Never Dream Of Dying

by Raymond Benson

  Bond remembered that the road curved around a gorge close to the prehistoric sites. He was nearly there. The Porsche had continued on, the driver probably thinking that he would turn around at the next opportune spot. Bond heard more gunshots from the rear and cursed to himself when he saw yet another 4 × 4 behind him.

  He drove the lorry onto the curve that hugged the side of a high bluff. To the left was the gorge, probably two hundred meters down.

  Since it was dark, Bond decided that this might be his only means of escape. Keeping his hand on the wheel, he scooted across the seat to the passenger side. He removed his foot from the accelerator, slowing the lorry down to about thirty. He opened the passenger door and prepared to make his move.

  He took a second grenade, pulled the pin, and dropped it onto the floor. Then, he simultaneously turned the wheel to the left and leapt from the lorry cab. He landed hard on the road, rolled, and quickly made for cover on the shoulder. The lorry weaved unsteadily toward the edge of the gorge.

  Come on, Bond willed. Had he forced the wheel far enough to the left?

  The lorry’s left front wheel went off the road, causing the vehicle’s weight to shift and lunge in that direction. Finally, the back left wheel slipped off the road and the lorry was well on its way to hell. It toppled off the bluff and dived nose first into the trees just as the grenade exploded. The lorry exploded in a fireball that lit up the sky. Its bulk carried the vehicle over the tops of the trees as it somersaulted and collided into an outcrop of large boulders.

  Bond didn’t waste any time. He ran into the trees and climbed the bluff, looking for a safe place to hide above the road. He heard the 4 × 4 stop and the shouts of the men inside. He stopped to watch as the Porsche returned to the scene. Two men got out of the car and joined the others to examine the spot where the lorry went off the road. One of the men pointed to the wreckage as they pondered what to do. Was the escaped prisoner dead?

  One of the men got a torch out of the car and began to shine it over the trees on the right side of the road. They weren’t going to leave anything to chance. Le Gérant would have their hides if they hadn’t searched properly.

  Bond kept going. Once he reached the top of the bluff, he headed east. If they were following him, he couldn’t hear them. He ran like a dog, tripping over fallen trees, cutting his arms and face on low branches, and tumbling down slopes. Fighting the forest was more difficult than he had estimated. After fifteen minutes, he was completely out of breath and had to stop.

  He sat on the ground, willing his heart to stop pounding. As he breathed deeply, he listened to the night air and heard vehicles not far away. They hadn’t given up the search.

  Bond got up and continued to run. He rushed through the dense trees, over large rocks, and down a slope until he ran right into the barbed-wire fence that he had been looking for. He cut his hand climbing over it, but compared to everything else he had suffered in the last twenty-four hours, it was nothing but a scratch.

  The archaeological site of Cucuruzzu and Capula was a major tourist attraction in southern Corsica. When Bond had been searching for Le Gérant’s home, he had studied the area and learned that the site contained stone man-made dwellings that dated from prehistory.

  Bond found himself in a forest of chestnut trees. He removed the camera from his belt and flicked on the ophthalmoscope light, which served as something of a torch. At least it illuminated the ground in front of him.

  The landscape around him was not only dense with the trees but was also heavily populated by granite boulders of varying sizes. They were in piles in some places, as if a giant had collected them and stored them at various points in the forest. Mostly they were in the shape of large round spheres, the result of erosion. Piled up in this way, the rocky masses created a kind of granite chaos.

  Bond climbed over one pile and descended onto the path that tourists used when visiting the site. He breathed easier, knowing that he wasn’t going to become completely lost in the dark woods.

  Eventually the footpath led him to a shelf bordered on the left by the granite spheres, and on the right by a heavy wall of trees. He moved along the rocks past a menhir that presented on one side a bas-relief of a sword disposed vertically, and on the other side very stylized anatomical details of a man. Just beyond the menhir was the prehistoric castle of Cucuruzzu.

  The casteddu was an amazing Bronze Age structure made entirely of stones, ingeniously placed one on another and affixed with lime mortar. At first glance, it might have appeared to be yet another pile of boulders, but closer examination revealed that there was order to the placements. This was a shelter for prehistoric man.

  Bond climbed up and over the boulders and down a “staircase” of rocks into the enclosed space. There was no roof in this small castle. Instead, little cave-like rooms had been created out of the rocks. The rooms originally had their own purposes—one or two for sleeping, one for working, one for storing food …

  Bond crawled into one of the shelters and found it surprisingly comfortable. The flat stone floor was smooth enough to lie on, no doubt made that way by ancient man. A nice, bear-skin rug would have made it more pleasant, but at this point Bond didn’t care. He was exhausted.

  He figured that if he could catch a few precious hours of sleep, he could get out before the site opened for business the next morning. He hoped he could find a ride to Sartène and from there he would call London and arrange for quick transport to Cannes. That was the most important thing at this point. He had to stop that bomb, and he had less than twenty-four hours to do it. If Le Gérant got away, then so be it. With any luck, the guards would give up the search and report that the escaped prisoner had died inside the lorry. The Union leader would then figure that there was no longer a threat of being discovered and stay put.

  Lying in the dark hole, Bond was unable to escape a swirl of mental images. There was Dr. Gerowitz adjusting the slit scan machine in front of his face; Le Gérant relating his life story; Mathis fumbling for his food in the cold, damp cell; the torn-open carcass of the rat; and the inescapable vision of Tylyn Mignonne’s sensuous eyes. Nevertheless, he fell asleep, safe for now, in a shelter built eons ago by men whose destinies lay in their dreams.

  TWENTY - FIVE

  THE SCREENING

  THE SUN BOUNCED OFF THE SURFACE OF THE MEDITERRANEAN AND STRUCK Bond’s eyes like a dagger. He flinched but was thankful that the glare was bright and uncomfortable, for another scenario might have dictated that he be unable to see the light at all.

  The Aerospatiale Eurocopter SA 360 Dauphin soared over the sea, having left Calvi twenty minutes earlier. They would reach Cannes in forty-five minutes, shortly before sunset.

  It had taken nearly all day for Bond to get out of Corsica. Early that morning he had emerged from the casteddu as the birds were dining on worms and insects. He made his way down the footpath, climbed over the fence, and found his rental car in the parking lot where he had left it. As he drove along D268 back to Sartène, he passed the gate leading to the Union’s headquarters. His thoughts turned to his friend who was still inside. Was Mathis still alive? What had they done to him after they discovered that Bond had escaped?

  First things first, he told himself. Bond turned his back on Le Gérant for now and focused his energy on stopping the Union’s plan in France. When he got to Sartène, he went straight to the gendarmerie, presented his credentials and got on the phone to London. The efficient Nigel Smith immediately made arrangements for Bond to be picked up by helicopter, then transferred him to M. After Bond had explained what had occurred over the last few days and what was about to happen that night in Cannes, she told Bond to sit tight. She returned the call in ten minutes and explained that a British SAS force and a French RAID team would meet Bond in Cannes. The French would pick him up in Sartène and fly him in a helicopter to Calvi for a quick refuel, then on to Cannes. In the meantime, she would work on the American, French and Russian governments to help put together a strike for
ce to raid the Union headquarters in Corsica, but that would certainly take more time.

  Bond suggested that they should forgo contacting the other countries and simply hit them alone. M rejected that ploy as being too politically volatile.

  “What about the bomb?” M had asked. “How will you know where to find it?”

  Bond had thought long and hard about that. All of the various clues pointed to the pressurized soft drink canisters. He had seen them at every stage of his investigation—listed on the manifests in Essinger’s office in Paris, empty ones in the back room at Corse Shipping, full ones in the warehouse—that had to be the answer.

  They were going to fill up one or more soft drink canisters with the CL-20, attach their homemade detonators to them and deliver them to the theater. Then, during the screening, they would be set off with the remote control device Bond had seen in Corsica.

  The trick would be to find the right canisters in time.

  The Dauphin picked Bond up on a relatively clear plateau near the gendarmerie, and Bond said goodbye to southern Corsica. It was a quick ride to Calvi, but by then it was already late afternoon. To distract him from his own impatience, Bond made a phone call to the Bastia hospital and spoke to Bertrand Collette. His friend had already received a skin graft and was feeling poorly, but he wished Bond good luck and told him not to worry.

  Now, as the helicopter approached the Riviera coastline, Bond felt his stomach tighten. While he possessed the ability to remain cool and calm in most situations, on the inside he could feel quite the opposite. His steely reserve was a façade that he had perfected with years of experience. The reality was that he was only human and was susceptible to pain, fear and anxiety like anyone else. What made him different was how he acted under the pressure.

  He knew that the events of the next few hours would be yet another test for him.

  Tylyn Mignonne also knew that something significant would happen to her that evening. She didn’t normally believe in premonitions, nor did she suppose that what occurred in her dreams might possibly come true.

  She had suffered a restless night in the hotel. Awful dreams of burning corpses haunted her when she did actually fall asleep. The projector in her mind kept replaying images of the Hiroshima mushroom cloud, pictures of radiation victims and buildings on fire. At one point in the middle of the night she had woken in a sweat. She turned to grab hold of her lover, James Bond, but then she realized that he wasn’t there. He was dead.

  As a woman who was usually happy-go-lucky, Tylyn didn’t cry very often. But she had held back the tears for days and the dam finally burst. She cried for twenty minutes, sitting on her bed with her knees to her chest. Afterward, completely spent, she was able to go back to sleep but the disturbing dreams continued. One figure kept emerging as the protagonist in them.

  James, where are you now? she had called to the void. And there was an answer—his voice, ethereally floating in the air, said, “Be careful tonight, darling.”

  Now, as she put the finishing touches her makeup, she felt apprehensive. It wasn’t because she would be required to speak in front of hundreds of people, including members of royalty, but because something terrible was going to happen. The dreams had told her so.

  She zipped up the black evening dress that she had designed herself. It was floor-length with a slit that went up to her waist, revealing a long, sexy-smooth leg. She had to wear a G-string instead of panties with the garment; otherwise anyone might see them. Instead, what they got was a flash of bare hip. The neckline was low but tasteful. While her breasts weren’t particularly large, they were certainly adequate enough to produce substantial cleavage. The crowning touch was the diamond necklace that Léon had given to her their first Christmas together. She had only worn it once and she somehow felt that tonight would be an appropriate occasion to display it again. She didn’t know why.

  She decided to walk to the Palais alone, not caring if the paparazzi followed her or if fans demanded a photo or an autograph. She craved the independence and she needed to remind herself that she was strong and resilient.

  As she walked out of the Carlton through the gauntlet of onlookers, she switched on the million-dollar smile and waved as the cameras flashed. Someone yelled, “Marry me, Tylyn!” She blew a kiss to the man, then pulled him out of the crowd. She put her arm through his and asked him if he would walk her to the Palais. Flabbergasted, the young man nearly tripped and fell, but he quickly regained his composure and began a ten minutes that he would never forget.

  Le Palais des Festivals was a grand structure that contained two cinemas and several floors of meeting rooms, press rooms, and other facilities to accommodate the huge event that the film festival had become over the years. A wide red carpet adorned the sets of steps leading up to the Lumière Amphitheatre, where all of the major screenings were held. Traffic had been blocked off and security barriers were set in place to keep onlookers back.

  Evening screenings were always black tie affairs. Even the most famous celebrity could not gain entrance without a tuxedo. Tylyn had witnessed an incident a few years back in which a prominent, hot young American director was denied entry because he was wearing a turtleneck sweater. He was so enraged that he swore he would never return.

  The parade of glamorous people usually began half an hour before the screening. No one was exempt from making the red carpet entrance. Everyone had to do it—the celebrities, the critics and the invited guests. The festival’s organizers orchestrated it that way to make sure that all of the VIPs were seen at their event.

  Tylyn said goodbye to her lucky escort at the edge of the red carpet, then proceeded to walk up the stairs alone. She continued to wave as the camera flashes exploded around her like fireworks. Other exquisitely dressed guests were also ascending the stairs. She recognized famous French actors Catherine Deneuve, Sophie Marceau, Jean-Louis Trintignant, Gérard Depardieu, Carole Bouquet, and Isabelle Adjani. Esteemed directors from all over the world were there: David Lynch, the Coen brothers, Roberto Benigni, James Ivory, John Madden, Jane Campion and Francis Ford Coppola. Tylyn assumed that the royal entourages had either already made their entrances or were being held back until last.

  She found Stuart Laurence at the top of the stairs. She joined hands with him and they both waved to the crowd before going inside.

  Tylyn thought the Lumière Amphitheatre was the ideal cinema. Despite the hassles and madness of the film festival, attending a screening at the Lumière was always a pleasurable experience. The acoustics were perfect and every seat in the house was a good one. She admired the purple and pink décor; the carpet and upholstery were kept in pristine condition, as if the cinema was a royal palace. The stage was black and there were large white panels in the ceiling that concealed lighting instruments. Usherettes dressed in white dresses with black polka dots greeted the audience as they entered.

  Tylyn saw Léon in the lobby. She didn’t want to speak to him, but he saw her and gestured for her to come over. Luckily, that ugly man Wilcox wasn’t there. She took a breath, then pulled Stuart along with her to greet her soon-to-be former husband.

  “Tylyn, you look beautiful,” he said, kissing her cheeks. “Stuart, dashing as always.” He noticed the necklace and said, “Darling, you have made me very happy by wearing that.”

  She shrugged. “I thought I should do something for you. This is your night, Léon. I hope this time you’ll stay for the screening.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no, I won’t be staying for the screening. I’m way too nervous. In fact, my stomach is about to explode as it is. I feel very sick.”

  “Take it easy, man,” Stuart said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Maybe you should sit down. You do look a little pale.”

  “Oh, I’ll be all right, I think,” Essinger said, stifling a belch. “We had a little scare this afternoon. I thought the film hadn’t made it to the Palais. I used a new security firm to deliver it. They were late, but it’s here now,
thank God.”

  At that moment, the level of excitement in the lobby increased tenfold. All heads turned as Princess Caroline of Monaco entered with her group.

  “I must greet Her Royal Highness,” Essinger said. “Will you excuse me?”

  “I’m coming with you!” Stuart said. “Tylyn?”

  “You boys go ahead,” she said. “I’ll meet the Princess later.”

  They left her and she decided to avoid mingling in the lobby. She would have killed for a glass of champagne, but that would have to wait until the party afterward. Apparently Léon had arranged for a bash at one of the exclusive beach restaurants nearby.

  Pretending not to notice some film critics whom she knew, Tylyn left the lobby and made her way to her seat inside the theater.

  In the projection booth perched directly underneath the balcony, Julius Wilcox and Rick Fripp looked out of the small windows at the ever-growing crowd. Only Fripp was dressed in a tuxedo.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing away with some of the most important names in show business tonight,” Fripp said.

  Wilcox dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “You’ve seen one goddamned movie star, you’ve seen ’em all.”

  “I understand you received some bad news this afternoon.”

  Wilcox nodded. “I spoke to Le Gérant. It appears that our English spy is alive and well. He’s probably on his way here. We need to keep a look out for him. Shoot to kill.”

  “Right,” Fripp said. “I could have sworn he had died in that explosion.”