Never Dream Of Dying

by Raymond Benson

  More frightened faces appeared at the broken window. One man did jump, landing hard on his ankle. He cried out in pain, but he was alive. Bond ran and helped him away just as the RAID men ran forward with a steel ladder. They propped it near the window and beckoned for the people to descend. The first woman finally found the courage to step through the broken glass and climb onto the ladder. She was followed by another woman who nearly slipped off the first rung, then managed to regain her balance after several tense seconds. At this rate, evacuating the victims would take forever.

  Bond continued his survey of the other sides of the soundstage. The fire must have spread rapidly inside, probably igniting the flammable paints and canvas used to make scenery flats. Curtains on stages were notorious fire hazards. Old ones might not have had the asbestos treatment used in later structures.

  He heard glass breaking above him. A man and a woman were at another high window, crying for help. The black smoke billowed out around them. Bond looked around him and noticed a pile of metal piping with pieces of varying lengths and a stack of bricks lying next to them. He quickly rummaged through the piping and found a piece that might just be long enough to reach the window. It wasn’t terribly heavy, so he took it along with two bricks and ran with them back to the side of the building.

  He called in French to the man in the window, “Secure the end if you can!” Bond used his foot to hold one end of the pipe on the ground and then levered it up until the other end was near the window. The man grabbed the pipe, tore off his shirt, and used it to tie the pipe to the window sash. Bond placed the bricks such that they would prevent the pipe from slipping on the tarmac. He signaled to the man that he was ready and held on to the pipe. The man pushed the frightened woman out of the window first. She tentatively climbed out onto the pipe, held on to it like a fire fighter, then slid down the pole. Bond caught her as she landed.

  “Merci!” she cried.

  The man was next. He climbed out onto the pole and slid to the ground after calling to others behind him.

  Bond could see a procession of other panicked people in the window, waiting their turn. He turned the job of holding the pole over to the man, said, “Good luck,” and ran back around to the other side of the soundstage to find Mathis.

  Sirens grew louder. At least the fire-fighters were on the way. They would know what to do.

  Mathis was bending next to Commandant Malherbe, who was lying against a crate with a bloody wound to his head. The blaze on the soundstage was reaching inferno proportions.

  “We have to get these men out of here!” Bond shouted, waving his arm at a couple of other wounded RAID men lying on the road.

  Mathis said, “Help me!”

  Together they dragged Malherbe away and down the road to a place of safety. He had been hit at least three times and was bleeding profusely. They went back for the other men just as two fire engines roared onto the scene, followed quickly by an ambulance.

  “Better tell them they’ll need a few more ambulances,” Bond said to Mathis. Mathis sprinted toward the emergency vehicles, ready to take charge.

  Bond, covered in grime and sweat, backed away from the smoke and heat as the roof of the soundstage completely collapsed. He moved to a safe distance, sat on the ground, and watched the catastrophe unfold. He knew that there was nothing else he could do. People were dying inside the burning hellhole. Had it been his fault? If he hadn’t shot the petrol barrels, this wouldn’t have happened. But then, the van full of Union killers would have escaped.

  As a result of the failed raid, nineteen people died inside the destroyed soundstage, including two women and an eight-year-old child actress. At least twenty others were injured, some seriously. They were all innocent professionals working on the television film: actors, technicians, stagehands, designers, grips … The building itself was completely ruined and had to be leveled after the city had made its investigation into the fire. The media had a field day, blaming the tragedy on the French police, the DGSE, and “unknown foreign intelligence officers” who had been present.

  Léon Essinger, the new owner of the studios, was outraged. A flamboyant character, he appeared on national French television and expressed his anger at the authorities. He was mortified that accusations had been made claiming that a criminal organisation was using the studio as a storehouse for illegal arms. “The notion is ridiculous,” he said. “All these allegations turned out to be completely false.” When asked who the men were that attacked the assault team, Essinger started to bluster. “It has not been proven that there was a group of attackers. I think the government made them up to justify its actions!” He vowed to get to the bottom of the incident and make sure that “those responsible would pay.”

  The raid did not go down well with the French government, either. Fingers were pointed in every direction. The French police blamed the DGSE and vice versa. René Mathis was given two months’ suspension from duty, even though it wasn’t his fault that the intelligence he had been given was incorrect. Nevertheless, Mathis vowed to continue his pursuit of the Union on his own, pay or no pay. Bond told Mathis to keep him informed and promised to help if needed. They put together an informal method for communicating with each other about the case and bid each other au revoir and bonne chance.

  James Bond was recalled to London. SIS was formally ordered by the DGSE to back off. They would handle the case and keep other agencies informed from then on. Bond not only understood the firm’s embarrassment, but he shared much of the guilt. Over the next few nights, he relived his shooting at the petrol barrels in his dreams. Each time he lifted the gun and aimed at those barrels, an inner voice warned him that lives would be lost. And each time, Bond ignored the warning and squeezed the trigger. The noise of the explosion was always overshadowed by the screams of the people inside the soundstage. The cacophony of horror and death never failed to wake him with a jolt.

  Bond was quite accustomed to guilt. It was part of his profession. In his business people lived or they died. It was that simple. His actions always had consequences, and bearing the weight of those repercussions was just another part of the job.

  The trick was learning to live with it.

  TWO

  THE BLIND MAN

  APPROXIMATELY FOUR MONTHS LATER, RENÉ MATHIS FINISHED HIS CUP OF café au lait in The Louis XV restaurant, which adjoined the opulent Hotel de Paris in the proud, tiny principality of Monaco.

  Mathis had always found Monaco an anomaly. Located on a beautiful piece of shoreline on the Côte d’Azur covering just under two square kilometers, it is surrounded and protected by France, yet it remains fiercely independent. Its roughly 5000 citizens never pay taxes, and they have their own flag and traditional dialect. Monaco even looks different from France. The buildings, when seen from a distance, look an ochre color immediately distinguishing them from the structures in, say, Nice. Mathis likened the architecture to Lego blocks, as if a child had assembled the buildings with pre-existing pieces so that they appeared jagged and irregular. Since there was no room to expand the principality by land, buildings were built high and even below ground. Despite the seemingly haphazard construction of the community, it was beautiful to look at. Mathis enjoyed coming to Monaco every once in a while to gamble in its famous casino. Tonight, however, he was in the principality on important business.

  Mathis raised his hand at the waiter and said, “L’addition, s’il vous plaît.” He paid the bill and walked out of the restaurant into the Place du Casino. The magnificent casino was brightly lit. It was still early: the place wouldn’t be buzzing until after midnight.

  Mathis went inside, presented his identification for entry, and stepped into the luxurious palace that was designed by Charles Garnier, the same man who had created the Paris Opera House. The gold inlay and marble pillars gave the impression that this was indeed a royal castle from the nineteenth century. The beauty of the interior, the high-class ambience, and the sight of beautiful women in designer evening gowns alw
ays impressed Mathis.

  He made his way into the Salon Privé, which was separate from the main center of the casino where most of the tourists gambled. Only those well known by the casino staff or players who have given proof of a serious intention to play for high stakes were allowed inside. Luckily, Mathis had an informant at the casino, and Dominic was at his usual place by the door.

  “Bonjour, Dominic,” Mathis said.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Mathis,” the young man said.

  “Is our party here as scheduled?”

  “Monsieur Rodiac arrived ten minutes ago. I’m sure he’s at the table now.”

  “Merci.” Mathis went past Dominic and made his way to the little crowd around the chemin de fer table where the blindman liked to play.

  He was an interesting-looking man, and it was very difficult to tell what nationality he might be. There were definitely swarthy Arabic features, perhaps Berber, but there was also a European softness about him. He wore a fashionable dinner jacket and dark sunglasses, and he smoked what appeared to be an American brand of cigarette that he kept in a case inlaid with ivory. The usual goons were around him… his helper was sitting to his right, and two bodyguards who looked like professional wrestlers stood behind him. As the man was blind, his helper would whisper into the man’s ear and tell him what was on the cards. The man would then make the appropriate bets, ask for a card, or whatever.

  He always seemed to win.

  “Ten minutes. He is already doing well,” Dominic said as he slipped in beside Mathis.

  Mathis grunted affirmatively as he watched the blind man, who went by the name of Pierre Rodiac, play various challengers around the chemin de fer table.

  It was a relatively simple game, a cousin to baccarat, except that the house served as “referee” instead of as banker. The casino supplied the room, the equipment and personnel, for which it charged a five percent commission on the winnings of the bank hands. The banker-dealer was whoever could put up the highest amount of money. He had to relinquish the deal to the player on his right if he lost a hand; otherwise he could quit at any time. All other players at the table bet against the bank. One hand was dealt to the “player,” the cards usually controlled by whichever player had put up the highest bet against the bank. If the banker won the hand, the amount of money in the bank could be doubled, creating a good deal of suspense for the players who wanted to continue the game.

  Pierre Rodiac was the banker after having initially secured the position by putting up 250,000 francs as the opening bank. After winning five hands, the bank now totaled eight million francs. The other players were a little more hesitant to cry, “Banco,” which meant that one of them would cover the entire bank. Instead, the players might be more willing to bet against a portion of the bank—one might bet against 100,000 francs, another might bet against 500,000, and so on, until the entire bank was covered, or not. Only the amount of the bank that was bet against would be at risk.

  Mathis watched carefully as an Englishman, after consulting with the woman sitting next to him, presumably his wife, called “Banco.” Rodiac didn’t flinch. The croupier repeated the amount of the bank as the Englishman slid chips totaling eight million francs on to the “Player” space on the table. Rodiac slipped a card out of the sabot. The croupier used the paddle to scoop it up and swing it over to the Englishman. The blind man then dealt a card for himself, then another for his opponent. Once the two cards were in front of him, the Englishman peeked under the corners to see what he had. He needed to get as close to nine as possible. Court cards were valueless and an ace counted as one. Rodiac’s helper glanced at the faces of the banker’s two cards and whispered in the blind man’s ear. The Englishman indicated that he would take a card. Rodiac dealt it and the croupier turned it face up—a nine. According to the official rules, the banker had the option of drawing a third card if his total was three and he had just dealt a nine to the player. Rodiac hesitated, then dealt himself a card—an ace. Both hands were revealed. The Player’s total was three. Rodiac’s total was four.

  Everyone at the table gasped and murmured. As for the blind man, he registered no emotion. He simply kept his head straight, as if he were staring through the croupier at the wall.

  Mathis wondered the same thing that they all did. Had the blind man simply made a good guess in choosing to draw a card? Was it a lucky gamble? Or had it been some sort of trick? Had he known that the next card would be an ace? Mathis had indeed detected something before Rodiac had drawn the card. There had been something in the man’s body language. He had known the card was good. But how?

  Mathis carefully reached down to his belt buckle and activated a miniature camera that he kept there. He flicked the shutter twice in Rodiac’s direction. With any luck, he would get a couple of good shots of the man.

  “He seems to have a sixth sense about this game,” Dominic said, shaking his head.

  “I’m going to have a drink,” Mathis said. They left the room and found the bar. Mathis got a Scotch and soda and went into the buffet room, which was relatively empty. The buffet room amused him because there was a painting on the ceiling that depicted a heavenly scene in which naked cherubs and angels were all smoking cigars. The room had once been the smoking area.

  Dominic sat down with him and said, “I can’t stay long, I must get back to my post.”

  “I understand.”

  “Monsieur Rodiac hasn’t missed a Thursday night. He apparently comes in on his yacht and leaves it at the harbor. According to his identity papers, he lives in Corsica. His business address is in the town of Sartène. I haven’t been able to find out exactly where he lives.”

  “Sartène?” Mathis asked. “Why, there’s nothing there but devout Catholics and fervid penitents!”

  “There are some vineyards in the area, sir.”

  Mathis raised his eyebrows, indicating skepticism. “Why would he want to live in such a remote area? He’s obviously got a lot of money. If he wanted to be in Corsica, why not Bonifacio, Ajaccio, Porto Vecchio—one of the nice places?”

  “I can’t say, sir,” Dominic replied. “I must get back.”

  “Very well.” Mathis dismissed him with a wave of his hand and sipped his drink.

  It had been a difficult four months. After his suspension he had been reinstated at the DGSE, and during the interim he had learned a thing or two.

  To start with, the arms that had supposedly been stored at the Côte d’Azur Studios in Nice had actually been there. They had been moved out a day before the disastrous raid. Mathis hadn’t been able to prove this to his superiors, but he knew it to be true. Secondly, he was becoming more and more suspicious of the studios’ new owner, Léon Essinger. The man had made a lot of money from the fire insurance. He had to have ties with the Union.

  More importantly, Mathis had discovered evidence suggesting that the Union was operating on a large scale in the south of France and in Corsica. Perhaps this meant that the current Union headquarters was somewhere in the area. Could it be on that mysterious little island in the Mediterranean that had more ties with Italy than with France? Corsica—the birthplace of Napoleon and the source of the concept of “vendetta”—it wouldn’t surprise him if the Union had a base down there.

  After Mathis went back to work in Paris, he had immediately been put on a new assignment that he believed to be Union-related.

  The Americans had been experimenting with a new explosive material called CL-20. Supposedly, it was the most powerful nonnuclear explosive ever made. Described as a high-energy, high-density ingredient for both propellants and explosives, CL-20 looked like granulated sugar. When ignited by a detonator, it produced a massive explosion capable of leveling a building using a single warhead the size of a household fire extinguisher.

  The US Air Force had loaned a supply of CL-20 to the French on a trial basis. It was being stored at the air force base in Solenzara, on the east coast of Corsica. A major strategic center for the French, Solenzara was a stagi
ng point during the Kosovo conflict.

  The CL-20 had mysteriously disappeared under the very noses of the base commanders. It had somehow been smuggled off the base with the help of an insider, a lieutenant who had been in charge of the stockpile. When investigators arrived at the base to question him, the lieutenant was found dead in the barracks. His throat had been slashed, ear to ear, in the style of the Union. Working with the French military police, Mathis pieced together a possible scenario: the lieutenant had probably been bribed to pack the CL-20 in something innocuous, like laundry vehicles, or food vending lorries, then they were transported off the base to points unknown. Afterward, he had been killed simply to silence him.

  Mathis followed the trail of money, but it led back to unidentified sources in Switzerland. The job had obviously been instigated by a superior organisation. Mathis would have bet his life that the Union was behind it.

  Where did the CL-20 go? He had spent the last two months pursuing every lead. He turned Corsica upside down and found nothing. If anyone knew anything, they weren’t talking. It was a strange country. Corsicans were rarely forthcoming when it came to secrets. Although the island was French, Corsicans firmly believed in their independence and considered themselves “separate” from the mainland. Being French, and an intelligence officer, Mathis was naturally treated with suspicion. It was difficult to get anything out of those people.

  Mathis continued the investigation in the south of France. He thought that he might be on the verge of uncovering something when he got word from his man in Monaco. The report stated that a mysterious blind man from Corsica had begun appearing at the casino on Thursday nights and was making a killing. Casino authorities were perplexed by the man’s good fortune. They couldn’t spot any way that he was possibly cheating. Some people who had observed the blind man claimed that he had some kind of psychic ability. This was demonstrated when, one evening, the man held a total of three in his hand. He was expected to draw a third card and was about to when he stopped suddenly. “No,” he said, waving away the third card. It was as if he had received some divine message in his head. Sure enough, he won the hand—his three against his opponent’s two. The next card was revealed to be an eight, which would have given the blind man a total of one, and he would have lost.