“Come now!”
Another policeman fought his way into the group and stuck his head inside the van, eyeing them with malice. He was blond and red-faced and brutal, a tattoo running up the side of his neck. He retreated, took the man with their badges aside. It was not a friendly exchange. The blond policeman snatched the badges from his colleague and thrust them at the driver. “Okay,” he said. “See? I learned how to be a nice guy.”
He gave Mattias and the others a withering look and slid the door closed.
Mattias saw his name tag as they passed through the barrier and toward the red carpet.
GALLONDE.
The soldiers were young, barely out of training, perhaps nineteen or twenty. They stood at the corner of Rue Pasteur and the Boulevard de la Croisette, marking the far perimeter of the security zone. Barely one kilometer from the Palais, Simon felt as if he were in a different city altogether. The sidewalks were nearly deserted. The occasional car passed by. A few shops had lowered their shutters, eager for the workday to be done. Even the grand hotels looked quiet, the Martinez, the Carlton.
Danni approached the soldiers at a jog, halting, a hand to her chest. She had let her hair down and untucked her shirt. Even with her muscular arms, veins popping, she appeared every inch the worried mother. “My daughters are locked in my car,” she said breathlessly. “I don’t know how I did it. Please, can you help?”
Only one of the soldiers spoke enough English to understand. “Your children are in the car?”
Danni nodded, leading the way, explaining that she was a tourist from Israel. Did they know Tel Aviv?
The soldiers exchanged a few words as they followed her across the street and into a parking structure. She pointed at a Peugeot station wagon. “Please. Can you open the door? I’m so scared.”
The soldiers neared the car, heads bent, trying to peer inside.
Simon moved from his position behind a concrete pillar, striking the larger man with the butt of Danni’s pistol. He dropped. Before his smaller colleague could react, Danni crushed the man’s knee with a kick, spun him round, and placed him in a headlock, holding him until he fell limp, and then a while longer to make sure he remained unconscious.
It was over in fifteen seconds.
The harder part was undressing them. Even unconscious, the soldiers fought like lions, it being nearly impossible to pull the uniforms off their limp limbs. Simon’s uniform fit him well. Danni’s posed the bigger problem, but after rolling up the sleeves and stuffing the trousers into the tops of her boots, she looked the part. The vests, berets, and Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns completed the trick.
Simon used the soldiers’ flex-cuffs to bind their hands behind their backs. He stuffed a sock into their mouths to keep them quiet. He ran up the aisle until he found an unlocked car and, with Danni’s help, stuffed the soldiers into the back seat. He hoped it was enough to keep them out of commission.
“Now?” he asked.
“We do what every soldier here has been taught. We protect the Palace.”
They set off at a jog toward the festival, slowing when they reached the first barrier, passing through without contest. The number of soldiers grew as they neared the second barrier. Few addressed them. Simon nodded and grunted,“Salut,”pouring on the Marseille accent. With his two-day stubble and brooding looks, no one thought to question him.
They arrived at the second barrier a minute later. The system was simple enough. Residents, business owners, and credentialed visitors were allowed inside the outer perimeter. Only credentialed festival-goers were allowed inside the second barrier. There was a third barrier on the far side of the promenade. Only those persons holding tickets to the film were granted entry to the Palais des Festivals.
Simon and Danni walked past the steel traffic barriers, maintaining the attitude of soldiers on patrol. Turning left, they crossed the esplanade adjacent to the Palais. A large number of people came toward them, many of them photographers busying themselves packing away cameras.
Simon began to jog, but Danni put an arm on his.
“Calm,” she said.
Simon slowed his pace to a brisk walk.
They were late.
London gripped the wheel of the Ferrari as if holding on to a bucking bronco. The car was too fast, too powerful, too savage for her to control. A tap of the accelerator sent it hurtling down the road far too rapidly, the throaty, violent engine delivering frightening vibrations through her body. She could feel the tires gripping the asphalt—feel them—and this unholy communion between road and car and driver left her far too exhilarated, fearing for her life.
She followed the coast road out of Cannes, past the smaller marinas, and into Juan-les-Pins. The route veered south as it navigated the Antibes peninsula, gentle hills rising on her left, the scent of heated pine flooding the car.Faster,a voice urged her.We haven’t enough time. We’re relying on you.But was it Simon or the madly capable Israeli woman? Or both of them? Defying her every instinct, she kept her foot on the pedal and her mouth closed in case any second she might scream.
A sign popped up for the hotel.
No! She was going too fast to make the left-hand turn. Traffic approached in the opposing direction.Faster!Clenching her jaw, she yanked the wheel to the left and pressed the accelerator, the Ferrari leaping forward like a prisoner escaping her bonds as it cut across the oncoming lane, the roar of the motor more than loud enough to drown out the protesting horns.
Up an incline. Right onto the Boulevard J. F. Kennedy. She spotted tall pillars guarding the hotel drive. Still driving much too quickly, she turned too late, then overcorrected, the nose of the car narrowly missing one pillar.
She was there.
