a bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge. “I tell you this right now, Mr. Riske. No one is going to interfere with the premiere of my motion picture.”
Simon went to the bar and took a bottle of mineral water for himself and for London, opening them, and handing one to her. He returned his attention to Sun and said: “Has Luca Borgia ever had any involvement with your movie? Think about it for a second.”
Sun shook his head violently. “Never. Why would he? I barely know him. It’s been years since—” He stopped.
“Since what?” asked London.
“It was years ago…”
“Go on,” said Simon.
“He might have been the one who told my aunt about the documentary.”
“The documentary?”
“They were at lunch. His foundation had been approached by a British researcher who wished to make a film about the refugee crisis, in particular the story of the Medusa.”
“M. L. De Winter?”
“Yes. Aunt Nadya said Luca was laughing about it, saying the woman was certainly barking up the wrong tree. Of course I immediately recognized it for what it was: a tremendous idea.”
“Of course you did,” said Simon.
“Did Borgia know your aunt well?” asked London.
“A little too well from what I gather,” said Sun, dripping sarcasm.
“They were intimate?”
“If that’s what you call rutting with a brute like that, then yes. He seduced Milady, too. I’ve never forgiven her.”
“Milady?” said Simon.
“Our screenwriter. That’s her first name. Milady De Winter. It’s her nom de plume. You know, from the novel. The Three Musketeers.”
Simon gripped the bottle harder, sure it would shatter, wondering if his shock was visible. He’d suspected it for days now, had dredged up one excuse after another not to believe it. Here it was. Proof. Alexandre Dumas couldn’t have come up with anything better himself. Small world.
Sun’s eyes left his, newly engaged by something else. Something behind Simon. A look of surprise, then terror. There was a wet whisper, a fléchette blown from a dart gun. The left lens of Sun’s eyeglasses shattered. He staggered. Blood, dark as wine, flowed from the ruined socket. The diminutive producer toppled over backward, lay motionless on the floor.
“Hello, friend,” said a smooth, South African–inflected voice. “Good to see you again.”
Chapter 67
Grasse, France
The vests looked smaller than Mattias had imagined. Black nylon. Sleek. Professional. A succession of pockets circling the waist. A zipper and straps to secure it. He saw no wires; then again, he would not be responsible for detonating the explosives contained inside it.
Four vests for four men.
“Once you put it on,” explained Sheikh Abdul in a kind, patient voice, “you can never again take it off. After I have secured it, you must consider yourselves as having died and entered paradise. Do not be frightened. It will be easier this way. You will feel freer. What is there to worry about? Your soul has already passed to a higher plane and joined your ancestors. Your destiny is assured. You will feel only peace. The pains of this world are behind you. We should all be so blessed.”
Mattias stood inside the bedroom alongside the men with whom, in the space of a few hours, he would end his life. The four looked on with rapt expressions. None appeared frightened. They had made their decision long ago. They would be happy to be finished of it.
“When you are inside the great palace,” the sheikh continued, “you will take your seats and wait for the film to begin. It is essential that every last member of the audience be allowed to enter. Even one more infidel’s death will please Allah. Ten minutes after the film has begun, you will rise from your seats, walk to the aisles, and take up your assigned positions, each of you occupying one corner of the auditorium. You will feel nothing. Perhaps a last pleasant sensation of warmth. It will be Allah embracing you to his bosom.”
The sheikh looked from one man to the next, blessing them with his regard. “Questions?”
No one said a word.
“Who shall be first?”
Mattias stepped forward. He wore only his underwear, socks, and T-shirt. The vest might chafe his skin. It was essential that each man appear relaxed and comfortable. They had been ordered to smile as they strode the red carpet. To wave. To be the picture of happiness. Later, all would comment on their fearlessness. The world would know the Magnificent Four.
Sheikh Abdul lifted one of the vests in his hands solemnly, as one might lift the Koran during prayers. Mattias turned and placed his arms through