Nice
Hassan slouched in the back seat of the BMW sedan, jiggling his misbaha, the worry beads his father had given him when he was a boy. Three Fingers sat in the front next to the driver, an Iraqi; the two spoke softly to each other. Hassan had told them he wanted quiet, so he could think. He instructed the Iraqi to remain within the speed limit on the Autoroute to Nice. No need for the police to stop them for speeding. The exit for Cannes passed. It would not be long before they would arrive in Nice and meet with Rashid and the Saudi, Abdul Wahab. Along the way, he studied the clean farms and settlements. In many respects, the countryside resembled Lebanon and Palestine. Once again, the theme played in his mind: His civilization was older than here in the West. His people were as intelligent. Why were they not also blessed? Because the West did not allow it. It was not in their interest. Well, the time had come for change.
His fingers clicked one bead next to another. He wondered if he would detect any anxiety on the part of Rashid, who by now knew his man had been shot while following Hassan. Rashid had set up this special meeting with Abdul Wahab. It was very important, Rashid had insisted.
The last time Hassan had gone aboard the Red Scorpion, Wahab had tried to bribe him to join in an alliance against their mutual enemy, the Americans. As a show of good intentions, Wahab told him an American intelligence officer was following him. Of course, Hassan knew he was being followed, and he supposed the Saudis knew that he knew. Hassan had told Wahab he was appreciative and would think about his proposition. All Saudis, especially this Wahab, thought they could bribe anyone with their money. Apparently, the two North Africans he’d killed that night in Nice were either in Wahab’s employ or Rashid’s.
“We are only a few minutes from the harbor,” the Iraqi driver said.
“Park as close as possible. We will all go aboard the yacht.”
The two men in the front seats stiffened and glanced at each other.
“Take your guns,” Hassan ordered.
The driver parked near the quay. Few people were walking along the waterfront. The three men found a stone bench next to the landing site and sat down to wait. They watched the Zodiac leave the yacht anchored off the point and head toward them, throwing off a flat wake. A breeze ruffled the water creating short whitecaps. Gulls circled overhead searching for fish scraps.
Hassan thought for a moment, then asked, “That man, Ali, who works for the American consul general … how did you learn he worked for these Saudis?”
Three Fingers spoke. “We contacted Ali after the party at the American’s villa. We asked him who had replaced the American killed in Nice. He was jumpy. I laughed and asked if he had to take a piss.” Three Fingers paused to light his cigarette. “‘Ali, go to the bathroom,’ I said. ‘Stop shaking.’ Ali started to whine like some lamb. ‘I am in great danger,’ he cried.”
“And then?”
“Ali told us he was also working for these Saudis. During the party last night, the Saudis told him to place a tracking device on the car of an American writer. He watched the American leave, followed by a motorcycle driven by someone working for the Saudis.”
The yacht’s tender approached the quay. On the craft, Rashid sat next to Abdul Wahab, the spokesman for the prince who owned the Red Scorpion.
“Continue,” Hassan said, watching the boat approach.
“Ali told us that just before we came, his Saudi bosses had told him the driver of the motorcycle had been killed. They wanted to know if he had told anyone about the tracking device. Ali said he swore to them on his family’s name that he had not. He said he was sure they now would return and kill him.”
“Ali’s family wallows with swine.” Hassan rose to greet Rashid, who was standing in the bow of the boat.
“Allah be praised,” Rashid called out to Hassan. “Come aboard, we have a meal ready for you on the yacht.”
Hassan motioned for his companions to follow him and Rashid held up his hand.
“No. Very sorry. I have an invitation for only you, Hassan.”
“Then I will forgo the gracious offer of a feast aboard the yacht, and we will confer over here on the benches.” Hassan turned to the driver. “Please, go to that store and get us some cold drinks.”
Rashid spoke rapidly with Wahab, who spat out a curse, and then turned back toward the water. He continued to coax him and finally Wahab yelled at the boatman. “Call the yacht and tell them I am staying ashore.” Wahab disembarked, presented Hassan with a switched-on smile, and said, “Please, let us sit.” Three Fingers grinned as they walked over to the benches.
Hassan, Rashid, and Wahab spoke of recent events in the Middle East. They all agreed the times were bad but, God willing, they were about to improve. Eventually, Rashid eased out of the conversation and let Hassan and Wahab talk. After a time, Wahab unbuttoned his blazer and leaned toward Hassan.
“We need your services. Our friend, Rashid, has assured us that you are not only trustworthy, but very professional.” He looked around to see whether any passersby were near. “The intelligence officer we warned you about the last time we met was killed. He has been replaced and we fear this new American is in a position to disrupt our plan.”
“What plan?”
Wahab paused. “We have a very important person traveling through this region. We do not want him to be discovered.”
“One American can disrupt your plan?” Hassan looked over at Three Fingers, who was listening. “With this plan and this very important man who is coming, how can we be of assistance to you?”
“We must be assured the American does not interfere with our man’s travel.” Wahab turned to Rashid, who nodded his head. “We intend to be very generous.”
“We will need funds now to pay our expenses. Is it in Marseille where we will watch the American?”
“No. It is possible he will travel to a town called Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. We would like for you to go there and look for him.” He retrieved an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I believe the funds in this envelope will be more than adequate to compensate you for this favor.”
Hassan looked over at Three Fingers and then at Rashid. “Rashid will be our mutual contact.” He saw that Wahab seemed pleased. “Where is the American now?”
“He is staying at a Foundation in Archos, near Marseille,” Wahab answered, then handed a photograph to Hassan. “This is his picture.”
Hassan glanced at the photograph, and then slipped it into his pocket. The negotiations concluded, all shook hands and Rashid and Wahab boarded the Zodiac. Hassan watched the craft head back to the Red Scorpion. He lit a cigarette with his gold lighter and blew a long stream of smoke into the air.
“Who is this very important man?” Three Fingers asked. “Al Qaeda?”
“I am sure he is, my friend.” Hassan handed him the envelope containing the money. “We shall go to Saint-Rémy and find the American … and the al Qaeda man.”
“Do you think Rashid suspects we killed the Algerian with the gold tooth?”
“Probably.” Hassan then recalled that the telephone number for the Foundation d’Élan had appeared on the call list of the dead Algerian’s cellphone.
Hassan and his two men returned to the BMW. In the front Three Fingers unfolded the yellow Michelin map, while in the back seat Hassan studied the face in the photograph Wahab had given to him. It had been taken close up while the American was sitting alongside a short blond-haired man with a faint moustache. Masts of moored sailboats stood tall in the background. The American looked older than the young man he had watched die two weeks before. It was not the scar on the American’s cheek that held his attention; it was his eyes. He remembered other men with that same look in the Afghan training camp.