“Don’t shut it off. Don’t do anything except put it in your pocket and keep it away from Borgia.”
“London, you don’t have to do this,” said Simon.
“It’s really no different from what I do for a living. Track down people. Pressure them into speaking with me.”
“You want the gun?” asked Simon.
“And do what with it? Shoot myself in the foot?”
“Take it,” said Danni. “You never know.”
London held out her hand. Simon gave her the pistol. She tucked it into her belt and covered it with her blouse. Fast learner.
“Have you ever shot one?” he asked.
“Aim and pull the trigger. If it comes to it, I doubt I’ll be far away from the target.” London turned her attention to the car. “I’m more worried about this monster. I haven’t driven in years.”
“Don’t worry,” said Simon, patting the hood. “A Ferrari practically drives itself.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” London slipped into the car and adjusted the seat. She started the ignition and touched the accelerator, jumping at the engine’s aggressive response.
“Go fast,” said Danni. “Go very fast.”
It was five twenty-seven Saturday evening.
The van moved slowly down the Croisette, the Palais in sight ahead, situated next to a large promenade, the ocean beyond that. They had been stopped once already, a policeman putting his head inside the driver’s window, asking where they were going and to see their badges. “Palais,” the driver answered. “Red carpet.” All four held up their credentials and smiled as they’d been instructed. The policeman radioed a superior. A moment’s pause, then he waved them forward. Barriers were moved aside. The van continued on.
Mattias wiped the sweat from his forehead. It seemed to him that they were in a country at war, so great was the number of soldiers lining the sidewalk. Behind them, a crowd of onlookers gazed at the van, at the dark faces inside it, many standing on their tiptoes, a hundred phones taking their photograph.
“Smile and wave,” Sheikh Abdul had instructed them.
Mattias smiled and waved. Inside, though, he was a mess. His earlier pious certainty had begun to fade as soon as they left the villa and started the drive to Cannes. A new thought had come to him, growing with every minute, threatening to paralyze him. Worse than dying was the prospect of arrest, of spending the rest of his days in a prison cell. The worry ate at him as surely as acid eats through steel, attacking his confidence, his will to see the act through.
They passed beneath an imposing billboard advertising the movie. Their movie. They pointed at it and commented, awestruck. Mattias regarded himself, dressed in a tuxedo, driving along the Croisette in Cannes. For a moment, he forgot his concerns, forgot the vest strapped to his chest, and half wondered if he really was an actor. If that dark face on the billboard was him. Even at this distance, fame was intoxicating.
“Are you frightened?” asked young Mohammed.
“Of what?” said Mattias, astounded that his voice did not falter. “Either way, we will be at peace by the end of the day.”
Mohammed nodded. He did not appear as convinced.
The van slowed and came to a halt. A second set of barriers blocked the road. Policemen swarmed the vehicle. The driver rolled down his window. Another policeman banged on the passenger-side door. The driver lowered that window as well.
“Credentials. Everyone.”
Mattias and the others held them up.
“Give them to me.”
Mattias took the badge from his neck. He looked at his friends before handing it to the driver, who in turn gave them all to the policeman. Mattias remained still, silently praying as the policeman examined the badges, taking pains to compare each to the four men seated in the van. The policeman’s face darkened. Something was not right.
“Out,” he said, speaking English. “Everyone out of the van.”
The driver remonstrated in French. They were already late. Can’t the man see, these are the film’s stars! What could possibly be the matter?
The policeman opened the sliding door. A half-dozen soldiers stood behind him. They held their submachine guns away from their chests, barrels pointed to the ground, fingers resting on the trigger guards. Mattias could sense their apprehension, excitement even. Finally, a little action.
The policeman continued to study their badges, waiting. Mattias felt as if he were chained to his seat. To exit the van meant capture. Jail, if they could remove the vest. Either way, failure.