In his younger days, Bond had preferred to stay at a hotel near the Gare du Nord, but it was long gone. The Intercontinental was expensive and chic, certainly not a place Bond would stay on his own, but since the company was paying for it … why not? He might as well enjoy the luxury. After all, this was the most romantic city in the world!
The six-story hotel was deemed the “best and most comfortable” of all known hotels when it first opened in 1862. Home of the equally prestigious Café de la Paix, the hotel was recently renovated so that its former elegance and architectural splendor were restored. Bond thought that all the superlatives were well earned as he walked into the brown and beige lobby. Its dark brown wood paneling gave it a decidedly masculine look, which he appreciated. The airy Restaurant La Verrière and lounge were directly across from Reception under a glass roof, adorned with potted plants and furniture of assorted colors. This atrium effect was quite striking. His suite was just as pleasing, done in beige and maroon.
This will do nicely, he thought as he tipped the porter. He quickly unpacked a few things and got on the phone to Collette.
The head of Station P spoke good English and sounded enthusiastic. He suggested that they meet in the hotel bar. Bond stripped, took some time to stretch and perform calisthenics, had a hot shower in the all-marble bathroom (after five minutes he switched the water over to ice cold), then dressed in a collarless black cotton shirt, a gray jacket and deep gray pleated slacks. Thirty minutes later, he sat down at one of the green marble top round tables in the small but comfortably refined Le Bar.
Bertrand Collette entered the place, looked around and spotted Bond smoking a cigarette in the corner.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Bond,” he said, offering his hand. Bond shook it, noting the firm grip.
“Bonjour,” he said. Since Bond spoke fluent French they conversed in Bertrand’s native language. “Please sit down. What are you drinking?”
Bertrand shrugged. “Gin and tonic, thank you.”
There was no waiter, so Bond got up and ordered the drinks from the bartender and got a vodka martini for himself. Sitting again, he offered Bertrand a cigarette.
“No, thank you, I don’t smoke. I just drink like a Frenchman.”
Bond laughed. “With all the wine you people consume here, it must be very hard on the alcoholics in this country.”
“We’re all alcoholics but we just don’t admit it. Instead, we go to our meetings, stand up in front of everyone and say, ‘My name is Bertrand and I am a Frenchman.’ ”
Bertrand was of medium height, blond and thin. In some ways he reminded Bond of his Texan friend, former CIA agent Felix Leiter. Bertrand was clean-shaven, but he had nicked himself and had a small piece of tissue stuck to his cheek.
“How do you like working for Britain?” Bond asked.
“It’s fine. The pay is good. I have many friends in high places here in France, so I am capable of providing your country with good information.”
“So what have you learned recently?”
Bertrand leaned forward and kept his voice low. “I’m still trying to track down Monsieur Mathis. He seems to have disappeared. I do hope he has not come to a bad end.”
“Me too,” Bond said. “We’ve known each other for years.”
“I thought so. Don’t worry, we’ll find something soon. I have a friend in Monte Carlo who can find out things discreetly. The good news is that I’ve found out the name of the eye doctor who reported seeing the tattoo. His name is Didier Avalon and his office is over by the medical university.”
“Can we see him today?”
“We can certainly try. He has patients today so he should be there this afternoon.”
“Good. Listen, you wouldn’t mind if I take your picture, would you?”
“Pardon?”
Bond held up the special camera. “Just look into the lens there and say cheese.”
Bertrand wrinkled his brow. “I don’t like having my picture taken.” But he let Bond go ahead. The beam of light struck his eye and he flinched. “What the hell … ?”
“Don’t move,” Bond said, adjusting the lenses.
“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”
“Hold on … got it. All right, you’re clear,” Bond said, shutting off the ophthalmoscope.
“Where did you get that?”
“It’s a prototype, but don’t worry, they’ll be in all the stores for Christmas. Let’s go and see that doctor.”
Dr. Didier Avalon’s office was on rue de L’Université in the 7th arrondissement, very near the Université de Paris Faculté de Médecine. It was inside one of the two-century-old stone buildings that were prominent in the area.
“A lot of doctors are around here,” Bertrand said as they parked his Citroën against the curb.
“What makes you think he’ll talk to us?” Bond asked.
“Don’t worry. I have credentials.”
They went up the stairs to the first floor and found the doctor’s waiting room. Three patients—an elderly man and two middle-aged women—were there, calmly looking at magazines. Bertrand told the receptionist that they were there on “police business” and needed to see Dr. Avalon right away. She went away, came back a minute later, and told them to wait a few minutes.
The doctor wasn’t long. A nurse called Bond and Bertrand into the back, where Avalon had his private office. Like most European doctors, he also lived on the premises.
Dr. Avalon was in his sixties, had short white hair, a full white beard and glasses. Bond thought that he might make a good Father Christmas if he were fatter.
“How can I help you?”
Bertrand gave him a card. “Bertrand Collette with the DGSE. We spoke on the phone this morning?”
“Yes?”
“This is my colleague from England, Monsieur Bond.”
“How do you do?”
Bond shook his hand.
They sat down. Bertrand continued. “I promise not to take up too much of your time. I realize that you’ve already talked to some of my colleagues. Monsieur Bond and I are on an international task force and we have reason to believe that the tattoo you found is indeed criminal in nature.”
“Well, I thought it was. You don’t get that kind of thing too often,” Avalon said. “What happened to the other man I was talking to? Monsieur … oh what was his name? I have his card here …”
Bertrand quickly said, “He’s still on the case here in Paris, but I’m handling it from an international standpoint. Two different committees, so to speak. Too much bureaucracy, if you ask me.”
Avalon nodded as if he understood. “What would you like to know?”
“Just tell us what you told my colleague.”
Avalon shrugged. “Well, a patient came in complaining of conjunctivitis. I examined him. He did have conjunctivitis and I prescribed an antibiotic ophthalmic solution for him. However, when I used an ophthalmoscope on him, I noticed a lesion at the back of his retina. I looked at it more closely and saw the pattern. Have you seen it?”
“Of course,” Bertrand answered.
“Well, then, you know what I’m talking about. In this business it’s not unusual for some doctors to make a mark with a laser when they operate—something like a signature—I don’t do it myself. Anyway, I saw that this one was fairly elaborate. When I asked him about it, he became very defensive. I used to be in the DGSE, you see, and before that I was in the gendarmerie. I was trained to recognize when someone was lying, or acting suspiciously. This patient was definitely acting suspiciously. He wanted to leave immediately and even became abusive, telling me to mind my own business and such.”
Bond asked in French, “He was a regular patient?”
“No, he was new. I wasn’t his regular eye doctor.”
“May we ask who your patient was?” Bertrand inquired.
The doctor hesitated. “That’s confidential, you know. I told your colleague the other day only because I got a court order to do so.”
Bertrand assumed a stern demeanor and said, “Doctor Avalon, that court order stands with us as well.”
Avalon seemed surprised. “It does?”
“That’s right. So please, it’s best if you tell us everything.”
Avalon didn’t seem too put out by it. “Very well. He’s someone pretty famous. That film producer, the director, you know, Léon Essinger.”
Bond blinked. Well, well! he thought. Why was he not surprised?
Bertrand feigned astonishment. “Really? Léon Essinger?”
“That’s right. He normally lives and works in Nice, but he has an office here at one of the television studios. Said that he was working on something here in Paris and couldn’t go back to Nice just yet. Why, what’s that tattoo really mean?”
Bertrand said, “Doctor Avalon, I’m afraid that’s classified information. Just know that you did the right thing by coming forward to report it. So, doctor, will you be seeing Monsieur Essinger again?”
“Only if his condition doesn’t improve. Those eye drops usually work, so I doubt he’ll be back.”
“Can you think of anything else to tell us?” Bertrand asked.
Avalon shook his head. “That’s it, I suppose. I was afraid that perhaps I was overreacting, but I knew about Monsieur Essinger’s—well, I knew about his reputation with the law, you know.”
Bertrand nodded. “Yes, he’s been on our list for some time. Well, thank you, doctor, you’ve been most helpful. We won’t take up any more of your time.”
As they walked back to the car, Bertrand said, “I’m way ahead of you. Essinger’s office is at France Télévision, southwest of the city center. He just rents space there because his main office is in Nice.”
“I’ve never met him, but I know who he is,” Bond said. “Do you remember what happened at his studios in Nice a few months ago?”
“I sure do. The DGSE and the police took a beating for that one. Terrible tragedy. I wonder what Essinger is doing in Paris now. Making a movie?”
“Whatever it is, I think it’s time for me to have a screen test,” Bond said.
NINE
THE MAZZERE
MATHIS FOUND THE OLD WOMAN AFTER A CIRCUITOUS DRIVE FROM CALVI, down through the center of the island to Sartène, in the southern portion of Corsica.
Sartène is called “the most Corsican of Corsican towns.” Legend has it that it is actually the birthplace of the vendetta because there is a long history of feuding families in the village. It is an austere, silent place perched on a mountain overlooking the gorgeous, green Rizzaneze valley. The inhabitants are very religious, and they take their Catholicism to extremes. Sartène is famous for a centuries-old tradition that is re-enacted annually. Every year on Good Friday, the entire town turns out to watch the spectacle of the Procession du Catenacciu, in which an anonymous, barefoot penitent is chosen and covered from head to foot in a red robe and cowl. He is then made to carry a large cross through the town while dragging heavy chains, followed by several more penitents (some dressed in black, others in white) and priests.
Mathis was amazed that the gift shops sold postcards depicting the Procession du Catenacciu, and tourists could even buy souvenir videotapes of the event. He wondered why any tourists would want to come to Sartène in the first place. It was a shadowy, severe town where even the stone buildings seemed to look upon strangers with suspicion. The atmosphere was oddly oppressive for no tangible reason.
Mathis left the gift shop and walked down the cobblestone street to the Place de la Libération, the town square. He sat down at an outdoor table in front of one of the four restaurants that surround the square and ordered Pietra, the Corsican beer. Directly across the square was the town’s pride and joy, the Église Sainte Marie, a church built in 1766 and the center of activity in Sartène.
For a mid-afternoon, the town was awfully quiet. Where were all the people? Didn’t they work? It was unnerving. Mathis felt strangely paranoid, as if he were being studied and talked about from behind closed doors. “Have you seen the stranger? He has been in town two days, asking questions, taking pictures. Who is he? What does he want?”
When he had first arrived in the village, he had gone straight to Pierre Rodiac’s business address that had been provided to him by Dominic in Monte Carlo. Unfortunately, the building turned out to be abandoned. A shopkeeper next door said that no one had used the place in months. Next, Mathis visited the local gendarmerie. He showed the policemen his credentials and said that he was looking for a man named Pierre Rodiac. The men grew silent. After a moment, one of them said that they had never heard of him.
Rodiac obviously had some sort of power over the people here.
Mathis had prepared photos of Rodiac from the shots he had taken at the casino, so he spent the rest of the day visiting the shops and restaurants and showing the picture to the proprietors. “Have you seen this man?” Every time he was met by silence.
Now, as he sat and sipped the cold beer, Mathis wondered what his next step should be.
“I may know someone who can help you.”
The voice was the restaurant owner’s. Mathis had spoken to him a day earlier and shown him the photo, with no positive result.
“Oh?” Mathis asked.
“May I sit down?” the proprietor asked.
“By all means.”
The man sat down and leaned in close to whisper. “Go into the church and look for an old woman dressed in black.”
“Aren’t they all old women dressed in black?” Mathis asked.
“Yes, but this one stands out. She wears a lot of jewelry and dresses like a gypsy from the old days. She has a scarf on her head and is very old.”
“How can she help me?”
“She is a mazzere. ”
“A what?”
“Most people do not believe in the mazzeri, but they have existed on Corsica for centuries. Their gifts are passed down through the generations.”
“I don’t understand.”
The proprietor looked around again to make sure no one was listening. Mathis thought that the man was being overly cautious, for the street, the square, and the restaurant were completely empty.
“Mazzeri are otherwise normal people who have the ‘gift’ of foretelling someone’s death. This happens during a dream in which the mazzere assumes the body of an animal that ventures into the wilderness to hunt for prey. The prey is another human who is also in the form of an animal—but the mazzere can recognize its human identity. The mazzere kills the animal and returns home. Some time later, the person represented by the dead animal in the dream usually dies—by disease, misfortune or whatever. People respect and fear the mazzeri, because they don’t want to hear if they’re being dreamed about!”
“Fascinating,” Mathis said, humoring the man.
“The mazzeri also have other gifts. They tend to know things that normal people don’t. They are very wise.”
“And you say this woman is one of these mazzeri? ”
“Yes. You can ask her about this man you’re looking for. Maybe she knows him somehow.”
“Thanks,” Mathis said, then added, “I have never heard of this superstition.”
The man frowned and stood. “As you like,” he said, and walked away.
Mathis paid for the beer and walked over to the church. He went inside and was simultaneously impressed and disconcerted by the ultra-realistic depictions of the Crucifixion that surrounded the sanctuary. The cross and chains used in the Procession du Catenacciu hung on one of the walls as well.
There were about two dozen old women in the church, all in black, chanting softly to themselves. Mathis thought it was in Corsican, but he might have heard a Latin phrase or two. He scanned the faces and had no trouble picking out the woman. She appeared to be in her eighties and was sitting apart from the rest of them.
He waited until they were finished with their worship. The women stood and started to mingle and chat as they left the church. The one old wo
man didn’t speak to anyone else and started to leave alone. Mathis stopped her.
“Pardon madame, may I please speak with you?”
She looked at him with suspicion.
He introduced himself and showed her his card. “I have been told that you might be able to help me. That you have certain … ‘gifts’ …”
The woman looked at him hard and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” and she attempted to push past him.
“I can pay you,” he said. She stopped. “Handsomely.”
Her eyes flickered as she turned back to him. “I only talk about my ‘gifts’ in the privacy of my home. Come and see me there.” She gave him an address and told him to come after dinner. Without another word, she moved toward the door and left.
Hours later, as the sun was setting, Mathis made his way through the narrow streets and up a hill into the old town. He found the address and knocked on a large wooden door. It creaked open, and the woman invited him inside.
She introduced herself as Annette Culioli. Her home was modest, containing very little furniture, but was decorated with all kinds of plants and flowers. There were several cats of different shapes and sizes roaming about. For someone preoccupied with death, Mathis thought, she certainly surrounded herself with a lot of life.
Madame Culioli led him into her parlor and asked him to sit down at a small round table. She asked if he wanted any wine.
“That would be lovely,” he said.
She went into another room and returned with a bottle of the locally made red wine, Fiumicicoli. She poured two glasses and sat down.
“How may I help you?”
Mathis showed her Rodiac’s photo. “I’m looking for this man. Have you ever seen him?”
She took the photo and studied it. A look of fear passed across her face. She handed it back and said, “Yes, I know him. But only in my dreams.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?”
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