“Why do you want to find this man?” she asked.
“Because he is a bad man,” Mathis replied.
She nodded. “He is a blind man.”
“I know.”
“He is of two worlds. He is part Corsican. His other half is very different.” She got up suddenly and went into her bedroom. She returned, clutching a Bible. She crossed herself and sat down again.
“In my dreams he is always the wolf,” she continued. “But the wolf isn’t blind. It can see better than anyone else. In my dreams, I am the wild pig. I have run into the wolf several times out in the maquis. He protects his territory. We have fought, but I admit that I have run away from the fights for fear of being killed in the dream. It is bad luck to die in a dream.”
Mathis knew that “maquis” was the term used to describe the Corsican wilderness.
“Where is his territory?”
She closed her eyes, as if trying to recall the dream. “Statues. Statues with faces. Old statues. And castles made of boulders. Prehistoric castles.”
Mathis thought that he knew what she was talking about. The island was well known for its prehistoric archaeological sites, especially in southern Corsica near Sartène. The sites at Filitosa, Cucuruzzu, and Capula contained objects that matched her description. The phallic-like stone statues with carved human faces, or menhirs, dated back to the era of primitive man, and archaeologists were still pondering their significance and purpose.
“Do you think this man lives near Sartène?” he asked.
“The mazzeri stick close to home in their dreams.”
“Are you saying that he is a mazzere too?”
She nodded. “He is. And he has other powers as well. He is dangerous. He is a man to be feared.”
Mathis handed her a wad of bills and stood. “Thank you, madame.”
She took the money, bowed her head, and said, “May God go with you.” She crossed herself again, stood, and led him to the door.
The explosion at the British Embassy in Tokyo occurred at 5:30 in the morning, while the city was still asleep. In hindsight, embassy officials were thankful that the bomb hadn’t gone off during peak hours of daylight. It could have been disastrous. As it was, there was only minor damage to one of the outside walls of the building at No. 1 Ichibancho. It was the second bombing attempt within three months.
The explosive had apparently been inside a van and a suicide driver had driven the vehicle toward the front gates. The bomb had gone off on impact, completely destroying the van and its driver and blowing a hole in the gate large enough for the flames to spill inside the grounds of the embassy.
For hours after the explosion, Japanese and British officials had attempted to determine who was behind the attack. There were no claims of responsibility, but a source close to The Times suggested that it had been the work of Goro Yoshida’s followers.
No one could prove it, though.
TEN
THE STUDIO
ON THE AFTERNOON OF THE FOLLOWING DAY, LÉON ESSINGER SAT IN THE office that he rented from France Television. He was staring at the associate producer of Pirate Island, refusing to believe what he had just heard.
“The boats will cost how much?” he asked, doing his best to contain his rage.
“Three times as much as we estimated,” the young man said, swallowing hard.
“Get out of my office!” Essinger yelled. “What kind of producer are you? Your job is to bring the picture in under budget, not three goddamn times over! ”
“I’m sorry, sir, I’ll see what I can do,” the associate producer stammered and quickly left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Essinger sighed and put his head in his hands. It was all becoming too much. Everything was piling up and he was fighting for air. There was the film, the most important thing, of course; that had to be a hit or his career was finished. There was Tylyn, his treacherous wife, the bitch who had left him for “more independence.” There was the Union and what he was mixed up in with them. He wished that he had never heard of them.
His secretary, a woman named Madeleine, stuck her head in the door. “Pardon, Monsieur Essinger …”
“What is it?” he snapped.
“You said I could leave early …”
“Fine, go on. Get the hell out of here,” he waved her away.
She made a face as she closed the door.
Essinger reached for a bottle of bourbon from a cabinet behind the desk. He always kept alcohol in his various homes and offices. He noted that he needed to have Madeleine stock up on the Paris office stash. There was just enough for a double. The phone rang, startling him. He let it ring again as he poured the bourbon and took a large sip. By the fourth ring, he was ready to answer it.
“Oui?”
“Léon.”
Christ! he thought. It was Tylyn.
“Hello darling,” he managed to say.
“How are you?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Fine,” she said. “Listen, tell me again about this press thing in Monte Carlo.”
He breathed easier. He thought she was going to bring up the subject of divorce. He had been dreading it for weeks.
“It’s just a press junket, darling,” he said. “All the major players on the film will be there. I’m counting on you to be there as well.”
“All right,” she said. “It’s just that … well, you know … these reporters seem to only want to know one thing.”
“And what is that?” he asked.
“Whether or not you and I are splitting up for good,” she said.
“Are we?” he asked.
“Léon …” she said with a note of disappointment in her voice. “We agreed that we weren’t going to talk about it while the film is in production.”
“You brought it up, darling.”
“Oh, never mind. I’ll see you soon,” she said.
“So you’ll be there? I know how you hate press functions. But you can’t be a star without letting the media have a piece of you. I would hate to pull contract on you …”
“I’ll be there, Léon! Now, I have to go.”
“Take care of yourself,” he said with just a touch of sarcasm.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” she said and hung up the phone.
Essinger slammed the receiver down. “Bitch!”
He fumed for a moment.
She was enjoying herself! She was having a good time being alone and away from him. She liked this independence of hers.
It was over, he told himself for the millionth time. There was no goddamned hope.
The Pirate Island press packet was laid out in front of him. The actors’ headshots were in a pile of their own. Essinger thumbed through them until he came to Tylyn’s.
God, she was beautiful.
After a few seconds hesitation, Essinger slowly ripped the photograph in two.
He breathed deeply and started again.
He ripped it into quarters. He tore it again. And again.
When his wife’s picture was in puzzle pieces, he scooped them into his palm and dropped them into the wastepaper basket.
Essinger got up, gathered his things, walked out of the office, and locked the door behind him. He was ready to go back to Nice and get busy.
It was the only way to bury the pain.
Bertrand Collette dropped James Bond off in front of the France Television building at Esplanade Henri de France. He looked at Bond and said, “Right, you go in and ask for Isabelle Vander, with Public Relations. You have the press card I gave you?”
“Yes, Bertrand,” Bond said. He couldn’t help but be amused by his French companion. Collette had nicked himself shaving again and was now wearing two tiny bits of tissue on his face.
“Call me on your mobile when you’re ready for me to come back,” he said. “I’ll be close by.”
Bond got out of the car and looked up at the metallic, marble and glass building that served as the center for France�
�s stations 2 and 3 as well as other entertainment concerns. Security was very tight at the thoroughly modern, fairly new complex, just as it was at the BBC in London.
He was wearing a dark blue suit and tie, the Walther PPK tucked neatly underneath his armpit. The plan was that Bond would pose as a reporter from a popular British magazine called Pop World. It was a legitimate publication that focused on the entertainment industry, fashion and pop culture. SIS had connections with the magazine, but this was the first time Bond had used them for a cover. Nigel Smith had overnighted the fake credentials to Bond’s hotel and now he was in business. Bond just had to play the role convincingly.
Bertrand had set up a meeting with the studio’s Public Relations department. Bond was a visiting journalist doing a story on various European television production companies. The studio people were pleased to offer him a tour of the facilities.
The center lobby was a large atrium with glass walls. One could look up and see into the various floors on both sides. Several security guards were in the lobby—at the entrance, the way to the lifts, and near the reception desk.
Bond checked in at the desk, where they asked for his identification. He gave them his passport. In return he was presented with a key card that allowed him access past the lobby to the lifts. He was told that Mademoiselle Isabelle Vander would meet him there.
Bond swiped the card under the watchful gaze of the guard and went through the revolving glass door. He waited a minute or two for Mademoiselle Vander, who stepped out of the lift and approached him.
She was probably in her thirties, an attractive woman with blonde hair pulled back into a bun. She wore glasses and a business suit.
“Monsieur Bond?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“Hello, I am Isabelle Vander,” she said in English. They shook hands. Hers was soft and warm.
“Why don’t you follow me?” She led him into the lift and they went up two floors. “Is there anything in particular that you’re looking for?”
Bond wanted to say, “The fourth floor,” because that’s where Essinger had his office. Instead, he feigned interest in the television studios. She brought him onto the second floor, where the main soundstages were set up for television news programs, a game show, and a soap opera, respectively. The game show was currently taping with a studio audience, so they had to be relatively quiet as they walked through the backstage area. Apparently it was some kind of dog show, for contestants had brought their pets with them to perform on the program. Bond and Isabelle stepped around three owners—one with a Chow-Chow, one with what looked like a black Labrador mix, and one with a Tibetan Terrier. Isabelle stopped to pat the dogs and whisper baby talk to them. She and Bond peered through the scenery to see an owner attempting to entice his Great Dane to dance. When the dog finally stood on his hind legs and circled to the music, the audience applauded.
Isabelle led Bond out of the studio and into the control room, where the réalisateur was busy directing cameramen and barking orders to assistants. Bond removed a small notepad from his jacket and jotted down some words so that he would appear authentic.
At one point they passed by the washrooms.
“Oh, excuse me, may I go in here for a moment?” he asked her.
“Certainly. I’ll wait for you down at the end of the hall, in that alcove by Makeup.”
“Fine,” he said, and then ducked into the Gents. He waited a moment, then peered out the door. The hallway was clear. He slipped out, went straight to the lift, and took it to the fourth floor.
Once there, Bond found his way to Essinger’s office, which was closed and locked. He stooped down so that he could access the false heel in his right shoe, a standard field accessory provided to all Double-O agents. Inside was a set of sophisticated lock-picks that were guaranteed to open 97 percent of the world’s doors. He began to try them one by one.
The lift bell rang, indicating that someone would be walking his way at any moment. Damn! He tried another pick.
He heard the lift doors open and quickly stuck another pick in the lock. The door swung open and he jumped inside just as footsteps could be heard approaching at the end of the hall.
Bond waited until he heard the person walk by, and then he flicked on the lights. He went through the empty outer office into Essinger’s private office. There were piles of papers on the desk, but they were neatly organized by subject. A quick glance revealed that some dealt with a new motion picture that was about to begin production, another pile dealt with details of a screening of Essinger’s newest film at the upcoming Cannes Film Festival, and another concerning what appeared to be miscellaneous expense records for Essinger’s company.
Bond took a look at the expenses first. There were the expected bills for office rental, utilities and employee payroll. There was extensive bills from various catering services, mostly a beverage company called “Marseilles Bottling Company.” Something struck him as odd about the invoice. Apparently Essinger had arranged to import canisters of soft drinks from Corsica, using a shipping firm called “Corse Shipping.” Why would he want to import them from Corsica? Weren’t they made in France?
Bond turned to the production pile and examined it. A new film, Pirate Island, was scheduled to begin shooting in less than a week.
Locations included Corsica and several spots on the Mediterranean. There were details on the cast and crew, the budget, insurance, and a production schedule. Bond removed the camera that Boothroyd had given to him and focused the lens on the production schedule. He snapped pictures of it and of the cast and crew listings. Who knows? he thought. Perhaps there were some known Union people working on the film. Bond glanced at the pile of film festival material. Essinger’s film Tsunami Rising was going to premiere at Cannes in approximately two weeks. There were notes indicating that the production of Pirate Island would halt for two days so that Essinger and other members of the cast and crew could attend the screening. The same director who shot Tsunami Rising was at the helm for Pirate Island and the two films also shared the same leading actor.
A trade ad announced the screening as an “out of competition, gala charity event” that would benefit various causes. Someone had scribbled in ink on the ad, “Royal family?” in French. Clipped to the ad was a note from Essinger’s secretary that read, “Léon—still waiting on confirmation of attendance by Monaco and Britain.”
Meanwhile, Isabelle Vander became impatient waiting for “Monsieur Bond” on the second floor. He had been in the washroom for nearly fifteen minutes! What was keeping him? When a production assistant walked through, she stopped him and asked if he wouldn’t mind having a look in the men’s washroom to see if the visitor was all right. The assistant came out a moment later and said that the bathroom was empty.
Perplexed, Isabelle walked up and down the halls looking for her charge.
Bond spent another five minutes going through the filing cabinets and desk drawers but came up with nothing interesting. He wasn’t sure if anything he’d seen in the office was useful. There was nothing that indicated that Essinger might be involved in any criminal activity. The search was fruitless.
He moved toward the door and noticed the wastepaper basket beneath the desk. On a whim, he looked inside and saw the torn pieces of photograph. He dumped them out on the desk and attempted to sort them. Bond could see that the photo was once the face of a woman, but there were too many pieces for him to complete the picture now. He scooped them up and put them in his pocket.
Isabelle gave up looking for Monsieur Bond and went back to her office to report a missing visitor. The security staff were alerted to watch out for an Englishman who was wandering about unescorted.
Bond turned out the office lights and opened the door a crack to look outside. The hallway was empty. He stepped out and shut the door behind him, automatically locking it. He straightened his tie and walked toward the lift. He pressed the button and waited. When it opened, he was confronted by a security guard.
“Bonjour,” Bond said.
The guard reacted, recognizing him as a visitor. He started to say something but Bond raised his right arm and punched the man in the nose. He fell backward into the lift, out cold. Bond got inside with him and pressed the ground floor button. Unfortunately, someone on two had called the lift and it stopped there.
When the doors opened, Bond shot past a group of men and women, all studio employees. One of the women screamed when she saw the unconscious guard.
Bond ran down the hall and saw the studio that Isabelle had shown him earlier. He rushed in, closing the heavy door behind him quietly. The dog show was still going on. The audience was laughing and applauding the antics of the Chow-Chow, which was jumping through a series of hoops set on the stage. Two cameras were moving around the action, capturing the best angles for the program. Bond moved around the scenery to try and get out another way, but one of the production assistants stopped him.
“Who are you? What are you doing back here?”
Bond waved his visitor pass. “I’m doing a story on your studio—”
He was interrupted by a loud bark. The black Labrador mix was behind him and looked as if it would take a bite out of him. Its owner whispered, “Hush, Spike!” but the dog must have sensed that Bond was an intruder. It barked again and growled.
“I was just leaving,” Bond said to the assistant and started to go out through the door, but the dog broke free from its master. Bond held up his arm to prevent the sixty-pound dog from leaping onto his chest. The animal collided with him and Bond hurled it back. It yelped and barked furiously at him.
“Hey!” the owner cried.
Then, the Great Dane that was on the show earlier and had been watching the Labrador from the sidelines decided that it, too, would get into the act. It leaped from sitting position, taking his owner by surprise. The dog jumped on Bond, knocking him to the ground.
“Security! Security!” the assistant called into his headset.
The Great Dane grabbed Bond’s right forearm with his huge jaws and held it tightly. Luckily, Bond’s clothing was thick, but he could feel the teeth pressing against his skin. Then, the Labrador bit into his leg. Bond kicked hard, throwing the dog off, and then rolled as forcefully as he could with the Great Dane’s head locked in his arm.
Never Dream Of Dying Page 9
