Danni approached the soldiers at a jog, halting, a hand to her chest. She had let her hair down and untucked her shirt. Even with her muscular arms, veins popping, she appeared every inch the worried mother. “My daughters are locked in my car,” she said breathlessly. “I don’t know how I did it. Please, can you help?”
Only one of the soldiers spoke enough English to understand. “Your children are in the car?”
Danni nodded, leading the way, explaining that she was a tourist from Israel. Did they know Tel Aviv?
The soldiers exchanged a few words as they followed her across the street and into a parking structure. She pointed at a Peugeot station wagon. “Please. Can you open the door? I’m so scared.”
The soldiers neared the car, heads bent, trying to peer inside.
Simon moved from his position behind a concrete pillar, striking the larger man with the butt of Danni’s pistol. He dropped. Before his smaller colleague could react, Danni crushed the man’s knee with a kick, spun him round, and placed him in a headlock, holding him until he fell limp, and then a while longer to make sure he remained unconscious.
It was over in fifteen seconds.
The harder part was undressing them. Even unconscious, the soldiers fought like lions, it being nearly impossible to pull the uniforms off their limp limbs. Simon’s uniform fit him well. Danni’s posed the bigger problem, but after rolling up the sleeves and stuffing the trousers into the tops of her boots, she looked the part. The vests, berets, and Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns completed the trick.
Simon used the soldiers’ flex-cuffs to bind their hands behind their backs. He stuffed a sock into their mouths to keep them quiet. He ran up the aisle until he found an unlocked car and, with Danni’s help, stuffed the soldiers into the back seat. He hoped it was enough to keep them out of commission.
“Now?” he asked.
“We do what every soldier here has been taught. We protect the Palace.”
They set off at a jog toward the festival, slowing when they reached the first barrier, passing through without contest. The number of soldiers grew as they neared the second barrier. Few addressed them. Simon nodded and grunted, “Salut,” pouring on the Marseille accent. With his two-day stubble and brooding looks, no one thought to question him.
They arrived at the second barrier a minute later. The system was simple enough. Residents, business owners, and credentialed visitors were allowed inside the outer perimeter. Only credentialed festival-goers were allowed inside the second barrier. There was a third barrier on the far side of the promenade. Only those persons holding tickets to the film were granted entry to the Palais des Festivals.
Simon and Danni walked past the steel traffic barriers, maintaining the attitude of soldiers on patrol. Turning left, they crossed the esplanade adjacent to the Palais. A large number of people came toward them, many of them photographers busying themselves packing away cameras.
Simon began to jog, but Danni put an arm on his.
“Calm,” she said.
Simon slowed his pace to a brisk walk.
They were late.
London gripped the wheel of the Ferrari as if holding on to a bucking bronco. The car was too fast, too powerful, too savage for her to control. A tap of the accelerator sent it hurtling down the road far too rapidly, the throaty, violent engine delivering frightening vibrations through her body. She could feel the tires gripping the asphalt—feel them—and this unholy communion between road and car and driver left her far too exhilarated, fearing for her life.
She followed the coast road out of Cannes, past the smaller marinas, and into Juan-les-Pins. The route veered south as it navigated the Antibes peninsula, gentle hills rising on her left, the scent of heated pine flooding the car. Faster, a voice urged her. We haven’t enough time. We’re relying on you. But was it Simon or the madly capable Israeli woman? Or both of them? Defying her every instinct, she kept her foot on the pedal and her mouth closed in case any second she might scream.
A sign popped up for the hotel.
No! She was going too fast to make the left-hand turn. Traffic approached in the opposing direction. Faster! Clenching her jaw, she yanked the wheel to the left and pressed the accelerator, the Ferrari leaping forward like a prisoner escaping her bonds as it cut across the oncoming lane, the roar of the motor more than loud enough to drown out the protesting horns.
Up an incline. Right onto the Boulevard J. F. Kennedy. She spotted tall pillars guarding the hotel drive. Still driving much too quickly, she turned too late, then overcorrected, the nose of the car narrowly missing one pillar.
She was there.
London braked much too hard as the Ferrari skidded to a halt in front of the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc. Originally built as a private mansion in the style of Napoleon III, the hotel resembled a grand nineteenth-century country house. Leaving the car running, the muffled roar of the motor an affront to the pristine calm, she ran up the stairs and inside.
“Room 302,” she shouted. “Mr. Borgia is in trouble.”
A bellman hurried over. “Excuse me, madame?”
London hurried past him, searching for the elevator. “It’s an emergency. He phoned me. Please. We must hurry.”
The staff of the front desk, located in an alcove immediately to her left, reacted immediately.
“One moment, madame.” A concerned hotelier went straight to a back office. A minute later, a well-dressed man emerged, rushing to her side.
“Mr. Borgia, you say? Something is the matter?”
London nodded, still gathering her breath. “I believe he’s had a heart attack. Quickly, we must check on him. Room 302.”
The manager looked at London, tears streaking her cheeks, a woman in distress, then at the Ferrari, idling by the front stairs. He had been trained that a client was never wrong. He had also been trained that a guest’s privacy was inviolable. A final look at London’s imploring gaze, her state of distress. “Follow me, please.”
They rode the elevator in silence, except for London’s imprecations that they must hurry. “Il faut se dépêcher.”
They alighted at the third floor. The manager led the way, key in hand. By now, two members of the security team trailed behind them. The manager rang the doorbell, waited, then waited no longer. He inserted his key and opened the door. London barged past him, through an entry hall, through a grand living room, calling his name—“Luca!”—no sign of him here, and into the bedroom, light streaming through the tall glass doors, a view across a canopy of pines to the ocean beyond.
The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled. A peach-colored satin camisole lay on the floor; beside it, a pair of panties and stockings. Men’s clothing was folded neatly on the chair. No sign of Borgia.
London halted, unsure how to proceed. Wrongly, she’d assumed that she would find Borgia in his room. Somehow she felt betrayed. She realized she was still on a high from the ride in the car, some kind of adrenaline rush. It came to her that she had no business here, but there was no time for doubt. No room for hesitation. Lives were at stake. We’re relying on you!
“Luca, are you all right?”
Then she heard it. The sound of a shower coming from the bathroom. She opened the door, slipping the pistol from her waistband. Clouds of steam filled the room. She advanced a step, then another. A woman stood inside the glass stall, face to the jets, washing her hair. She sensed the intrusion and turned her head. Eyes open, she saw London and the gun. She recoiled, hand covering her mouth.
“Is he here?” asked London, opening the shower door.
The woman looked at her unashamed, her gaze forthright, defiant. “Who are you?”
“Is he here, dammit?”
“At the premiere,” said the woman. English. Educated. But why wasn’t she more frightened?
From the bedroom, the manager called out: “Madame, is everything all right?”
“Yes,” said London, still staring at the woman, feeling as if she should know her. “I’m fin
e.”
London called Simon from the hotel lobby. “He fooled us. He’s at the premiere.”
Chapter 71
Cannes
The van stopped.
The door slid open violently. A woman motioned for everyone to get out. “Come,” she said, her English heavily accented. “They are waiting. Please. Quickly.” Then: “But where are the others? There are more, no?”
Mattias left the van and, with his friends, was escorted along a narrow walkway and onto a broad red carpet at the base of even broader stairs leading to the Palais des Festivals. A legion of photographers faced them, shouting incomprehensible instructions. Omar put an arm around his shoulder, so Mattias put an arm on his, and on Hassan to the other side. Mohammed followed suit. The four stood like this for what seemed an eternity, smiling as flashbulbs popped and photographers yelled for them to turn this way and that. One of the escorts kept looking back toward the van, as if expecting someone else to join them.
Mattias felt exposed, vulnerable, certain that at any moment someone would remark on the bulk beneath their jackets. But no. There was only applause and the intermittent flash of the cameras.
And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. Another woman accompanied them up the stairs and into the auditorium, showing them to their seats situated in the center of the cavernous space.
Mattias sat on the aisle—he would lead the attack—keeping his gaze lowered as the auditorium filled up. He was no longer able to smile, no matter how he tried. He apologized silently to Sheikh Abdul. He felt as if all eyes were on him, as if he were the subject of a thousand policemen’s scrutiny. They know, a voice whispered repeatedly inside his head. He shifted in his small, tight seat, his discomfort growing. More and more people filed into the auditorium, seemingly in little hurry to take their places. He could only sit and wait, each second a minute, each minute an hour.
All the while he felt as if the vest was closing around him, tighter and tighter, squeezing the air out of him. He wanted it to be over. If only they’d given him the detonator. His thumb twitched, seeking out something to press, a button to push. He looked to his left. Omar’s eyes were half closed. A low keening noise came from his lips. He did not look well. Mattias nudged him with an elbow, but it had no effect. Young Mohammed was rocking gently back and forth. Surely someone must notice. How could they not?
Mattias tapped his feet, his hands drumming the armrests. A furtive look to all quarters. No one was paying them notice, most too busy chatting among themselves. It wasn’t possible.
He could get up now. He could run out of the theater. They would have to detonate the vests then, whoever “they” were. His breath came faster. Anything was better than the waiting.
Suddenly, applause.
A man mounted the proscenium. His name was Renaud or something like that. He began to speak in French, then switched to English. Five minutes passed as he introduced the movie, apologizing that the director and producer had been taken ill. Mattias only half heard what he was saying. His heart was beating furiously, blood pounding between his ears, deafening him. He felt hot, unbearably hot.
A hand landed on his shoulder. Mattias jumped. A red-faced man seated behind him said, “Congratulations. I am happy for you. A triumph!”
Mattias tried to respond. He wanted to say “Thank you” or “Merci,” or “Tak” like he did in Sweden. His mouth would not work. He was mute. After a moment, he turned to stare at the screen.
And then, miraculously, the lights dimmed. Music.
The film began.
Ten minutes, thought Mattias.
Ten minutes and he would be free.
Simon and Danni crossed the esplanade adjacent to the Palais and headed to the red carpet.
The Palais des Festivals was a modern travertine-and-concrete building with sweeping panes of glass soaring from ground to roof—all right angles and dramatic planes. A broad set of stairs, red carpet running up its center, led to the entrance of the Grand Auditorium. A banner decorating the Palais’s façade read FESTIVAL DE CANNES, with the year’s specially designed logo—a dove in Picasso’s hand standing atop an old-fashioned film projector.
The staging area where celebrities stood for their photographs was deserted, somehow forlorn, a ballroom after the ball. Press, photographers, technicians were packing their wares, dismantling lights, stowing gear. It was ten minutes past six. The film ought to have begun.
Simon and Danni climbed the stairs. Plainclothes security guards stood by the doors to the Grand Auditorium. Simon walked to the center door. “We need to go inside.”
The guard looked him over, then at Danni. “Is there something the matter?”
“Open the door.”
The guard registered the tone of Simon’s voice. This was real. It was happening now. A man he should believe. “How can I help?”
“No commotion,” said Danni. “Everything very easy. No warning.”
The guard nodded. He was fifty, trim, with steel-colored hair cut close to the scalp. Ex-military, Simon guessed.
“Where are the actors sitting?” asked Simon.
“Row twenty. The first four seats on the aisle. Easier for them to reach the stage afterward.”
“Get another man,” said Danni. Then: “Can you shoot?”
“Yes. I can.”
“They’re wearing vests,” she said. “Remote detonation.”
The color drained from the guard’s face. He spoke into a hand mike. A few moments later, another man arrived, similarly dressed in a blue blazer, gray slacks, necktie. “This is Michel. I am Jean-Marc.”
Danni addressed the men. “We find them. We kill them. We get everyone out.”
The men nodded, recognizing Danni’s authority without question. Her Israeli accent told them everything they needed to know.
Danni took the safety off the submachine gun and turned the fire command to semiautomatic. Simon followed suit, placing one hand under the stock, the other on the grip, a finger inside the pistol guard.
“Can you shoot?” Danni asked.
Simon nodded. “I can.”
On a screen bigger than any he’d ever seen, Mattias stared up at the Medusa docked in the harbor at Sirte. Hundreds of men and women crowded the deck. One by one they boarded. He remembered the crush of humanity, the heat, the sweat, the hand in his back shoving him forward against his will.
The camera zoomed in on a familiar face, Mohammed Tabbi. He was from Algiers, Mattias remembered. He had been the joker of the group, the only one who had retained any semblance of good nature and humanity until the end. It was he who had killed the Ghanaian who had taken the boy’s eye. He had strangled him.
Mattias felt for his badge. It was Mohammed Tabbi’s credentials he was wearing. Somewhere, at this instant, the man lay dead. Mattias felt sick. To his left, Omar, the driver, was weeping silently. Young Mohammed watched the film through hands covering his eyes. Sheikh Abdul had not considered their reactions when he recruited them. He and his masters had not asked themselves how the survivors might feel upon reliving such a vivid, nigh perfect, depiction of the ordeal.
The Medusa was leaving port. Her deck was filled far beyond capacity. All those black faces on the white boat. Anyone could see it was not seaworthy. How could they have let it set sail? It was a miracle the boat had made it as far as it did.
Mattias could sense the audience’s discomfort. Just watching made them complicit. Several persons nearby turned their heads to glance at him, at the others who had been on that boat. A murmur of disbelief swept the dark auditorium.
Where were you then? Where was your outrage? Your simmering sanctity?
“No!”
He was not aware of shouting, that it was his own voice lifting above the voices of the actors, of the boat’s motor, of the haunting music hinting at the disaster to come.
A hand grasped his arm.
He shook it loose.
If the boat had turned back then, it would have been all right. No
one would have died. He wanted to yell at the skipper, at the mates, to stop. The emotions churning inside him were unexpected and overwhelming and beyond his control. He shifted in his seat. He was acutely aware of the vest. It was too tight, stealing his breath, crushing him to death.
Was it time yet?
He checked his watch. Seven minutes. He couldn’t last another three. He stood, his friends clawing at him. Angry voices told him to sit down; then other voices speaking Arabic: “It is not time.”
“Let me go.”
On the screen, a man vomited belowdecks. A woman held her baby to her breast. Doomed, both of them. It was all coming back to him. The heat. The smell. The certainty of impending disaster. Mattias could not bear to watch a moment longer.
He stepped into the aisle. Which way to go? Heads turned toward him. Concerned voices. Always just voices. Words. Never actions.
There was no going back. He knew that now. Let God take him here.
“Allahu Akbar!”
From his seat in the front row of the balcony, Luca Borgia was among the first to take note of the disturbance. He sensed the man’s distress before hearing him cry out, before seeing him rise from his seat and lurch into the aisle. Borgia’s initial response was one of frustration, anger. The man was moving too early, disobeying his instructions. It was enough to make Borgia perch on the edge of his seat, eyes entirely focused now on the four bombers directly below him.
Still, for a moment, Borgia did not stand, did not try to get out of the building. He’d had no choice but to come. His presence was proof of his innocence as much as his guilt. Who could ever point a finger and accuse him of being involved? He was there. He was a victim, if not of bodily wounds, then of trauma. There was more, of course. He wanted to be there. He needed to hear the explosion, to feel the concussion, to witness the carnage. It was essential the public’s outrage be his own. How else could he gain the visceral justification for his actions? The refugees—the invaders, as he thought of them, the cockroaches—really were that bad! If not tonight here in Cannes, then another time, another place…perhaps even worse.
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