Never Dream Of Dying

by Raymond Benson

  After a moment’s silence came the voice. “Here we are again, Mister Bond. We seem to meet under the most unusual circumstances.”

  Bond shot toward the voice, but then he heard Cesari laugh behind him. Bond twisted again and fired. There was silence and then the voice came from yet another place in the dark.

  “You’re in my habitat now, Mister Bond,” Cesari said. “You can’t see a thing, can you? Neither can I, but as I explained to you before, I can see. I know exactly where you are.”

  As Cesari spoke, Bond could hear his voice moving. He fired the gun into the darkness again, but the laugh came from a different direction.

  The club struck him hard on the right shoulder blade.

  “Was that your head or your shoulder?” Cesari asked. “Forgive me, I know where you are, but I suppose my aim isn’t perfect.”

  Bond was in agony. If his shoulder blade wasn’t broken, it was bruised as hell. He lay on the ground, clutching his arm.

  “Have you had any strange dreams lately, Mister Bond?” Cesari asked. “You know what they say … never dream of dying. It just might come true.”

  Bond rolled over to face the direction of the voice and spray-fired the Walther. This time he heard an “Oompf,” and a sharp intake of breath. Something hit the floor, probably the club Cesari had been using to hit him with. Bond fired again.

  He managed to get to his feet and remove the camera from his belt. He ejected the ophthalmoscope cylinder, dropped the camera, and switched on the light. It gave him enough illumination to see shapes within ten feet around him.

  There on the floor, a few feet away, he saw Olivier Cesari attempting to crawl away. He had been hit, but it was difficult to tell how badly.

  “Hold it, Cesari, I see you now,” Bond said. “Give it up. Hands above your head.”

  Cesari stopped moving and sat down on the ground. He held his side, which appeared to be soaked in blood.

  But before Bond could make another move, he felt another presence rushing toward him. A powerful fist hit him in the face and a shoe kicked the Walther out of his hand. He dropped the ophthalmoscope as he fell to his knees.

  Two torches switched on, flooding the chamber with light.

  He looked up and saw the man known as the Sailor with a torch and a gun pointed right at his head. Next to him were Ché-Ché le Persuadeur, also holding a torch, and Marc-Ange Draco, who said, “You had better raise your hands, James. It’s over.”

  TWENTY - NINE

  THE FINAL VISIT

  BOND WASN’T SURPRISED TO SEE HIS FATHER-IN-LAW.

  The Sailor and Ché-Ché relieved Bond of his weapons, threw his headset on the ground, then resumed covering him.

  “I was wondering if you would turn up, Marc-Ange,” Bond said. He slowly raised his hands. He nodded to the Sailor. “Your ‘eyes and ears’, I presume?”

  Draco replied, “Yes, the Sailor has always worked for me. You never cease to amaze me, James. When I got that phone call from you this morning, I thought that you were still in the dark, so to speak. I should have known that you might feed me false information. Stupidly, I trusted you at your word.”

  “We watched some security camera tapes last night, Marc-Ange. When I saw your security firm, the men in green uniforms delivering the film cans to the Palais in Cannes, I knew then that you were involved.”

  “Securité Vert,” Draco said. “Yes, they were my men. So that’s how you caught me. Interesting. Now I understand why you called this morning and asked if I would be interested in helping you with a raid tomorrow. You said that it was taking more time than expected for the various governments to put together an assault team. Ha, and then you show up a few hours later and surprise us. Very clever, James. You knew that we would have abandoned ship already had we not believed that we had more time. Le Gérant would have been far away from here.”

  “Why, Marc-Ange?” Bond asked. “Why join up with this poor excuse of a businessman?” He gestured to Cesari, who slowly stood and limped over to the Sailor.

  Draco shrugged. “The money was better. Besides, blood is thicker than water. Olivier here is my nephew. His father and I were half brothers. We shared the same mother, you see.”

  The news was like a punch in the solar plexus. That explained a hell of a lot, Bond thought. Christ, that would make him related, by marriage, to Le Gérant! Tracy and Cesari were cousins!

  Draco continued, “When Olivier took over the Union from its American founder a few years ago, I was one of the silent investors who helped fund him. Needless to say, my investment has paid off splendidly. As the Union grew in power and size, I was happy to let it absorb the old Union Corse. It was a pleasure to let someone else be in charge for a change. I hadn’t … been the happiest of men in many years.”

  It was all clear to Bond now. After the death of Tracy, Draco, once a criminal but a man with principles, had become a bitter, vengeful man. He was a totally different person from the man Bond once called his friend.

  “It grieves me, James, to have to do this to someone who is family,” Draco said. “You have to die today, my son.”

  “Marc-Ange, you have the power to walk away from all this,” Bond said. “I cannot believe that you would have allowed that bomb in Cannes to kill so many people.”

  Draco shook his head. “Then you don’t understand me at all, James. After what I have gone through, I didn’t care what happened to a bunch of rich movie stars. Do you remember me telling you that I remarried and had a child?”

  “Yes. You said that they died in an accident.”

  “It was no accident. My young wife was an actress, a beautiful young woman who had her whole life and career ahead of her. Our little girl, Irene, was a child actress. She had been on the stage a few times. She was making her first motion picture with her mother in Nice … when you killed them.”

  “Me?”

  “Last January,” Draco said. “The fire at Côte d’Azur Studios. You told me yourself that you had fired the shots that burst the petrol tanks. That fire killed a number of innocent people, James, and I’ll bet that you had not one single moment of remorse.”

  “That’s not true, Marc-Ange,” Bond said. “I felt terrible about it. I’m very sorry about your wife and daughter, but it was an accident. You know I didn’t set out to kill anyone inside that soundstage.”

  “Apologies are not accepted,” Draco said. “I am Corsican, and we take blood vendettas very seriously. They can never be broken. I cannot let you kill my nephew, nor can I allow you to wreak any more havoc on the Union. The war is over, James, and you have lost.”

  Cesari limped to Bond and stared through him. With a sneer, he hit Bond in the stomach. Bond doubled over and fell to the floor.

  “Ché-Ché, Sailor, take Le Gérant out to the helicopter,” Draco said. “I’ll wait here with our friend.”

  “Are you sure, boss?” the Sailor asked. “We can finish him off for you if you want.”

  “No, go on,” Draco said. “Get him to a doctor quickly.”

  The two men led Cesari out of the cavern after giving Draco one of the torches.

  “This tunnel leads to a hidden helipad in the hills behind Olivier’s estate. It’s a real pity that you destroyed the house. It was worth a lot of money,” Draco said.

  Bond started to get up but Draco pointed a Glock at him. “Even though you’re my former son-in-law, James, don’t think that I won’t shoot you.”

  “Then do it, Draco,” Bond spat. “Get it over with, or do you have any more speeches to make?”

  Draco shook his head. “You were always impatient and petulant, weren’t you, James? We’re going to sit here and wait a few minutes. I have to give Olivier time to get out of here. You see, all of the explosives your little assault team has placed in the house are superfluous. The entire complex is set to blow up in …” he glanced at his watch, “… approximately five minutes. It will take out the house, your men, and, unfortunately, this lovely cavern.”

  “What
about you?” Bond asked.

  “Oh, I’m cashing in my chips, James,” Draco said with a sigh. “My world just hasn’t been the same without my wife and daughter. There is no joy for me any more. I have decided to end my miserable life, and I’m going to take you with me.”

  Ironically, Bond found himself faced with the opposite dilemma. Could he kill his father-in-law? A man he had admired?

  Then it hit Bond. “You were trying to put me in Cesari’s clutches the entire time, weren’t you? You deliberately misled me, telling me that Léon Essinger wasn’t important. Instead, you threw clues at me, advised me, pointed the way to this place so that your nephew could get rid of me as he pleased.”

  “Yes, but you managed to escape,” Draco said. “That complicated matters. We nearly aborted the project, but Le Gérant had confidence that it could still be pulled off. Now then. I suppose I should play it smart and shoot you here and now.”

  Once again, Bond started to stand but Draco stopped him. “Just stay on the ground, James. I feel safer that way.”

  Draco didn’t notice that Bond had repositioned himself on the cavern floor. He had sat down on the ophthalmoscope cylinder that he had dropped earlier. Bond palmed it and stuck it in the elastic of his sleeve.

  “What difference does it make, Marc-Ange?” Bond asked. “If we’re both going to die in a few minutes, what’s the point in feeling safe?”

  “I want to keep you here long enough for Olivier to get away. I don’t care what happens to me.”

  “Then let’s have a cigarette,” Bond suggested. “I carry fine Turkish—”

  “Forget it. You’ll only pull out one of your tricks,” Draco said. “I said stay down—”

  Bond moved as if to reposition himself again but instead switched on the ophthalmoscope’s laser and pointed it at Draco’s face. The light surprised and blinded him momentarily, long enough for Bond to jump up and kick the Glock out of Draco’s hand. The gun slid on the incline but lodged against a rock before going over the ledge. Bond stood, stepped in to Draco, and punched him across the face. The man fell backward and rolled until he stopped, face down.

  Bond carefully moved down the incline and picked up the Glock. It was a shame that those other two had taken his weapons. Hopefully he could catch them in time.

  He walked up the incline and started to run in the direction they had gone, but he heard Draco say, “James.”

  Bond whirled to see Draco with a miniature derringer, something he probably had kept up his sleeve. There was a pop as flame burst from its barrel and Bond felt a sharp, searing pain in his left shoulder. Instinctively, Bond fired the Glock, hitting Draco between the eyes. The former organized-crime boss jerked back and crumpled to the ground like a puppet.

  There was no time to think about what he had just done. Bond turned, picked up his headset, and started to run as he spoke.

  “Perriot, get all the men out of the building now! It’s going to blow in two minutes! Move!”

  “I read you, James! Evacuation commencing!” he heard Perriot say.

  Bond followed the path through the cave, winding around fallen boulders and what appeared to be still active formations. The ground was very damp, the air was musty and there were more stalagmites to contend with. Eventually he came to a solid wall and could find no other way through.

  Damn! He must have missed a turn. How much time was left?

  He backtracked, studied the walls more carefully, and this time saw an opening to the right that he hadn’t noticed earlier. He went through it and could smell fresh air. The light was brighter and natural.

  He emerged from the cave on the inside of a hollowed-out hill. The sides of the hill adequately disguised the helipad and stone bunker that had been constructed there. A French Aerospatiale Astazou Alouette III was idling, its blades whirring around in anticipation of lifting off. Bond could see a pilot, Ché-Ché, the Sailor, and Cesari inside the elongated cockpit. Two Union men were supervising on the ground, their backs to Bond.

  He aimed the Glock at the pilot and fired just as the helicopter began to rise. The windscreen shattered, the pilot recoiled and slumped in his chair. The Sailor’s face registered surprise as he pointed at Bond. The two men on the ground turned and drew their weapons, but Bond swung his gun toward them and fired first. The guards fell back against the bunker wall and collapsed. Bond continued to fire at the figures in the cockpit, but he ran out of ammunition. He dropped the Glock and ran to the bunker, praying that there would be more weapons inside. Bond kicked the door open and rushed at a third guard inside the bunker. Before the man could react, Bond punched him in the stomach and threw him to the floor. He then kicked him in the chest, stamped on his face and kicked him again in the ribs for good measure.

  Thank Heaven! There was a cabinet containing several rifles. Bond used his boot to break the glass doors. He reached in, grabbed a 40-calibre M203 grenade launcher, checked to see that it was loaded and ran outside.

  The helicopter was destabilized, rising by itself. The Sailor had pushed the pilot out of the way and moved into his seat, desperately trying to get the aircraft under his control. The Alouette wavered awkwardly in the air but suddenly regained its balance and hovered some sixty feet off the ground. Bond raised the weapon and aimed at the rotors. He squeezed the trigger and felt a tremendous kick against his shoulder.

  The helicopter started to shift direction as if it were ready to move from its stationary position just as the grenade exploded over the top of the blades. The flames engulfed the cockpit as the aircraft shook, completely disabled. The fireball appeared to swallow the helicopter whole as the craft shot out of Bond’s sight. He could hear the roar though. The glissando from a high pitch to a low one indicated that they were on the way down.

  He not only heard the crash but felt it as the ground shook.

  Bond dropped the M203 then quickly climbed to the top of the hill and out onto its exterior. The only traces left of the Union and Le Gérant lay in the messy bonfire below.

  Not quite thirty seconds later, the world convulsed as the hidden bombs in the house blew. There was a chain reaction, for the Union’s bombs set off the explosives that Perriot and his men had been setting. The result was a destructive force nearly three times that which had been intended.

  Bond hit the ground and felt the heat pass over him. Pieces of debris fell all around him, and he must have been at least a quarterkilometer away from the house.

  In a couple of minutes, it was all over. He could hear the surviving soldiers hooting with joy. Bond got up, held his shoulder, and walked back to the site of the devastation.

  The strike team had made it out in time. Perriot helped Bond get emergency medical treatment for the gunshot wound and offered to ride with him to Propriano, the nearest village with decent medical facilities. Bond declined, but thanked him anyway. All told, the Interpol force lost nearly half its men, but there wasn’t a single survivor from Union headquarters.

  The battle, and perhaps the war, was over.

  THIRTY

  THE END

  THE WAITER BROUGHT A BOTTLE OF NUITS-SAINT-GEORGES. AFTER HE HAD uncorked it and Bond had tasted it, the waiter poured the two glasses and left the couple alone.

  It was early afternoon and they were sitting at one of the many sidewalk cafés in the old town of Nice, not far from the flower market made famous in Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief. Tylyn had worn sunglasses in the hope of avoiding recognition, but they were no use. An American tourist asked her for an autograph (on a napkin, no less—Bond wondered why anyone would bother) and some giggling French teenagers interrupted them to ask if she really was Tylyn Mignonne.

  “If you’d rather leave, we can,” Bond suggested.

  “No, it’s all right,” she said. “I’m used to it. People recognize me all the time.”

  She took a sip of wine and sat quietly. Bond had never seen her so pensive.

  “Tylyn?”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m not saying much
. I think it’s probably because I have so much to say.”

  “Then why not just say it?”

  She looked away and rested her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, a posture that Bond thought of as “typically Tylyn.” He had seen her do it on a number of occasions, and it made her look more like an inquisitive college student and so unlike a model or wellknown actress that it was endearing.

  “Because I don’t know if it’s the right thing to say,” she replied.

  Bond shifted in his seat and poured another glass of wine and topped hers up. The doctor who had extracted the .22 bullet had given him pills for the pain and the throbbing in his left shoulder was just beginning to subside.

  But the pills wouldn’t work with affairs of the heart. That kind of pain was more resilient.

  “I served Léon with papers today,” she said, as if to change the subject. “I’m almost sorry I wasn’t there to see his reaction.”

  “I’m afraid that a divorce is the least of his concerns right now,” Bond noted.

  “Hmm. How long do you think he’ll be in jail?”

  “It’s difficult to say,” Bond said. “Depends on what the final sentence is. His lawyers will appeal, of course, and it could go on forever. But he won’t be roaming the streets, that’s for certain. He is accused of terrorism against his own country. Pretty serious stuff. He’s liable to go to jail for the rest of his life.”

  “I would like to feel sorry for him, but I don’t,” she said. She took another drink. “And to think that I thought I loved him once.”

  “Don’t be hard on yourself,” Bond said.

  “He wanted to kill me,” she said. “He knew that bomb would kill me, along with all those other people. He wanted my money, my family’s money, whatever he could get …”

  “But that won’t happen now,” Bond said. “Try to put him and what happened behind you. You’re an optimistic, life-loving girl. Don’t let this ruin your sparkling personality.”