Never Dream Of Dying

by Raymond Benson

  “So, Mister Bond, what would you like to talk about?” she asked with a knowing smile.

  “You, of course,” he replied. “How do you manage to juggle so many different careers?”

  She laughed. “I don’t see it that way. It’s all one career, really, isn’t it? Fashion design is probably my first love, and of course I like to model. It’s how I made my name. But I want to branch out, get more involved in film.”

  “I understand you’ve got a starring role in a new picture?”

  “That’s right. It’s called Pirate Island. My—well, my husband is producing it. We’re separated, though.”

  “Léon Essinger, right?”

  “That’s right. Anyway, it’s a chance to act with Stuart Laurence, whom I adore, and it’s probably going to be a big movie. The director is someone I like. He’s very good. I think it will be a boost to my career. I’ve only made one other movie in Hollywood and this one will bring me more work there, I hope.”

  “What kind of part is it?” Bond asked, writing down her answers on a small notepad.

  “It’s an action-adventure story set in the future,” she said. “It’s about pirates on high-tech boats. Stuart plays the hero, a man who’s trying to save his island from being taken over by the pirates. I play his ‘woman’ .” She chuckled. “There will probably be a lot of bodice ripping. I’ll get to do a little of the action, but they’ve hired a real stuntwoman for the hard stuff.”

  “Tell me what you remember of your father,” Bond said.

  “He was always there for me when I was a little girl. He encouraged me to go into modeling, and he got me my first horse when I was six.”

  “What was it like to grow up with such a famous father?”

  “I never really paid it any mind. He was just ‘daddy’ to me. I mean, I knew he was famous and that he made all these great films and had Oscars and all that, but when I was little I just thought that’s what all fathers did. He died when I was pretty young. It wasn’t until I was a teenager when I fully appreciated the contributions he made to the business.”

  “What does knowing you’re the heiress to a vast Hollywood fortune do to your psyche? It must make you deliriously happy.”

  She laughed. “I’m usually deliriously happy, most of the time anyway, but that’s not the reason why. I never think about the money my family has. I’ve gone out and made my own money, you know. When I model, I’m paid well. I don’t just model exclusively for my own company. If the offer is good, or if it looks like fun, I’m there.”

  “What made you leave Hollywood?”

  “I’m French, aren’t I? I was tired of California. I feel more at home here. I suppose if my acting career takes off I’ll have to go back, but then there are plenty of actors who manage to work and not live in Hollywood.”

  “How did you get your name?” Bond asked.

  “Tylyn? Well, it’s not French, is it?” She laughed. “My mother was expecting a boy and she already had ‘Timothy’ picked out. Naturally, when I came out it was a surprise to everyone! She had to scramble to come up with a name for a girl that began with a ‘T’. She put ‘Ty’ and ‘Lyn’ together and came up with ‘Tylyn’.”

  Bond thought that she was an amazing girl. She was outgoing, articulate, and intelligent. He could feel her energy and joie de vivre, and it was infectious.

  “Tell me about your hobbies. What does Tylyn do when she’s not working?” he asked.

  “Horses. And then there are horses. Oh, and I also like horses,” she said, then laughed. “You know I breed them? I love horses.”

  “I knew that. It’s in the south of France, right?”

  “Yes, it’s a small equestrian center in Mougins, near Antibes. I live there when I’m not in Paris. I keep a small staff there who run things when I’m gone. I breed horses and sell them to various riding schools and so on. When I’m really stressed out I like to go there and get on Commander, my favorite horse, and ride for hours through the forests.”

  Bond mused that he knew a certain commander who would like a ride.

  “How much time do you get to spend there?” he asked.

  “More than you might think. I have a flat here, but if there’s nothing happening at the Indecent Exposure studio then I go to Mougins. I have a workshop there and can work on clothing design if I need to. Oh, here’s a card with the address …” She reached into her handbag, found a card, and handed it to him. “You should come around and take a look, you might find it useful for your article.”

  Bond glanced at the card and pocketed it. “Thank you. I might enjoy that. So other than horses … ?”

  “I read a lot. There’s always a book by my bed. I love mysteries and thrillers. I like to dance. There’s nothing more romantic than a man who can dance. I enjoy sports, but I’m not very good at anything but riding.”

  “You were educated in California?”

  She nodded. “Through high school, but then I went to college here. I studied languages here because for some reason in America they don’t stress that. I think it’s important to speak other languages.”

  “What else do you speak?”

  “Besides French? English, German, and Italian. Some Spanish and a tiny bit of Russian.”

  “Impressive,” Bond said.

  She shrugged it off. “It’s no big deal. What about you? Have you always been a journalist?”

  Bond smiled to himself. “No. I used to be a civil servant. But my life is quite uninteresting compared to yours.”

  “Have you ever considered modeling?” she asked. “You have killer looks.”

  Bond almost laughed. “No, I’ve never considered it. But thanks, I think.”

  “No, really, you have this dark dangerous look that women just eat up,” she said, reaching out to touch his hand. “But you probably know that already.”

  The blonde waitress interrupted them with the meals they had ordered. They both had mixed green salads with veal, croutons, tomatoes and goat’s cheese. Tylyn had côte de veau à la crème d’estragon for the main course, while Bond had quenelles de brochet fraîches à la crème d’étrilles; pike with crab sauce. They shared a bottle of Pouilly Fuissé, which Bond found slightly disappointing, but it was adequate. The food, though, was superb.

  As the waitress walked away, Tylyn giggled to herself.

  “What’s funny?” he asked.

  “I just remembered a blonde joke. Want to hear it?”

  “Certainly.”

  “A blonde’s boyfriend gave her a mobile phone for her birthday. When she was out of the house, he decided to call her and see how it worked. She answered and was thrilled. ‘Hi honey!’ she said. ‘The phone works great! But how did you know I was at the hairdresser?’ ”

  They both laughed and continued eating.

  She ate like a man, Bond thought. She wasn’t dainty at all, but all she had to do to retain her femininity was blink those lovely eyes with the deliciously long lashes, lick her lips when she was tasting something, and smile—which she did a lot. In fact, she laughed quite a bit and Bond liked that. It seemed that everything amused this girl. She was damned attractive.

  Careful, Bond told himself. She was way too famous to get involved with. Veer the conversation toward business. Find out more about her husband …

  “You know, I’d like to interview your husband. He seems like quite the character,” he said nonchalantly.

  She snorted. “Léon? He’s a pig. Why would you want to talk to him? I’m much more interesting.” She laughed again.

  “I have no doubt about that,” Bond said.

  “Besides, he rarely meets the press these days,” she said. “Ever since the trouble he had in America. You know about that …”

  Bond nodded.

  “I suppose we’re still friends. After all, I’m going to act in his movie,” she said.

  “Then I take it that the separation is temporary?”

  For the first time she frowned. “I don’t want to talk about that
. Léon and I have an agreement not to talk to journalists about our separation.”

  “Fair enough. When do you start shooting?”

  “In a couple of days. In fact, I’m going to have to leave soon, I hope you don’t mind. I have to catch a plane to Nice in a few hours. I want to spend tomorrow at my home in Mougins. I need a good ride before I start work the following day.”

  She gave him a look that Bond could have sworn was an invitation.

  When he didn’t respond, she continued. “The next day we have to meet in Monte Carlo for some awful press event. I usually hate talking to the press, but somehow I don’t mind talking to you.” She laughed again so adorably that Bond wanted to hug her.

  “Anyway,” she said, “we start shooting the day after the thing in Monte Carlo. In Corsica. If you want to drop by the set, I think I could swing it.”

  She was after him! Bond thought. That was three times that she had been the aggressor. He simply couldn’t resist this girl.

  “Perhaps you’ll see me in Monte Carlo,” he said.

  “I hope so.” She wiped her mouth with the napkin and said, “This was fun. Did you get everything you needed?”

  “Yes, for now anyway, thank you.”

  “I must run.” They both stood and she held out her hand. It was soft, warm, and heavenly. “Thanks very much for the lunch. I hope to see you again, Mister Bond.”

  “Call me James.”

  “All right, James. Au revoir. ”

  And she was gone.

  Bond sat back down and ordered coffee. He watched her back as she hurried up the street and waved for a taxi.

  Somebody pinch me, Bond thought. She was simply too good to be true.

  As he gazed out over the street, he noticed the gym across the road. And there he was—the man wearing the dark green security uniform was inside the gym, looking at him from the window. The same man from the Louvre.

  What the hell do you want, you bastard? Bond thought to himself. Was he a flunky for Léon Essinger? Perhaps keeping tabs on his wife?

  The man turned away and disappeared as Bond raised his coffee cup in salute.

  THIRTEEN

  THE FIRST VISIT

  THE LETTER THAT RENÉ MATHIS HAD WRITTEN TO JAMES BOND HAD AN unfortunate unscheduled trip. The receptionist at the hotel in Calvi had forgotten about it and didn’t mail it until two days after Mathis had given it to her. Then, a careless letter sorter in the Calvi post office accidentally dropped the envelope into a bin that was meant for mail traveling to Italy.

  When Andrea Carlo, a postman in Milan, came across the letter more than a week after Mathis had sent it, he was in a destructive mood. His wife had just given birth to their sixth child, and he was worried about how they were going to make ends meet. His boss at the post office was a stingy crook and he had aspirations to quit his day job to become a writer.

  He looked at the envelope and decided to play a little joke. Instead of dropping the letter into the bin meant for the United Kingdom, he put it in the one targeted for America.

  It was only a matter of good fortune that when the envelope arrived in New York three days later, an efficient postal worker caught the error and immediately dropped it in the bag en route to the UK.

  Unfortunately, the letter would arrive at MI6 nearly two weeks late.

  The day after his lunch with Tylyn, Bond checked out of his hotel, left a voice message for Bertrand and drove south out of Paris. He took the A6 toward Lyons, a journey that he always enjoyed. He began to feel much better about France after he had left the bustling metropolis of Paris. It was a pleasure to go cross-country.

  After passing through Lyons, the country’s second largest city and the home of Interpol, Bond got on the A43, which in turn became the A48 to travel southeast into the mountains toward Grenoble. He probably could have avoided the French Alps by taking a detour south of Lyons, but Bond enjoyed the scenery. Grenoble was situated in a broad valley and surrounded by spectacular mountains—the Chartreuse to the north, the Vercors to the southwest, and Alpine peaks stretching east to Italy.

  As he left Grenoble and headed toward the Côte d’Azur, Bond noticed a dark green van gaining on him. Bond increased his speed, passing several cars, but the van’s driver insisted on keeping up with him.

  Fine, Bond thought. Let’s see who this is.

  Bond slowed down so that the van was soon right on his bumper. The van could easily pass him if that’s what the driver wanted to do. Sure enough, after a few moments, the van pulled into the left lane and sped past Bond. It was difficult to see inside, for the windows were tinted. But what surprised Bond was that the side of the van displayed the words, “Securité Vert.” Bond was fairly sure that this was the agency that employed the man he had seen at the Louvre and at the gym across the street from the sidewalk café yesterday.

  The van was now in front of him and the driver decreased his speed. Now it was Bond’s turn to tailgate. What sort of game were they playing? Bond threw the car into lower gear and pulled into the left lane, almost wishing that the car still contained some of Boothroyd’s extras. He accelerated and pushed past the van, then swung back into the right lane. He then increased his speed and moved way ahead of the van very quickly. The driver didn’t show any inclination to follow him this time, leaving Bond perplexed as to what all that was about.

  As he was approaching Grasse on the N85, Bond pulled over to fill up with petrol. It was a self-service facility, so he got out, swiped his card for 500 francs, and stood holding the nozzle while he surveyed the road.

  From nowhere, the green van appeared and pulled into the service station. It stopped at the pumps directly across from the Aston Martin. The passenger door opened and the man Bond had seen at the Louvre stepped out. Bond thought quickly, analyzing the situation and looking at all his options should the man try anything.

  He was large and tanned, with curly black hair and the broken nose of a boxer or wrestler. He still wore the security guard uniform. Up close, Bond thought that he looked vaguely familiar, someone from the deep past.

  “Monsieur,” he said, then continued in English. “My boss would like a word with you.”

  Bond kept his hand on the petrol nozzle. “Is that so?” he asked. “And who might that be?”

  “If you would be so kind as to follow us, he is waiting.”

  “Sorry, I was taught to never go anywhere with strangers,” Bond said.

  The man sighed. “I’m afraid I must insist,” he said. He started to draw a gun, but wasn’t fast enough.

  Bond pulled the nozzle out of his car and doused the man with petrol, simultaneously bending to the side and kicking out with his left foot. The gun went flying. Bond dropped the nozzle, then gracefully spun around and kicked the man in the face with his right foot, knocking him to the ground. Bond then reached into his pocket, grabbed the Ronson lighter, and flicked it on.

  The man lay sprawled on the pavement, looking up at Bond in terror. His shirt was soaked in petrol.

  Bond held the lit Ronson in front of him and said, “Want to play catch?”

  The man shook his head.

  Bond reached down and picked up the gun. It was a Smith &Wesson .38. He emptied the cylinder and tossed the empty gun to the man. “Go on. Get the hell out of here. And tell your boss that if he wants to see me, he should make an appointment like anyone else.”

  Bond casually returned to his car, put the cap back on his tank, and got inside the Aston Martin. He pulled out of the service station, squealing the wheels as he sped out onto the highway.

  That had felt good. Bond relished the electricity of danger. It was the best stimulant on the planet. He basked in the sensation for a while in silence, waiting for the van to reappear behind him. Surely they would continue the pursuit, and Bond was looking forward to a confrontation.

  As expected, a few minutes later the van was behind the Aston Martin again. It was gaining on him, but Bond threw the car into low gear and shot ahead. He swerved in and
out of traffic, putting some distance between him and the van. Soon he came upon another vehicle traveling slowly in his lane. It was another green van, identical to the Securité Vert van that had been following him all day.

  He decelerated so that he wouldn’t come too close to it. However, the van behind had gained on him. Now he was boxed in between the two.

  If only he had the car’s machine guns! Just a rocket or two!

  The road made a sharp bend between two mountains, forcing the vehicles to slow down. Bond gripped the wheel and decided to take a risk. He pulled out into the left lane and stepped down hard. The Aston Martin roared ahead of the first van and was about to shift back into the right lane when a third green van appeared in front of him, headed straight for the car. Bond slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel to the right, knocking the first van hard so that it veered off the road and scraped against the rocks on the side of the mountain. Bond managed to pull over to the right as the oncoming van zoomed past him. The road continued to curve around the mountain, leading right into a tunnel. Bond accelerated again, hoping to lose them there. But as he approached the tunnel, he saw two sets of headlamps come on, aiming right at him.

  There was no way out.

  Bond screeched to a stop just outside the tunnel. He flipped open the compartment that held the Walther P99, grabbed the gun, and waited to see what they were going to do. The three vans, one slightly disabled, pulled up behind him. The doors opened and several armed men got out. Two were carrying sub-machine-guns. The man with the doused shirt gestured with his reloaded Smith & Wesson for Bond to get out of the car.

  Bond aimed the Walther at the man’s head as he got out of the Aston Martin.

  “I’ll take at least one of you with me,” he said.

  “We don’t want anyone hurt,” the man said. “Please, Mister Bond. Our boss is right inside the tunnel.”

  Bond didn’t want to take his eyes off the security guard, but he dared to glance into the darkness. One of the cars inside started its motor and inched out into the sunlight. A black stretch limousine pulled up between Bond and the security guard, and then the window glided down.