Never Dream Of Dying

by Raymond Benson

  The man in the back of the limousine had a brown, crinkled face shaped like a walnut.

  My God! Bond thought.

  The man had aged. The black hair had turned completely white, but the dark eyes hadn’t changed at all.

  It was really he, the head of the Corsican mafia, Marc-Ange Draco. Bond’s former father-in-law.

  Bond was flabbergasted, completely speechless, standing outside the Aston Martin on a road somewhere in France and facing a man he thought he’d never see again.

  “Don’t look like you’ve seen a ghost, James, it’s really me,” the man said, smiling.

  “My God, Marc-Ange, I … we all—heard you were dead! Years ago!” Bond said in a half-whisper.

  Draco laughed. It was a laugh Bond remembered from another time.

  “Merely rumors,” Draco said happily. “You’d be surprised what disappearing can do for you if you want to get away from it all. That’s what I did. I got out of circulation for a while and no one ever saw me—so everyone assumed I was dead. How long has it been, James?”

  “Forever,” Bond said. There was a brief awkward moment as the two men were suddenly at a loss for words. Then they embraced as family.

  When they parted, Draco asked, “How have you been, James?”

  “I’m fine, Marc-Ange, and you?”

  The smallish man shrugged his unusually broad shoulders. “Not bad.”

  There was another uncomfortable moment. Bond had never made a point of staying in touch with Draco after Tracy’s death. After all, the man was a criminal. But the main reason for not doing so was because it brought back painful memories of a woman he had loved and lost.

  Draco finally said, “Come sit in the limousine and let’s talk.”

  Uh-oh. Bond felt a pang in the pit of his stomach. Are today’s events a repeat of what happened long ago? The first time Bond had met Marc-Ange Draco, he had been forcefully taken to the man. Draco’s charm had disarmed Bond, and they ended up talking as friends. Then Draco asked Bond for a “favor,” and what a favor it was. He wanted him to marry his daughter, Tracy.

  What was Draco going to ask him now?

  It was cool in the air-conditioned interior, which was done up in expensive leather and sported a well-stocked bar. Draco still lived in his own brand of splendor.

  “I know what you’re thinking, James,” Draco said. “You’re wondering if I’m still in the, uhm, business. Once again, I must implore upon you to stay behind the Herkos Odonton with regard to what I’m about to tell you.”

  Bond smiled. “Herkos Odonton” was an expression Draco used to mean that the listener must keep what he heard a secret.

  “The hedge of my teeth,” Bond said, literally defining the term.

  Draco twisted to the bar. “Drink?”

  “Please,” Bond said.

  Draco dropped a couple of ice cubes into each of two Waterford pint glasses, then picked up a bottle of I.W. Harper bourbon and poured a generous measure into each glass. He set the drinks, a siphon of soda and a flagon of iced water on a small tray table that unfolded between them.

  They clinked glasses and said, “Cheers,” together.

  “But before I get to business, first tell me about yourself, James. I follow your career, you know,” Marc-Ange said. “I have my sources. You continue to be a credit to your service. I congratulate you.”

  “Thanks,” Bond said. “I suppose I’m fine. There’s nothing to tell. I haven’t changed much.”

  “No, you haven’t,” Draco said. “The years have been kind to you. Me—I just keep getting fatter. For a while it was the hair. My hair kept getting whiter. Now it’s completely white. So I complain about my weight now.”

  While Draco intended his comments to be humorous, Bond detected an intangible sadness about the man. The earlier laughing had been abrupt and was finished with quickly. The boisterous, interminably optimistic Marc-Ange Draco he had known years ago was different now. Bond surmised that he had undergone some kind of tragedy.

  “So, you want to know if I’m still a crook, yes?” Draco asked.

  “If you’d care to tell me, Marc-Ange,” Bond said.

  “Very well,” Draco said, taking a sip of bourbon. “The short answer is ‘yes’, I am still a crook. Now would you like the long answer?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  Draco paused to down his entire glass, then poured himself another. Then he spoke slowly and earnestly.

  “After Teresa’s de—uhm, after Tracy’s murder, I withdrew from public life. The organisation was run by my lieutenant, Ché-Ché—you remember Ché-Ché, James?” He pointed to the man outside with the broken nose. No wonder he had looked familiar to Bond! Ché-Ché le Persuadeur had been a long-time associate of Draco’s. Ché-Ché had changed his shirt and cleaned himself up, but he didn’t look particularly cheerful.

  “Now I do,” Bond replied. “Tell him that I hope there are no hard feelings.”

  “Don’t worry about it. He did a fine job while I … went into hiding. I was not a happy man, James, I admit it. The loss of Tracy was quite overwhelming. At first I blamed you, and I was angry with you, but common sense prevailed. I completely understand that it wasn’t your fault. And you exacted revenge for us both, and for that I am grateful. In many ways, it was my fault. I pushed her into the arms of a man who lived on the edge in his profession. Like me. But never mind that, it’s the past.

  “Around the time that rumors of my death began to circulate, there was trouble within the Union Corse. One of my lieutenants, Toussaint, left to form a rival syndicate. There was a war. I decided to let them fight it out, just to see who was stronger. I stayed completely away, which is why everyone thought I was dead except my most trusted associates. I have only a handful of them these days.”

  Draco offered Bond a cigar, but he refused, preferring to smoke one of his own specially made cigarettes provided by Tor Importers. They contained a unique blend of Balkan Yenidje and Turkish Latakia tobaccos that Bond craved, especially with bourbon.

  Draco lit his cigar and continued. “About nine years ago, my life turned around. I climbed out of my depression. I met a woman … a girl, really … she was French … and we fell in love. It didn’t matter that she had barely come of age. We got married in Corsica.”

  Draco wouldn’t look at Bond now. Instead, he gazed out the car window at the French countryside.

  “We had a child together. A daughter. James, I had found a new lease on life. I didn’t want to be a crook any more. I let Ché-Ché run everything while I was happy again for the first time in as long as I could remember.”

  Bond saw the bomb coming before Draco dropped it.

  “Earlier this year, they met with … an accident,” Draco said in as steady a voice as he could. “My wife and daughter. Together. Killed. So I have been in mourning for the last several months.”

  “I’m sorry, Marc-Ange,” Bond said. He didn’t know what else to do.

  Draco nodded, his eyes brimming with moisture. “Since then, yes, I have returned to my work. The business is not what it was. We don’t call ourselves the Union Corse. My small group of men still run a Corsican mafia, if you really want to call it that. For me, it’s just business.”

  Bond knew that Draco meant the “business” of common racketeering crimes—prostitution, money laundering, gambling, smuggling and sometimes murder.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Draco said. “I own some legitimate businesses as well. A security agency, as you can see, a real estate company, a chain of tobacco shops …”

  “So it was you who had me watched yesterday in Paris,” Bond said. He gestured to the green security vans.

  Draco shrugged again.

  “What happened to your other men?” Bond asked.

  “Ah! That’s why I invited you to have a talk with me. Toussaint and his merry followers joined a little organisation you know as the Union.”

  Bond felt a sudden burst of adrenaline. Of course! Draco had his fingers everyw
here in France. As the Capu had once found a clue pointing to the whereabouts of Ernst Stavro Blofeld, Draco could possibly help Bond again.

  “Marc-Ange, can you tell me anything about them? Do you know where their headquarters are?” Bond asked.

  “Don’t be so impatient, James,” Draco said, smiling. “No, I don’t know where Le Gérant is, but I certainly know him.”

  “Do tell,” Bond said.

  “His name is Olivier Cesari. I knew his father well. Joseph. He was one of my lieutenants in the old Union Corse.”

  Bond raised his eyebrows. “I thought he was in the perfume business.”

  “He was. That was his day job. He did quite well with it, too. In fact, our organisation financed his start-up. But he was also on my team and was quite useful. Joseph Cesari certainly passed on his ruthless qualities to his son. Whatever he wanted, he got. Anyway, I was quite close to both the father and the son. I adored young Olivier, and when he grew up, I could see that he was a fine, intelligent young man, despite his affliction of being blind. Now, he is the head of the most powerful criminal organisation in the world. He swallowed up my entire business after the war had torn us apart. The Union now operates where we used to. My small band of associates and I have had to work more in France rather than Corsica and have had to look for other means of doing business. So far, we have just squeezed out a living. Olivier Cesari keeps challenging my, er, territories. He has gone from being like a relative to becoming my worst enemy.”

  “This is extraordinary,” Bond said.

  “That it may be. But true. So, I am offering you, James, the chance to work together again. I want to find Le Gérant too. I know that he appears in public now, he has been seen in Corsica and in Monte Carlo. As I said, I don’t know exactly where he is, but my sources tell me that he lives somewhere in Corsica now, and that’s where the headquarters are located. I am still working on finding out where it is. In the meantime, I know for a fact that Olivier Cesari goes to the casino in Monte Carlo every Thursday night to gamble. He uses an alias, Pierre Rodiac.”

  Bond said, “Coincidentally, I’m going to Monte Carlo tomorrow and tomorrow is Thursday.”

  “Precisely,” Draco said and beamed. “I thought that bit of information might be useful.”

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Léon Essinger?” Bond asked.

  “Of course. Famous movie producer with a lot of legal problems,” Draco said.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s involved with the Union.”

  Draco waved his hand and grimaced. “Forget it. You’re—how do they say it in America?—you’re ‘barking up the wrong tree’ with him.”

  “He is a Union member. I have proof.”

  “He may very well be. I wouldn’t doubt it if the Union was helping him with his legal woes. Essinger is small potatoes. Go after the big fish.”

  “Perhaps you can help me with a related problem,” Bond said. “I’m searching for a French colleague of mine, René Mathis. He disappeared not long ago while on the trail of Le Gérant. In fact, he was last seen in Monte Carlo.”

  “I know Monsieur Mathis, James. We met in the old days. I will see what I can find out for you. If he did find the Union headquarters, though, I doubt very seriously that he’s still alive.”

  Bond nodded grimly.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Draco said. “I’ll also be watching your back, although you probably don’t need my protection.”

  “Thanks,” Bond said. “It will be interesting to meet Cesari face to face.”

  Draco reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Bond. “Here is my number. You can call me from anywhere in the world, if you need to find me.”

  Bond pocketed the card and said, “Thank you.”

  “And now, I have another piece of information I need to impart to you.” Draco took another drink.

  “What’s that?”

  “The Union have just made a business deal with the Japanese terrorist, Goro Yoshida.”

  FOURTEEN

  THE HORSES

  BOND ARRIVED IN MOUGINS AS THE DAY TURNED FROM LATE AFTERNOON TO evening. He had consulted a road map and found the little road that led to Tylyn’s home, which was located a few kilometers east of the village. He would have missed the turnoff had it not been for a small sign that said Ferme Equestre—Privé. Bond turned the DB5 onto the dirt road, rumbled over cattle grids, and drove the three kilometers to the house.

  It was a lovely property in the forest, not far from Antibes, where the landscape was ideal for horse riding. The impressive main house looked like an inn, with two stories and numerous windows. It was mostly made of a dark, rustic wood and would not have been out of place in the American mid-west. Two smaller buildings of similar construction stood near the house, probably related to the horse business, and a large barn was behind. Bales of hay were stacked in front of the open barn doors, along with a forklift for loading and other equipment.

  Bond pulled into a gravel parking area in front of the house and got out of the car. From here, he could see a path that led through the trees to the stables, which were built inside a large pen. The stables were quite large with blue and white striped roofs. There was probably room for at least ten horses. The paddock provided plenty of space for the horses to exercise outside.

  A sign near the front door proclaimed Ferme Equestre—Pension— Entraînement—Stages—Compétitions. Bond knocked and waited until he heard footsteps on the other side. A frumpy woman in an apron answered it.

  “Oui?” she asked.

  Bond explained that he was looking for Tylyn and that she had invited him.

  The housekeeper chattered a bit, then pointed toward the stables. Bond thanked her, turned and strolled down the path through the trees.

  As he reached the paddock, he saw her. She was atop a beautiful Selle Français that was prancing around the fence. He was as fine a specimen as Bond had seen, with upright shoulders, a strong neck, compact body, and what appeared to be powerful hindquarters. The French saddle horse was completely brown except for white “sock” markings above its hoofs and a white “star” marking between its eyes. It was equipped with a black Western saddle and bridle.

  Tylyn was attired, in part, in traditional dressage clothing—a canary waistcoat, white shirt with white stock, white breeches and black dress boots with spurs. All that was missing was a black tailcoat and top hat.

  Bond stood and watched her as she took the horse around the paddock, performing various maneuvers—spins, rollbacks, flying lead changes and sliding stops. It was obvious that Tylyn was a pro. She handled the horse with self-confidence and a firm command, yet she was gentle and loving, speaking to him in French.

  He finally made his presence known by stepping forward and standing by the gate. As Tylyn made another lap around the paddock, she saw him and beamed.

  “James! What a surprise!”

  “I decided to take you up on your offer to show me your home. I hope you don’t mind,” he said.

  “Not at all! I was just giving Commander a little exercise. Perhaps you’d like to go riding? I was going to take him into the forest.”

  “I’d be delighted, although I’m not quite dressed for it.”

  “Don’t be silly. You don’t need to look like a jockey. Unlatch the gate there, and come on in. We’ll see if we can find you a horse that’s not too willful.”

  Bond opened the gate and closed it behind him as he walked into the paddock. Tylyn trotted the horse to him and swung her leg over and off. She landed on her feet and tied the reins to a pole. She murmured in the horse’s ear and stroked him, saying that she would be right back.

  “Did you drive from Paris?” she asked as they went into the stables.

  “Yes, I parked in front of the house.”

  “That’s fine. After our ride, I hope you’ll stay for dinner. Chantal is a very good cook.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  There were several horses in the stables
—black ones, white ones, brown ones. Tylyn ultimately picked a chestnut French Trotter.

  “This is Lolita,” Tylyn said. “She’s fairly young, but she’s well behaved. How are you on a horse?”

  Bond shrugged. “I know how to make them go, turn, and stop. Changing gears can be tricky sometimes, but parallel parking is relatively simple.”

  Tylyn laughed. “I think you’ll do fine.” She deftly put the bridle and bit on the horse and led her out of her quarters. The horse nuzzled Bond as he patted her strong neck.

  “Oh, Lolita likes you!” Tylyn said. “Actually she likes men, period. She’s a little flirt.”

  “Then I’m sure we’ll get along just fine,” Bond said.

  “Come on, help me saddle her up.”

  It was the glorious time of day. The sun was setting with finality and the remaining half-hour of daylight took on a mystical orange glow. Deep amongst the pine trees it was darker, but the light and shadow provided the two riders with a breathtaking scenic trip through the forest.

  Bond conceded that she was a better rider than he was. In fact she was, quite simply, amazing.

  Tylyn didn’t have to show off. Every perfectly timed and flawlessly executed move that she made with the horse seemed effortless; it was completely natural to her. The horse was so well attuned to her commands that they truly acted as one entity, as if she were the upper half of a centaur.

  Bond didn’t embarrass himself though. He met the challenges with finesse. At one point, Lolita hesitated before jumping over a fallen tree. Bond had to urge her three times to go for it, and by then, Commander was nearly a half-kilometer ahead. Tylyn weaved in and out of the trees at a frightening speed, but Bond did his best to keep up. Even though Tylyn’s horse was definitely stronger, faster, and more familiar with his rider, Lolita, Bond thought, was doing a damned fine job obeying him. As far as he was concerned, she was a terrific horse.

  He caught up with Tylyn by a brook near the opposite edge of the forest. Commander was having a drink. Tylyn smiled broadly.