Which lot was Le Gérant’s?
After making inquiries at the Cucuruzzu/Capula guest services center, he had learned that a strange rich man had taken over a nearby property and had built a house there. The land had been in one family for generations.
Mathis had waited until nightfall, then had driven close to where he thought it might be. Sure enough, a gate with the word “Privé” and a barbed-wire fence kept animals and the curious out. An unpaved road led from the gate up a hill, into the dense brush. Somewhere back there was a house.
Now, out of breath from the exertion of climbing the hill and fighting the thick foliage, Mathis finally came upon a clearing. There it was, some thirty meters away—a large two-story building, the silhouette of which, in the dark, looked like yet another Corsican old town citadel. There were ridges in the high walls, but the roof was flat, like homes in Morocco. Lights were on in two windows. Dark outlines of the mountains surrounding the property imbued the locale with a foreboding omnipresence. What was especially unusual was that the house was surrounded by a second wire fence. Mathis couldn’t see the posted signs clearly, but he wagered that the fence was electrified.
He crept out of the woods and into the clearing. He couldn’t see that anyone was about, so he kept going. When he made it to the second fence, which did indeed display warnings for “electrical shock,” he lay flat on the ground to catch his breath again. From there, he could see that the building was made of stone and wood and seemed to reflect no particular style of architecture, except, perhaps, a blending of Arabic and French, like exquisite palaces in Tangier. The Malcolm Forbes Museum came to mind.
What should he do? Should he call someone and report his findings? Or should he try to get tangible proof that Le Gérant really lived here? If only he could catch sight of him.
Mathis crept silently around the fence, eventually coming to the side of the house where vehicles were parked. A garage was open and the Rolls-Royce was sitting inside. A 4 × 4 and two other cars were parked in the drive.
He could hear voices approaching.
Two men stepped out of the garage and lit cigarettes. They spoke in Corsican, looking up at the clear, star-studded sky. Mathis shrank into the shadows, willing himself to be as still as one of the menhirs that surrounded the property.
Then, Mathis’ heart nearly stopped when he heard the sound of a car coming up the road toward the house. It would surely turn into the drive to park there with the rest of the vehicles. The headlamps would have to pass over him to do so.
He leaped to the ground just as the car, a sleek Porsche, pulled around, brightly illuminating the area. It stopped near the two men. Mathis looked up from the ground and saw another man get out of the Porsche.
“Bonjour, Antoine,” one of the smokers said.
Antoine, a small, wiry man, greeted the two men and said something that made them laugh.
And then—horror!—Mathis noticed that a guard was patrolling the outside perimeter of the electrified fence and was headed his way. If he didn’t move quickly, the man would surely notice him in a few seconds!
Mathis stayed perfectly still in the grass. The guard walked slowly, scanning the trees, looking away from the house. Closer … closer … then the man’s boot grazed Mathis’ side.
“What the—?” the man mumbled, momentarily off balance.
Mathis pushed the guard and did his best to get up and run.
“Stop!” he heard the man shout.
Mathis ran as hard as he could toward the trees, but the weight he had put on in recent years was a hindrance. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the guard was behind him, pounding the ground with large, muscular legs.
Ten more meters! Mathis ignored the pain in his chest as he mustered all of his energy, but it was useless. The guard tackled him and they fell hard on the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of Mathis.
The guard turned him over and slugged him hard in the face, stunning him.
He recovered his senses as they were dragging him to the house. Mathis attempted to struggle and get away, but the three of them held him. A quick kick in the ribs took the fight out of him.
He was brought inside and taken to a spacious room equipped with nothing more than benches, chairs and cabinets. It was some kind of waiting area, probably for the guards. They threw him on the floor.
A door opened and a man entered the room. He stood silently until Mathis was able to look up.
It was Pierre Rodiac. Aka Olivier Cesari. Aka Le Gérant.
“Monsieur Mathis,” the blind man said. He didn’t look at Mathis, of course. He simply stared straight ahead, his dead eyes focused on nothing in particular. “Welcome. You were successful in tracking me down. Yes, I knew you were following me the first time we were in the same room together in Monte Carlo. Don’t you think that Le Gérant would know? Tsk tsk … I thought you were smarter than that, Monsieur Mathis. The question is who else knows that you are here?”
“Everyone,” Mathis whispered. “They all know.”
“Liar,” Cesari said softly. “You have left the DGSE and are working as a renegade. The only person you are in contact with is a close friend of yours. Someone who works for another intelligence agency. Someone I would love to meet. Do you think you could arrange an introduction?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do,” Le Gérant said. “Mister James Bond … Your friend and ally. Do you think you could direct him in our direction? Perhaps send him a note? Yes?”
“Go to hell,” Mathis spat.
Le Gérant laughed. He circled Mathis, never once reaching out in front of him to make sure he wouldn’t walk into anything. He knew exactly where the furniture was.
“Antoine?” he called.
“Yes, monsieur,” Antoine said. He was standing by the door.
“There is a walking cane next to the bookcase over there. Would you throw it to me?”
Antoine found it. It was a black cane with a silver wolf’s head handle. Jean threw it and Le Gérant caught it in mid-air. He never once flinched or moved his head. His hazy eyes were focused on the nothingness straight ahead of him.
“Now,” he said to Mathis, “you are going to co-operate, isn’t that right?”
“Never,” Mathis said.
The cane came down hard on Mathis’ back.
Le Gérant took two steps around Mathis and let the cane fly again. Mathis curled into a ball, attempting to ward off the blows.
“Take him outside and soften him up,” Le Gérant said. “And then we’ll let Doctor Gerowitz have a look at him.”
The three men dragged Mathis outside. Le Gérant left the room, walked down a white, plain corridor, until he came to his own quarters, which were tastefully furnished with elegant furniture, a stereo system, bar, and other amenities of comfort. He sat down after pouring himself a cognac and putting on his favorite piece of music, Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. He closed his eyes as the lovely strains of the violins filled the room.
The music didn’t quite drown out Mathis’ screams.
TWELVE
THE GIRL
THE SPECTACULAR I. M. PEI PYRAMID ENTRANCE TO THE MUSÉE DU LOUVRE never failed to impress Bond. While it had its critics, the incongruous nature of a pyramid made of glass and steel tubing, surrounded by a structure that saw its origins in the thirteenth century, was the most impressive thing about it. The juxtaposition was not lost on Bond.
The museum was closed to the public on Tuesdays, so all special events were held on that day. The fashion show was scheduled to begin at 11:30 in the morning. Bond arrived at the Louvre entrance at 11:15 dressed smartly in a dark gray Savile Row suit. He joined the gathering crowd in the roped-off section in front of the pyramid to wait for the doors to open. A large banner had been erected across the entrance proclaiming, “Indecent Exposure—NOW!” The words were written in script over a faint reproduction of Tylyn’s eyes. Bond thought that he might re
cognize them anywhere now.
The others in the crowd were journalists, fashion photographers and members of the elite who were lucky enough to receive an invitation. Several groups with television cameras were also preparing to descend into the museum for the event.
The sun was shining brightly, bouncing off the pyramid glass into Bond’s eyes. He turned to avoid the glare and noticed several museum security guards conversing with another man in a dark green security uniform that was obviously from a different company. Bond couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the man seemed to be trying to talk his way into the show. The museum guards were shaking their heads and looking at his credentials. After a moment, though, they allowed him over the barrier. The man went through the doors and disappeared inside the pyramid.
Finally, at 11:25, the guards removed the rope and ushered the people inside, checking invitations as they walked through. Bond got inside and stepped onto the escalator that descended into the spacious, bright reception area. The stage and catwalk had been set up just beyond the circular staircase that led to the ground floor. Numbered folding chairs surrounded the catwalk, which jutted out toward the CyberLouvre, the boutiques, and the Carrousel du Louvre. Bond thought it was a rather odd place for a fashion show, but apparently the museum was a popular spot for such events.
Shostakovich was booming out of portable speakers set up around the runway. A white tent, where the models could change and prepare to make their appearances, had been erected at the head of the catwalk and behind the stage. Another banner with the words “Indecent Exposure” hung over the curtained opening on the stage.
The audience was buzzing with the excitement in the air. Bond, too, felt twangs of anticipation as he found his seat, two rows back from the center of the catwalk. Not bad.
At 11:40, the lights dimmed slightly and spotlights operated by men on pedestals hit the curtain on stage. The audience applauded as the music switched to a sensuous, rhythmic jazz-rock piece accentuated by heavy bass and drums.
A tall blonde model stepped through the curtain wearing nothing but a black brassière, panties, and high heels. Bond thought that she looked more like a courtesan than a fashion model, but he wasn’t complaining.
The expressionless girl walked down the catwalk as the cameras flashed around her. By the time she swiveled to head back to the tent, another girl, a shapely black woman, emerged wearing a red brassière and panties, but she had added a garter belt and stockings. The next girl, a brunette, had added a silk robe that flowed behind her as she walked. Each successive model added another piece of clothing. Bond got it—the girls were “dressing” before the audience’s eyes. The sixth model in the set was fully dressed in a magnificent transparent evening gown that provided hints of all the various undergarments the other models had worn. The six girls returned to the catwalk and gave a slight bow, then slipped back into the tent.
The music and lights changed. It was time for something dramatic.
When she stepped out of the curtain, the audience went wild with applause. Bond actually felt his heart rate increase.
Tylyn Mignonne was arguably the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and he had certainly seen many. She was tall, naturally, with long legs that seemed to move like those of a sleek gazelle. Her dark brown hair was still cut short, the fringe swept to the side to reveal a bit of forehead. She was not terribly thin, like many models. She had a fine figure, a firm one that exhibited the physique of a girl who got a lot of exercise but managed to eat well too. Her breasts were not particularly large, but, in Bond’s mind, they were perfectly adequate handfuls.
She was wearing the wraparound he had seen her in on the billboard, and it revealed much more than it concealed. The rounded, shiny tops of her breasts reflected the lights, and her undulating, flat stomach was completely bare. The wrap covered her waist and hips but just nearly screened the cleft between her legs, which were bare down to the high heels.
As Tylyn walked down the catwalk, the men in the audience whistled and cheered. She responded with warm smiles and waves. Her strong presence, her charisma and her self-confidence immediately struck Bond. Unlike the other models, who remained relatively humorless and stone-faced throughout the show, Tylyn was obviously enjoying every second. She loved being under the spotlights, having the flashes go off non-stop around her, and receiving the attention of the men in the audience. She had a rapport with the people that the others didn’t attempt to create. Bond liked that. He had assumed that models never interacted with the audience while on the catwalk. However, she would pause every now and then to greet someone she knew, squatting down to give them a hug or accept a long-stemmed rose.
Tylyn completed the walk and went back into the tent as the show continued with a new set of fashions, beginning with the blonde in a chemise/panties combination. Bond now understood the allure of fashion shows and why they were always hot tickets. They were indescribably sexy, even when the models were fully dressed. There was something about watching a beautiful woman display herself to a crowd—not like a stripper, who teased her audience with nothing left to the imagination. She was a girl with a secret; a woman who tantalized men with the fantasy that she might be willing to show them something. She was the one in charge and would decide when and where that would happen.
The Indecent Exposure line was just what it promised—chic clothing that was sexy and revealing, yet tasteful enough to wear in public. Bond could imagine that much of it would be worn to things like celebrity parties, awards dinners, and the like. This wasn’t run-of-the-mill boudoir wear. Tylyn was indeed a clever designer.
The entire show lasted about twenty minutes. Bond had counted ten different models who had changed clothes at least three times each. Tylyn, the last woman on stage, ended the event by leading the rest of the girls out onto the catwalk together. She received thunderous applause and cries of “Bravo!” as she accepted a bouquet of roses from two of the models.
A cocktail reception was held afterward in the Restaurant Le Grand Louvre, a small room next to the café. Glasses of champagne were handed out to every guest, along with a “goody bag” of Indecent Exposure promotional materials. Waiters circulated the room with plates of canapés as members of the audience mingled. The models joined the crowd a few moments later.
Bond stood to one side and waited until Tylyn made her entrance. When she finally did, she was dressed simply in black Capri pants and a white silk blouse that was open at the midriff and tied above her navel. Bond liked women in Capri pants because they showed off their calves and ankles whilst keeping the rest of the legs tightly outlined but under cover. He watched her with interest as she greeted people, kissing their cheeks and allowing hers to be pecked. She warmly embraced several members of the press, playing the consummate public relations rep for her company. Shemight as well have been royalty.
As far as Bond was concerned, she was.
Finally, he edged his way toward her and caught her eye. She looked at him and smiled brightly, momentarily distracted by his dark, good looks.
“Bonjour,” she said.
Bond greeted her in French. “Bonjour. It was a lovely show. I’m from Pop World in England. The name’s Bond. James Bond.”
“Oh yes, Mister Bond, we’re supposed to do an interview, right?” she said, making no attempt to hide the fact that she was pleased.
“That’s right.”
“Let’s see, where could we … ?” she thought a second and then said, “Would you like to talk over lunch? I’m starving, and these crackers and things won’t do the trick.”
“I’d be delighted,” Bond said.
“Great! Let me finish here and perhaps we could take a walk, find a café nearby?”
“Take your time, I’ll be right here.”
She gave him a nod and a little wave, then turned to the others who were dying to speak to her.
Bond stepped back and picked up another glass of champagne. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the security
guard in the green uniform standing near the emergency exit sign.
The man was looking at him, but when Bond’s eyes met his, he turned and walked out of the room.
They left the Louvre under the scrutiny of the paparazzi and fans. Bond shielded his face the best he could as the cameras went off. He was uncomfortable being in the limelight like this and hoped that their picture wouldn’t be on the front page of a gossip paper. “Tylyn Dating Mystery Man” … it was all he needed.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel a slight thrill at being in the company of such a glamorous and high-profile woman. Normally he would have shunned the prospect. He didn’t want notoriety, for in his business, it could be dangerous. Too many times the women he had grown close to had met with … bad luck.
But as they pushed through the crowd and walked onto rue de Rivoli and then turned east, they lost the crowd and were on their own.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” she asked, keeping a fast pace. She spoke in English now, but Bond noted that it was the American variety. “You never think you’re going to get rid of them, but surprisingly you always do.”
“How can you stand it?” Bond asked. “It would drive me mad.”
She shrugged. “I’m used to it. It’s part of the life, I suppose. You have to give up certain things, a bit of your privacy … Where would you like to go?”
“It’s your city,” he said. “But I do know a little place not far from here.” Paris, of course, was heavily populated with sidewalk cafés.
“Lead on, sir,” she said with a smile.
He escorted her to rue St. Honoré and further east until they came to a café called Le Petit Mâchon. It was a charming, quiet place painted yellow and brown. The day’s specials were listed on a blackboard that stood on the sidewalk with the small square tables. Tylyn and Bond were greeted warmly by the hostess, who allowed them to pick a table at the end, away from the other parties.
Bond ordered them two kir royales made with champagne and crème de cassis for aperitifs and then took a moment to enjoy looking at her fresh, vibrant face. He hadn’t realized how long her eyelashes were until now.
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