All the while he felt as if the vest was closing around him, tighter and tighter, squeezing the air out of him. He wanted it to be over. If only they’d given him the detonator. His thumb twitched, seeking out something to press, a button to push. He looked to his left. Omar’s eyes were half closed. A low keening noise came from his lips. He did not look well. Mattias nudged him with an elbow, but it had no effect. Young Mohammed was rocking gently back and forth. Surely someone must notice. How could they not?
Mattias tapped his feet, his hands drumming the armrests. A furtive look to all quarters. No one was paying them notice, most too busy chatting among themselves. It wasn’t possible.
He could get up now. He could run out of the theater. They would have to detonate the vests then, whoever “they” were. His breath came faster. Anything was better than the waiting.
Suddenly, applause.
A man mounted the proscenium. His name was Renaud or something like that. He began to speak in French, then switched to English. Five minutes passed as he introduced the movie, apologizing that the director and producer had been taken ill. Mattias only half heard what he was saying. His heart was beating furiously, blood pounding between his ears, deafening him. He felt hot, unbearably hot.
A hand landed on his shoulder. Mattias jumped. A red-faced man seated behind him said, “Congratulations. I am happy for you. A triumph!”
Mattias tried to respond. He wanted to say “Thank you” or “Merci,” or “Tak” like he did in Sweden. His mouth would not work. He was mute. After a moment, he turned to stare at the screen.
And then, miraculously, the lights dimmed. Music.
The film began.
Ten minutes,thought Mattias.
Ten minutes and he would be free.
Simon and Danni crossed the esplanade adjacent to the Palais and headed to the red carpet.
The Palais des Festivals was a modern travertine-and-concrete building with sweeping panes of glass soaring from ground to roof—all right angles and dramatic planes. A broad set of stairs, red carpet running up its center, led to the entrance of the Grand Auditorium. A banner decorating the Palais’s façade readFESTIVAL DE CANNES, with the year’s specially designed logo—a dove in Picasso’s hand standing atop an old-fashioned film projector.
The staging area where celebrities stood for their photographs was deserted, somehow forlorn, a ballroom after the ball. Press, photographers, technicians were packing their wares, dismantling lights, stowing gear. It was ten minutes past six. The film ought to have begun.
Simon and Danni climbed the stairs. Plainclothes security guards stood by the doors to the Grand Auditorium. Simon walked to the center door. “We need to go inside.”
The guard looked him over, then at Danni. “Is there something the matter?”
“Open the door.”
The guard registered the tone of Simon’s voice. This was real. It was happening now. A man he should believe. “How can I help?”
“No commotion,” said Danni. “Everything very easy. No warning.”
The guard nodded. He was fifty, trim, with steel-colored hair cut close to the scalp. Ex-military, Simon guessed.
“Where are the actors sitting?” asked Simon.
“Row twenty. The first four seats on the aisle. Easier for them to reach the stage afterward.”
“Get another man,” said Danni. Then: “Can you shoot?”
“Yes. I can.”
“They’re wearing vests,” she said. “Remote detonation.”
The color drained from the guard’s face. He spoke into a hand mike. A few moments later, another man arrived, similarly dressed in a blue blazer, gray slacks, necktie. “This is Michel. I am Jean-Marc.”
Danni addressed the men. “We find them. We kill them. We get everyone out.”
The men nodded, recognizing Danni’s authority without question. Her Israeli accent told them everything they needed to know.
Danni took the safety off the submachine gun and turned the fire command to semiautomatic. Simon followed suit, placing one hand under the stock, the other on the grip, a finger inside the pistol guard.
“Can you shoot?” Danni asked.
