The African Contract (11 page)

The farewells alongside the executive jet were brief and formal. As soon as the two were seated, the engines started, and in a matter of minutes they were in the air, the city lights of Freetown below. The plane banked in a northerly direction, the moon shining in the windows, and they began to ascend.

The plane held ten passengers in two rows of single seats on either side of the aircraft. Stone sat in front with Sandra across the aisle. In the rear of the plane sat two long-haired men in dirty clothes who didn't acknowledge Stone's greeting when he boarded and didn't speak the rest of the trip. Deep cover operatives, Stone assumed, going from one hellhole to another. Sandra had closed her eyes before takeoff, and they remained shut for an hour.

As the plane flew over nighttime Africa, Stone looked down at the moonlit vastness. Here and there he saw soft glows from single points of light. Oil lamps from villages somewhere in the backcountry of Mali or Guinea, their owners far removed from Stone's universe. He imagined someone looking up at the blinking aircraft lights and wondering who flew above their world.

Stone had a strong attraction for Africa, but at the same time knew he could never understand it, nor be at home. Always he anticipated going, always he was happy to leave. Now it appeared he was leaving for the last time. Another tasking from Langley appeared unlikely, and even though his future now was in California near his two children, he would miss the action and the excitement. His headache returned.

“I forgot to tell you, Hayden.” Sandra reached across the aisle. “You're supposed to lay over in Paris.” She handed him a white index card. “This is your hotel.”

Stone switched on the overhead light and studied the address, immediately recognizing it. One block off the Boulevard Saint-Germain, the small hotel was on a quiet street and very chic. A favorite haunt of his friend, Colonel Gustave Frederick.

Paris, France—August 14, 2002

Like so many things Parisian, the hotel had lost none of its charm over the course of time. It had been three years since Stone's last visit to the hotel. The four-story, mansard-roofed structure sat on the Left Bank, hidden off the busy Boulevard St. Germain. A guest entered through a courtyard, wisteria climbing the gray stone walls. Sections of the building dated from the seventeenth century. Inside, the salon was still decorated in dark, richly upholstered furniture and damask wallpaper in rose patterns, and a blend of antique prints and modern art was displayed on the walls. Here, Stone always felt he was entering a world that had existed between the two great world wars. A comfortable one.

A stylish, impeccably attired woman greeted him. Her hair perfectly coiffed, she wore a single strand of pearls. She spoke to him first in French, and frowned when Stone answered in kind, and switched to English. His French didn't go well in Paris.

“Mr. Stone, we have been awaiting your arrival.” She took his passport, had him sign the register, ordered the bellman to take his bags, and led Stone to his room, again set out with ornate furnishings. The US Government expense allowances would never come close to covering the cost of these accommodations. Good thing he was on a CIA operational expense account.

Stone took his time unpacking, pausing occasionally to peer out the window and reacquaint himself with the surroundings. The empty courtyard and neighboring gardens added to the feeling of tranquility. Late afternoon shadows darkened the walls and building facades. He would dine at a restaurant he knew of a short distance from the hotel. Perhaps he'd have the paillard of veal along with the house white wine. Nothing fancy. He'd be dining alone, which in Paris he always considered a waste of setting. Too bad Sandra wasn't there to dine with him. Still, he intended to make the best of his stay—not knowing when he'd return.

The next morning Stone made his way down to the hotel's cellar lounge and helped himself to the continental breakfast. While he read the
Herald Tribune
, the concierge approached and handed him a sealed envelope. Stone's full name appeared in type on the front. Opening it, he found the following message, handwritten in blue ink and undated:

Bonjour, Hayden,

Await further instructions.

Relax,

F

His friend and mentor, Colonel Gustave Frederick, had authored the instructions. Was Frederick giving him a short vacation?

“Who delivered this?”

“A woman from your embassy. Just before you came down for breakfast.”

“Blonde? Green eyes?”

The concierge tilted his head. Obviously, Sandra Harington was in contact with Frederick. The two were probably putting their heads together to salvage her career. Meanwhile, he, Stone, was set adrift for a time in Paris. Not a bad place to plan one's future.

Tossing the newspaper aside, Stone phoned the US Embassy and asked for Roland Deville. The secretary told him that Deville and his family had taken vacation in a little town outside Nice. Stone sighed and flipped his cell phone shut.
I wonder if Deville and his wife will visit Contessa Lucinda Avoscani?

Deville was the FBI's legal attaché assigned to Paris. FBI colleagues for over twenty years, Roland was someone whom he could confide in. It had been only a few months since the two of them participated in the assault on Lucinda's palace in Villefranche. That misguided adventure to capture Osama bin Laden's lieutenant had resulted in disaster. The team found the lieutenant already dead, but wrecked Lucinda's palace in the process. Lucinda held Stone responsible.

Lucinda. Maybe he'd phone her. On the other hand, why not fly down to Nice and see her? He saw the bright sky through the window. Perhaps, a morning walk around Paris would clear his mind.

Turning left out of the hotel entrance, he walked toward St. Germain. He passed the corner restaurant where he had dinner the previous night. Now it was empty, the tables outside bare. He thought of the dessert he had, frangipane tartlet with plums.

At the Boulevard St. Germain, he again turned left and headed toward the Pont de la Concorde, one of the bridges crossing the Seine. Midway across the bridge, he stopped and watched the tour boats passing below.

Stone took in the moist, mineral smell of the river. Farther down the Seine, he spotted rows of
bouquinistes.
Their owners were opening their green stall boxes and extending the short awnings, where for over a century proprietors hawked their used books and prints. Being August, with many Parisians taking
vacances
, walking the city was a delight. Stone decided to stroll along the open-air market and see if he could find a treasure to take home.

He visited the stalls one by one. Most of the books were in French. The few ragged English titles were uninteresting or already in his personal library back in Virginia. Still, he welcomed the distraction of exchanging greetings with the proprietors and ducking his head under the makeshift awnings to inspect their wares.

Half an hour passed and he reached the end of the line. He paused to look at Notre Dame over on the Île de la Cité, and continued browsing until he spotted an interesting faded poster displayed in a wire rack stand. The edges were only slightly frayed. Removing it, the script advertised in English the Trans World Airline. The message was: Fly TWA on a Lockheed Constellation to Paris and visit the Eiffel Tower.

“Ever fly in one of those?” A familiar voice came from over his shoulder as a hand reached across and seized the poster. “It took forever to cross the Atlantic. But those were the days when people dressed up to fly on a plane, were served their meals on china, played cards to pass the time, and the flight attendants were oh-so-gorgeous.”

The plummy New England accent belonged to Stone's pal and boss, Colonel Gustave Frederick. His thick graying hair was combed back from his face. He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and placed them on his long nose.

“
Bonjour, mon ami
,” Stone said. “I was wondering when I'd see you—”

“Both of us are being followed. I suspect you knew that.” He continued to inspect the poster as if he intended to purchase it.

Stone shrugged. Fact of the matter, he didn't care. He had assumed he'd be under surveillance by the French authorities. He'd be disappointed if he weren't. He took back the poster.

“See if you can shake the agents tailing you,” Frederick said. “I know you old FBI types can do it. We'll meet at the Luxembourg Gardens. In two hours. Enter from the north side, from Rue de Vaugirard. Wander around. You'll find me sitting on a park bench.” At that, Frederick meandered back up the row of stalls, stopping occasionally to pick up and replace a book.

Stone purchased the poster. He knew his son would like it.

At the entrance to the Luxembourg gardens, Stone believed he had successfully dry-cleaned himself. At his hotel, he had dropped off the travel poster at the front desk, slipped out the back door, walked two blocks, found a cabstand, and told the driver to head for the Petit St. Benoit restaurant. Halfway there he instructed him to pull over. After paying the fare, he walked one block, went into the first café he found, took a table where he could survey the street, studied the scene, searching for surveillants, then satisfied on detecting none, finished his caffè Americano and headed in the general direction of the Luxembourg Gardens. He alternated walking busy and empty streets, stopping to check his surroundings.

From past experience, he knew the French were expert in conducting surveillance, so he avoided being obvious in his countersurveillance. If they detected him acting suspiciously, the French security people would gear up for a full-court press.

As Stone entered the park, he felt the quiet, and as he continued walking, the sounds of the city faded, replaced by his footsteps crunching on the raked gray pebbles. Chestnut trees, alternately mature and young, formed a canopy, and the clean air filtering through the leaves felt cool on his face. Ahead some hundred feet, Frederick strolled with his hands clasped behind him, casually looking side to side. Stone watched him nod to a woman pushing a pram, and after she passed, Frederick took a seat on one end of a bench and crossed his legs.

Stone pulled out his Paris tour book and pretended to study it, all the while checking the movements of the passersby. Frederick would expect him to do this. Over the years, the two of them had formed a close but proper friendship. Even though they had fought the Taliban side by side in Afghanistan—and had saved each other's lives—Frederick kept a certain distance in their relationship.

Making eye contact, Stone sat down next to him. “I believe I'm clean.”

“Same here, but one can never be sure with French intelligence.” Frederick took a deep breath and gestured at the surroundings. “They do know how to do it with panache, don't they? Ah, the French. This park is a downright treasure.”

“Best I tell you what happened in Monrovia and Freetown while we're alone.” Without waiting for a response, Stone related the details of the attempt on his life in Freetown and his meeting with the Mossad agent, Jacob, in Monrovia. He summed up his impressions on Jacob. “We're not high on Jacob's list of favorite people. But if he thought it important enough to contact us, I think he believes the threat is serious.”

“Agreed. What about this South African, Dirk Lange?”

“I got the feeling he's a member of the South African Secret Service.”

“Makes sense,” Frederick said. “SASS has ties with the Israeli Mossad, and both services are concerned with al Qaeda activities in Africa.”

They sat quiet for a while. The closest person was the woman with the pram who had passed by earlier. Now she sat about fifty yards away, tending to the blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.

Stone asked the question that had gnawed at him since arriving in Paris. “When do I head home?”

Frederick didn't answer at once, apparently preoccupied in thought. “What were Station Freetown's thoughts on all this?”

“I got the impression they were annoyed by Sandra's and my presence.”

“That's to be expected, but what did they think of this Nabeel? Did they have any intel on him?”

“Craig, the COS, said no, but I think they did. He wasn't surprised when I reminded him we found guns and C-4 explosive in the terrorists' car trunk. I emphasized the connection between Nabeel and our nemesis from the Riviera, Abdul Wahab.”

“And?”

“Even after I reminded him Abdul Wahab was responsible for the deaths of two CIA officers, he still pretended to not care. Craig's quite the asshole.”

Frederick laughed. “You have a way with words.”

“Now, what about me?” Stone asked. “What do I do?'

“Huh? Oh yes. I thought about that.” He smiled. “You have a reputation in the agency as a person who comes in the room and breaks up all the furniture. Take the demise of those four jihadists in Monrovia and the two thugs in Freetown as examples. By the way, one of those bastards in Freetown murdered a pregnant CIA spouse in Jordan six months ago. After he had raped her.”

Stone gritted his teeth. “Payback time.”

“Yes. Well done.”

“The South African guy took care of one thug. The other one was mine.”

Frederick nodded. “Yes, which is important, but back to you. In only a few days, you have managed to get on the radar of all the important players: the CIA stations in West Africa, the South African intelligence service, the Israelis, al Qaeda, and we can assume Abdul Wahab.”

“So? What do I do?” Stone became encouraged.

“You're flying to South Africa. I'll give you the details at dinner tonight. By the way, do you have any ideas for a good restaurant?”

“Yeah, sure. But about my assignment?”

“We have a couple of taskings going on down there in Cape Town. All against this target, this threat. We're not clear what it is yet. I assumed you knew that you've been let in on only a piece of this operation.”

“SOP. I'm given a piece of the operation and expected to move on after it's completed.”

“However, somehow you always make yourself indispensible. I take that back. No one's indispensible in this line of work.”

“I wasn't ready to head home and take up gardening.”

Frederick leaned toward him. “You'll go down to Cape Town, hang around, and see who knocks on your door. It won't take long for people to start showing up. The first may be that fellow Dirk Lange.”

“What about these other
projects
going on down there?”

“Best you not know about them now.” Frederick looked around. “I think we've stayed here long enough.” He gave a hand signal to the woman with the pram, who got up and leisurely pushed the carriage away. “We'll split up. We're at the same hotel. Let's meet at seven in the lounge.”

“How about six. I'd like a drink earlier than seven. Can we get Sandra Harrington to join us? By the way, how's she doing?”

“I'm heading back to the embassy now to work on her problem.” Frederick's tone made it known that Stone shouldn't have asked that question about Sandra. Evidently, the situation was tougher for him to handle than he had expected. Frederick rose, casually taking in the surroundings. He leaned toward Stone. “Do you know anything about nuclear weaponry?”

“They make a big noise.”

With a dismissive glare, Frederick marched off across the grounds in the direction of a roofed bandstand where musicians assembled.

The sun overhead worked its way through the leaves, bringing the August afternoon heat. Over at the bandstand the musicians had begun a classical piece Stone didn't recognize. Frederick had disappeared into the gathering spectators.