Wilcox said, “He’ll wish that he had. Apparently he was at Corse Shipping the other night when I was there seeing Emile. We still don’t know if he found anything out.”
The projectionist entered the room and asked, “What are you doing here? Who are you?”
Fripp flashed his backstage pass and said, “We’re with the film, my friend.”
He looked at them suspiciously and said, “Oh. Well maybe you can explain something.”
“What’s that?”
“The film. I opened all of the cans except for one. It wouldn’t open because there’s a lock on it.” He pointed to the stacks of metal film canisters on the worktable. All of them were open and the reels removed except for the one that had two padlocks affixed to the sides. The film had been spliced together onto two large reels for the projection system, as was the custom. “As far as I can tell, I’ve got the entire film loaded. But there’s this one can that I can’t open. What’s inside it? Surely not more film?”
Fripp feigned interest, counted the empty cans, and said, “No, you’ve got them all. I don’t know what this extra one is. Maybe it was stacked with the other cans by mistake. Just leave it and our people will take it back tonight.”
“It’s marked Tsunami Rising, Part Eight,” the projectionist said. “But according to my notes, there are only seven parts.”
“That’s correct,” Wilcox said sternly. “This eighth can is a mistake. Forget about it. Just do your job.”
The projectionist looked at Wilcox as if to say, Who the hell are you telling me what to do? but the man thought better of it. This man was the ugliest and meanest looking person he’d ever seen. So he shrugged and said, “Fine.”
Fripp and Wilcox left the projection booth and closed the door.
“You think he’s all right?” Fripp asked.
“Yeah,” Wilcox said. “Better give me the phone now. I’ve got to get out of here. I ain’t wearing a tux.”
Fripp gave him a mobile. “Here it is. You know the code.”
“I’ll hit the buttons one hour into the screening,” Wilcox said, “and I won’t be calling for a pizza. Are you all set to get out?”
“I’m leaving with Léon,” he said. “I had better get downstairs. He’s probably drunk his stuff by now.”
Wilcox chuckled. “I wish I could be there to watch him puke.”
TWENTY - SIX
THE RAID
“I’M COMMANDANT PERRIOT,” THE HEAD OF THE FRENCH RAID TEAM SAID to Bond. “We have assembled twenty men, all armed and ready to go.” He pointed to the two military vehicles that were idling near the helipad. The men inside were dressed in camouflage military uniforms and riot gear.
“Have you heard from the SAS team? Where are they?” Bond asked.
The man shrugged. “I just heard that they will be here in ten minutes. Do you want to wait?”
Bond looked at his Rolex. The screening would begin in ten minutes.
“No. Let’s go.”
They both jumped in the first truck and set off. The Dauphin had landed at the heliport west of the city. It would take them at least ten minutes to get into the Centre-Ville. With the traffic and pedestrian congestion, it might take longer.
“I have radioed the Cannes police,” Perriot said. “Hopefully they have cleared the way for us.”
“What have you told them?”
“Only that we have information that a terrorist act might occur at the festival this evening. I gave them no details, as per your instructions.”
“Good,” Bond said. “We don’t want them to start evacuating the cinema.”
“Why not, may I ask?”
“Because that would tip off the bombers that we know about the plan,” Bond said. “If I’m right, the trigger-man can set off the bomb at his discretion. It’s a radio-controlled device, so he could be anywhere in the vicinity. If we start evacuating, he’ll know that the game is over and set it off immediately. Mission accomplished.”
“What are we looking for, exactly?” the commandant asked.
“I’m guessing, but I believe the bomb is disguised as a pressurized soft drink tank,” Bond said. “One of those that fits underneath a bar and has a hose attached to it for dispensing soft drinks. I think it’s safe to say that it’s in the cinema itself.”
“Right.”
The two trucks reached the Palais just as the last of the guests were ascending the red-carpeted stairs. Several Cannes policemen were gathered at the barrier to meet the RAID team. A young captain saluted Perriot and said, “Everyone is inside, monsieur. Do you want me to evacuate the VOs?” Bond knew that VO was a code that meant “Visiteurs Officiels.” He pointed to two armored Rolls-Royces standing nearby.
Perriot turned to Bond. “What do you think?”
Bond shook his head. “Not yet. If they left it would arouse too much suspicion. Let us have fifteen minutes. If we haven’t found anything by then, let’s see if we can quietly get the VOs out of the cinema. As it is, just our appearance in the front of the building is sure to alert the terrorists to our presence.”
Bond and Perriot, followed by the RAID team, ran up the steps in full view of the crowd and cameras. Immediately the rumor mill began to churn. What’s going on? Did something happen inside? Was Princess Caroline all right? I heard gunfire! No, you’re crazy. It’s probably terrorists from the Middle East. It’s a publicity stunt.
A news reporter approached the police captain and asked what was happening.
“Nothing, just extra security,” he said, but he wasn’t very convincing.
“Twenty armed men in riot uniforms?” the reporter asked. “Come on, sir, the people have a right to know. They’re already talking. Has someone been hurt?”
“No, please, move along.”
The cinema manager met Bond and Perriot at the entrance.
“Please take us immediately to the bar,” Perriot ordered.
The manager looked confused. “But … there is no bar in the Lumière,” he said. “The only bar in the Palais is Jimmy’Z on the third floor of the main building. It’s nowhere near the Lumière Amphitheatre.”
“No place where soft drinks are served to the audience?” Perriot asked.
“No, monsieur,” the manager replied. “We keep our cinema clean.”
Bond cursed softly. “Then I don’t know what we’re looking for,” he said to Perriot. “I suggest that we start the search backstage, in the lobby and in the catwalks. Tell your men to use complete discretion. As far as the civilians are concerned, we’re just extra security. After all, royalty is in attendance.”
The team burst into the lobby and spread out. Several men went upstairs while Bond and others took the corridor that led along the left side of the house to the backstage area. The Lumière manager pulled Perriot to the side and asked, “If there is a bomb in the theater, shouldn’t we evacuate?”
Perriot was explaining the problem with doing so when a tall American film critic walked by on his way to his seat after visiting the toilet. He wasn’t fluent in French, but he thought that he understood the words “bomb” and “theater.” Alarmed at the sight of the soldiers, he immediately went inside to tell his colleagues what he had heard.
Bond reached the backstage area and peered through the black curtains at the audience. He could see the special sections set aside for Prince Edward, Princess Caroline, and their respective groups, as well as for the celebrities involved with the film.
His heart skipped a beat when he saw her. Tylyn was sitting next to Stuart Laurence. Her diamond necklace caught the house lights and she looked magnificent even from this distance. When was she scheduled to speak? Before the screening?
He scanned the faces for Essinger, but didn’t see him. It figured. If he were in on the plot, he would have found a way to be absent.
Bond turned from the curtains and rushed behind the huge screen, where the RAID team were busy searching behind and under every object. He looked up and noticed catwalks above th
e stage where the crew could hang lighting instruments or adjust the screen. He pointed them out to one of the men and directed him to climb the steel ladder and look up there, then he went out the door leading to dressing rooms and backstage offices.
As he stepped into the brightly lit corridor, he heard a voice that he recognized.
“Ohhh, I feel terrible. I really must go.”
“Léon, it is such a shame!” a man said in French. “Was it something you ate?”
“It must have been. I just vomited all over the dressing room, I’m very sorry.”
Bond peered around the corner and saw Essinger, Fripp, and several other people dressed in formal wear. The one speaking to Essinger was an older, bald-headed man that Bond recognized as Gilles Jacob, the President of the film festival.
“I had better take Monsieur Essinger back to the hotel,” Fripp said. “Come on, Léon.”
“But my screening!” Essinger moaned. “I need to be here! Ohhhhh!” He began to retch again and ran into the dressing room. Bond heard him gagging loudly. Everyone in the corridor winced.
“Poor man,” Jacob said.
Bond drew his Walther and stepped into view. “Hold it right there, Fripp.”
The stuntman froze.
“What is the meaning of this?” Jacob asked.
“Hands up, now!” Bond ordered. “Monsieur Jacob, please take your party and step back. Go into the theater. This is police business.”
When they didn’t move, Bond shouted, “GO!” They left immediately, frightened to death.
Fripp raised his hands but looked at Bond with a sneer. “You’re not going to get away with this, Bond,” he said.
“Get your friend out of there and let’s go,” Bond ordered.
Fripp stepped back two steps but kept his hands raised. “My friend is very ill. Can’t you hear him?”
“Stay where you are!” Bond spat. “Where’s the bomb?”
“What bomb?” Now Fripp smiled.
“No games. Either you tell me where it is or I’ll blow a hole in your head.” He pointed the Walther at Fripp’s head.
Before Fripp could react, gunfire erupted from the dressing room door. A bullet barely missed Bond’s shoulder. He responded instinctively and ducked, momentarily moving the gun away from Fripp. Essinger had the door ajar and was aiming a gun through the opening. He fired again, but Bond leapt out of the way, slamming against the corridor wall. This gave Fripp the opportunity he needed to run. Bond shot wildly at Fripp but missed him.
Fripp pulled a Browning Hi Power from inside his tuxedo jacket and fired at Bond, but the bullet missed completely and went into the wall. He continued to run.
Essinger slammed the dressing room door shut and locked it. Bond leveled his fire at the door, emptying his magazine. When he stopped to reload, Bond shouted, “Essinger? If you’re alive you had better talk to me!”
“Go to hell you bastard!” the man shouted from inside the room.
A RAID officer ran into the corridor. “I heard shots!”
“Help me break this door down,” Bond said. Together, they kicked it in and burst into the room. Essinger, his shoulder and arm bloody from a gunshot wound, stood with his hands in the air.
Bond held a gun to his head. “Where’s the bomb, Essinger?”
“I swear I don’t know,” he said, trembling. His face was ashen. “Please, I have to sit down, I feel so sick …” He dropped to his knees.
“Talk, damn it!” Bond shouted, jabbing the gun barrel into Essinger’s temple.
“They didn’t tell me!” Essinger said. “I swear! They thought it would not be wise for me to know that particular detail.”
Bond turned to the RAID man and said, “Take him outside and watch him. I’m going after the other one.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
Bond left the room and ran back toward the stage, where Fripp had disappeared. A moment later, Essinger collapsed. The soldier knelt beside him and slapped his face. “Monsieur? Monsieur?”
He didn’t hear someone step into the room behind him. An expert’s hand grabbed the soldier’s helmet and pulled his head back. In the time it took for the soldier to register that he was being attacked, the knife slit his throat from ear to ear. He fell over, blood gushing from his neck.
Julius Wilcox held out a hand to Essinger and helped him up. “Come on, let’s blow this joint.”
In the house, the audience was still buzzing, happily waiting for the moment when the festivities would begin. So far, most of them had not noticed the soldiers running around backstage. But the film critic who had overheard Commandant Perriot and the theater manager told his friends that there was a bomb in the cinema.
“I think we should leave,” he said.
“You’re mad,” one of his colleagues said. “Sit down.”
Unfortunately, a woman sitting behind them heard what was said and whispered to her husband, “That man said there’s a bomb in the theater!”
Several rows behind them, in the VIP section, Tylyn Mignonne was becoming impatient. Let’s get on with it! she thought. She was nervous enough as it was. Stuart Laurence had been talking non-stop but she hadn’t been listening: her mind was elsewhere.
She perked up when she saw a man in a tuxedo run from the wings in front of the huge white screen. He turned and pointed a gun at something in the wings. It went off, frightening the entire audience.
“My God! It’s Rick Fripp!” Laurence said.
No one moved. Was this part of the show? What was going on?
“Something’s wrong,” Tylyn said. She started to stand but Laurence stopped her.
“Wait,” he said. “I’ll bet Léon cooked up some kind of pre-show entertainment for us.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Tylyn said, but she settled uneasily in her seat.
Fripp ran into the wings on the other side of the stage and began to climb the metal circular staircase that led to the catwalks. Bond had run behind the screen and almost caught him, but the stuntman performed a surprise karate kick that kept his pursuer at bay. Bond chased him to the staircase and followed him up. He didn’t want to fire his gun for fear of causing a panic.
When they reached the catwalk, the two men were nearly sixty feet above the stage. Bond tackled him and Fripp’s Browning went flying. Fripp slugged Bond hard in the face, but Bond reciprocated with blows to Fripp’s stomach. The catwalk was very narrow, perhaps three feet wide, so there wasn’t much room for them to roll around. Nevertheless, Fripp leapt on top of Bond and attempted to push him off. Bond locked his foot around a metal beam and grabbed hold of a rail above his head. It was a matter of strength now. Fripp was very fit and obviously was used to working with heavy objects. Bond felt his trunk sliding off the catwalk despite his hand and footholds.
But Fripp made a fatal mistake when he bent one leg to obtain better leverage. He left himself wide open for Bond to drive his knee hard into Fripp’s groin. Fripp yelled, immediately released Bond, and fell back onto the catwalk in pain. Bond punched him in the face and shouted, “Where’s the bomb? Tell me!”
Even through his agony, Fripp remained defiant. He spat at Bond and laughed. Bond punched him again and then rolled him to the edge of the catwalk.
“Tell me or I’ll push you over,” Bond said.
“Let’s go together!” Fripp said. In a surprise move, he grabbed Bond’s neck and hurled his body over and off the catwalk, dragging Bond with him.
The two bodies fell together ten or twelve feet and collided with a bank of multicolored strip lights, which halted their fall, but their weight broke one of the support chains holding it up. The entire mechanism fell loose and hung vertically, in front of the screen where everyone in the house could see.
The audience gasped when they saw the two men hanging off the dangling strip lights.
Tylyn recognized Fripp again. The other man—he looked familiar too. She stood abruptly when she realized who it was. “James?” she gasped.
Fripp, f
ighting to hold on to the swaying bank of lights, grabbed a broken live wire. He screamed as the volts surged through his body and sparks formed a halo around him. He fried for nearly ten seconds before the wire broke and he fell. He landed with a loud thud on the stage, causing several women in the audience to scream. Bond still hung on to the panel, fighting for his life.
The tall film critic turned to his friends and asked, “Now do you believe me?” and then he stood and shouted, “There’s a bomb in the theater!”
TWENTY - SEVEN
THE SEARCH
THE THEATER ERUPTED INTO CHAOS. THE ROYALTY VIPS WERE IMMEDIATELY ushered out through emergency exits by the efficient Palais security guards and handed over to the Cannes police. The respective parties from Britain and Monaco were then whisked away in armored cars and taken to safety.
Tylyn was caught in a stampede of people attempting to escape but she wasn’t trying to leave at all. She wanted to get up to the stage.
“James!” she called.
Her voice barely carried over the clamor, but Bond heard her. He had a tenuous hold on the strip light panel and couldn’t hold on much longer.
Tylyn forced her way through the crazed audience. A man knocked her over and she was almost trampled, but she crawled into a row of seats and stood on one. The shoulder strap on her dress broke and she could barely keep it up over her breasts. In desperation, she grabbed the nearest man and ordered him, “Tie this!” The man was in such a state of fright that he tied the broken strap around her upper arm without thinking. It did the trick, her dress stayed up.
Tylyn then lifted up her skirt so that she could step over the seats and get to the stage that way. She held on to the excess material with one hand and used the other to support herself as she climbed over each seat back, row by row.
When she got to the stage, Bond was slipping.
“Hold on, James!” she called. Looking around frantically for something to cushion his fall, Tylyn finally ran to the side of the proscenium and grabbed hold of the bottom of the act curtain. She pulled it toward center stage, in front of the screen. This formed a hammock-like canopy that curved beneath Bond’s feet.
Never Dream Of Dying Page 25
