brushing his back as it passed with a great
The horn sounded nothing like that unmistakable
In an instant Bond was on his feet running down the far bank towards the Route Nationale, his thumb already up in the hitch-hiker's position. But luck was still with him. As he reached the edge of the road he saw a small, battered pickup truck pulled into the side. Two men were being dropped off, and there were four others in the back, shouting farewells to their comrades. They looked like farm-workers going home after a long backbreaking day in the vineyards.
'Going into Perpignan?' Bond shouted in French.
The driver, a cigarette stuck unlit in the corner of his mouth, nodded from the window. 'A lift?' Bond asked. The driver shrugged, and one of the men in the back called for him to jump up. Within seconds they were edging into the traffic, Bond crouched down with the other men -thanking providence for his own facility with the French language. He sneaked a peep towards the airport side of the railway tracks. There was no sign of Caber or the others.
No, Bond thought, they would be running for cars-Murik would be well organised here-his men would already be taking short cuts into Perpignan to head Bond off.
Cars already had their headlights on, as the dusk gathered quickly around them. Bond asked the time, and one of the workmen told him it was after nine, holding out his wrist with pride, to show off a brand new digital watch, explaining it was a gift from his son. 'On my saint's day,' he said. The digits showed four minutes past nine, and Bond realised that they were in a different time zone, an hour later than British time. 'We'll have to move if we're going to see the fun,' the man said.
Fun? Bond shrugged, explaining he had just come in on a flight, 'with freight'. He was very late, and had to meet a man in Perpignan.
'All men are in Perpignan tonight. If you can find them,' laughed one of the workers.
Bond scowled, asking why. 'Something special?'
'Special?' the man laughed. It was Perpignan 's night of nights. 'Fete,' one explained.
They all laughed. Bond suddenly remembered that he had been here before for the fete. Every town in the Mediterranean had its own rituals, its battle of flowers, processions, carnivals – usually religious. In Perpignan it was the great feast of St John; when the whole town was crammed to the gills, and there was dancing in the streets singing, fireworks, spectacle. The festivities started when bonfires were lit by a flame, brought, with Olympian ceremony, by runners from a high point in the Canigou mountain itself. He could not have arrived in this ancient place at better time. There would be crowd cover until the early hours; and with luck, enough breathing space to find a way of making contact with London and M.
16 FETE AND FATE
THEY DROPPED HIM off on the corner of the Place de la Resistance, which was already full of people standing shoulder to shoulder, pushing along the pavements. There were plenty of police in evidence, directing traffic, closing off streets, and – presumably – keeping an eye open for troublemakers.
Bond stepped back into the crowd. It was some years since he had been here, and first he had to get his bearings. In the middle of the crush of people, Bond realised, with a sudden stab of fear, that his legs were shaking. Directly in front of him there were three great bonfires ready to be lit. To the left he saw a bridge spanning the well-kept canal, banked here by green lawns and flowers, which runs, above and below ground, through the town: a tributary of the river Tet.
A platform had been built over the bridge and was even now crowded with musicians. A master of ceremonies spoke into an uncertain microphone, telling the crowds about the next
On the far side of the bridge, other circles had taken up the dance in front of the towering red Castillet – the old city gateway, still intact, glowing russet in the light from the street lamps; its circular tower and battlements topped by what looked like a minaret.
The crowds began to thicken, and the music thumped on with its hypnotic beat and lilting melodies, the circles of dancers growing wider, or reforming into smaller groups young and old, impeccable in their timing, and dancing as though in a trance. It was as if these people were reaching back through the years, linking hands with their past.
Bond thought that if there were to be any future for them – or at least a chance of one – he had better move fast. Telephone London. Which was the best way? Call from a telephone box on the direct dialling international system? For that he would need money. It would have to be quick, for telephone booths – particularly on the Continent – are highly unsafe, and Bond had no desire to be trapped in a glass coffin, or one of those smaller, triangular affairs which would preclude keeping an eye on his rear.
The first move was to lose himself in the swelling throng, which rose and fell like a sea. Above all else, he had to be watchful, for Murik's men could be already among the crowds, their eyes peeled for him; and if they saw him Bond knew what he could expect. Most likely they would use dirks, sliding the instruments of death through his ribs, covered by the crowd, in the middle of the celebrations. There was no point in going to the police – not on a night like this, without identification. They would simply lock him up and perhaps tomorrow, when it was too late, telephone the British Consul.
Bond took a deep breath and began to move through the crowd. It would be best to keep to the fringes, then disappear into a side street.
He had just started to move when a large black Mercedes swept into the Place, only to be halted by a gendarme, who signalled that it should turn back. The road was about to be closed. The driver spoke to the policeman in French, then turned to the occupants of the car. Bond's heart missed a beat. Next to the driver sat Caber, while the three other big Scotsmen were crammed into the rear.
Caber got out, two of the men joining him, while the gendarme made noises suggesting they get the car out of the way as soon as possible.
Bond tried to shrink back into the crowd as he watched Caber giving orders. The men dispersed – Caber and two of them crossing the Place, the last diving into the crowd a little to Bond's right. The hounds were there, trying to spot him or sniff him into the open. Bond watched the big lad shouldering himself away. Then he moved, taking his time, along the fringe of the crowd, going slowly out of necessity, and because of the density of the shouting, laughing, chattering people. Bond kept looking back and then scanning the way ahead and across the road. The band had stopped and the master of ceremonies was saying that the Flame, carried from near the summit of the Canigou by teams of young people, was now only a few minutes from its destination. A few minutes, James Bond knew, could mean anything up to half an hour. The band started up again and the dancers responded. Bond kept to the edge of the crowd, slowly making his way across the now sealed-off road, towards the towering Castillet. He was looking for a street he recalled from previous visits: an ancient square almost entirely covered by tables from the cafes. They should be doing a roaring trade tonight. He reached the Castillet and saw another bonfire ready and waiting to be lit. A great circle of dancers around it was going through the intricate patterns, slightly out of time to the music, which was distorted on the night air. On the far side of the circle he spotted one of Caber's men turning constantly and searching faces in the throng. Bond held back, waiting until he was certain the man was looking away from him; then he dodged nimbly through the crowd, sidestepping and pushing, until he found a clear path
