Never Dream Of Dying

by Raymond Benson

  “Bertrand,” Bond said, “have you ever considered using an electric razor?”

  “Very funny.” He pointed to a small boat at the other end of the harbor. “I secured a boat for our use. It’s nothing fancy, but it was still expensive. An outlaw Sportsboat with a ninety-five horsepower engine. Will that do?”

  “How fast does it go?”

  “They told me up to forty-five miles per hour.”

  “Fine,” Bond said. “Thanks. And where’s Ariel?”

  “She’s in the horse trailer I had to rent, along with the four by four I had to rent to haul her! I must say, I would hate to be the accountant at MI6. He probably suffers from a bad heart.”

  Bond laughed. “In truth, he does. Now, listen. This press conference is going to begin in a few minutes. I’m going to do my best to get invited along for the first couple of days of shooting. I have a feeling that it won’t be too difficult.”

  Collette shook his head, smiling. “How do you do it, James? She is one of the most desired women in the world! You bastard!”

  Bond shrugged and went on. “What I’ll need you to do is follow the production company out to sea. I believe they’ll be going to Corsica first. Bring Ariel in the boat. I may need her for some reconnaissance. I’ll keep in touch by mobile. All right? Am I working you too hard?”

  Collette shook his head. “I’m fine. Actually, this is the most excitement I’ve had since I took on the job for your government. Just do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Next time you kiss Tylyn, please pretend that you’re me.”

  The conference began soon after Collette went to arrange things with the boat. Léon Essinger, Stuart Laurence, Dan Duling, and Tylyn Mignonne got out of two separate black limousines and were ushered to the press table by security guards. Tylyn looked gorgeous. She was wearing black Capri pants again, and a colorful halter-top that made excellent use of her perfect breasts. As she passed by Bond, she greeted him warmly and gave him a big hug. Essinger, who was right behind her, glowered at them both.

  Once they were all seated, a publicity director started the proceedings by introducing the participants and turning over the mike to Essinger.

  “Thank you,” he said in English. “We are all very excited and happy to be here, for today we begin production of my new film, Pirate Island. My good friend Dan Duling is directing from a brilliant script by Robert Cotton. We have a superb team of special effects people. Our stunt coordinator is one of the best in the business and he is with us today. Rick? Where are you?”

  A stocky man with red curly hair stepped out of the small group of people behind the table. He waved to the cameras. Essinger handed him the microphone. “Rick Fripp, ladies and gentlemen,” he said.

  Fripp took the microphone and spoke in a thick, Cockney accent.” “ ’Ullo, it’s a pleasure to be ’ere. I just want to say that Pirate Island will have the best damn stunts ever in a motion picture. If there was an Oscar for stuntwork, it would be ours. I guarantee it. You’re gonna see things you’ve never seen before, even in ’Ong Kong movies. And the explosions! Wait ’til you see the explosions in this picture! We’re gonna blow things up proper, I tell yer. ’Alf the bloody budget is going to me and my stuff, so we’re puttin’ it all on the screen. I’m the best, y’see, that’s all there is to it.” He handed the mike back to Essinger and stepped away.

  What an arrogant ass, Bond thought. The man oozed smarmy egotism, and if anyone on the crew was a possible Union agent, it was most likely to be him. He had a criminal record, he knew explosives …

  Stuart Laurence, the lead actor, said a few words next. He was a handsome, virile type, an American who had made a number of popular action films. He was definitely the biggest box-office draw connected with the picture. Tylyn spoke after him, saying that she was grateful for the opportunity to be in a big-budget film financed by Hollywood but made by a French production company.

  The reporters began to ask questions. The first one was directed at the producer. “Monsieur Essinger, will you ever be going back to America?”

  Essinger shrugged. “Hollywood has its charms, but I like working in my native country. Besides, if I went back there, my next picture would have to be a prison movie.”

  He got some laughs out of that.

  “Can you tell us about the screening of your newest picture at Cannes?”

  Essinger smiled. “I’m glad you brought that up. Tsunami Rising will have its world première in eight days’ time, the second night of the Cannes Film Festival. We will suspend production on Pirate Island for two days so that many of us can attend the screening. Mister Duling directed it, and Mister Laurence is the star. It will be a very special charity event at Cannes, a screening out of competition, of course. I’ve just had confirmation that Prince Edward and his wife Sophie from the UK will be attending, and Princess Caroline of Monaco will come. It will be a splendid evening.”

  That explained the notations Bond had seen in Essinger’s office in Paris!

  After the conference, Tylyn found Bond and hugged him again. The cameras flashed, much to Bond’s chagrin. “You’re coming with us, right?” she asked him.

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Bond said. “If you’ll still have me.”

  “Are you kidding? Come on, I’ll introduce you to Léon.”

  She led him past the reporters to where Essinger was talking to Fripp.

  “Léon,” she said, interrupting, “I’d like you to meet Mister Bond.”

  Essinger poured on the charm. “Bonjour, monsieur.”He shook Bond’s hand. It was firm but a little sweaty. Bond noted that the man’s body odor was particularly strong. Or was the smell coming from Fripp?

  “So I understand you’ll be joining us for a few days?” Essinger asked.

  “Yes, and I thank you for allowing me to do so,” Bond said.

  “Don’t thank me,” he said, “thank Tylyn. She’s the one who wants you here. Have you met your fellow countryman, Mister Fripp?”

  Bond shook hands with the stuntman. The grip was strong and vicelike. The freckle-faced Fripp smiled, revealing two missing teeth.

  Yes, the body odor was Fripp’s.

  “How do you do?” Bond asked.

  “Fine, mate. It’s a pleasure,” he replied.

  “Tylyn, I suggest you take your friend and get aboard,” Essinger said. “We set sail in thirty minutes.”

  “Let’s go,” she said to him.

  Bond grabbed a small bag that he had brought with him, then walked up the ramp with one of the world’s most desirable women.

  The Starfish was a floating hotel. There were rooms for fifty people, and the cast and crew took all of them. Accompanying the Starfish were several smaller craft carrying production equipment, costumes, and other supplies needed to support the production.

  She docked at Calvi that evening. Under orders from the producer, late night partying was discouraged. First call was to be at the marina early the next morning.

  Bond and Tylyn had a quiet dinner in town at one of the many sidewalk cafés off the main street. They had thin, crispy pizzas with a bottle of the local red wine. Afterward they strolled among the tourist shops, looking at the extensive displays of Corsican knives, Tshirts with the symbol of Corsica, “the moor,” on them, and other arts and crafts souvenirs.

  When they had grown weary of walking through the village, she turned to him without warning and asked that they go back to the ship. “Faisons l’amour,” she said.

  That night they made love in her cabin aboard the Starship, basking in the warmth of each other’s skin. It wasn’t as wild and savage as that first time in the woods near Tylyn’s horse farm. This time it was languorous and unhurried. The ebbs and tides of their pleasure were extended over several hours before they finally fell asleep in each other’s arms, sometime after midnight.

  The next morning the crew reported to the set on the harbor at sunrise. Art directors had been working through the night “ageing” the
marina. Set pieces had been added to create the illusion that the harbor was the handiwork of a future civilisation, after the “apocalypse.”

  The harbor looked nothing like it had the previous day. All contemporary boats had been removed and replaced by strange, ultramodern sea craft.

  “Oh, look, there’s my stunt double,” said Tylyn as they arrived.

  She pointed to a woman who was conversing with Rick Fripp. She was the same height and weight as Tylyn, and she had the same hairstyle, but the face was nothing like her. In fact, Bond thought she had the face of a bulldog.

  Bond followed Tylyn over to them.

  “Hi, I’m Tylyn,” she said.

  The woman introduced herself as Betty and shook Tylyn’s hand. She also had an English accent. Up close, Bond noticed that Betty was covered in scars.

  Rick Fripp said, “Betty’s one of the finest stuntwomen in the business. She’d take a bullet if the script called for it.”

  Betty said, “I have taken a bullet. It’s not fun.”

  “Was that for a movie?” Bond asked.

  “No, it was when I was arrested for armed robbery,” Betty said.

  What was this? Bond wondered. Did all stunt people have to spend time in prison before they were qualified for their profession?

  Filming got underway after Stuart Laurence arrived. The scene involved Stuart’s character, a fellow named “John Duncan,” and Tylyn’s character, a woman named “Sandra Jurinic,” bartering with a boatman. Just as the deal was made, they were attacked by a group of pirates who had surrounded the dock. John and Sandra managed to fight their way out of it, jumped on a boat, and escaped.

  There was a bit of dialogue between Stuart, Tylyn and a character actor playing the part of the boatman. The director, Duling, gave them minimal instruction and made a master shot from a wide angle. After a short break, they did four additional takes with more coverage. Bond watched from the sidelines, paying more attention to Rack Fripp than to the action. In his opinion, though, Tylyn did a more than respectable job in her short scene. She had a commanding presence, a good voice with strong timbre, and she looked absolutely marvelous.

  After lunch, the shooting continued with the fight sequence. The “pirates,” dressed in an odd mixture of period swashbuckler costuming and space age slickness, were choreographed to jump out of a “Trojan horse’-type of boat docked at the pier. As they took “John” by surprise, all sorts of mayhem erupted, including exploding grenades, fist fights, gunfire, and a hair-raising leap onto a traveling boat. Rick Fripp took over the direction and Bond was fairly impressed with his ingenuity and expertise. Perhaps the fellow was legitimate after all. Had he given up his bad-boy ways for good?

  Bond doubted it.

  Tylyn rehearsed the link between the earlier dialogue scene and her character’s fight sequence. She was allowed to throw a couple of punches and kick one of the pirates, but the more complicated and difficult moves were given to Betty. After the director called, “Cut!” Betty would step in, find the mark where Tylyn had been standing, and take over.

  When Tylyn was off camera, she stayed close to Bond.

  “I wish they’d let me do more,” she whispered. “Those moves aren’t that difficult. I think I’m more limber than her anyway.”

  “They can’t afford to have you get hurt, Tylyn,” Bond said. “Besides, what would we do if you injured your back?”

  She jabbed him in the side with her elbow, but she laughed. “Come here, you,” she said, pulling his head to hers. She kissed him deeply, in front of everyone.

  When she let go, Stuart Laurence said, “I hope you’ll kiss me like that in our love scene, Tylyn.”

  Everyone laughed and whistled, and Bond, for the first time in his life, felt a bit embarrassed. He didn’t like to flaunt his romances in public. He considered it in bad taste. Still, he was so taken with Tylyn that he went with the spirit of the moment.

  Léon Essinger, on the other hand, was not pleased. He muttered to Fripp, “Journalist indeed. I hope he’s getting one hell of a story.”

  In the small Chicago suburb of Buffalo Grove, Illinois, a national fastfood franchise was just changing its menu from breakfast to lunch. A steady crowd had been pouring in since the early hours, and the staff was prepared for the noon rush.

  The smell of grilled hamburgers filled the restaurant as a potpourri of people formed queues to order food. There were mothers with their toddlers, men wearing greasy overalls from the road work up the street, and employees from the strip mall shops.

  None of them noticed the Japanese man sitting alone, quietly eating his meal. After all, the dining area was already crowded. When he had finished, he slipped out of the chair, deposited his rubbish in the bin, placed his tray on the appropriate counter and left the premises. He was so inconspicuous that no one saw him leave a paper bag under his table.

  The explosion that occurred fifteen minutes later blew out two walls and killed forty-two people.

  The FBI spent the following three days at the site, attempting to piece together what had happened. They had very few clues, and not one of the surviving witnesses was able to identify the Japanese man. No one even remembered seeing him. In his preliminary report, the investigator in charge suggested that a radical anti-Semite had placed the bomb, for the village had a large Jewish population. But he was just guessing; there was no evidence to support this hypothesis.

  It was a week later when the FBI head office in Quantico, Virginia, received an anonymous note that mentioned the bombing in Illinois. It was written in Japanese, claiming that followers of Goro Yoshida were responsible for the crime. It had been perpetrated as a strike against the “decadent and sin-ridden West.”

  The note also promised that the best was yet to come.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE TRAWLER

  THE NEXT DAY, THE PRODUCTION MOVED OUT TO SEA. THE ART DIRECTORS had completed the preparation of a major action scene set some five miles out from the northwest coast of Corsica. The focal point of the scene was a large, disabled tanker that was rigged to be aflame when the scenes were shot. Other abandoned vessels were scattered about, floating on the water or half-submerged. A high-speed boat chase would occur in and out of this area.

  The Starfish sailed to the point, followed by the smaller boats carrying the equipment. One particular ship interested Bond and that was a trawler carrying all of Rick Fripp’s equipment. It was the largest of the accessory boats and it also seemed to be the best guarded. The cast and crew had strict orders to stay away from it, ostensibly because there were explosives aboard. Bond had decided early on that he would have to get a look inside it.

  Tylyn had the day off, but they were stuck on the Starfish. The cast had the options of swimming in the ship’s indoor pool, trying a little scuba diving in the sea, amusing themselves in the ship’s cinema or game room, or simply relaxing on deck. Tylyn chose to lounge on deck, and Bond joined her. He watched over the rail as Fripp and his team sped from point to point in speedboats, supervising the rigging of the special effects.

  Bond eventually found a moment to move away from Tylyn and make a call on his mobile.

  “Bertrand?” he asked when it was answered.

  “Hello, James. I hope you slept better than me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m in this little sportsboat, remember? And Ariel isn’t the most obliging of roommates. She takes up the entire back end of the boat. There’s no place for me!”

  “Sorry about that, Bertrand. Listen, we’re approximately five miles out from the coast, do you see us?”

  “I’ve been trailing behind, no problem,” Collette said. “I’m keeping a safe distance.”

  “Good. Tonight I’m going to attempt to get over to Fripp’s equipment trawler. Get some sleep today and I’ll contact you after midnight.”

  “Over and out, James.”

  The day progressed uneventfully. Bond and Tylyn sunned themselves on deck, had dinner in the ship’s dinin
g room, segregated from the rest of the cast and crew. The rumors were flying about the couple, and Essinger, for one, was not happy about it. But Tylyn and Bond were oblivious to the gossip. Even though Bond was acting on a pretext, he found that he was enraptured with Tylyn. When two people are in the throes of courtship, when joy and sensuality overwhelm them, when they cannot possibly be happy if they are not with their new partner—then they are blind to everything around them.

  As they walked back to her cabin after the late meal and bottle of champagne, Bond was lost in his thoughts. He had purposefully sought out Tylyn in order to get close to the film production. His aim had always been to investigate Essinger. However, he had done very little spying and much more lovemaking. In some ways, he felt guilty about it. Was he doing his job? Was he learning anything new about the Union? On the other hand, he felt perfectly entitled to enjoy himself with this wonderful girl. While he had experienced the love of many women, he rarely reciprocated with more than his body. This was one of those uncommon occurrences when he had to admit that he was falling in love. He was treading on dangerous ground, to be sure. Once again his brain attempted to warn him that Tylyn was far too famous for him to be involved with. And, once again, his heart told him otherwise.

  When they were in bed, naked and entwined, Tylyn took his right hand and slowly licked and sucked on each finger. “You have such strong hands,” she said. “Make love to me with just your hands.”

  Bond obliged her by first massaging her feet. He kneaded the heels, pressed hard on the bottoms of the big toes, rubbed the arches, and gently applied pressure to the soft spots below her ankles. Carefully, tantalizingly, he worked his way up each leg, one at a time, working the muscles and sending waves of pleasure up her spine. Bond purposefully avoided her sex and moved to her waist and hips. He massaged her there for a while, then navigated to her shoulders. He took each arm and squeezed the muscles all the way down to her fingers. He pressed his thumbs into the fleshy mounds in her palms.