Marseille
Hassan’s train from Marseille to Arles took a little less than an hour. By the time he emerged from the station, the sun had set and the air had begun to cool. He debated whether to call and ask Rashid to pick him up, but decided against it. Certainly, the police had a telephone tap on Rashid’s home phone. Instead, he searched for a car rental company and found an open storefront operation. The lone woman attendant was attempting to handle four impatient customers queued in front of the counter.
Standing in the back of the line, he realized he had only one passport and an assortment of credit cards, not all in the passport’s name. All of his other forged documentation had been abandoned in the hotel room and now were in the possession of the French police.
An American middle-aged couple, both large in girth, were arguing with the attendant. The disagreement concerned the mileage on the car they had just returned. Finally, the attendant came from behind the counter, marched out of the office with the couple in tow, and headed for the car parked outside the entrance. Hassan followed at a discreet distance. She opened the door and pointed to the mileage indicator on the dashboard. They all went back into the office, the couple now subdued. The car’s keys hung in the ignition. Hassan calmly walked over, got in, and drove off.
The fuel gauge read less than a quarter tank, but that was enough to reach Rashid’s residence. The CIA and the French will certainly watch his villa, he reasoned. Perhaps the French already had Rashid in custody.
As he eased past the entrance to Rashid’s estate, he searched for surveillance. If he drove by again, he would definitely arouse the suspicion of any lurking policemen. Then by chance he spotted a gray van backed up into the trees about one hundred yards south of the entrance gate. A mile farther down the road, he pulled over and checked the map he’d found in the glove compartment. It showed a winding road some distance on the other side of the villa. He would drive there, hide the car, and walk through the vineyards to Rashid’s main house.
Hassan crept up the stairs to the second floor of the villa and found Rashid’s study. He peered into the dark-paneled room and saw Rashid at a large oak desk, working numbers in a green ledger. Next to him a computer screensaver displayed colored fish swimming in random directions. Hassan caught the faint smell of a tomato-based casserole in the room. An empty dinner plate sat on a long credenza against the wall.
Startled when Hassan dragged an armchair up to the desk, Rashid gasped and slid back in his chair. “How did you get in here?” He drew his black silk robe over his white pajamas. “Why did you not call? What—”
“I came in the back way. You should lock your doors.” Hassan unzipped his jacket and sat in the chair. He spread out his legs and let out a sigh as the pain in his groin and side subsided. “Police are watching outside on the road.”
“Why are the police watching me?”
“No more questions.” Hassan readjusted the position of the gun in his belt and quickly relayed the story of his men’s arrest in Marseille that afternoon. “The police must know we have been working together. That is why they are out there watching you.”
“I do not know how they could—”
“Obviously, they have been following your Saudi friends.” He pointed. “You were the one who involved me with bin Zanni and al Qaeda. Now the police know about me.”
Rashid pulled his robe tight around himself, and then covered his face with his hands. “This is not good.” He paused a moment. “We must get you out of here, out of the country.”
“I need money,” Hassan said.
Rashid opened his desk drawer and pulled out a bulging envelope, then shoved it back. He grabbed his wallet.
Hassan rose, took the wallet from him, and emptied it of bills. “Where is bin Zanni now?” He reached over, pulled the envelope from the desk drawer, and thumbed through the euros.
Rashid raised a hand in protest, then dropped it. “I just heard he is going to a palace in Villefranche. He will be there tomorrow morning.” He began to rise, but was pushed back into the chair. “You are not taking all of my money, are you?”
“What palace?”
“The prince has leased a palace from some contessa.”
“Were the six cases of wine delivered to the address in Montpellier?” Hassan asked.
“Twenty-four cases were sent to the wholesaler earlier today. The six cases you’re concerned about are going by truck to Montpellier tonight.”
Hassan stuffed the money in his pockets, went to the window, and pulled back the heavy draperies. Down below, a panel truck was parked outside a two-story barn a few yards from the main house. Ancient trees with wide-spread limbs shielded the chateau from the road. “Is that the truck going to Montpellier?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Call the driver and tell him he will have a passenger with him tonight.”
Rashid obeyed, and when he hung up Hassan returned to the desk. “You involved me with this Saudi, Abdul Wahab, who wanted me to kill the American agent, Stone. I wondered why he did not kill Stone the same way he killed the other two CIA agents. Why have me do it?” Hassan sat on the edge of the desk. “Then I realized he wanted to shift the attention of the Americans to me and away from him and al Qaeda.”
Rashid protested; said that he was unaware of any such plan on Wahab’s part.
“It was the same with him wanting me to kill the American consul general. Have the CIA and French come to Marseille and look for me.” He looked down at Rashid and said softly, “Where does this Stone live?”
“At the Foundation d’Élan in Archos. Where that man Harrington is the director.”
“I suppose you know Harrington.” Hassan pulled out his automatic and released the safety. “I want you to call the Foundation.”
“But I do not know the number. Who would I ask for?”
“Ask the operator for the number.” Hassan waved his gun back and forth. “Then, when you reach it, ask to speak to Mr. Stone.”
“What do I say when he answers?”
“Tell him bin Zanni is going to the palace of a contessa in Villefranche.” Hassan pointed the gun at Rashid’s face.
“I cannot do that! Wahab will kill me!”
He placed the barrel of the gun to Rashid’s forehead. “I will kill you if you do not.”
Rashid fumbled for the phone. The operator gave him the phone number, but he had to dial three times before his nervous finger got all the numbers correct. It took a few minutes for the operator at the Foundation to connect Rashid to Stone’s cottage.
“Are you Mr. Stone?” Rashid asked.
Hassan motioned with his gun for him to continue.
“It is of no importance, who I am.” Rashid then relayed the message to Stone. After repeating it, he hung up.
Hassan looked down at him. “Now the French and CIA will be heading back to Nice.” He raised the gun high above Rashid’s head. “And the police will be knocking on your door.”
He hit Rashid hard on the top of his head with three blows from the butt of the gun. Rashid fell forward, his smashed head landing on the ledger. The heavy bond paper slowly absorbed the blood oozing from his scalp.
The phone rang and Hassan froze. He picked up the receiver and listened as the truck driver said he was waiting down in the driveway. Running down the stairs, he went out the front door and crossed the gravel yard to the truck, where the driver stood smoking.
“Is the wine loaded?”
“It is.” The driver turned his back, opened the back of the truck, and pointed to the six cases. Hassan pulled out his gun and slugged him. He then dragged the man into the barn. Donning the driver’s coat and beret, he drove slowly out the gate and headed down the road for the Autoroute to Montpellier. He felt relief when the surveillance van remained motionless.
At the kitchen sink, Stone splashed water on his face. He thought about the call he had just received. At first, the brief message hadn’t made sense, so he’d asked the caller to repeat it. Not only was the message puzzling—that bin Zanni was heading for the contessa’s palace—but also the caller had a thick Middle Eastern accent. He thought for a moment. Trick or no trick, Frederick has to know right away.