Glen Allen - The shadow war

During the twenty-minute ferry ride from Cannes to the island of St. Honorat, Benjamin read aloud from a guidebook they'd purchased, the better to blend in with the other tourists.

"The Isle St. Honorat had begun its long history as an outpost fort, part of the southern coast's defenses against Saracen pirates. The Abbot of Lerins, Aldebert, brought his small flock of monks to the windswept promontory of the island and established a monastery that shared its primitive shelter with a military garrison. The first square, thick-walled fortifications were begun in 1073, built on the even older foundations of a Roman outpost. When the military left, the monks stayed, managing over the centuries to construct an impressive walled monastery at the center of the island. Its interior guards a vineyard where the monks produce an excellent wine, as well as a brandy famous in the region for its sweet taste and high alcohol content. Over the centuries, the twin towers of the original Norman fort had fallen into disrepair, but recently they were partially restored, and now they rise up again, proud reminders of St. Honorat's ancient and rich past."

They looked to the island and saw those very towers: square, blunt, older it seemed than the island itself-and the tallest objects visible for miles. It was easy to imagine Norman soldiers standing guard atop them, watchful eyes turned to the vast ocean beyond.

Benjamin and Natalya disembarked at the small dock on the island. There were paths leading both left and right, and a small building up the low hill where, it appeared, one could buy food and refreshments.

"What now?" Natalya asked.

Benjamin looked at his watch. "We have a little time before our appointment. I suggest we walk around and try to appear like a married couple on vacation."

Natalya took his arm, snuggled up against him, put a wide smile on her face.

"Like this?" she said.

Benjamin laughed. "Perfect," he said. "Now, if only we had a camera."

"Perhaps we can buy one in that shop," she said, pointing up the hill.

Once that was done, they continued on along the path that ran around the edge of the island, edged on one side by a rocky beach and the stretch of the transparent blue waters of the bay, and on the other by groves of Aleppo pine trees. Here and there were the remains of ancient walls and foundations of long-ruined buildings. They stopped now and then, one or the other of them posing before the ocean or the trees, trying in every way to appear like unconcerned tourists enjoying their honeymoon on an exotic Mediterranean island.

But as three o'clock approached and they made their way out toward the promontory with the Norman-style towers where they were to meet Guy, Benjamin felt the knot in his stomach tighten. He had a very bad premonition about this entire escapade. But he didn't want to share his anxieties with Natalya. Better, he thought, to play along with Guy's instructions, but stay vigilant.

Finally they approached the tower where they were to meet Guy. They were about a hundred yards away. The ocean stretched out flat and infinite on three sides, while behind them there was the rocky, sparse ground of the broadened pathway. The bell tower of the monastery was visible in the distance, rising up above the poplars and Aleppos, which waved back and forth in the strong breeze off the ocean.

"Seventy-two steps," read Benjamin from the brochure. "One for every chapter in something called The Rules of St. Benedict. " He saw the look of skepticism on Natalya's face. "I have an idea," he said. "Why don't I climb all those nasty steps myself. I'll get the passports and meet you back in the courtyard of the monastery. Here." He handed her the camera. "You can take more pictures."

Natalya looked up at him, placed her palm against his cheek.

"Very chivalrous," she said. "But I believe I have more experience with such things than a librarian does."

Benjamin was about to object when a man approached them on the pathway, coming from the tower.

He was tall, quite thin, with old-fashioned wire-rim glasses, wearing a pullover sweater. His brown hair was trimmed very close to his skull-like Benjamin's now-and as he came closer Benjamin noticed he had the most intense blue eyes he'd ever seen. He walked with a certain ease and confidence, as though he were on a holiday lark without a care in the world.

"Excuse me," he said, coming up to them. "Are you friends of Guy's?"

Benjamin wasn't sure what to say. Before he could think of something, the man continued. "He couldn't make it. Held up on business. And in his business… well, they don't exactly keep regular appointments, do they."

"I'm sorry," Benjamin said. "I'm afraid I don't-"

"Know what I'm talking about?" the man finished for him. "Of course you don't. And of course you don't know anyone named Guy. Neither do I." He turned and looked at Natalya. "And of course this morning your charming wife didn't have blond hair and perfect vision."

Still Benjamin was silent while he tried to think of something appropriate but not incriminating. His first thought was that this was someone from the French police and that they were about to be arrested.

"Look," Benjamin said, "I don't know you, and I don't know what-"

"But you do know you'll be wanting these," said the man. He held out a manila envelope. Benjamin looked at it as though it were something explosive. "Take it," the man said. "Everything you need is inside. Along with a bonus."

"Bonus?" Benjamin asked, finally accepting the envelope. He began to open it.

"Not here," the man said, stopping his hand. "Just something to perhaps make things easier… where you're going." He looked back toward the tower. "I wouldn't bother with the tower," he said. "Those damn steps are a real killer."

And with that, he nodded to Natalya, said, "Good luck," and then continued on down the path, resuming the appearance of a tourist on holiday.

For a moment Benjamin and Natalya simply looked at each other. Then they laughed, and, with a final glance at the tower, turned and headed back down the path toward the ferry dock.

It was some time before anyone else came down the path-this was indeed past tourist season, and St. Honorat was not one of the typical stops even during season. But this couple had come all this way and they weren't about to go without visiting the famous Norman tower, seventy-two steps or no.

And so they made their way through the ruins, found the crumbling steps, carefully picked their way up first one flight, then another… until finally they stood at the summit, breathing heavily. They walked to the thick portico in order to get a better view of the wide ocean beyond.

It was then they noticed a man sitting on a stone bench in a cloistered part of the tower. The husband took out his camera, approached the man on the bench-apparently he wanted to ask him to take their picture. But when he spoke, the man on the bench didn't answer. He just sat there, slumped slightly forward. He was heavyset, wearing a blue leisure suit, with a very round face and a stark white streak in his brown hair. He looked almost peaceful, as though he were taking a nap.

"Excuse me," the man with the camera said, touching his shoulder.

At the touch, Andrei tipped sideways and fell off the bench with a thud. It was only then the tourist noticed a bright red spot on Andrei's white T-shirt and a small pool of blood that had gathered beneath the bench.

"Well, it looks like everything is here."

Benjamin and Natalya were sitting on a couch in their hotel room in Cannes, the Hotel InterContinental. It was centrally located, a beautiful example of Belle Epoque architecture-and, most important, huge, somewhere they felt they would be lost in whatever crowds were around in the off-season. Spread out before them on the coffee table were the contents of the manila envelope the man on St. Honorat had given them.