Never Dream Of Dying

by Raymond Benson

  He parked the Renault in the gravel car park, locked it, and began to walk the two or three kilometers back down the road. The sun had nearly set, but there was enough light left to forgo using a torch—for now, anyway.

  But by the time he had reached the spot where he had seen the pigs, it had grown quite dark. Bond carefully climbed over the barbed-wire fence and made his way through the thick brush toward the building.

  It was as dense as a jungle until he came to a clearing of sorts. In the moonlight, he could see the building some forty meters away. A dirt road led to it through the trees from the main road, but there appeared to be yet another tall wire fence around the perimeter of the property. There were lights on inside, and he could vaguely see vehicles behind the house.

  Had Mathis come this way?

  Bond moved around the clearing, looking for a spot with more cover that might allow him to get closer. He made a half-circle around the property and came upon the menhirs.

  On first sight, they were quite ominous. Phallic and imposing, the ancient stone statues had eroded faces that stared into the forest, protecting the grounds from God knew what. After finding the first one, Bond saw that they were spaced evenly around the perimeter of the land.

  Finally he realized that the clearing circled the entire grounds. He would have to cross the exposed, open area to get to the second fence. Bond focused on a tree that stood alone on this side of the fence and made a run for it. He was there within seconds. He flattened himself against the trunk and peered around. There was no one about. He was safe for the moment.

  Up close, Bond could see that the second fence was electrified. It was made of thick horizontal wires and was eight feet tall. Every ten feet or so were warning signs that were quite clear in their meaning. He studied the fence and could find no other easy access, but then he looked up at the tree he was hugging. At least three branches hung over the other side of the fence. Bond climbed the tree and inched himself onto a limb.

  From this vantage point, he could see guards patrolling the grounds. There were two at the electric fence gate on the main dirt road leading to the house. Another man was in front of the home, and he figured that there were probably more on other sides of the structure.

  Bond dropped to the ground, landing softly on his feet in the grass. He kept still and silent to make sure that no one had noticed him, then began to walk in a squatting position, like a monkey, toward the house.

  Where would the best place be for him to gain entry? Should he take out one of the guards? What the hell was his plan?

  Admitting to himself that he didn’t have one, Bond kept going, hoping that an opportunity would present itself.

  He was nearly at the house when a guard came around the corner with a large dog on a lead. It appeared to be a German Shepherd. The man was talking to it in Corsican, urging it to do something. The dog sniffed the ground for a bit, pulling the man closer to where Bond had flattened his body on the ground. The guard stood with his back to Bond, patiently waiting for the dog to finish his business. Bond lay perfectly still, willing the dog not to pick up his scent. At this point, he wasn’t sure how bright the moonlight really was. If the guard looked this way, would he be seen?

  The dog continued to sniff the ground. The guard tugged on the lead and said something. The dog refused to move. It began to growl softly.

  The man questioned the dog and it barked.

  Bond cursed to himself. Pull the dog away, man!

  The guard tugged on the lead, ordering the dog to come along. It continued to growl, but it finally moved. They walked together back toward the house and Bond was able to breathe again. He waited a minute after they had disappeared around the corner, then raised himself.

  Bond rushed to the side of the house and drew his Walther. Creeping along the wall, he came to the corner and peered around. It was the front of the house, brightly lit, with two guards standing in front, talking. One of them was the man with the dog.

  Perhaps the other direction? Bond thought. Maybe he could get in through the back, where the vehicles were parked.

  He retraced his steps along the wall until he came to the next corner and looked around. All clear. He kept going, inching along the wall and ducking under the windows.

  When he got to the next corner, Bond sensed that he wasn’t safe. He looked behind him and out toward the electric fence, but he couldn’t see anything that might be a threat. He listened carefully and thought that he heard panting around the corner of the house.

  He cautiously took a look. Sure enough, three German Shepherds were not six feet away, their leads tied to a pole near bowls of food and water.

  That way was no good either. What was he going to do? He couldn’t give up. If Mathis was inside, he owed it to his friend to do something.

  Bond began to doubt the wisdom of storming the building alone. He should have called London, asked for back up. Did he think he was so invincible that he could walk into the Union headquarters alone and get away with it? The insanity of what he had done was suddenly all too clear. Then again, Bond justified, he knew that he probably hadn’t much time. If Mathis wasn’t already dead, then he was surely suffering. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had walked blindly into a situation like this. He worked better by himself anyway. He had always believed that when he was killed, he would be alone, on amission such as this.

  A short bark interrupted his agonizing thoughts. There was a whine from one of the dogs, and he heard the sound of a lead scraping across the ground.

  One of the animals walked out to the length of his lead and was in plain sight of Bond. It turned, sniffed the air, and saw him.

  The ensuing barks from all of the dogs were so loud that they must have alerted the entire island to Bond’s presence.

  Bond broke into a run, electing to get out rather than fight his way inside. But as he was running, he realized that he wouldn’t be able to get over the electric fence here. The branches that he had used before were too high to reach on this side of the fence. Frantically, he scanned the fence for the best possible means of escape and finally chose to run toward the main gate. He would shoot the guards if he had to.

  The barking grew louder. The three dogs had been set loose and were chasing him across the clearing. They were strong, well-trained animals, and they were gaining on him much faster than he would have liked.

  He heard shouts from the house as the guards began to give chase as well. Bond forced himself to run faster, but now the guards at the gate were headed toward him, guns drawn.

  One of the dogs leaped onto his back, effectively tackling him. Bond fell to the ground as the animal tore into his shoulder with its strong jaws. The Walther exploded once and the dog went limp, but by then the other two beasts had reached him. Instead of jumping on him, though, they squatted on either side of him, growling and barking, threatening to attack if Bond moved so much as an inch.

  The guards surrounded him. One of them ordered him to drop his weapon and he did so. A guard approached him carefully, pulled off the dead dog, then kicked Bond squarely in the ribs.

  It took four men to drag Bond, kicking and struggling, into the house. They brought him in through the back, a servants’ entrance of sorts, next to the garage where three or four vehicles were parked. Bond noticed a Rolls-Royce and two 4 × 4s, but he didn’t have much of a chance to get a very good mental picture of the area.

  Here, the inside of the building was nondescript. The stone and plaster walls were white with no decoration of any kind. It was a room where the guards and servants could put their things, as there were cabinets, coat hangers and shelves, but the only other pieces of furniture were benches. Once they were in the room, two men held Bond upright, while another guard, a rather short but wiry fellow, stood in front and unleashed three hard blows to Bond’s solar plexus. With the wind knocked out of him, they dragged Bond through a wooden door and down a bare corridor.

  Bond must have lost consciousness for a moment, for t
he next thing he knew, he was being strapped into a black leather chair that resembled something a dentist might have in his office. Bond’s arms were secured to the arms and his legs were locked into cuffs at the base. The room was small and there was a stand next to the chair with a slit lamp biomicroscope and other medical devices attached to it. A sink and instrument counter were near the chair, next to the wall.

  What the hell was a doctor’s office doing in this house?

  Once Bond was secure in the chair, all but one guard left the room. The silence was unnerving.

  He was still reeling from the blows to the stomach. The little man had known exactly where to hit him.

  “Don’t even think about offering me a bribe,” the guard said in English.

  Bond managed to say, “Sorry, I’m out of dog biscuits anyway.”

  The guard backhanded Bond across the face.

  At that moment, a middle-aged man wearing a white coat and thick eyeglasses entered the room.

  He said, “Good evening, I am Doctor Gerowitz.” He spoke in English, but the accent was decidedly Eastern European. “I need to examine your eyes.”

  What the hell? Bond thought.

  “Please look into the light,” the doctor ordered.

  Bond turned his head, refusing to co-operate.

  The doctor sighed. “Either you do what we say and we get this over with painlessly, or we try other methods. I assure you that we will get the same results no matter what.”

  Bond reflected on his situation and decided that perhaps it would be better if he acquiesced. Bond turned back to the doctor as a light shone into his eyes. The doctor was using an ophthalmoscope, larger than Bond’s, certainly without Boothroyd’s additions, but very bright all the same.

  After a few seconds, the doctor switched off the light. “He does not have the tattoo,” he said to the guard in French.

  “Did you really think he would?” the guard replied.

  The doctor addressed Bond in English. “That’s all for now. You can go.” The guard stuck his head out the door and called his cohorts. The other three men came back into the room. One held a Glock to Bond’s head as the others unstrapped him.

  They took him down a hall and ordered him to walk down a flight of stone steps. The basement was cold and damp, furnished with a desk, lockers, and a cabinet.

  The small guard who had hit Bond in the stomach earlier was sitting at the desk. He got up and addressed him in English.

  “I am Antoine,” he said. “I am head of security here. Take off all your clothes, please.”

  Bond didn’t move.

  The little man, who was probably no more than five feet tall, lashed out with his fist so quickly that Bond had no time to tighten his stomach muscles. He doubled over and fell to his knees.

  The little bastard was strong, Bond thought, but his skill was in knowing where the vulnerable targets on a man’s body were and repeatedly assaulting them.

  “I will ask you again,” he said, calmly. “Remove your clothes.”

  Bond got to his feet and did as he was told. He watched as another guard placed the Q-Branch camera, his knife, the Walther that they had taken from him earlier and the rest of his clothes into a locker. Another man handed him what amounted to prison clothes—gray loose-fitting trousers and a short-sleeved shirt with no pockets. They felt like pajamas with too much starch.

  The next thing they did was shackle his ankles. There was a chain about two feet long between the two cuffs, allowing Bond to walk but not run. Next, they cuffed his wrists together in front of his body. The chain between these cuffs was only two inches.

  “Follow me, please,” Antoine said. He opened a wooden door behind the desk and walked into a dark stone hallway that smelled musty and moldy. A guard followed behind Bond, urging him forward with the barrel of a gun.

  At the end of the hall was another heavy wooden door. Antoine unlocked it and held it open. The other guard shoved Bond through the door. He fell hard on the wet, stone floor. The door slammed shut and was locked from the other side.

  It was fairly dark in the room, and the smell of urine and excrement was strong. A little light came from a single low-wattage bulb on the ten-foot high ceiling. Straw lay about the room, but there was no furniture.

  It was a dungeon, pure and simple.

  As Bond’s eyes grew used to the dimness, he noticed a dark shape on the floor next to the wall. It started to move, and then it sat up.

  It was a man.

  “Is someone here?” he asked in French.

  “René?” Bond asked.

  The man gasped. “James?”

  Bond rushed to the man and knelt. It was really Mathis, alive and well! He, too, was shackled in the same manner.

  “My God, René, are you all right?”

  Mathis uttered a slight, sarcastic laugh. “I guess. It’s good to hear your voice. But it appears that you are in the same predicament asme.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Bond said. Then he noticed that Mathis was waving his head around strangely.

  “What have they done to you, René?” Bond asked.

  Mathis swallowed and nearly choked. “I, uhm, I can’t see a thing, James. They have blinded me.”

  TWENTY - TWO

  THE ORDEAL

  BOND FELT A SINKING FEELING IN HIS CHEST. WERE THEY GOING TO BLIND him too?

  “What happened?” he asked Mathis.

  “They used a laser, an eye laser, one of those things that eye doctors use to correct your vision,” Mathis said. “It was horrible. They prolonged it over several days, burning me a little bit at a time. I didn’t begin to lose my sight until three or four days after they started. Now I’m completely blind. Forever.” He sighed. “I don’t know why they did it. I certainly didn’t know anything. They never really asked me any questions, except … well, they asked about you.”

  “Me?”

  “They wanted to know if you would be coming this way to look for me.”

  “And?” Bond asked.

  “After several days of torture, I told them that you would probably find me. They were waiting for you,” Mathis said. “I’m sorry, James.”

  Bond put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s all right. They would have found out that I was coming by other means, I’m sure.”

  “Yesterday a guard said that you were already dead, but I didn’t believe him.”

  “I think my little visit to Corse Shipping last night may have put an end to that particular rumor,” Bond said.

  “Cesari. Le Gérant, he’s obsessed with eyes. I suppose it’s because he’s blind, too, but who knows? He keeps an eye doctor here on the premises.”

  “I’ve already met the good Doctor Gerowitz,” Bond said. “He checked me for the retinal tattoo.”

  “That’s another indication of Le Géerant’s fixation with eyes,” Mathis said.

  “A deranged mind works in unusual ways,” Bond said. “Look, don’t worry. I’ll get us out of here, somehow. Perhaps another doctor can help you … someone in Paris … ?”

  “It’s impossible, James,” Mathis said. “There is no way out. They have a guard outside the door at all times. We have to sleep, eat, and shit in here. It’s a pigsty. Every day they come for you and torture you a little bit.”

  “Then that’s when I’ll make my move,” Bond said.

  “I wish I could have more confidence,” Mathis said. “I’m afraid they have broken me. As for finding another doctor, that’s of no use, too. My retinas are completely scarred.”

  Bond heard a rustling sound in a dark corner, near the straw.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Oh, that’s our only regular visitor,” Mathis explained. “He comes in through a hole in the wall, scrounging for food.”

  Bond peered closely at the pile of straw and saw two red eyes. When the shape moved, he saw that it was a large, gray rat.

  Bond jumped at it but it didn’t scamper away in any hurry. The animal moved with little conce
rn for the two humans in the cell with him. After sniffing the straw one more time, it slipped into a crack in the stone wall.

  “The food isn’t too bad,” Mathis said. “They’ve been leaving a couple of meals a day, mostly stuff you can eat with fingers. No utensils.”

  Bond felt sorry for Mathis. His friend had lost his vitality and will to survive.

  “Listen, René, I think the Union is about to do something big,” Bond said.

  “Tell me what you know,” Mathis said. Bond related how he had discovered the substance he suspected to be CL-20, the detonator, and radio transmitter.

  “From what you describe, that sounds like CL-20, yes,” Mathis said. “It’s quite volatile. The Americans developed it as a rocket propellant but some fool in the military decided that it would make an excellent explosive. What do you think the target is?”

  “I don’t know,” Bond said. “But it’s pretty clear that they’re using Essinger and his movie production to smuggle the materials out of Corsica. I imagine that they will end up somewhere in France.”

  The sound of boots on the stone floor outside the door interrupted them. Keys rattled and the door opened.

  Antoine and three other guards entered, guns drawn.

  “You,” Antoine said to Bond. “Let’s go.”

  He got up and went with them, coolly and with no resistance.

  After they had strapped him in the examination chair, one of the guards released a catch on the headrest. Hidden attachments for straps protruded from its sides with a click. Two guards held Bond’s head as a third man strapped it down tightly. Two sliding panels were fitted onto the headrest and pushed inward, holding Bond’s skull like a vice. These were tightened considerably, preventing any movement of the head.