Never Dream Of Dying

by Raymond Benson

  A doctor and nurse took Collette into the treatment room and remained there for nearly an hour. Bond paced the small waiting area, feeling ridiculously helpless. Finally, the doctor emerged and approached Bond as Collette was wheeled into one of the patient rooms.

  “Your friend has suffered many second degree burns and a few third degree burns. We’ve done what we can tonight, but he’ll have to go to Bastia in the morning and spend some time in their burn ward,” the doctor said.

  “But his chances of recovery are good?” Bond asked.

  “Yes, after some skin grafting and rehabilitation. He’s very lucky to be alive.”

  “Should he go to Bastia tonight?”

  The doctor shook his head. “It wouldn’t do him much good to move him again so soon. We call this the eighth floor of the Bastia hospital. Our care here is just as good, and we can watch him tonight. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep, monsieur? We’ll be transferring him tomorrow around eight o’clock. You can check with the Bastia hospital staff after eleven to see which room he’s in.”

  “Thank you,” Bond said. “May I see him?”

  “He’s heavily sedated,” the doctor said. “But I suppose it’s all right. If he’s asleep, don’t disturb him.”

  Bond went into the room, which looked like any other hospital room in the world. Bertrand Collette was on his back, legs and arms bare and suspended. The skin was ugly and charred and was covered with a greasy ointment. His face was covered in bandages.

  He bent over Collette’s face and thought that he might be asleep when the Frenchman whispered, “The things I do for England …”

  Bond laughed softly. “I’ll make sure you get an OBE for this, Bertrand.”

  Collette groaned and said, “They really got me, didn’t they, James?”

  “It’s not so bad,” Bond said. “The doctor says you’ll recover completely. It’ll take some time, but you’ll be fine.”

  “And I’ll look like the Phantom of the Opera. What will people say?”

  Bond said, “Just tell them that you cut yourself shaving.”

  That made Collette laugh.

  “I’m going back to the hotel,” Bond said. “Then I suppose I’ll go to Sartène tomorrow. I’ll give you a call when I can.”

  “James?”

  “Yes?”

  “Merci.”

  Bond patted the top of Collette’s head and left the room.

  It was nearly two in the morning when Bond got back to the Hotel Corsica. Weary and discouraged, he took the stairs to the second floor and made his way to his room. As he put the key card into the lock, though, he sensed that something was amiss. Years of experience had fabricated in him a kind of organic radar, something inexplicable that pricked his nerves whenever trouble was around the corner—or behind a door.

  Bond drew the Walther, dropped to a squatting position, and flung it open.

  Marc-Ange Draco sat facing him, an open bottle of bourbon at his side.

  “Marc-Ange!” Bond said, standing. “I might have shot you.”

  “No you wouldn’t have,” Draco said. “Your reflexes are too good. You would have seen that it was me before you pulled the trigger. Just as you did. Come inside.”

  Bond entered and shut the door. They were alone.

  “Marc-Ange, what the hell?” Bond asked, holstering the Walther.

  “Sit down, James,” Draco said. “Have a drink with me. I’m well ahead of you. I think you need one, too, no?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Bond said, pulling up a chair. They sat around the coffee table that was a piece of standard furniture for the rooms.

  Draco poured a tall glass of bourbon for Bond and handed it to him. “Salut,” he said, and they clicked glasses.

  After the lovely fire coated his throat, Bond asked, “Now tell me, Marc-Ange, how did you find me?”

  “Tsk tsk,” Draco said. “Surely by now you know that I have eyes and ears all over this island. There are some people, you know, who believe that you are dead.”

  “Mmm,” Bond said, taking another sip. “I suppose it won’t be long before they realize that I’m not.”

  “I think you can bet on that. I apologize, James, but it appears that you were right about Léon Essinger. He is involved with the Union.”

  Bond said nothing.

  “But I still think that he’s not your primary concern,” Draco said. “Our friend, Le Gérant, is hiding somewhere in the vicinity of Sartène.”

  “I know,” Bond said. “I got a message from Mathis. It came rather late, I’m afraid. I’m going south after sunrise to look for him.”

  “Ah, I may be able to help in that regard,” Draco said. “Since you last asked, my eyes and ears have been watching out for your DGSE friend. It seems that he was indeed last seen making inquiries in Sartène. After my man paid a very large bribe to a restaurant owner there, we learned that Mathis was directed to speak to a mazzere who lives in town.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  Draco explained the legend of mazzeri and how they could foretell deaths in dreams.

  “That sounds like a load of rubbish to me,” Bond said.

  Draco shrugged. “Being Corsican, I should take offence at that, but I tend to agree with you. I am very superstitious, to an extent, but I don’t see dead people. At any rate, Mathis’ trail stopped there. I was about to send my man to talk to this mazzere, but I figured that you would want to do that yourself.”

  “Do you know how I can find him?”

  “Her. Her name is Annette Culioli.” He gave Bond the woman’s address.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, savoring the strong bourbon.

  “The Union are up to something with Essinger’s film production company,” Bond said. “I found evidence that they’ve got some explosives. Something stolen from an air force base.”

  “Is that all you know?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Bond said. “Not enough to blow the whistle. I found what looked like a radio transmitter in the possession of Essinger’s special effects man. I think I found pieces of its companion receiver at Emile Cirendini’s place last night, and it was attached to a detonator.”

  “But for what?”

  “I don’t know. Yet.”

  Draco said, “Emile Cirendini used to be one of my most trusted colleagues. I gave him a lot of power in the old Union Corse, but he misused it. He defected years ago. Now he’s with the Union. We are enemies, to say the least.”

  “Well, he’s in this up to his neck,” Bond said. “The Union are using his shipping firm to transport materials.”

  Draco nodded. “I tried to shut him down years ago, but the Union is much stronger than my little band of rebels. He damned near shut me down. I’m lucky to be operating at all on this island.”

  Again, Bond noted that Draco seemed unusually morose. His father-in-law had definitely changed. The once boisterous, life-loving pirate was now merely a shell of his former self. He seemed to be a broken man, someone who had been through too many tragedies.

  “How many times have you been up against the Union?” Draco asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “In an actual skirmish. Say, in a year.”

  “This past year? It’s like the cold war all over again,” Bond replied. “We hit one of their safe houses, they hit one of ours. They’ve been a thorn in our side for a few years now.”

  Draco looked concerned. “Tell me, have you had any particular fights with them in France this past year?”

  “Yes,” Bond said. “Just after New Year I was helping Mathis with a case in Nice. The DGSE thought that the Union were hiding arms at Essinger’s film studios there. They set up a raid. It went … wrong.”

  “You were there?” Draco asked.

  Bond nodded. “We had bad intelligence. They were waiting for us. If I hadn’t have shot those barrels of petrol—but then they would have got away if I hadn’t. I don’t know how much you know about it.”

&n
bsp; “There was a fire,” Draco said, bluntly. “Several innocent people died. It was all over the news. Of course I know about it.”

  Bond nodded and took another drink. They were silent again for a long time. Bond sensed that Draco wanted to say something else that weighed heavily on his mind. Instead, though, the broad-shouldered man stood abruptly.

  “I must apologize again, James,” he said. “I have become much too antisocial since the deaths of my wife and daughter. Forgive me. I had better leave you now so that you can get some rest.”

  “Don’t go on my account, Marc-Ange,” Bond said. “Is it something you’d like to talk about?”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about it at all.” Draco held up his hands. “It is late. Good luck with your mazzere. I hope you find your friend. Adieu. ”

  Without further ceremony, Draco walked out of the room without the obligatory embrace, or even shaking hands.

  Odd, Bond thought. The man was very depressed. Not the old Draco at all.

  Bond finished the glass of bourbon and crawled into bed. He was fast asleep in less than a minute.

  When Tylyn Mignonne awoke the next morning aboard the Starfish, the emptiness and pain she felt in her heart were as heavy as ever. She clutched her pillow, and moved over to bury her face in the other one. She could still smell Bond on it.

  Had she loved that man? she asked herself. Or was he merely, as he had playfully suggested, a rebound partner?

  Whatever, she thought. The pain was real. She missed him.

  Tylyn didn’t believe a word that Léon had said about Bond. A film studio spy? Was he kidding?

  She was convinced, however, that Bond was not who he said he was. He really wasn’t a journalist. Was he some kind of policeman? Had he been investigating Léon? She knew that her husband had been involved with underworld types in the past. But Léon only associated with criminals, he wasn’t one himself. That ugly man, Wilcox, now he was a crook if ever there was one. He looked as if he could easily kill someone.

  The police had spent a day at the set, making inquiries. They had asked her many personal questions about Bond, but it was obvious that they didn’t know who he really was either. The investigator in charge told her that the magazine he supposedly worked for, Pop World, confirmed his employment, but that was as far as they went. Since the body was never found, and from all the statements they took from witnesses, it appeared that neither Essinger nor anyone involved with the production was responsible for what had happened.

  Oh, James, what did happen?

  Had he been using her to get close to her husband? But his affections had seemed so real. Had she been a fool?

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Go away, it’s too early,” she called.

  “Tylyn, I have some news for you!” It was Léon.

  “Tell me later.”

  “I think you should hear it now.”

  She got out of bed, put on her robe, and opened the cabin door. He was dressed in “captain’s” gear, smiling with exuberance. It made her want to throw up.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I’ve just received word from Cannes,” he said. “You have been asked to present the check to the charities on the night of our screening!”

  She frowned. “What?”

  Essinger was clearly taken aback by her lack of enthusiasm. “The screening at Cannes! At the end of the week. Remember? We’re screening Tsunami Rising at a charity event.”

  “I wasn’t planning on attending, Léon,” she said. “That’s your movie, not mine.”

  “But think of the publicity we can generate for Pirate Island if you’re there. Prince Edward will be there! Princess Caroline will be there!”

  “Oh, Léon, don’t give me that crap. You just want me there so you can pretend I’m still your wife.”

  “You are still my wife.”

  “Not for long, Léon.”

  He stepped inside and shut the door. “What do you mean?”

  “Get out of my cabin.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t want to tell you until after we finished shooting the film,” she said. “But I think we should divorce.”

  Essinger said nothing, but she could see his lower lip begin to tremble.

  “Come on, Léon, you know it would be best,” she said.

  “I could fight you on this, Tylyn,” he said finally.

  “I was hoping that you wouldn’t. It would be easier on us both if you didn’t.”

  Essinger moved away, his back to her. “Then do this favor for me,” he said.

  “What?”

  He turned to face her and put his hands on her upper arms. “Present the check at the screening. Show the world that we’re still friends. It will do you good. You need to be there. Please.”

  She sighed. “You’re saying that there will be no contest in the divorce if I agree to do that?”

  He nodded.

  “All right,” she said.

  He started to embrace her, but she held up her hands. “But everything else still stands. Our relationship from now on is strictly business. I don’t accompany you, I don’t sit with you, we are not photographed together.”

  “Very well.”

  “Now get out of my cabin.”

  “You’re not still upset about that man Bond, are you?” he asked.

  “Upset? Upset?” She turned on him, livid. “You and your thugs killed him! I don’t care what you say he was, it didn’t give you the right to do what you did.”

  “We didn’t kill him! He brought it on himself!”

  “Get out. I don’t want to discuss it.”

  Essinger said, “Fine. I’ll see you on the set later.” He turned and left the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

  Tylyn was furious.

  That man was up to something. She knew him too well. He had something fiendish in the works, but she was too distraught and too involved on the film to attempt to find out what it was.

  If only James were with her. He had possessed a kind of strength that she had found addictive.

  But now she would have to forget all about him.

  TWENTY - ONE

  THE PRISONERS

  “YOU ARE THE SECOND MAN TO COME LOOKING FOR THE DREAM-WOLF.”

  Annette Culioli set down a glass of red wine on the table and stood for a moment, looking at Bond with trepidation.

  He thanked her for the drink and said, “Madame, I assure you that my intentions are honorable and that the main reason I look for this man is because my friend may be in danger.”

  “He is in danger,” she said, sitting down across from him. “The dream-wolf told me so.”

  “Oh?”

  “As I mentioned to your friend, the wolf and I are competitors in the dream world. However, be that as it may, we also converse from time to time. Even though he is a wolf, I can understand what he says.”

  Bond thought that the woman was on a plane of existence somewhere on the far side of Jupiter, but she was undoubtedly sincere in what she had to tell him. While he didn’t believe one bit in the mumbo jumbo of dream worlds and the human-animals that inhabit them, he sensed that the basic details of her stories bore some resemblance to the truth. As long as she didn’t break out tarot cards or a crystal ball, Bond thought, then he might be able to take her seriously.

  “I cannot say where your friend is,” she went on to say. “The dream-wolf has him in his den.”

  “Do you know where that is?”

  “All I know is that he lives amongst the menhirs.”

  “The menhirs?”

  “The ancient statues.”

  Right, Bond thought. He knew about Corsica’s famous prehistoric sites and the ancient dwellings and artifacts that were plentiful in the southern part of the island.

  “And this wolf,” Bond asked, “do you think he is the blind man I spoke about earlier?”

  The mazzere nodded her head. “The wolf can see, though
. He can see very well. I interpret this to mean that the blind man can also see very well in his own way. He is a formidable person, someone who has great powers of intuition and control. He dominates my dreams when he is in them. Sometimes I cannot escape him. One day he will kill me in my dreams, and that will be the end of my life on earth.”

  Bond had heard the old adage that if one dreamt of dying oneself, then it surely would bring about a real death. He never believed it; but he had never dreamed of his own death. Not that he could remember.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” he asked her. “Anything that might help me find my friend?”

  “Look for the menhirs that are not on public property,” she said. “Look in the vicinity of Cucuruzzu and Capula, but not as far east.”

  “Merci, madame,” Bond said. He stood and turned to leave, but she stopped him.

  “Monsieur, I warn you,” she said. “This man is the devil. Even though his eyes do not see, he can look into your soul.”

  Bond nodded and left the house.

  He stepped out onto the cobblestone streets of Sartène, still mystified by the strange, austere atmosphere of the place, and walked back to where he had parked his rented car.

  Bond would have preferred to have his Aston Martin with him, but, having left it in a car park in Nice, he was forced to rent a vehicle from Europcar in Calvi. They had given him a modest Renault Mégane 1.6 16V. It was brand new, with less than 5000 kilometers on the clock, and Bond was pleasantly surprised by its performance.

  After having driven it down the island to Sartène, he now left the village and traveled north again until he reached the D268 toward Levie, on the way to the tourist sites of Cucuruzzu and Capula. Filitosa had been another possibility, but he ruled it out after studying his maps. From what the old woman had said, the most likely place for Le Gérant’s home was the stretch of road that traversed several lots of private property.

  Unwittingly retracing Mathis’ footsteps, Bond overshot his mark and found the reception area for the Cucuruzzu and Capula sites. He turned around and went back toward Propriano, drove a few miles, and suddenly had to stop when a small herd of wild pigs crossed the road. Huffing and snorting, the pigs took their time, unafraid of the giant, four-wheeled machine bearing down on them. As Bond waited patiently, he looked to his right and noticed the roof of a white building on a hill in the distance. It was barely visible from the road here, seen through a small opening in the trees; if he had been a few feet forward or backward, the foliage would have blocked it. Bond threw the car into reverse, made a U-turn, and drove back toward the Cucuruzzu and Capula center.