Doubleshot

by Raymond Benson

  Wait a minute … he thought. The throat slashing … that was the Union’s way of killing! The Union murdered Kimberley Feare! It was the only possible explanation. But how did they get in? And why kill Kimberley? If the Union were inside the flat that night, why didn’t they kill him, too?

  Were they trying to frame him? His prints were everywhere. He had been seen with her that night. How could he prove that he didn’t kill her? Perhaps that was it. They wanted to pin a murder on him.

  Bond buried his face in his hands and took a deep breath.

  Right. Let’s get cleaned up, he decided.

  He found some clean towels in the linen cupboard and got into the shower. He washed himself thoroughly, rinsing the blood down the drain. The wounds on his arms and legs were superficial, but one on his arm was still bleeding. He probably needed a stitch or two, but he wasn’t about to bother with it.

  He stepped out of the shower and looked inside the medicine cabinet. He found some adhesive bandages and put one on the cut. He then gingerly stepped out of the bathroom, avoiding the broken glass and blood spots, and picked up his clothes. He dressed quickly, even though a couple of buttons were missing off his shirt. He thought he should get on his hands and knees and search for them, but the carpet was such a mess that he would probably have made a bigger one had he done so.

  The shoulder holster was still on the chair where he had left it. He put it on and surveyed the scene.

  The flat looked like the devil’s workshop.

  He glanced at the telephone and considered calling the police.

  Not a good idea at this point.

  He needed to find out who had done this terrible thing and make sure he could clear his name.

  Bond refused to believe that he had done it.

  He put on his jacket, opened the door to the flat, and looked into the corridor. All clear. He turned back to the flat and whispered, “I’m sorry, Kimberley,” then shut the door.

  As he left the building, the porter watched him suspiciously.

  The thought kept nagging at Bond: What if he had done it?

  He walked the streets in a daze.

  For a moment he thought that someone was following him. He turned quickly, but didn’t see anyone.

  Get hold of yourself! He was jumping at shadows.

  The obvious thing to do would be to contact Bill Tanner. Bond should tell him everything—about the blackouts, the hallucinations, and Kimberley. On the other hand, if he did that, he would be detained and questioned by the police. He would be in the middle of an inquiry, and would end up being the prime suspect. M would suspend him from duty indefinitely, and he would never get to the bottom of this.

  No, even if it was totally imprudent, Bond knew that he had to keep quiet.

  Bond was unsure of where to go and what to do. He flagged down a taxi on a main street and decided that his flat was the safest place to go. In the cab, he kept telling himself what he wanted to believe.The Union was responsible.

  He had to get closer to them. It was the only way. If he could track down Helena Marksbury’s killers, he would probably also find Kimberley’s murderers. If he could face his enemy, he would come to grips with what was happening to him. It just couldn’t be anything physical. He hadn’t much faith in psychiatry, either, so he was loathe to seek out additional help.

  Bond made a vow to beat this himself. The only way to do it was to go after the Union with guns blazing. Leave no stone unturned. Flush them out and smash them like insects.

  When he got to his flat, it was nearly dawn. His flight to Africa was looming.

  He double-checked the bag he had packed and looked at the message he had left for May. He had written that he would be out of the country for a while. Bond scribbled an additional sentence—that he didn’t know when he’d be back. That was good enough.

  He caught another taxi outside and went straight to Heathrow. Using his alias “John Cork,” he went swiftly through Immigration and boarded the Royal Air Maroc flight to Tangier.

  As the sun rose on the southern coast of Spain, Royal Gibraltar Police border control officer Captain Brian Berley eyed the group of protestors with understandable apprehension. This was the largest group he had ever seen, and he had been stationed on the border between Spain and Gibraltar for nearly fifteen years. The mob had appeared the previous night in the sleepy town of La Linea, just north of the border. They had arrived in buses and cars, and on bicycles … and had stayed in hotels or camped out in their vehicles. As soon as the sun rose, they were out in force.

  Berley picked up the phone and made a call.

  “Commissioner, I think the situation down here looks extremely bad. They’re becoming quite noisy, and if they decide to storm the border, we’re outnumbered twenty to one. We need MACA immediately.” MACA stood for Military Assistance to the Civil Authorities.

  He was assured that military police were on the way, but that the border should be closed until further notice. Berley issued the instructions to the Immigration officials, who lowered the barriers and told pedestrians and people in cars that there would be no entry into Gibraltar. Besides, the mob had all but blocked the road in and out of the colony.

  The hundred or more protestors were bunching up as close as possible to the gates. Many of them were carrying signs that read, in Spanish and English, “Gibraltar Is Spanish, Not British!” Some signs proclaimed, “Espada—Governor of Gibraltar!” While the inhabitants of the British colony were accustomed to protests and demonstrations, having dealt with this kind of thing for centuries, the recent turn of events had them a little worried. The U.K. had been slow in sending reinforcements and, in fact, the decision to do so was being held up for political reasons.

  Berley had read the newspaper reports with cynicism. The U.K. Prime Minister was attempting to find a peaceful settlement with Spain. The Madrid government’s official line was that they “disapproved” of Domingo Espada’s actions, but they were making no attempts to curb him. Berley thought that this was merely a public relations ploy and that they were in fact rubbing their hands with glee. If an upstart like Espada could take back Gibraltar without the “approval” of Spain, then the Spanish government wouldn’t be blamed. Seemed pretty simple.

  A truck carrying twenty Gibraltar Services Military Police officers drove across the Gibraltar airfield’s runway, which was inconveniently located just south of the border (people entering or leaving the colony had to cross it!), and stopped at the Immigration building. The men, carrying SA-80 5.56mm assault rifles, leaped out of the truck and formed a line at the border. This prompted more shouting and abuse from the protestors, who had by now pushed themselves up as far as they could get to the border.

  When the rocks started flying, Berley made another call to his superiors. The Royal Gibraltar Regiment was being dispatched as well.

  The security alert at the Governor’s Residence went from “black” to “amber.” The Governor made an urgent call to London, again requesting assistance. Unfortunately he was told that rock-throwing did not constitute a threat of “serious violence” and that NATO’s European Rapid Reaction Force, which was drawn from Allied Command Europe Mobile Force Land (ACE), would not be dispatched. NATO were discussing the situation in Brussels, but these things took time. However, the U.K. was sending the 1st Battalion of the Parachute Regiment based in Aldershot. They were expected to arrive by midday.

  The Governor gave the order to secure the airport and allow only the reinforcements from Britain to land. All other traffic in and out of Gibraltar was to cease.

  Captain Berley was told to keep calm and stand his ground. Help was on the way, but it wouldn’t arrive until midafternoon.

  The mob was becoming ugly. The shouting and insults were increasing by the minute. The police were doing their best to keep cool and not retaliate in kind. The situation was a powder keg, ready to ignite. Rocks broke one of the windows in the Immigration office. Berley wondered if he should employ tear gas in an attempt to di
sperse the crowd.

  Suddenly, a deafening explosion rocked the Immigration building. A fireball engulfed the surrounding area. Chaos erupted as some of the Spanish crowd cheered, while others screamed and ran. Several soldiers had been caught by the blast and were now lying on the pavement, dead or seriously wounded.

  Berley ran out of the smoking building and ordered the men to fire warning shots to disperse the crowd. As the guns went off, the Spanish mob thought they were being fired upon.

  Several Spaniards pulled their own guns and began to fire at the police.

  Berley was horrified. He dropped to the ground, avoiding the gunfire, and crawled for cover just as a second bomb detonated at the gate.

  This one created a huge explosion, killing several people on both sides.

  Berley cursed aloud. He was now in the middle of a shooting war.

  The events that morning at the Gibraltar border prompted a major panic in the governments of Britain and Spain. By noon, fingers were being pointed, tempers had flared, and both sides were blaming each other for the catastrophe.

  The morning sun had also brought life to the streets of Casablanca. As the merchants and shopkeepers and bankers and beggars went to their respective places of business, the Union subordinates had already been working round the clock, packing various files, pieces of equipment, weaponry … it wouldn’t be long before they had finished.

  Le Gérant rose from his magnificent Louis XIV four-poster bed. He reached for and felt the silk robe hanging on the hook by the bed. Putting it over his naked body, he wrapped the sash snugly around his thick waist. Le Gérant wasn’t fat, but he was what is often referred to as “stocky.”

  Knowing the exact path to the bathroom, he walked in his bare feet across the tiled floor. Even if something unexpected had been placed in the way, Le Gérant would have sensed the obstacle’s presence and moved around it. He had been able to do it since he was very young. He possessed some kind of sixth sense that allowed him to “see” when he couldn’t do so physically. His mother had noticed that he had a gift, and she believed that he was a messenger from Allah. A Berber woman with a strong tribal heritage, she came from a group of Riffians in the eastern part of Morocco, near the Algerian border. He had lived with her as a child until he was ten years old, when she unexpectedly died. His Corsican father fetched him out of Morocco and brought him to Paris so that he could be educated in theWestern ways. There was also hope that a cure could be found for his blindness.

  Le Gérant returned to his mother’s people in the Rif Mountains for a brief period of time as an adult. Even though he had adopted the ways of the West, he was accepted warmly, for many people remembered him.

  From the moment he returned, the other Riffians regarded Le Gérant as some kind of divine being. They were amazed that he could navigate his surroundings so easily. Some wondered if he were truly blind. When he was able to call them by name before they said a word, the people were so impressed with “the Western Berber” that they became his loyal followers.

  Le Gérant was a man from two countries and two cultures.

  In the bathroom, Le Gérant splashed water on his face. He would miss the Union quarters here in Casablanca, but it was time to move on. Discovery of the base was imminent, and it was too costly to maintain the complex. By the end of the day, the Union would be gone. Vanished, without a trace.

  Le Gérant had thought long and hard about where to move the central headquarters to. He thought that the authorities would temporarily ignore Marrakesh. That was where they would go for the time being. He thought that perhaps he should move the operations to Europe. But where to? France? He would have to think about it some more. Marrakesh would do for now.

  He heard the buzz of the telephone. He walked back through the bedroom to the study. He sat in a large cushioned chair and picked up the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Gérant, it’s Nadir, I hope it’s not too early.”

  “I’ve been expecting your call. I trust you are on a secure line.”

  “Most secure, sir.”

  “Very well. What have you to report?”

  Yassasin said, “Everything has worked as planned. James Bond is behaving exactly as we had hoped. He is on his way to Morocco now.”

  “That’s excellent news. What about the commandant from London?”

  “Mr. van Breeschooten and his colleague Clayton will also arrive this morning, sir. They have instructions to go to the training camp in the mountains, as you wished.”

  “And you’re sure Mr. Bond will find them?”

  “If he picks up the clues we left for him, he will. He’s smart enough to find them.”

  “And Clayton’s cousin?”

  “Still in place and under cover. An excellent operative, I must say.”

  Le Gérant was pleased. “How is Señor Espada feeling this morning? He must be fairly happy.”

  Yassasin allowed himself to smile. “He is thrilled that the confrontation at the border is going as well as it is. Just enough people have died to make the various politicians sit up and take notice. After tomorrow’s events, he is certain that his proposal to the governments of Britain, Spain, and Gibraltar will be accepted. The Governor of Gibraltar has already expressed an interest in hosting the summit meeting.”

  “Perfect. Nadir, you continue to amaze me.”

  “It is my pleasure to serve you, Gérant.”

  “Tell me, Nadir, does Espada suspect anything?” Le Gérant asked.

  “I don’t think so. He isn’t aware of anything but his own selfish dreams. He is becoming careless.”

  “I’m not so sure that will matter much in a few days.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve decided that when he becomes the Governor of Gibraltar, his tenure shouldn’t last very long. When we gain control of his operations, it would be best if he wasn’t in the picture.”

  “I understand. I have already built that option into the plan. His tenure will last … say … a minute?”

  Le Gérant smiled. “You are a genius, my friend.”

  “No, sir,” Yassasin said. “You inspire me to do my best. How is the moving going?”

  “Smoothly. The next time you see me, we’ll be in Marrakesh.”

  “Ma’ as-salaama, then,” Yassasin said.

  “Ma’ as-salaama as well.”

  Le Gérant hung up the phone. He felt very pleased with himself.

  Before long, the Union would be as powerful as any country on the face of the earth, and he was its rightful leader. It was he, Le Gérant, who had made the Union what it was today. He had the business sense of a metropolitanWesterner, but the spirituality and tenacity of a Berber tribesman.

  As the first phase of the plan came to a close, everything was in its place. Domingo Espada believed that he had employed the Union to do his bidding, when, in fact, he was but another chess piece in the grand game that Yassasin and Le Gérant had concocted.

  The best moves were yet to come.

  ACT TWO

  TERCIO DE

  BANDERILLAS

  TEN

  ON THE RUN

  AT NOON, THE ROYAL AIR MAROC FLIGHT TOUCHED DOWN AT TANGIER’S tiny Boukhalef airport, fifteen kilometers southeast from the town center. James Bond disembarked and immediately felt the cultural shock of being on another continent. North Africa was indeed a completely different world from Europe. Sights, sounds, art, food, and religion all contributed to making the way of life in the Muslim world distinctly unique. In many ways, English-speaking Westerners were the least at home in al-Maghreb al-Aqsa, the “land of the setting sun.” They were treated with a certain degree of suspicion, although this was less so in Morocco than in some other Muslim countries.

  Signs printed only in Arabic and French pointed the way to baggage claim and the exit. Porters descended upon Bond before he’d cleared Immigration. He waved them away, nearly barking at one persistent one, and made his way outside to the taxi stand. He carried a small holdall conta
ining necessities and a box wrapped in brown paper. Its label was addressed to “Mr. Latif Reggab” at an address in Tangier, and a Customs label claimed that it contained machine parts. The official who had cleared it spoke to Bond in French, saying, “Oh, you’re friends with Mr. Reggab? He’s always importing or exporting something.” In fact, the box contained Bond’s two firearms, carefully masked by X ray–proof material perfected by Q Branch.

  Bond negotiated a price of two hundred dirhams for the taxi driver to take him to Tangier. It was a twenty-minute ride, and the landscape was atypical for what one might expect from a port city like Tangier. The countryside was hilly and green, dotted with the occasional shepherd in the distance. There was surprisingly little development out this way, but the city was suddenly upon them. Bond felt the change in the atmosphere, for Tangier was famous for its unique, decaying character of the post-Interzone days.

  People from all over the world have inhabited the port for over 2,500 years. During the days when resident diplomatic agents of a number of countries controlled Tangier, it was known as an “international zone.” Then, every kind of dubious activity developed in the port, including money laundering, smuggling, currency speculation, arms dealing, prostitution, and slave trading. It was also a fashionable resort haven for artists, writers, refugees, exiles, and bankers. When Tangier was reunited with the rest of Morocco in 1956, this notoriety fell by the wayside, but the legends lived on.

  Bond had been to Tangier a number of times and he was always put off by the amount of hustling that went on. The trick, Bond had learned, was not to act or look like a tourist. Because Bond had black hair and a relatively tanned complexion, it wasn’t immediately obvious that he was British. A glare from his cold, steely eyes also worked to dissuade faux guides from offering to “show him the medina.”

  The driver let him off in the Grand Socco, a poor imitation of the famed Djemaa el-Fna in Marrakesh, where snake charmers, musicians, storytellers, makeshift shops, and food stalls filled the air with smells, noise, and spectacle. Outside the chemist’s was a group of tattoo-faced Berber women dressed in traditional izars or haïks, hoping to secure a housecleaning job. A Moorish horseshoe arch led from the Grand Socco into the medina, the city’s oldest quarter. Navigation by foot, bicycle, motorcycle, or donkey cart were the only options in this labyrinth of narrow passages and winding paths.