Never Dream Of Dying

by Raymond Benson

  “Jump!” she called. “I’ve got it!”

  Bond let go of the strip lights, fell twenty feet, and hit the curtain. The weight and force caused Tylyn to drop her end, but the curtain provided just enough of a break to his fall. He clung to the curtain and swung with it back to its original place, then dropped to the stage on his feet.

  Tylyn ran to him and embraced him.

  “My darling!” she cried, kissing him. “You’re alive, you’re alive!”

  “Tylyn,” he said, panting, returning her kisses. “You have to get out of here now. There’s a bomb in here somewhere. Léon is responsible. I can explain later, but you must leave!”

  “I’m not leaving without you!”

  “Tylyn, I have a job to do here. I will find you outside. Please!” He grabbed her shoulders hard and pushed her away from him. He looked her in the eyes and said, “I love you, Tylyn. Now please go.” Without another word, he turned and ran into the wings to continue the search for the bomb.

  Tylyn stood there a second, her fingers to her lips. “I love you, too,” she whispered.

  Bond found the dead soldier in Essinger’s dressing room and cursed. He followed the corridor to the end and came upon an emergency exit that probably emptied into the back of the building. He kicked it open and looked outside.

  A white van was pulling out of a reserved parking space. As it turned to head toward the exit, Bond saw Julius Wilcox in the passenger seat. Bond leapt down to the pavement and ran as fast as he could.

  The van stopped because the driveway was jammed with pedestrians. The panic had spread into the street as the audience came running down the steps. Now there were police sirens blaring all over the Centre-Ville and everything was chaotic.

  “Run them over!” Wilcox shouted at Essinger, who was driving. The producer’s shoulder was bleeding profusely from the gunshot wound and he was in terrible pain.

  “I can’t do th—” Essinger protested, but Wilcox had a gun to his head before he could finish the sentence.

  “Go, you bastard,” Wilcox said. He held the mobile phone in his other hand. “We have to get a few blocks away before I can activate the bomb. The blast will level the entire building and kill everyone around here. Running them over now won’t make a bit of difference. Do it!”

  There was a loud thump on top of the van.

  Essinger looked up, his eyes wild with fright. “There’s someone on the roof!”

  “Drive, you idiot!” Wilcox shouted.

  Essinger stepped on the gas and the van bolted into the crowd. There were screams as three or four people were hit. Wilcox aimed his pistol up and began shooting holes in the top of the van.

  Bond, lying on top of the vehicle’s roof rack, turned his body this way and that, gambling that the bullets wouldn’t hit him. One came too close for comfort, searing the side of his face as it exploded into the sky. Temporarily blinded, Bond held on to the van tightly as it sped into the street.

  Inside, Essinger asked, “Did you get him?”

  “I don’t know,” Wilcox said. He set down the mobile, rolled down the passenger window, stuck his head out, and climbed up in his seat so that he could look. As soon as he did, Bond’s foot smashed into his face. Surprised, he dropped his weapon and almost fell out of the window. Bond kicked him again but Wilcox managed to slip back inside.

  “Knock him off, damn it!” Wilcox yelled.

  Essinger swerved the van back and forth in an attempt to swing Bond off the top, but it was no use.

  “We have to go faster!” Wilcox said. “Step on it!”

  “I can’t!” Essinger exclaimed, gesturing to the congestion on the street. “Where the hell do you suggest I go?”

  Wilcox reached over and turned the wheel so that the van drove off the street and onto the pavement. Pedestrians jumped out of the way as the van crashed over several restaurant tables and chairs. Essinger took the wheel again and maneuvered the van off the pavement and into a side street, where it hit a parked police car, scraped the side of a limousine, and continued on into the crowded rue d’Antibes. There the congestion was even worse.

  “Oh no!” Essinger said. “There’s no place to go!”

  “Run them over! Kill them all!” Wilcox shouted.

  But by that time Bond had climbed over to the side of the van and was hanging on to the door handle. He managed to plant his feet firmly on the footstep there, then used every bit of strength he had left to slide open the door.

  Essinger screamed when he saw that Bond had got inside. Wilcox got out of his seat and threw himself at the intruder, just as Bond managed to draw his Walther. The gun went flying as the two men fell into the back of the van. Essinger did his best to keep the vehicle moving, but when he heard a siren behind him, he panicked.

  “The police!” he called back to Wilcox, but his partner couldn’t hear him.

  Clenching his jaw and closing his eyes, Essinger floored the accelerator and hoped for the best. The van lurched forward, hit three cars parked along the side of the road, swerved to the other side and onto the pavement, and into a large storefront window. The glass shattered and alarm bells rang with ferocity. Essinger was thrown forward into the windscreen, which cracked his head and rendered him unconscious.

  The crash had little effect on Bond and Wilcox, who had their hands around each other’s throats. Wilcox was an agile man but Bond was the superior fighter. He took a chance and let go of Wilcox’s neck so that he could get in two quick punches to the man’s face. But Wilcox wouldn’t let go. He was squeezing hard, causing Bond to choke and gag.

  Desperate now, Bond’s right hand groped the floor of the van for a weapon—his missing Walther or anything that might even the odds. He felt a steel rod of some kind and grasped it. It was a tire iron. Bond swung it hard and fast onto Wilcox’s head. The ugly man released his grip on Bond’s neck and fell over, dazed. Bond hit him again, but this time Wilcox blocked the blow with his arm. He yelped like a dog at the pain, but that didn’t stop him from rebounding. Julius Wilcox was no amateur.

  Before Bond could strike him again with the tire iron, Wilcox kicked him hard in the chest. Bond flew back against the van wall and struck his head on the edge of the door. Wilcox, seemingly immune to the punishment he had received, pounced on Bond and began to pummel him mercilessly. Bond held his arms in front of his face for protection but the Union killer got through with several powerful blows.

  Bond’s head slammed against the floor; but through the haze he could see his Walther, a few feet away. There was only one thing to do. He allowed Wilcox to continue punching him unrelentingly so that the killer wouldn’t notice him moving his hand toward the gun. Nearing unconsciousness, Bond inched his fingers a bit closer … closer … and he had it! Holding the barrel against Wilcox’s stomach, he squeezed the trigger. The report was deafening inside the confined metal space as the bullet went through Wilcox’s abdomen, exited out of his back, and blew a hole in the van roof. The expression on the killer’s face changed from rage to disbelief. He stopped hitting Bond and froze for a moment.

  Bond fired again. Blood dribbled from the ugly man’s mouth as he coughed twice. Bond rolled him off and got up. Wilcox twitched and jerked for ten seconds, then lay still.

  A groan from the front of the van got Bond’s attention. Essinger was coming to. Blood streamed down his head, and his tuxedo was soaked from the shoulder wound. Bond stuck the Walther to the back of his head.

  “Now,” he said, catching his breath. “Where is the bloody bomb?”

  Essinger nodded. “All right. Just a second.” He was very woozy. “Let me get my bearings.”

  “Now talk!” Bond spat, shoving the barrel into Essinger’s neck.

  “All right!” Essinger reached over to the passenger seat and picked up the mobile phone. “I need to call the man who is supposed to set it off.”

  “What?”

  He showed Bond the phone. “I need to call it off. He has to get the message not to detonate the bomb.�
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  The fight with Wilcox had left Bond disoriented as well. Not thinking straight, he said, “All right. Call him.”

  Essinger switched on the mobile and punched a number. Then another.

  Bond’s mind reeled. Wait a minute! The detonator was built to receive a radio transmission.

  “Go ahead,” Bond said, shoving the barrel into Essinger’s neck again. “Kill them all.”

  Essinger hesitated. His finger was poised to hit another button, but the hand holding the phone began to shake.

  “Do it,” Bond taunted. “Your friends and colleagues, the people who gave you a career, your wife … Kill them all.”

  Essinger closed his eyes and coughed.

  “But if you do it, remember that I’m not there to die along with them,” Bond whispered. “I’m right here.”

  With a whimper, Essinger dropped the mobile. Bond picked it up and shut it off.

  Completely subdued, Essinger wilted in the seat. “It’s in the projection booth,” he said. “In a film can.”

  Bond lowered the gun.

  “They put the CL-20 in a film can and rigged the thing with a radio-controlled detonator. The can itself serves as the antenna. It was enough explosive to kill everyone in the theater and probably a good many outside of it.” The man began to sob. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do it.”

  Bond left him and got out of the van. The police were just pulling up, followed by Perriot and two of the RAID officers.

  “Are you all right, monsieur?” he asked.

  Bond nodded. He pointed to Essinger. “Take him.” He gave the mobile to Perriot and told him where they could find the bomb.

  Bond refused to go to hospital, claiming that his injuries were superficial. He had certainly received worse. His face was battered, his eye was swollen and his ribs hurt, but there was nothing broken. He allowed a paramedic to treat his cuts and scrapes, then walked over to the command center that had been set up in the British Pavilion next to the Palais. This was a place where UK citizens attending the event could have a snack, a drink, check their e-mail, have meetings or simply relax.

  The British SAS team had arrived ten minutes too late to participate in the search for the bomb, but now they were doing their best to interview witnesses and gather information about what had happened. The bomb had been found in the projection booth and carefully removed from the site.

  Bond joined the commanders of the British and French teams in the tent after ordering a beer at the bar.

  “Congratulations, monsieur,” Perriot said. “You have done an exemplary job.”

  “Hear, hear!” said the rather stiff man in charge of the British. He lifted his own glass of beer to Bond.

  Bond ignored the praise and said, “I want to know how they got that bomb into the building.”

  The Cannes police captain cleared his throat. “We were just going over that. It appears that the film production company, that is, Monsieur Essinger’s company, used a private security agency to deliver the film cans. This is fairly standard procedure. The security personnel had clearance passes and were able to drive right up to the Palais and walk inside with the cans.”

  “Pretty cheeky, if you ask me,” the British commander said.

  A young technician with the French police who had been busy hooking up a VCR to a monitor said, “Excuse me, but I think I’m ready.”

  “Ah,” Perriot replied. “We have tapes of everyone going in and out of the building. I got them from the Palais security team. There are cameras set up at every entrance.” He turned to the young man and said, “See if you can find the service entrance tape. The film was delivered shortly after six o’clock.”

  “Yes, monsieur,” the lad said and got busy reviewing the material.

  Bond asked, “So what happens next?”

  Perriot answered, “Well, for one thing, we’re going to question every single person associated with Monsieur Essinger. They’re being rounded up as we speak. I think that the real culprits, though, were Monsieur Wilcox and Monsieur Fripp. They are dead, of course.”

  “I have it, monsieur,” the young man said. He switched on the tape and they all turned to the monitor.

  The camera showed the back entrance of the Palais, shot from the inside looking out. A Palais security guard was standing by the door checking the badges of everyone who walked in.

  “Fast forward, please,” Perriot ordered.

  The technician did as he was told until two men with film cans could be seen at the door.

  “There. Stop please.”

  The tape resumed its normal speed.

  When Bond saw who had delivered the film cans, his heart sank. He closed his eyes and rubbed his brow.

  “Are you all right, Monsieur Bond?” Perriot asked.

  He sighed heavily, and said, “Yes. It’s been a long day.”

  Another young man in an SAS uniform approached him and asked, “Are you Mister Bond?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s someone here to see you. Outside.”

  Bond got up slowly, drained his beer, set the bottle on the table, and walked out of the tent. What he had viewed on the television monitor had thoroughly disheartened him, but when he saw who was waiting outside the tent, his spirits picked up.

  “Tylyn,” he said.

  They fell into each other’s arms and the entire world was lost to them.

  They bathed together and then had a luxurious dinner in her room at the Carlton. Tylyn dressed Bond’s wounds and kissed them, then gave him a thorough massage. They made love, and this time it was soft and gentle. Bond noted that their couplings had always been different, both in mood and intensity. He knew that this was a woman with whom he could find variety for the rest of his life.

  Afterward, they lay in bed naked. He smoked a cigarette and she sipped a glass of cognac. Tylyn cleared her throat and said, “I have something to say and I’m not sure how to say it.”

  “Then just say it,” Bond replied.

  “All right.” She took a sip and began. “You lied to me, James. You told me you were a reporter and I believed you.”

  “Darling, don’t you see now why I did that? I was investigating your husband.”

  “And you used me to get to him.”

  He crushed the cigarette in an ashtray and sat up in the bed. “No. I didn’t. At first, perhaps, I may have thought that I might get close to him through you. But after I met you all of that changed. I wanted to be with you, Tylyn.”

  She sighed. “And this job of yours. You’re really a policeman. You carry a gun. You advocate violence.”

  “I don’t advocate anything,” Bond said. “Sometimes, yes, I have to use a gun. But only if I have to.”

  She nodded but didn’t look happy.

  He reached out and ran a finger along her smooth cheek. “Tylyn,” he said, “don’t think about that now. We’re both alive. I’m desperately attracted to you, and I hope you still feel the same about me. I’m sorry I deceived you, but I promise to make it up to you. Tomorrow I have to finish this job in Corsica, but I’ll be back tomorrow night and we can spend the rest of our lives together if that’s what you want.”

  “Is that what you want?” she asked.

  He hesitated. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

  “I don’t know either,” she said. “Let’s not think about that.”

  “All right. Let’s just enjoy each other tonight, shall we?”

  She nodded and leaned over to kiss him. He placed a hand on her breast, gently laid her back, and made love to her once again.

  Bond rarely dreamed, but he had a vivid one that night.

  He was running through the Corsica maquis, the thick forest near the prehistoric sites. He was naked, but as he looked down at himself he saw that he wasn’t human any more. He was an animal, some kind of stag.

  He ran past the strange menhirs, and several of them turned to watch him go by. One even whispered that he should be careful.

  That’s when h
e realized that he was being followed. Looking behind him, he could see the silhouette of a wolf in the distance, running after him. He increased his speed, but the presence of the wolf was overpowering. The beast was getting closer … closer … until Bond could feel the animal’s hot breath on his back.

  He heard a horrendous, unearthly snarl as the wolf leapt for him—And Bond woke up.

  He got out of bed, careful not to disturb Tylyn, and took a bottle of Perrier from the bar. He drank it down quickly and sat in a chair to calm himself. His heart was pounding.

  Tylyn stirred and noticed that he wasn’t beside her. She looked up and saw him. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

  “Would you believe me if I told you that I had a bad dream?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Yes. I would.” She reached out to him. “Come back to bed. I’ll make sure you get back to sleep safely.”

  He crawled under the sheets and felt her smooth, soft skin next to his. She reached between his legs and caressed him. In seconds, the aftertaste of the nightmare had vanished.

  “Fais-moi l’amour, James,” she said.

  He was happy to oblige.

  TWENTY - EIGHT

  THE SHOWDOWN

  INTERPOL OFFICIALS AGREED WITH M THAT COMMANDER JAMES BOND should be placed in charge of the strike against the Union headquarters in Corsica. During the night, Interpol worked feverishly with the governments of Britain, America and France to put together a team of professional soldiers culled from the countries’ respective armies. The international force totaled twenty-six men, all SAS trained.

  Bond learned that he had been chosen to lead the team when he awoke at sunrise. Nigel Smith had tracked him down by phone and told him to report to the airport in Nice at nine o’clock sharp. The ring had disturbed Tylyn’s sleep, but she quickly dozed off again. Bond quietly got dressed, left without making a sound, was picked up by a military escort and taken to Nice.

  The meeting took place at a hangar near Terminal One. A French air force captain provided aerial reconnaissance photos of Le Gérant’s compound and made suggestions for an approach.