; the frivolous game practiced by some American Foreign Service people to expose intelligence officers assigned to the embassies. Sometimes their pranks resulted in dire consequences when the cover of those intelligence officers was blown. On second thought, he would just concentrate on his assignment. Besides, odds were the French had planted someone there feeding them information.
A few minutes before six, David dropped by the cottage and the two walked across the grounds toward the dining hall. David pointed out the various buildings and displayed a good knowledge of not only the Foundation’s history, but also the backgrounds of the fellowship holders in residence. The community, Stone realized, was not large. Keeping his identity secret would be a challenge.
A woman with short, light-brown hair came from the direction of the administration building and crossed their path. She headed toward the swimming pool. He admired her long tanned legs. An unbuttoned, gauzy shift allowed brief glimpses of a white bikini. She threw them a quick look, nodded at David, then slipped her sunglasses down on her nose. Hayden grinned, recognizing what he considered her very French gesture.
“Hayden, you did say you’re single, right?”
Now Stone chuckled.
“That little number is Margaux. She’s not one of the Fellows. She’s a local French gal who works in the library, so you two will be working together a lot.” David motioned for them to take the path to the right. “Also, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, be forewarned. In the past four months, I’ve seen two very hearty males, both noted painters as well as accomplished swordsmen, depart for home sorely defeated in their efforts to seduce that fair maiden.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t care for the artsy crowd.”
“She doesn’t care for Americans. I don’t know why she continues to work here, especially with the exchange rate going south. Then again, few of the French like Americans these days, which delights some of our left-leaning American colleagues.” David stopped and turned to Stone. “Hope I didn’t offend you. No more politics from me. You’ll get enough from some of the people you’re about to meet.”
“Don’t worry, and thanks for sharing your insights.”
Climbing the slate stairs to the open patio, Stone looked down on the late-afternoon pastel-colored expanse of the Bay of Archos. Tree-spotted limestone mountains provided a backdrop for the small port with its marina of fishing and pleasure boats. About twenty people in little groups were standing on the patio with drinks in hand, talking softly.
Stone followed David to the nearest grouping. All heads turned toward Stone, the eyes taking in first impressions. As David made the introductions, Stone attempted to attach names with faces, but after the fifth try, he switched to concentrating on his smile and varying his banal exchanges. When his new colleagues learned he wrote travel stories, they lost interest in him and returned to discussing their own personal artistic issues and challenges. He would use his role as a travel writer, if such a role existed, to blend into the background.
David elbowed him. “That’s Boswell Harrington, our esteemed director, who just arrived with his wife. She’s quite a handful. He must have hurried back from Nice for something important.” David paused. “We’ll let him come over and introduce himself. For some reason, he thinks that makes him one of the common folk.”
Harrington and his wife glided across the patio exchanging pleasantries with the fellows. When the two paused to speak with a particularly serious-looking group, Stone caught Harrington studying him. Then he leaned over and whispered to his wife. The two left the group and came over to Stone and David.
“Hello and a big welcome, Hayden,” he said in a plummy Bostonian accent. “I’m Boswell and this is my wife, Helen.” The woman, fighting middle age, wore her pitch-black hair in a bob. Her bright red lipstick overwhelmed a white bland face. “Sorry I wasn’t here to greet you upon your arrival.” Harrington smiled and looked away. “We had some business up the coast.”
Harrington’s blond hair, combed back, touched the collar of his dark blazer. The ascot tucked beneath his French blue shirt told Stone that the man welcomed attention.
“Hayden, you come highly recommended by our people in New York.” He continued to search the gathering. “I’ll have to read some of your work. Meantime, I’ll leave you with David, whom I’m sure will tell you all about his very interesting project.”
The Harringtons marched off across the patio, stopping to chat with two young women, both braless, wearing sheer white blouses.
“Kio a kompleta mistifiki,” David muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s Esperanto for ‘What a complete ass.’”
Stone grinned. “Moi?”
“Of course not. Harrington’s the fool … or a fox, I’m not quite sure which.”
Stone smiled. Not exactly a congenial group. Best he blend into the woodwork.
The white-coated waiter emerged from the dining room door and announced dinner was being served. Once inside, David hurried off to another table, leaving Stone to sit with the Harringtons and three other Foundation fellows. The Harringtons ate silently. Boswell, his face masked in a slight smile, let his gaze dart around the table from one person to another. Stone had the feeling Harrington didn’t consider him important. One of the two young women at the table monopolized the conversation with a not-too-subtle pitch for a two-month extension to her grant. Stone found the meal more interesting than the company.
After dinner, Stone took a stroll along the edge of the grounds, admiring the lights of Archos twinkling across the bay. In the morning, he would explore the town. The cool evening air refreshed him, and as he approached his cottage, he thought he’d relax and listen to some music.
“Mr. Stone?”
He spun around, taking a combat stance.
“Pardon, Monsieur. I did not mean to startle you.” The old driver was holding a large parcel. “This arrived during the meal time. I thought it best to wait until after your dinner.”
“Thank you, Ricard.”
The package was heavy.
“You are a veteran?” asked Stone.
“Oui.”
“So am I.”
“Bon soir, Monsieur.” Ricard touched his hat and left.
Once inside the cottage, Stone switched on the recessed ceiling lights, flooding the interior in a soft yellow glow. At night, the accommodations seemed even more welcoming than in daylight. He placed the package on a table and noticed the French postage. One of Colonel Frederick’s pseudonyms appeared on the return label. Carefully, he opened the parcel and unwrapped a pair of litre bottles of Irish whiskey from tissue paper. A box of Cuban Montecristo cigars lay beneath with a note that read:
Thought you would need a Care Package to pull you through your assignment.
It was unsigned. Beneath the cigars lay a blue velvet bag. Inside Stone found an old, but prime, Colt forty-five automatic and a box of fifty rounds of hollow-point ammunition.
Back to business. He’d hide the Colt with the Glock Fleming had given him.
David felt a slight glow as he sat at his desk. The two glasses of wine at dinner had hit the spot. Just one more half-glass and he would head for bed. No more Esperanto tonight. He poured some red wine just as two hard knocks sounded on the front door. Probably that new fellow Stone locked himself out of his cottage. David opened the door and saw Harrington with the Algerian.
“Still up, David? Good, thank you for inviting me in.” Harrington pushed him aside and entered the room. The Algerian blocked David’s escape.
“What can I do for you, Boswell?” David stepped back. He had witnessed Harrington’s flushed cheeks and half-squinted eyes before.
“I’ve been waiting for your report, you little twerp.” Harrington moved over to the desk spread with papers and flipped some pages to the floor. “Is this the crap you’re working on?”
David hurried over and retrieved his papers. When he stood up, Harrington took him by the collar. The Algerian smiled, and David saw a bright gold incisor among yellow, broken teeth.
“What have you learned about Ricard? Did you follow him like I told you?”
“He is a harmless old man. He does nothing out of the ordinary. Just drives the Foundation’s car and delivers packages.” David tried to move away. “I told you that before.”
Harrington shoved him against the desk. Losing his balance, David fell to the floor with a groan. “Why did you do that?” he gasped.
“It gives me pleasure.” Harrington pushed back his hair from his forehead and pulled a cigar from his jacket. He struck a match and held it under the end of the cigar.
“Please, don’t smoke that thing. You know I have allergies.”
“How do you say ‘fuck off’ in Esperanto?”
Harrington puffed on the cigar and threw the lit match onto the papers on the desk. David leaped up and slapped the burning match with his hand.
“Lucky for you, I don’t have time to stay longer.” Harrington walked toward the door and Gold Tooth opened it for him. “Something else I want you to do, you little shit. Find out all you can about this writer, Stone.”