Villefranche
The contessa glided across the sun-dappled patio wearing a black off-the-shoulder gown. The Harringtons were standing next to the wrought iron railing, admiring the panoramic view of Villefranche below. The two were still dressed in casual clothes.
“Helen, dear, I am so happy you two pulled yourselves away from the Foundation to attend my little get-together.” She gave Mrs. Harrington a two-cheek kiss, which Helen accepted with a forced smile. “I trust your rooms are satisfactory. I put you up on the higher level.”
“Thank you for the invitation,” Helen said. “You’re most gracious.”
Taking Boswell Harrington’s hand, the contessa said, “You are wearing a new ascot. Very becoming.” She motioned for the two to sit and summoned the young Austrian servant to take their drink orders.
The late-afternoon sun bathed the stone walls of the palace and warmth radiated back onto the patio. Shade from the Aleppo pines smoothed the glare from the low-hanging sun. After the girl took the drink orders, the contessa sat in the chair next to Harrington, who occupied himself with adjusting the ascot tucked under his cream-colored shirt.
“Let us discuss our business deal before we drive down to the villa for the party,” she said, as she smoothed the shoulder of Harrington’s blazer. “I am confused about some of the details.” She smiled at Helen. “Do you mind if your husband and I talk business?”
Helen shook her head. “No.”
Harrington spoke. “Our business plan involves purchasing a Turkish shipyard that builds yachts for the world’s mega-rich. A yacht like the one down there, owned by the prince.” He pointed to the Bay of Villefranche, now a mosaic of soft and hard blues formed by cloud shadows and shallow depths. “We want the prince to provide the financial backing for the deal.”
“You don’t know anything about shipbuilding,” Contessa Lucinda laughed.
Helen leaned forward. “How would you know that? He sails my father’s boat at Nantucket all the time.”
“Yes, of course, dear Helen, but we are talking about running a boatyard, not sailing off for a cocktail party at sea.” She tightened the clasp on her emerald earring. “You are not leaving the Foundation and heading off for Turkey are you?”
“No. The idea is to buy the shipyard, then flip it over to another buyer.” Perspiration formed on his upper lip. “I know one of those Silicon Valley-types who is having a yacht built there now. It is a year overdue and he’s quite anxious to take delivery.” Harrington took the martini from the Austrian girl, picked out one of the olives, and popped it into his mouth. “He’s one of your guests tonight. I’ll approach him and plant the seed about buying the shipyard.”
“Well, that should prove interesting.” The contessa toasted the two with her flute of champagne. “Now, and I hate to be boorish, but what is my finder’s fee?”
“I think you will be very happy with the arrangement. I worked it out with Abdul Wahab, the prince’s … oh let’s call him, major domo.”
“I wish my major domo, Philippe Monte, was here while we are discussing money. But do go on.”
Helen rose from her chair. “Excuse me. I suppose we’ll be heading down to the party soon. I want to change, and since you two are talking business…” She strode off to the guest room.
Harrington waited a few moments until his wife was out of sight and then moved his chair closer. “Lucinda, any chance of us being alone this weekend?”
“You are here with your wife. I have over fifty guests coming to the party down at my villa. I do not want to discuss our ‘getting together.’”
“Damn it, you know how I feel about you.”
“I believe your wife knows also. Our relationship, dear Boswell, is strictly business.” The contessa moved her face closer to his. “How much money am I going to make out of this deal?”
“You’ll get from three million to four million euros.”
“That is vague. Please explain.”
“Well, the deal is complex.”
“Go on.”
“In order for me to get the financial backing from the prince, I agreed that I would convince you to lease your palace to the Saudis. We’ll discuss it tonight at the party. Abdul Wahab is most anxious to move on the lease.” He gulped his drink.
The contessa placed the flute on the table next to her, sat back in her chair, and stared at Harrington. He was grinning at her in that ridiculous manner, his upper lip almost touching his nose. This fool with his receding hairline, sitting across from her and drinking her liquor, and having been responsible for losing twelve million of her euros, now has hatched a plan to move some Arabs into her family’s palace.
She fantasized inviting an aroused Harrington to her bedroom where, when they were in flagrante delicto, she would put a knife to his balls. She blinked twice and then delicately lifted the flute from the table and took a sip of champagne. “Please explain this little idea of my moving out of my palace.”
“They want to use your palace to hold some sort of conference. All you have to do is move down to your villa on the water for a month, maybe two. You certainly can use two or three million euros.”
“Yes, thanks to you. And I thought you said it was three to four million?”
“Lucinda, you must trust me.”
There was a long pause. “Of course, darling. Tonight Philippe Monte and I will discuss this with—what’s his name, Abdul Wahab? You be there to make the introductions.”
“Of course. Damn it, I thought you’d be happy. And after the party—”
“Oh, here comes my escort for tonight.” The contessa rose. “You know Hayden Stone.” She glided up to Stone and kissed him gently on the lips. “Hayden, you look splendid in your tuxedo.” She glanced back at Harrington. “Are you dressing, or are you going ‘as is’?”
Dusk brought enough chill to the air that Stone appreciated the comfort of his jacket. He and Lucinda strolled along the open promenade that separated her villa from the bay. Strings of white lights stretched along the masonry wall overlooking the water. The whole staff had come down from the palace. Attired in their black and white uniforms, waiters carried silver trays filled with drinks and canapés for the arriving guests.
“Do you remember your way around the villa?” Lucinda asked, and then stopped a young man, inspected the quality of the shrimp, gave her approval, and the man moved on.
“It’s as I remembered it.” Stone thought of the last party he had attended at the villa years before. At least four times this number of people had been invited to Lucinda’s eighteenth birthday party. Her father had spared no expense for his only daughter. Stone had always liked the old man, and he believed her father liked him.
They paused at the marina next to the seawall. Two bearded men were waiting at the slip for the prince’s launch to arrive from the Red Scorpion. Stone looked up the mountain and saw, in the distance, the contessa’s palace, sitting alone on a treed ledge, a dull buff mass of stone turned to rose in the last of the sunset.
“Lucinda, I always wanted to ask your father why your place up there on the mountain is called a palace.”
“Centuries ago, it was one of the Pope’s palaces. He gave it to my family for their backing in some war.”
“It resembles one of those mosques in the Middle East,” Stone said. “You know, ones that were formerly churches.”
“Maybe that is why the prince wants to rent it.” The contessa pulled her black lace shawl up over her shoulders, partially covering her emerald necklace.
“You’ve rented your palace!”
“Yes, and as you Americans say, to make a long story short, he will pay a lot of money to rent it for a month. He wants it for some conference he is having.” They circled back toward where the guests had gathered. “Harrington has made the arrangements.” She stopped and looked at him. “Do not be so surprised. I need the money.”
“Do you trust Harrington?”
“Of course not, I do not trust any man.” She smiled. “You know, Hayden, your cold gray eyes fit you perfectly.”
Philippe Monte approached and she took Stone’s hand. “I have to consult with my consigliere. Please Hayden, while you are playing my escort, call me Contessa.”
Stone stood alone and wondered whether the contessa’s demeanor would thaw before the end of the weekend. The kiss on the lips back at the palace was for Harrington’s benefit. Just what is my role here tonight? No doubt, she was distracted with the palace lease deal.
He looked around for familiar faces. Half the men had come in formal dress, the others wore blazers or, in the case of the rich Americans, jeans and turtlenecks. Conversely, all the women appeared expensively attired. He’d overheard that the casual Americans were members of the dot-com crowd from California who were wise or lucky enough to have sold their companies before the Wall Street crash of 2000.
Jonathan Deville passed through the gilded iron gate accompanied by his wife, Rhonda. The two looked lost. Stone hurried over and gave Rhonda a hug.
“How have you been?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you since you and Patricia—oh, I am sorry … I forgot, your divorce.” Rhonda was French, plump, and always appeared happy to see him. “Tell me, Hayden, is there any chance you and Patricia will get back together?”
“Very unlikely.”
“You are sure? Good. Then I will say, I never did like her. She was not for you, but back in Paris there is a perfect woman for you. Cultured, rich, and, of course, French. The perfect distraction for you.”
“I told you, Stone,” Jonathan laughed. “She started plotting the minute I told her about your divorce.”
Rhonda discussed their children and their plans for when Jonathan retired; they wanted to live in France as long as the dollar held up to the euro. “Tonight we’re staying in the palace in the room next to you,” she said, and pushed her finger in his chest. “I’ll be listening to hear if you have any midnight guests.”
Before Stone could retort, Maurice Colmont joined them.
“You met Maurice at the consul general’s party last week,” Deville said.
“We met again this week in Saint-Rémy.”
“Yes, we did, Mr. Stone, and I see that you managed to return safely.”
Stone motioned for a waiter to bring drinks. Colmont gave his attention to the Devilles, yet repeatedly glanced back at him.
“This is proving to be an interesting evening, my friends,” Colmont said. “A royal prince in attendance at the party.”
“Exciting, no?” Rhonda gushed. “With a prince and a contessa in our midst?”
“The prince will be glad to get off his yacht.” Colmont looked hard at Stone. “What with all those people on board.”
“How so?” Deville asked.
“Tuesday, a large delegation flew in from Riyadh and boarded the yacht. Then the yacht moved from Nice harbor around the cape to anchor here.”
“Maybe that’s why the prince wants to rent the contessa’s palace,” Stone said.
“I was not aware of that, Hayden.”
“The contessa told me a few minutes ago.” Stone looked at Deville. “I guess when we check out tomorrow, the Arabs will move in.”
The waiter arrived with champagne and they decided to move on to the long table holding assorted hors d’oeuvres and rich-smelling canapés. The china and silverware reflected the flames from the candelabras. The American Consul General came by, spoke briefly, then became distracted by a group of boisterous Californians.
The contessa slipped in between Rhonda Deville and Colmont, but before she could speak, a waiter rushed up and told her the prince’s launch had arrived. She addressed the group, “Please come help me greet the prince and his entourage.”
Colmont lagged behind, pulling out his cellphone. At the same time, he motioned to Stone to join him. Completing his call, he clicked the phone shut. “Most interesting. Why would the Saudis rent the contessa’s palace at this time?”
“And why would all those people come from Riyadh?” Stone added. “Any connection with that fellow we’ve been chasing?”
“Very possible,” Colmont said. “Let us keep our ears open tonight, yes? Meanwhile, the contessa could use our help.”
“Before I forget, Maurice … any information on the man who tried to kill me on the yacht?”
“None,” Colmont answered. “And no body has been recovered from the bay.”
As they headed toward the dock, Colmont whispered, “It is good that you are here at the party.”
Stone wondered why he thought so.
Boswell Harrington watched as the contessa, with Stone at her side, formally greeted the prince as he came up from the dock. The prince wore a flowing white thawb, the robe touching the ground, and a matching kuffiyah draped over his head. He spoke English with an Oxford accent. A black, spade-shaped beard grew on his puffy, pale face. After the requisite introductions, the Saudis separated in stages and mingled with the other guests. Harrington stood aside and waited for an opportunity to pull Abdul Wahab away from the prince. He wanted to firm up the details of the palace lease.
Harrington had noted that initially Stone had been at the contessa’s side, but when the Saudis joined the other guests, Stone melted into the background. Now the contessa’s soirée took on the appearance of a business meeting. When he saw his chance, Harrington approached Wahab and suggested they converse privately. He pointed to the covered observatory atop the villa. Wahab agreed, and the two climbed the outer stairs and found themselves alone with the twinkling lights of Villefranche spread around them. A cruise liner had anchored in the bay and displayed a line of white lights strung from the rigging stem to stern. The party guests milled below them while Vivaldi strings played from hidden speakers.
“I believe one could call this observatory a belvedere,” Harrington remarked, sipping his scotch on the rocks.
“Please stop playing the pundit.” At least a foot taller than Harrington, Wahab glared down his long nose. “Has the contessa agreed to lease her palace to the prince?”
“I talked with her, and she’s inclined to let the prince move in. It’s only a matter of the amount of payment.” Harrington wanted to light up a cigar, but couldn’t remember whether Wahab objected to tobacco.
“I told you the price is five million for one month and two more for an additional month if it is required.” Wahab sipped a ginger ale. “Time is of the essence. When will the palace be available?”
“The contessa is conferring with her consigliere now and plans to discuss it with you tonight. I see no problem.” Harrington looked out at the bay and decided to bring up his own project. “About the other matter … the financing for my deal?”
“My friend, first, if the prince is denied the palace, there is no, as you say, deal.” Wahab leaned over, staring Harrington in the eye. “Also, this is my money we are talking about. I have decided I will finance the opium coming from my old Afghani war comrades. I will ship it to Marseille.” He looked hard at Harrington. “You will get a generous finder’s fee for making the arrangements with those people you know who take delivery in Marseille.”
Harrington walked over to the railing, thinking. Count to five before you say anything. He drained his glass. “That wasn’t our agreement. That’s not the deal.”
“My money. My deal.” Wahab placed his drink on the railing and adjusted his black tie. “Your last deal ended up a fiasco. You lost the opium and the money to the authorities. The money belonged to the contessa, yes?”
Harrington turned away. This was unexpected. The money he’d counted on to retire to Carmel, California had just evaporated. That morning, his wife had told him his horoscope for that day looked ominous. He said, “This isn’t, as you Cambridge graduates say, cricket. Perhaps I should look for other financing.”
Wahab scanned the guests below him. “Does the contessa know her money was lost in an illegal narcotics transaction? I am under the impression she thought you were bringing in rare ores from Afghanistan. Is that not so?”
Harrington wanted another drink. He had to accept the situation. He had no leverage. The contacts in Afghanistan belonged to Wahab. Question was, how much would he get? Odd, a Saudi with all his money and connections wanted to get involved with illegal drugs. For what purpose?
Wahab interrupted his train of thought. “Who is that man down there with the contessa?”
“Oh, that’s a new fellow at the Foundation,” Harrington answered. “Some hack travel writer.”
“The two of them seem to be getting along quite well.” Wahab stared hard. “You led me to believe she was your paramour.”
“They’re just old friends.”
“Does that writer have a scar on his cheek? And did he take a trip to the countryside this past week?”
“Yes, on both accounts,” Harrington answered. “Why do you ask?”
“Because he is CIA, you bloody fool!” Wahab took a deep breath and moved away. “And he is supposed to be dead,” he whispered. He came back to Harrington. “You can make up the money you lost on this deal by killing him. One hundred thousand euros. No, I’ll be generous. Two hundred thousand!”
Harrington felt a sharp pain in his stomach. “What do I look like, a hit man?” He shook the ice in his empty glass and looked at Wahab out of the corner of his eye. How dare he? Fucking raghead! They pantsed his kind at prep school!
“I have no time to play games,” Wahab said through his teeth. “We must close the lease arrangement with the contessa. This will not be the first American agent you’ve killed. Three years ago you killed, or had killed by heroin overdose, that American agent at Cuers, the one who got too close to your little drug operation.”
“How did you—”
“The person you had administer the heroin told us.” Wahab straightened up to his full height. “Kill Stone, and make it quick. Now let us go down and start the negotiations for the palace lease.”
Harrington followed Wahab toward the stairs. He tried to think how this man knew about him killing the agent in Cuers. He must have an informant in his organization.
At the top of the landing, Wahab paused and turned back to Harrington as the Devilles mounted the stairs behind him. Wahab repeated to Harrington the sum he was willing to offer the contessa for use of the palace. His carelessness surprised Harrington. Jonathan Deville’s facial reaction showed that he’d overheard Wahab.
Once again down among the guests, Harrington touched Wahab’s arm and suggested, “Why not just make the check out to me? I’ll make sure the contessa gets a fair sum.”
For the first time that night, Wahab laughed loudly. “Harrington, Harrington … you are incorrigible.”
An aide to the prince rushed up and announced that the prince was about to depart for his yacht. Wahab and Harrington looked at each other, then hurried over to the contessa, who was conferring with her consigliere and the two Devilles.
“Contessa, excuse me, if I may?” Wahab interrupted. “Have you reached a decision on the lease of your palace to my prince?”
“Is there some urgency involved?” she asked, slipping her hand under Jonathan Deville’s arm.
“I’m sure the prince would like to know your decision on the lease before he boards his launch.”
“Tell me the arrangements as you see them and the fee you propose.”
“Contessa, please let me handle the fee matters,” Harrington urged. “All you need to do is agree. Abdul Wahab told me the prince wants to move in Monday, if that suits you?”
Philippe Monte coughed and gave Harrington a skeptical look.
Wahab smiled. “As Mr. Harrington indicates, time is of the essence.”
The contessa paused for a few moments. They all looked over at the prince, who had completed his farewells and was heading in their direction. She took a deep breath, nodded to Monte, and then addressed Abdul Wahab. “As soon as my consigliere here, Monsieur Monte, receives the check for seven million euros, I will move down here to the villa. That sum is for five million the first month and an additional retainer of two million for the second month.”
“But contessa, did not Mr. Harrington tell you the sum was—” Wahab said.
“Here comes your prince to bid farewell,” she smiled. “And you have such good news to tell him.”