Huayu: This director is pretty strong.

Chapter 108 The Wind on Crossette Avenue

Nice Airport, Exit.

Su Wan hung up the phone, and the busy tone on the receiver was particularly jarring.

No one answered.

She glanced at her watch. "The limousine was two hours and fifteen minutes late, and the organizing committee's liaison officer is unreachable."

Wu Gang walked back from the crowded airport arrivals. Behind him, several men in suits and blue work badges crumpled up their welcome signs and stuffed them into the trash can.

"Old Chen, the car isn't coming."

Wu Gang's voice was deep.

Lin Qingqiu leaned against the luggage cart, subconsciously adjusting her posture to avoid putting weight on her injured right leg.

The Mediterranean sun was so bright it was hard to open your eyes.

"To the Martinez Hotel."

Chen Yan picked up the aluminum box containing the film negatives and walked towards the taxi stand. "The address on the invitation remains the same."

Half an hour later, three taxis stopped in front of the Martinez Hotel.

Behind the revolving door, the receptionist took the passport from Su Wan, tapped a few times on the keyboard, and then stopped.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Su."

He pushed the passport back, saying, "The booking for the 'Thunder' production was cancelled by the system half an hour ago."

"Whose orders?"

Chen Yan walked to the counter and tapped his fingers lightly on the cold marble surface.

The receptionist's gaze drifted toward the elevator.

"I'm sorry, sir, the system suggests you go to the Majorica Apartments, which is a backup accommodation."

"A guesthouse in the old town, three kilometers from the cinema."

Su Wan's voice turned cold.

"Which floor does He Ping live on?"

Chen Yan asked.

The receptionist's Adam's apple bobbed: "Top floor executive suite."

"Walk."

Chen Yan turned around, led his men down the steps, and headed directly towards another hotel on the street corner that had a four-star sign.

It was already 5 p.m. when we were settled into our room.

There was a knock on the door, and a white man named Reno walked in, identifying himself as the distribution manager of Gaumont Pictures.

He threw a copy of The Hollywood Reporter on the table with a photo of He Ping and other judges on the cover.

"Mr. Chen, half of Cannes knows about what happened to you."

Renault laid out a contract: "A ghost show at 2 a.m., and such a heavy subject matter. $50,000 for all European rights, and I'll handle the subsequent public relations."

Before Su Wan could speak, Chen Yan had already taken the contract, torn it in half, and thrown it at Renault's feet.

"I'm rejecting a mouthpiece."

Chen Yan stood up, looking down at the other person, "Go back and tell the person who gave you the bottom price that I can smell his fear."

Renault left with a livid face.

As soon as the door closed, Wu Gang pushed it open and entered, locking it behind him.

He opened his hand, revealing a white envelope in his palm.

"Just now, when that Frenchman was leaving, someone tried to put this in his bag, but I intercepted him."

The envelope was unsigned, but the Cannes Film Festival logo was printed on the back.

Chen Yan opened it and found a printed English report inside, suggesting that the organizing committee review the copyright of "Thunder" and be wary of the hidden political risks.

At the bottom of the page, there is a line of handwritten Chinese characters: "Lu's old case must be guarded against."

The strokes are sharp, with a downward force at the hook.

Chen Yan took out the blood-stained scrap of paper he had found in the ruins of the Tianjin Bell Tower from his inner pocket.

The handwriting on the two sheets of paper was exactly the same.

"This envelope smells."

Wu Gang leaned closer.

It smells like a mixture of sandalwood and old-fashioned photocopy powder.

"A person who should have died twenty years ago."

Chen Yan put away the letter and walked to the window.

On the terrace of the hotel across the street, several telephoto lenses were pointed directly at this spot.

He drew the curtains.

"Wu Gang, guard the gate."

"Qingqiu, change into that torn dress."

Lin Qingqiu's eyes lit up.

"Su Wan, contact Fazio in Italy and Miller in Germany, and tell them that I want to exchange a five-minute trailer for their list of independent cinema screenings across Europe."

"What if they refuse to give it to me?"

"Then let's project the trailer directly onto the big screen on Crosette Avenue."

Chen Yan picked up a spare disc. "The ghost screenings haven't started yet, so let's invite the whole of Cannes to watch an open-air movie first."

He walked out of the room and pressed the button for the top floor of the elevator.

The elevator doors opened, and indistinct conversations could be heard coming from the banquet hall at the end of the corridor.

Two security guards reached out to stop him.

Chen Yan didn't take the invitation; instead, he held up the handwritten letter in front of the security guard.

"Tell Vice Chairman He Ping that his letter was delivered to the wrong person."

A moment later, He Ping emerged, dressed in a tuxedo and carrying a glass of red wine.

"Chen Yan, this isn't the Beijing Film Academy, you can't act like this here."

"Teacher He," Chen Yan stepped forward, the two of them less than half a meter apart, "I smell a trash can smell in your pocket, exactly the same as what I smelled at the airport."

He Ping's eyes darkened.

Chen Yan folded the letter and stuffed it into He Ping's jacket pocket.

"Nobody's going to watch a movie about a death row inmate."

He Ping's voice was very low.

Chen Yan turned around and walked into the darkness of the emergency exit.

"Even death row inmates can detonate grenades."

Raindrops began to patter against the glass of the corner café.

After the five-minute trailer finished playing, Italian film producer Fazio was covered in sweat.

"Chen, this is playing with fire! Gao Meng has already declared that whoever takes the hit will die!"

"The more afraid they are, the more fiercely the fire burns."

Chen Yan stubbed out his cigarette. "Where's the list?"

Miller, the German, pushed a stack of documents towards him: "One condition. On premiere day, you have to create a bigger stir than winning an award."

"At two o'clock that night," Chen Yan put away the documents, "went to the beach to listen to the thunder."

On the way back to the hotel, the rain intensified.

Chen Yan paused in his steps.

Across the street, a man in a black trench coat stood in front of a newsstand, his back stiff, his right foot pointing outwards at an odd angle.

Chen Yan's pupils contracted.

On the rainy night when the Tianjin clock tower collapsed, there was a person standing in the exact same posture beside the ruins.

The man seemed to notice the gaze, closed his newspaper, and turned to disappear into the alley.

"Wu Gang!"

Wu Gang dashed across the road like a cheetah.

The next second, a dull thud of bones hitting the wall came from the alley.

When Chen Yan arrived, the alley was deserted.

Wu Gang knelt on one knee on the wet ground, spitting a mouthful of blood into the puddle, staining a small patch of red.

"He's a master."

Wu Gang clutched his ribs and opened his palm.

In the palm of my hand was a cold iron plate with the traditional Chinese character "陆" (Lu) engraved on it using a stamping process.

"He didn't run away; he waited for me on purpose."

Wu Gang gritted his teeth. "He's provoking us."

Chen Yan gripped the iron plaque tightly, raindrops dripping down his sharply defined jawline.

He wasn't provoking anyone.

He looked up at the brightly lit Martinez Hotel on the mountainside.

"He was reminding me that I haven't finished paying off my debts yet."

The following morning, an inconspicuous notice on the Cannes Film Festival website announced that the premiere of "Thunder" would be offered as a fully open, low-priced ticket.

"Director Chen, they want to turn the premiere into a shelter for the homeless."

Su Wan's voice was strained.

"very good."

Chen Yan straightened his collar and pushed open the hotel door.

The wind on Crosette Avenue carried a salty, damp smell.

A dark figure darted out from the corner, tossed a copy of the day's Nice-Matin newspaper at his feet, and then disappeared into the rain.

Chen Yan did not bow his head.

He looked across the street and saw He Ping sitting in the slowly starting limousine, coldly watching him through the bulletproof glass.

The front page of the newspaper featured a striking, bright red French headline:

[Chinese director suspected of transnational money laundering; Cannes organizing committee launches emergency investigation]

The accompanying picture shows the iron box under the clock tower in Tianjin, filled with US dollars.

Chen Yan smiled.

He took out a lighter and struck it.

The brass casing gleamed coldly in the gloomy light, and the flames flickered in the wind and rain, yet never went out.

"Thunder," he whispered to the departing car, "is about to sound."