Côte d’Azur
Heading back from Nice on the Autoroute in only light Sunday morning traffic, the Porsche hummed along at eighty-five miles per hour. In less than two hours, Stone eased through the narrow streets of Archos. After squeezing into a tight parking place, he headed toward the waterfront. From the gray stone church perched on the side of the hill, bells tolled for the last mass.
He wanted to avoid meeting Margaux. At the opposite end of the quay, he spotted a bistro sporting a blue awning and matching shutters on the upper floor windows. He found an unoccupied table facing the harbor. A young waiter, after taking his time arranging a new place setting two tables away, came over and took his order for a café au lait, rolls, and goat cheese. He suggested a side dish of assorted olives and smoked peppers.
A French family sat at the table next to him, the father and mother doting on the boy and girl. The girl, about six, practiced her French wiles on her father, who pretended he didn’t notice. Stone thought of his daughter and wondered what she was doing at that particular moment. How were she and her brother coping with their parent’s divorce?
The boats tied up along the quay creaked as they rose and fell on the soft harbor swell. The meal came and Stone concentrated on the cheese, which had a smoky flavor that complemented the red and green peppers. The olives were big and not too meaty.
On the drive back to Archos, he had thought about Lucinda and relived the moments they had shared in bed, surrounded by the glow from the burning logs in the fireplace. He accepted the fact that her face and husky voice would reappear in his daydreams, at least for a while.
Now as far as Margaux was concerned, the next time they met, would she suspect he had slept with Lucinda? Would she care? They were merely acquaintances. So what was the problem? There was none. The cellphone in his breast pocket vibrated. The number on the display belonged to Fleming.
“How was the party in Nice?” Fleming asked. “Hobnobbing with the rich and famous?”
“Your sources are very good.”
“Just talked with Jonathan Deville and before that with your new buddy, Maurice Colmont, but that’s not why I called,” Fleming hurried on. “Someone by the name of Colonel Frederick from the CIA Director’s office has replaced Claudia. Frederick arrives in Nice tomorrow and wants a meeting of all the operatives.” He gave Stone the location of the meeting. “It appears you and Frederick are old chums,” added Fleming. “You know Claudia wanted to fire you, over my objections of course, but it seems you’re back big time thanks to the colonel.” He paused. “See you tomorrow.”
Stone wondered what had triggered Claudia’s animosity. Something he had said? Maybe she didn’t like his looks—reminded her of someone? As in many times in the past, he probably would never know. Still, it would be worth looking into for future reference.
Stone thought of Harrington as he waited to pay his bill. The man didn’t fit into the mold of the director of a distinguished arts foundation. At Lucinda’s party, Deville had mentioned that Harrington’s reputation was spotty. In addition, Harrington had lured Lucinda into leasing her palace to the Saudis, no doubt for his own personal gain. Lastly, the bastard wanted to bed Lucinda. Had Harrington pushed the building block off the parapet? If so, was jealousy over Lucinda the only motive?
Stone left the restaurant and headed for his car. As he inserted the key into the ignition, he decided to keep an eye on Mr. Harrington.
Stone rounded the flagstone path to his cottage and halted. Harrington and a stocky man emerged from David’s house. The door slammed behind them as they hurried in the opposite direction, toward the administration building. He let them gain some distance, then continued toward his cottage. Harrington had been wearing the same tight grimace he had during had the altercation by the pool. David’s door stood ajar, and some cursing came from within. Stone walked up to the door and listened. The swearing was accompanied by the sound of furniture being moved. He pushed open the door.
David looked over. “Please go away.” He knelt on the floor, and started gathering papers.
“What happened to all your documents?”
“What does it look like? Our esteemed director paid me a visit.”
“Just what is that man’s problem, David?”
“You’re part of his problem. Another is he likes to take out his tribulations on other people. Like me, for instance.”
“Explain.”
David went over to the couch and slumped down. “He doesn’t like you. It’s more than that … it sounded like … well, he thinks you’re spying on him.” He cocked his head. “Are you reporting on him to the Foundation’s board of directors in New York?”
A carved wooden cuckoo clock on the wall came to life and chirped eleven times. Stone walked to the window and looked toward the administration building. After a moment, he turned. “Harrington is involved in some dirty business. He’s a dangerous man.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Tell me everything he said when he was here.” Stone eased himself into a chair.
“He wanted to know what I had learned about you.”
“He had asked you to report on me?” Stone asked.
“Yes, last week, but I never told him anything, because I had nothing to tell him.”
“That was when you got those bruises on your body, right?” Stone asked. “What was he looking for? What did he want to know? Did he mention the contessa?”
“No, he never mentioned her. He wants to know about certain people here. For instance, he’s suspicious of that fellow, Ricard … you know, the driver.” David’s leg began a nervous twitch. “He came in today with that troglodyte thug of his and was incensed about you. For some reason, you’ve become his bête noir.”
“I’m sorry, David. I think he’s pissed off because I’m friends with the contessa, whom I gather he wants as his lover. You got caught in the middle.”
“He hates you, but—” He thought for a moment. “At the same time, today it seemed as if he feared you.”
“Let me suggest you avoid him,” Stone said, to which David gave him a “no kidding” look. “Maybe I can give you some information you can feed to him. It may keep him off your back.”
“Okay,” David said. “Harrington wanted to know who you were friendly with. I told him Margaux.” He lowered his head. “He also asked where you went on Thursday. You were gone all day. I didn’t know.”
Stone thought a moment while studying the man sitting in front of him. “You know, we can help each other. Keep me informed about Harrington and those thugs of his.” Stone got up and walked to the door. “And I’ll talk with Fleming in Paris about getting that manuscript of yours published.”
Marseille
The cabin cruiser bobbed at its mooring in the Marseille Vieux-Port. Inside, on the galley table, Mark fiddled with the controls on the voice recorder attached to the parabolic microphone. That morning he’d used the device to pick up Hassan and Rashid’s conversation while they stood on the quay. As he replayed the disc, he strained to understand the words, pressing the earphones to his head, hoping that would help. Unfortunately, Hassan and Rashid had spoken mostly in Arabic, a language Mark didn’t know. A few words and phrases were in French, which he did understand, and from those he tried to make sense of the conversation. In frustration, he threw the headphones on the table and decided to send the recording to Paris for a complete transcription. He’d clearly heard the words: Saudi, American consul general, Abdul Wahab, Nice. He would phone Fleming this bit of information.
Fleming answered on the second ring and immediately interrupted Mark. “A meeting is scheduled for tomorrow in Nice.” Fleming went on about the importance of the meeting. Mark finally managed to tell Fleming about the surveillance and the conversation he had recorded.
“It doesn’t sound like much, at least from what you’ve told me,” Fleming said. “Send it to Paris by the courier who’s passing through Marseille this afternoon.”
“I wish we could get a translation now,” Mark said. “There’s something about the words and the way they said them.”
“Look, the important thing is the meeting tomorrow. The word I get is that this Colonel Frederick likes to kick ass, so let’s not offer ourselves up.”
After the call, Mark prepared the computer disc for delivery to Paris Station. He had forgotten to ask Fleming about Rashid. Eric, the CIA operative, had identified Rashid after the last surveillance when he’d followed the man to his estate on the outskirts of Arles. Rashid lived in a mansion surrounded by a large vineyard, which Paris Station considered odd, with the Muslim restriction against consuming alcohol. The station had queried French intelligence about him, but they had yet to receive any feedback.
After their meeting at the Vieux-Port, Hassan and Rashid had separated, agreeing to meet the next day, Monday, at the wine wholesaler’s office. Hassan strolled out of the port area of Marseille toward the Palais du Pharo. Ten minutes later, he found himself looking up at the edifice standing high on a bluff at the entrance to the harbor. The sun was overhead. The days were getting warmer and longer.
Sandra was waiting for him in front of the Palais, sitting on the edge of a low wall with a 35mm camera dangling from her neck. A narrow black felt band fixed her blonde hair back into a ponytail. She was swaying her white running shoes back and forth. He approached and she jumped down from the wall. The top three buttons of her white blouse were unfastened displaying a deep cleavage. Hassan took note. He kissed her on the cheek and detected a different scent of perfume. A touch of vanilla?
“We will have a wonderful view of the city on the other side of the building.” She took his arm. “I want to take some photos for my aunt in Avignon.”
He searched for the subtle change in her demeanor she had displayed during their last time together when she had shown too much curiosity about his work as a journalist and his travel to Nice. But today, he found her changed again. No longer was she the virginal young Canadian. She was, as the British said, “fetching.” The complications and delays in his plan, plus the problems with Dr. Aziz, had made him tense. It was natural for suspicions to follow, he reasoned.
“This building is not old,” she said with her slight lisp. “Napoleon III built it, but he never lived here. It has a fine auditorium. I’ve attended some of their seminars.”
They found their way through the interior of the Palais and emerged on the north terrace, which provided a high vista above the harbor. Sailboats and fishing skiffs dotted the choppy waters farther out on the Bay of Marseille.
She pointed. “Over there is the Saint-Jean Fort, and behind it is the La Major cathedral.”
“What is the name of the fort?” he asked.
“Saint-Jean. The Knights of Saint-Jean built it in the Twelfth century. And over there—”
“Ah yes, before those crusaders sailed off to pillage Jerusalem,” he interrupted.
She took a few steps away and focused her camera on some sailboats. After a few photographs of the Vieux-Port and the city, she turned back to him. “I don’t suppose you’ll want copies of these photos for your album then?”
Now rankled, he started along the path on the north side of the Palais. Today, she seemed coquettish, and he had not had a woman since the whore in Athens. That had been an unpleasant experience. The woman had been a favorite of his, and he’d slept with her on his last three trips to Greece. Then the brothers had told him she was reporting to the police. She had to die, but knowing she had three young children, he had left a good sum of money on the table next to the bed—after he strangled her.
Sandra caught up to him. “You know, Hassan, until recently we in the West never realized that your people in the Middle East were so bitter about the crusades. Be truthful … is this something your people recently conjured up as offensive, or have you always held a grudge?”
How dare she! He had an urge to beat her, then take her forcibly. He looked away to the spires of a church on top of the hill looking over Marseille. She was exquisite, and an infidel. Sweat formed on his forehead and he felt a hardness forming in his groin.
“Come on now, don’t take it personally. I think it’s a legitimate question.” She moved next to him and he glanced down the front of her blouse–noticing her lace brassiere. “I mean look at the cathedral over there. How many in the world are now mosques? Hey, you guys did away with the whole Byzantine civilization.”
“Did you see a restroom in the building?” he asked.
“Yeah. Let’s go, enough of the scenic vistas. Besides, the wind is picking up.”
Inside the Palais, groups of people were wandering toward a meeting room. Outside the room, a handmade poster announced an underwater archaeological seminar. Beyond, along a hallway the rooms appeared unoccupied. She led the way down the corridor, then stopped and looked around. Undecided and a bit nervous, she said, “I’m sure this is the right way”
As he followed her, Hassan reviewed the events of the past hour. They had encountered few people during their walk around the grounds. No one had seen them take this corridor. As far as he could determine, no one could place him here with the girl.
Now, no one was in sight. Their footsteps echoed down the hallway. The men’s restroom came up on the right. She said she would wait for him outside.
Inside, the lavatory had three toilet stalls and two urinals. The bright white room smelled of disinfectant. The stalls were empty. Quickly, he relieved himself at one of the urinals, then went to the washbasin and splashed water on his face. In the mirror, he watched himself slip off his belt and wrap one end around his left hand.
He eased the restroom door open and stuck his head out. Sandra was alone in the hallway. She was putting her cellphone back into her purse.
“Please come here and look at this,” he said. “It is very strange.”
“Really, I’m not interested in…” She hesitated and slowly moved to the door.
“Come, come,” he entreated. “It is most interesting.”
At the door, she leaned forward and peered in. At the same moment, he wrapped the belt around her neck and yanked her into the lavatory. Kicking the door shut, he dragged her by the neck and pulled her across the white tiled floor to a urinal, slamming her head against the porcelain.
She resisted forcibly and her strength surprised him, but with the pressure on her throat, she would soon lose consciousness. She repeatedly tried to hit him in the face and kick him in the shins. He applied more pressure to the belt, just enough to cut the flow of blood to the brain. He wanted her to be alive when he raped her.
Using both feet, she kicked away from the wall. He lost his footing on a wet spot on the tile floor and both fell. She flailed with her arms and elbows. He rolled on top of her, but the belt came loose and she let out a yell.
The scream startled him and he tried to cover her mouth, but she flipped him over. As she scrambled to her knees, her cellphone dropped out of her purse. She grabbed it, and by the time she pressed the third button on the phone, he was on his feet. A hard blow to the side of her head, and her body rolled over twice on the floor, stopping at the brace of a toilet stall.
Hassan crawled over and turned her over on her back. Tiny wet bubbles puffed from between her lips. Pausing to make sure she was unconscious, he ripped her white blouse open, retrieved his pocketknife, and cut the front band connecting the cups of her brassiere. Pulling the brassiere aside, he groped her breasts with both hands, and then jerked up her skirt.
It was then that a thin three-inch silver wire attached to a very thin metal cylinder inside the right cup of her brassiere caught his eye. He reached down and fingered the apparatus.
Then all went black.
“Sandra. Wake up.” Stone patted her face with a wet paper towel. She opened her eyes and mouthed some words Stone couldn’t make out. He helped her sit up and held her as she stared at Hassan lying on the floor, a splatter of blood on the white tile next to his head.
Finally, she asked in a hoarse voice, “Did you kill him?”
“No,” Stone said, as if it hadn’t been the right decision.
Standing, she took off her blouse, removed the torn bra with the listening device, then rolled it into a ball.
“Thanks for saving my life … now stop looking at my boobs.” She put on her blouse. Fastening the two buttons Hassan hadn’t ripped off, she adjusted her skirt. He reached out to help. “Christ, I can do it myself! Go over there and search him, before he wakes up.”
“Here, put on my jacket. Good thing you signaled me on the cellphone,” Stone said. “And that Mark asked me to run over here to Marseille to do a countersurveillance of your meet with this son of a bitch.”
Stone went through Hassan’s pockets, removed a black automatic pistol, and placed it on the floor. By the time Sandra had composed herself, he had laid out Hassan’s identification, a number of calling cards, and some notes scribbled in Arabic next to the gun.
“Let’s copy everything down,” he told her.
She knelt next to him. “If the asshole stirs, please hit him again. Harder.”
“We’re not letting this guy walk, are we?” Stone asked.
“We don’t know what he’s up to, only that it’s big.” Sandra covered her face with her hands. “If he’s loose, we have a better chance of finding out…” She started to tremble.
“Okay.” Stone put his hand on her arm. “Help me with this stuff.”
With both of them copying the information, it took only a few minutes, even with tracing the Arabic script. Finished, they replaced all the articles in Hassan’s pockets.
“What about his gun?” Stone asked. When Sandra shrugged, he suggested, “It’s a Russian make. I know how to mess with the firing pin.”
“Do it, Sport. Then let’s get out of here.”
It didn’t take long for Stone to alter the firing pin and put the gun back in Hassan’s jacket. Meanwhile, she had gotten up and was leaning against the wall next to the door with her eyes closed. She breathed deeply.
“We’re all set to go,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. One last thing.” Sandra took two quick steps toward Hassan’s inert body and placed three hard, accurate kidney kicks. She stood back, took a deep breath, and then added two more for good measure deep into his groin.