naturally aspirated V-12 engine capable of generating 730 horsepower with a top speed of 280 miles per hour. In short, an ass-kicker of the first order.
In minutes, Simon had them on the A4 driving south through the Sihltal in the direction of Zug. He kept his foot to the pedal, passing where it was safe, and often where it wasn’t. There were radar traps everywhere—cameras carefully hidden to record your speed—and he knew that his friends at the dealership would be receiving letters from the traffic authority very soon containing photographs of an F12 Berlinetta with Simon and London visible inside the cockpit and their speed emblazoned across the bottom.
He wasn’t thinking about the fines, however. Of course he’d pay them, though he’d never be legally allowed to drive in Switzerland again. He was thinking about something else altogether.
It had been too easy.
Chapter 63
Cannes
A light rain fell on the Côte d’Azur. Samson Sun left his villa in the hills above Cannes at nine for the short trip into the city. He was a cautious driver and negotiated the winding road well below the speed limit. By the time he reached the bottom of the hill, a line of cars ten long stretched behind his Bentley, including a tractor. He paid them no heed. With less than twelve hours to go before the premiere, he did not intend on risking injury.
He turned right onto the Rue Jean de Riouffe, pleased to be back on a straight, flat road. Traffic moved slowly toward the coast. It was the festival. He saw the first sign of it soon enough. Policemen in fluorescent vests stood in the median, directing traffic. Accompanying them were soldiers dressed in blue utilities, armored vests, machine guns cradled to their chests. He had made sure his credentials were visible, hanging from a lanyard around his neck.
Traffic came to a halt, and he checked his appearance in the mirror. His head was newly shaven, and was as smooth and white as marble. His glasses were polished and in the sleekest order. No suit today, but white linen trousers and a billowy black shirt with a scarf tied at the neck. He was a pirate ready to storm the Barbary Coast. A Chinese Captain Blood. Errol Flynn, beware!
It promised to be a busy day. Lunch at the Martinez with an American film executive. Tea at the Carlton with a French distributor. Then home to get ready for his big night. A facial. A manicure. A massage, if there was time. At five p.m., a car would arrive to take him to the Palais des Festivals. There would be a press call, then the walk on the red carpet, a speech to the audience before the film began. And then, voilà: the world would get to see the wondrous project into which he’d put his very heart and soul.
But before any of that, a visit to the office of festival security.
A roadblock at the Boulevard de la Croisette stopped traffic dead. Traffic barriers lined the sidewalk. More soldiers patrolling. Policemen advanced on his car from every direction. All necessary, thought Sun, feeling safer because of them.
Several years earlier, on a warm summer night in Nice, a terrorist had commandeered a large truck and mounted the Promenade des Anglais, the broad pedestrian thoroughfare bordering the sea that ran the length of the town. Driving at high speed, he had mowed down hundreds of tourists, carving a mile-long path of death and destruction. Over eighty innocents were killed; dozens more injured, many severely. The French would not permit a second occurrence.
Sun extended his credentials through an open window along with a letter from festival organizers. The letter instructed him to appear that morning no later than eleven o’clock with two forms of government-issued identification at the office of festival security, where he would be issued a second set of credentials and tickets that would allow him to attend the premiere of his own movie.
The policemen moved the barrier aside and gave him directions where to park. Sun squeezed the Bentley through the gap and drove the short distance to the Palais des Festivals. The road ran parallel to the sea. Even with the rain, the Croisette bustled with activity. Banners hung from every streetlamp. Great billboards looked down on the street advertising one film or another. Reporters from television channels and entertainment journals around the world could be seen doing stand-ups in front of cameras. Executives strode imperiously to their next meeting. And there