Margareta raised her arms wide, holding the rig’s pilot chute in her right hand. She leaped from the balcony as far out as possible and dropped into the abyss. Once she was in midair, she threw the pilot chute out into the air stream. The nine-foot bridle line was long enough to ensure that the pilot chute would easily clear the burble of air. As the bridle line snapped taught, it dragged the canopy out of the pack.
The chute snapped open before Margareta had fallen one hundred feet. The seven-cell, ram-air canopy allowed her to glide like a hawk. She floated down to the valley, where a white Percheron stallion was waiting for her. He was tied to a tree, saddled and ready to go. Margareta flared the chute steeply and lightly touched down in seconds. She stripped off the backpack, and untied the horse. She took a moment to pat his neck and whisper quiet endearments in his ear, then she mounted the beautiful beast.
She looked up at the hotel on the edge of the cliff. Now the sky was a bright orange and blue, as the last rays of the sun streaked across the panorama. It would be ten minutes or so before the bodies were found. By then, she would be long gone. The bellboy and other eyewitnesses might recall seeing a beautiful woman dressed in black come through the hotel lobby … but they wouldn’t be able to say whether or not they saw her leave.
Margareta jabbed the horse with her heels, and it galloped away into the hills.
TWELVE
THE CAMP
JUST BEFORE THE SUN SET, LATIF REGGAB AND JAMES BOND DROVE OFF IN A Land Rover on the main road that led southeast out of Tangier. As they drove toward the Hispanic-Moroccan city of Tetouan, the landscape became more hilly and green. It was a two-lane road populated by numerous slow-moving lorries, and Reggab muttered a prayer under his breath every time he attempted to pass them. After about half an hour the road became steeper and more twisting as they traveled higher into the Rif Mountains. Occasionally the hillsides were spotted with groups of stone houses and clusters of goats or sheep herded by jellaba-clad men. Bond noticed that the only landmarks along the road were petrol stations and the occasional checkpoint, where officers in gray uniforms, the gendarmes, sometimes stopped vehicles to look for drugs or check identity cards. Taxis were often targets for these random stops, due to regulations that restricted where certain types of them could go.
“Take a good look before it gets dark,” Reggab said. “Very beautiful scenery driving into the Rif. Unfortunately, there are all these slow trucks.”
Bond noticed that a gendarme waved the Land Rover through a checkpoint.
“They all know me,” Reggab explained. “It is sad that such beautiful country is the main source for kif.”
Kif, Moroccan slang for marijuana, was the region’s biggest export.
“Smoking that stuff is an ancient tradition in northern Morocco,”
Reggab said. “The cultivation is tolerated because it’s the only way the people there can make a living. The government is searching for alternative crops, but until then …” He shrugged.
They came upon Tetouan an hour after they had left Tangier, but Reggab took the road south, higher into the mountains. Twenty minutes later, Reggab pulled over and stopped at a group of white buildings. The sun had nearly set, but Bond could see some activity behind the structures.
“This is a souq,” Reggab said. “It’s closing down for the evening, but there’s a man here I need to see. It concerns our mission, tonight. We won’t be long.”
Bond was grateful to get out and stretch his legs. The headache was holding steady, even though he had miraculously caught three hours of sleep that afternoon in Latif’s spare bedroom. He had washed and shaved after the nap, then prepared for the evening’s excursion by dressing in dark clothing, strapping a Sykes Fairbairn commando knife to his shin, and carrying the P99 in a holster at his waist and the PPK under his arm, plainly visible.
The souq’s “parking lot” was filled with mules. The flea market itself was made up of dozens of tents, berrakas (canopies supported by four poles), and lean-tos. The Berber tribes had come down from their various mountain homes to sell their wares. Many of them were packing up now, as the business day was finished.
Reggab led Bond through the crowd, shaking his head at the veiled women who were holding and offering live chickens. They came upon a tent where a man in a burnous was pouring spices into containers. Reggab and the man spoke Arabic and embraced each other, and then Reggab introduced Bond.
“This is my friend Khalil.”
“Hello … how … are … you?” Khalil said in rehearsed English.
Reggab and Khalil continued to speak in Arabic. Reggab reacted to some news with dismay. The conversation continued as Bond wandered a few feet away to gaze upon the extraordinary sights of the souq. Only in countries like this could one see a market that was no different now than the way it was hundreds of years ago. Once one got away from the major cities, Morocco offered such cultural diversity that it would take Bond years to discern between the various tribes and ethnic groups.
Reggab took Bond’s arm and said, “Let’s go.”
When they got back in the Land Rover and drove on, Reggab said, “I just heard some upsetting news. Rizki, my man in the mountains, was found dead this afternoon. They think he was seen taking those photographs last night, and whoever runs that camp was responsible.”
“I’m sorry,” Bond said. “They killed him for taking the pictures?”
“The strange thing is that he had been dead at least twelve hours. A courier sent that envelope this morning. That means someone other than Rizki took care of sending me the photos.”
This revelation sent off alarms in Bond’s mind. “You have no other people in the Rif?”
“No. Rizki was the only one.”
“Then the enemy must have made sure you got those photos.
Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll find out.”
A little less than an hour later, they arrived in the quaint village of Chefchaouen, which was known as the “blue city.” This was because the walls of the buildings were painted blue four or five times a year. The blue paint supposedly kept the interiors cool in the summer and warm in the winter.
“Chaouen is one of my favorite places in Morocco,” Reggab said as he pulled the Land Rover onto a main artery entering the city. “I think I will retire here. We are going to stop a moment, all right? I need to pay respects to Rizki’s family.”
The blue-washed houses were built up a gentle slope that culminated in a magnificent mountain overlooking the entire village. In the moonlight, they appeared to be ghostly, luminescent structures floating above ground level.
Bond followed Reggab into the medina, which was now sparsely populated and dark. The odors of the day’s produce lingered, and Bond wondered if they ever went away. After a couple of twists and turns in the path, they came upon a baker’s quarters. Reggab knocked on the door. When it opened, an older man almost said something nasty to the stranger who was disturbing the family’s grief, but he recognized Reggab and embraced him warmly.
As is common in Morocco, the door was set into a frame in the wall so that one had to step over a sill to enter the building. A family of six or seven men and women were inside, all mourning the loss of their loved one. Reggab spoke quietly with the older woman, whom Bond presumed to be Rizki’s wife. Mint tea was offered, and Reggab and Bond felt obliged to stay for a while. Bond was sorry for the family’s loss and that one of Latif’s operatives had been murdered, but he was anxious to get to the campsite.
Finally, Reggab made his excuses and stood up to leave. He embraced each family member and led Bond away with a loaf of bread in each hand.
On the way back to the Land Rover, he said, “Rizki’s body was found on the side of the road near the camp. His throat had been cut.”
The men exchanged glances, knowing full well what that implied.
The journey continued eastward toward Ketama, which was supposedly the hub of kif activity in Morocco. At one point, an intimid
ating black Mercedes appeared from nowhere in front of them, moving slowly. Reggab slowed down and was forced to follow closely behind the Mercedes. The narrow, winding road was treacherous in the dark, and even the most courageous of drivers would think twice before overtaking. Before Reggab could attempt it, the Mercedes stopped abruptly. Reggab slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel to avoid ramming the back of the car. Three rough-looking characters got out of the Mercedes and approached the Land Rover.
Bond was ready to draw his gun. Reggab put his hand on his friend’s arm, indicating that he had it under control. He leaned out the window and spoke quickly to the men in Arabic. Reggab spat words at them, after which they appeared to apologize, bowed, got back into the Mercedes, and drove away.
“What was that all about?” Bond asked.
“They wanted to sell us a kilo of kif,” Reggab replied. “If we hadn’t agreed to buy it from them, there was a possibility that we would have been forced to do so. They thought I was a guide bringing a tourist into the mountains. When I explained that I was a ‘policeman,’ they decided to leave us alone. Don’t worry; it happens all the time. You just have to know how to handle these characters.”
An hour later, the nearly full moon cast a chilling glow over a dark landscape filled with large, ominous black shapes. They were in the very heart of the Rif Mountains.
“We are almost there,” Reggab said. He peered through the windscreen, concentrating, as the road was inadequately illuminated by the headlamps. Finally, he pointed and said, “There. That’s our landmark.”
In the brief moment in which it was visible, Bond had seen a berraka built on the side of the road. At least one mule was hitched to the side and there had been a light—a campfire?—just in front of the berraka. It had been impossible to see how many human beings might have been there. Bond guessed two.
“They look like a couple of shepherds. The sheep are over there, on the side of that hill, you can barely see them in the moonlight.”
Bond said, “I see them.”
“They are really some kind of lookout for this camp. The turnoff is up ahead.”
“Won’t they report having seen you?”
Reggab shook his head. “This is still a major highway. The amount of traffic that comes through would not be worth keeping track of.”
“Unless what you’re trying to hide is important enough,” Bond suggested.
Reggab grunted in agreement and made a sharp right onto a pitchblack dirt road. It wound around a mountain and eventually came to a bridge. Reggab slowed and parked the Land Rover beside the entrance to the bridge.
“The camp is just on the other side of the bridge, about a kilometer away. There’s a gate there with at least two guards. Now. We’re going to get out here and climb this mountain. Up there you can get a good view of the place. There’s no fence on that side of the camp. The mountain serves as the barrier.”
“Lead the way,” Bond said. Before getting out of the Land Rover, he took four of Dr. Feare’s pills. The headache gauge was climbing upward toward the “excruciating” mark.
Without the moonlight, climbing the mountain would have been impossible. They settled on a ledge near the top. The camp was approximately forty meters down the south face of the hill. Several campfires were burning amidst tents, berrakas, and some portable buildings. A number of jeeps, four-wheel drives, as well as horses and mules, were set off to one side. Bond could faintly hear Moroccan folk music coming from the largest tent, which was big enough to hold a circus ring. Reggab handed him a pair of field glasses. Bond put them to his eyes and adjusted the infrared brightness. He could now see men walking about. They were dressed mostly in army fatigues. Many of them looked European or North American. Others were dressed in traditional Arab or Berber clothing. They all carried guns.
“Latif, I think you’re right about this being some kind of terrorist training camp,” Bond said. “Those men are armed. How do the police let them get away with this?”
“It’s private property,” Reggab whispered. “Whoever owns it apparently has more influence over these parts than the government. If the Union is behind it, then there is a lot of money to throw around. Morocco is not a wealthy country, so it’s very easy to bribe the officials. Look, that big tent is where they feed everyone. It serves as a mess during the day and a bar at night. We know that prostitutes are brought in some nights, and they leave in the mornings. If we could get some hard evidence that they are harboring heavy arms, we could maybe do something. So far, though, all the weapons you see are legal.” He pointed to a relatively flat area. “Sometimes helicopters land there in that field. It’s used during the day for training; the men are always out there exercising. Some target practice goes on, and we really can’t get them for that.”
“I’m going down to take a closer look,” Bond said, handing back the glasses.
“I can’t let you do that, James. It’s too dangerous.”
“You can’t stop me, Latif. Look, meet me back at the Land Rover in thirty minutes. I have to try and find these men. I’ll be as discreet as possible.”
“If they catch you, you will be on your own. I am sorry.”
“I understand. You must protect your cover. Now go on, I’ll be all right.”
Reggab hesitated, then shook Bond’s hand. “Good luck, my friend. I shall see you soon.”
Bond didn’t wait for Reggab to leave. He moved swiftly down the rocks, darting from one shadow to another. Seven minutes later, he was at the base of the hill, near a dilapidated shack that smelled of excrement. A man in fatigues came out of the shed, buckling his pants. It was obviously the latrine.
Bond stealthily crept behind the shed, then followed the man by scrambling from tent to tent, keeping to the shadows. A laundry line was stretched behind one berraka. Bond pulled off a dark jellaba and put it on. If they caught him, at least he would look the part. The man ultimately got to the big tent, where the music was much louder. There were at least thirty men out in front with drinks in their hands, and inside the place was packed. Hoots and catcalls could be heard over the live band.
A festive bar atmosphere just might provide the camouflage Bond needed. Determinedly, Bond put the hood on, then walked right through the crowd and into the tent as if he knew exactly what he was doing. The men ignored him as they talked in Arabic and laughed.
A makeshift stage had been erected at one end of the tent. A fourpiece band was performing behind a buxom belly dancer who attracted the gaze of every eye in the bar. One man played the amzhad, a single-chord violin made of wood and goatskin; two musicians played typical Arab and Berber drums, the darbuka and tebilat. The fourth man played the Arab lutelike instrument, an oud.
Bond wandered through the crowd, scanning the faces for someone familiar. After five minutes, he was about to give up and try somewhere else when a tall blond man came in and went to the bar. It was the Cockney from London—one of the thugs from the adult bookshop’s office!
Bond waited until the brute had bought four bottles of beer, then followed him outside. He was almost certainly taking them to his bosses.…
The man crossed through the tents toward one of the small portable buildings. Bond took a detour around the latrine and came up behind the building. He was in luck—a window was open. Bond positioned himself at the edge and carefully looked inside.
The man had just delivered the bottles to Walter van Breeschooten and Michael Clayton. They were sitting at a card table playing poker. Wads of dirham notes were piled in front of them.
“Thanks, Rodney,” Clayton said. The blond man grunted and left the little building. Bond waited and listened.
“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t stay in a hotel in the city,” the Englishman said.
“This is only for tonight. Will you shut up?” van Breeschooten replied.
“I just don’t know what we’re doing here!”
“All will be clear tomorrow. We can’t leave until … you know …”
“The strategist is always right,” the Dutchman answered. “Now.
We’ll be splitting up tomorrow. You have the address in Casablanca?”
“Yes, I have it written down. It’s in my pocket.”
“Don’t go to the Central Market. That entrance is closed. You have to go to the medina.”
“We’ve been over this already.”
“I just don’t want you to get lost. We have to be there at eight in the morning, sharp. Day after tomorrow.”
“I know, I know. I have to go and piss.”
“Hurry back.”
Bond heard Clayton leave the building, then crouched below the sight lines of the windows and moved to the edge of the building. Bond stepped out onto the path, assuming a normal stride behind his prey as he headed for the latrine. When Clayton went in, Bond followed him.
The man went into the smelly stall. Bond reached down and unsheathed the commando knife, which he had previously bound to his shin. He waited until Clayton was finished. When he stepped out of the stall, Bond grabbed hold of him and put the blade to his neck. He shoved him into a dark corner of the latrine.
“Mr. Clayton,” Bond said. “Do you know who I am?”
Clayton’s eyes were wide with fear. He nodded.
“I want the address of the Union headquarters in Casablanca. Give it to me or I’ll carve out your Adam’s apple and feed it to the mules.”
“It’s … it’s in my pocket,” Clayton stammered.
“You get it,” Bond said. “No tricks.”
The man reached into his trousers and pulled out a slip of notepaper. Bond took it and noted the address.
“Thank you,” Bond said. “Now you have to answer for Helena Marksbury.”
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