Doubleshot

by Raymond Benson

  She stubbed out her cigarette and tossed the butt into the air. She squeezed his arm lightly and said, “See you tonight, handsome.” She reentered the train, leaving Bond dumbfounded.

  Bond took the time to smoke another cigarette, then went back inside. He didn’t feel like sitting in his compartment, so he walked through the first-class car and entered the adjoining second class. It was very crowded. He moved through the people standing in the corridor and went on into the next car.

  He saw Heidi coming toward him, holding a soft drink she must have purchased from the food and drink cart.

  “We’re going to be in the gossip magazines if we keep bumping into each other like this,” Bond said with a smile.

  Heidi looked at him as if he were the rudest man alive. “Stop following me or I’ll call the conductor,” she said much too loudly. She pushed past him, opened a compartment door, and went inside.

  Bond squinted and rubbed his brow. What the hell was going on here? Why the hot and cold treatment? Was she some kind of nut?

  His old friend, the headache, was returning. He rubbed his temples, turned around, and went back to the first-class car. He rejoined the family in his compartment and sat in his seat, glumly looking out the window.

  After six hours, not including the stop in Rabat, the train pulled in to Casablanca Voyageurs station, located four kilometers east of the city centre. It was midafternoon, and the place was buzzing with activity—commuters were trying to get home, tourists were catching the next express to another destination in Morocco, porters and guides were attempting to hustle business.…

  Bond got off the train and looked around for Heidi. He didn’t see her in the mass of people. The train had filled up at Rabat, and now there was a rush of passengers trying to get on for the next leg of the journey.

  He went outside into the warm air and hailed a taxi. The driver took him to Le Royal Mansour Meridien on Avenue des FAR, easily one of the most exclusive five-star hotels in the city. Ten stories high, it lay in the heart of the city’s business center and bore the name of Ahmed Mansour Addabhi, the most glorious line of Saadi monarchs.

  Bond registered as John Cork in the circular reception space. The lobby was a large open hall, much like a cloister, with blue square divan pieces surrounding a thick marble column. The lobby was very bright, accentuated by the mirror panels set in a geometric pattern around the room. An indoor waterfall at the back and numerous potted plants created a garden atmosphere.

  There was a message for him at the concierge desk. It was hastily scribbled on hotel stationery and read, “Dinner at 8:30 instead of 8:00. OK? Heidi.”

  Fickle woman, Bond thought. He had a good mind to stand her up.

  He took the lift to the third floor, where his suite was located. Bond was impressed with the size and tastefully decorated room. The suite contained a functional office, sitting room, bedroom with twin beds, and a bathroom tiled in white marble.

  This would do nicely, Bond thought, but he needed a drink. His head was still pounding and he needed to unwind.

  Rather than use the minibar, Bond took the lift to the ninth floor. La Terrasse, a bar overlooking the city, offered a superb view of the vast flat rooftops with antennas and satellite dishes, the splendid Hassan II Mosque, and Casablanca harbor. Bond ordered vodka with ice and sat at one of the tables to gaze upon the metropolis.

  Bond didn’t like the city, but he appreciated its history. Originally called the port of Anfa, Casablanca had been created by Berbers. From the mid-nineteenth century onward, Casablanca became one of the most important ports in Africa, and once the French Protectorate took over in 1912, it had the biggest harbor in Morocco. Casablanca is now the fifth largest city on the continent.

  Bond whiled away the remaining hours watching CNN in his room. The news was full of the British/Spanish conflict. Spanish tourists had been mobbed in London. The border between Spain and Gibraltar had been declared a no-man’s zone. All traffic across the border had been stopped. The Royal Navy patrolled the waters of the Mediterranean. The U.S. president had offered to broker a settlement. At the center of it all was the man who had sparked the trouble—Domingo Espada. He was seen in parades, marching with his supporters, calling for the return of a Franco-inspired government. The administration in Madrid had finally spoken out against Espada, claiming that he was a “rebel.” They were sitting on their hands, though, choosing to wait and see what was going to happen.

  Plans for the summit meeting in Gibraltar had gone awry when the Spanish Prime Minister refused to sit at the same table with Espada. The king of Spain was intervening, and it looked as if the meeting would finally take place in four days, on Monday. Attendees would include Espada, the Spanish PM, the British PM, and several United Nations representatives from interested countries in the area.

  It all seemed so far away and unimportant to Bond. At the forefront of his mind was the Union, the score he needed to settle, and the nagging fear that he was going mad.

  Never mind, he thought. His rendezvous with Walter van Breeschooten was tomorrow morning.

  At 8:30 sharp, Bond went down to the restaurant, Le Douira, which was designed as two distinct representations of Moroccan culture. One side was in a genuine caïdal tent, and the other was decorated in intricate blue and white tile work, like the inside of a traditional Moroccan palace.

  Bond had decided he would confront Heidi about her erratic behavior on the train. He wasn’t about to put up with games, no matter how attractive a girl might be.

  He waited for tenminutes and finally heard Heidi’s voice behind him.

  “Here we are, sorry we’re late.”

  Bond turned and blinked. He thought he was seeing double.

  “John,” Heidi said. “I’d like you to meet my sister, Hedy.”

  Now everything was clear. Hedy was Heidi’s identical twin.

  FIFTEEN

  “AS TIME GOES BY”

  THE TWO GIRLS HAD IDENTICAL FACES, BUT HEDY HAD SHORT RED HAIR, which Bond quickly decided was really a wig.

  “This is the guy?” Hedy asked her sister.

  “Hedy, this is John Cork,” Heidi said, beaming. “It’s okay that my sister came along, isn’t it?” she asked Bond.

  Bond couldn’t help but laugh. “I believe we’ve already met but didn’t realize it. You weren’t wearing the wig on the train, were you?”

  “No,” Hedy said. She folded her arms and looked at Heidi with a frown.

  Heidi said, “Oh no, not again! This happens all the time! Damn it, Hedy, that’s why we never have any boyfriends.”

  “You’ll pick up anyone, Heidi! He made a pass at me out of nowhere. I thought he was a pervert,” Hedy said, glaring at Bond.

  “I’m sorry, John,” Heidi said. “It really does happen a lot. Men have a problem telling us apart. It’s a sore subject with us both. That’s why we sometimes take turns wearing the wig. It’s not that we compete with each other, it’s just that whoever we happen to be dating always ends up hitting on the other one, usually by accident.”

  “Sometimes not by accident,” Hedy added.

  Heidi agreed and nodded. “It can be a problem. I guess we should have used the wig on the train.”

  She was right. Hedy was an exact copy of Heidi in every respect. They were both wearing full-length, relaxed fit-and-flare sundresses made of ribbed cotton, buttoned in front down to their knees. The only difference was that Heidi was in gray and Hedy was in black.

  “Well, the wig helps, but have you considered dressing differently?” Bond suggested wryly.

  Hedy looked at Heidi and said, “He’s a wise guy, too, Heidi.” She turned back to Bond and asked, “How do we know you’re not a serial killer?”

  “Ladies, please,” Bond said. “My apologies, Hedy, if I offended you earlier today. It was not intentional. As you say, you do look uncannily like your sister. Now, if you’re saying that your dilemma is that the same man falls in love with both of you, I can understand why. Might I sugges
t a reasonable solution to your problem? That would be to agree to share the man, and I’m afraid that’s just what you’ll have to do this evening. Let’s have dinner, shall we? I’m starving.”

  Heidi laughed, but Hedy remained unreceptive. She followed along grudgingly when the maître d’ asked them to first wash their hands, the Moroccan way, with a pitcher and basin. They were then shown to the tented side of the restaurant, where they sat on cushioned seats at low tables. Heidi commented on the beautiful décor and Hedy said, “Let’s hope the food warrants it.”

  As it turned out, the food was excellent. For starters, they shared panaché de briouates aux crevettes, a variety of puff pastries stuffed with shrimp, chicken, and minced meat. Bond had tagine de kebab maghdour aux oeufs, a traditional Moroccan dish of meat kebab in a spicy paprika sauce with a fried egg on top. It was served in a tagine, the Moroccan pot shaped like an inverted top. Heidi had roasted rack of lamb, and Hedy opted for chicken with couscous. The girls insisted on drinking cold beer, so it was Spéciale Flag all around.

  “So does this meet your expectations?” Heidi asked her sister.

  “It’s pretty good,” Hedy admitted, finally cracking a smile.

  They exchanged the usual sort of small talk that occurs when people are meeting one another for the first time. The girls talked about growing up in California, as Bond suspected, on the beach. They had been models when they were children, doing print and television ads for a variety of products.

  “We were cute kids,” Heidi said.

  “You still are,” Bond added.

  “But we decided to join the real world when we became teenagers,” Hedy explained. “We both liked the traveling part of the modeling jobs, so that’s what we decided to do. We’re pretty good travel writers, if I say so myself.”

  “I do most of the PR because Hedy says I’m more bubbly than she is,” Heidi said. “Hedy does the lion’s share of the writing. We both do the research. We make a good team.”

  “We’ve always been inseparable,” Heidi explained. “We do everything together.”

  “Everything?” Bond asked.

  “Not everything,” Hedy quickly answered.

  “If we ever disagree on something, we flip a coin. Heads I win, tails she loses.”

  “Very funny,” Hedy said.

  There was a moment’s silence before Heidi said, “Mr. Cork says he’s an importer and exporter.”

  “Oh?” Hedy asked. “And what exactly does that mean?”

  Bond shrugged. “I make sure things go in and out. Smoothly.” Heidi grinned at Bond. Hedy caught the exchange and frowned.

  “Seriously,” he continued, “I work for a firm in London that deals with arts and crafts. Carpets, mostly. There’s a man in Tangier we buy from. I need to see someone in the medina tomorrow. I arrange the deals and let others deliver.”

  “You were in Tangier last night?” Hedy asked.

  Bond nodded.

  “Did you hear about what happened on that ferry?”

  Bond felt a sudden stab of paranoia. Had she been reading the papers? Had she recognized him?

  “Yes, I heard about it this morning.”

  Heidi shook her head. “It was terrible.…”

  Looking at Bond, Hedy said, “I hope they catch the guy who did it.”

  “Me, too,” Bond said, meeting her gaze. She was studying him intently. Had she seen the drawing in the newspaper? Was it safe to be in their company?

  The girls shared a piece of chocolate cake for dessert and they all had coffee. A live band had begun playing traditional Moroccan folk music. Finger cymbals rung throughout the restaurant, casting a mesmerizing and exotic charm over the diners.

  “Do you go back to London after you’re through here, John?” Hedy asked.

  “I think so,” Bond said. “I may … I may be sent somewhere else. I’m not sure yet.”

  “What should we do now?” Heidi asked cheerfully. “The night is young, as they say.” She winked at Bond.

  “The night is quickly fading,” Hedy said. “Come on, Heidi, I want to hit the sack.”

  “Hedy! It’s so early!”

  “We have to get up early, remember? We have that guided tour of the city.…”

  “Big deal. I’d rather stay up and hang out with Mr. Cork.” Heidi was a little tipsy from the beer.

  “I don’t think so, sis. I’m sure Mr. Cork needs to go to bed early, too,” Hedy said.

  “Hedy, don’t be rude,” Heidi said. “I know, let’s flip for it.”

  “Please, Heidi.”

  Heidi looked at Bond, shrugged, and shook her head, as if she were asking, “What am I going to do with her?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Bond said, “I am a bit tired. Bit of a headache, too. I think Hedy has the right idea. I’m sorry, Heidi, but I’m afraid I will be retiring after dinner, too.”

  “Well, shoot,” Heidi said. “Here I am in the city where ‘As Time Goes By’ came from, and I have to go to bed early.”

  “Heidi, Casablanca was made in Hollywood,” Hedy said, rolling her eyes.

  Bond insisted on putting their meals on his bill, for which Heidi was overly grateful and Hedy seemed resentful. He bid good-bye to the girls as they walked to the lift.

  “We’re in room 415, if you can’t sleep,” Heidi said with a giggle.

  “Heidi …” her sister groaned.

  Bond got off at the third floor and went to his suite. He had enjoyed the girls’ company, but there was something odd about them that he couldn’t quite place his finger on. The wig business was a bit strange. He didn’t completely buy their explanation for their taking turns wearing it. Hedy could be a problem, but he wasn’t going to worry about her. He didn’t think she would try to turn him in to the authorities, even if she did suspect him of the terrorist attack. It was too bad he couldn’t have found a way to be alone with Heidi. She seemed rather spirited … but after further thought he knew that he needed to rest. She probably would have kept him up all night.…

  Bond undressed, took a warm bath, took four of Dr. Feare’s tablets, and got into bed naked, his Walther PPK safely underneath his pillow. He fell into a deep, troubled sleep and dreamed fitfully about his double. The other Bond was pointing a gun at him and smiling malevolently. Heidi and Hedy were on either side of him, laughing. The gun went off and Bond thought he was falling into a dark, bottomless pit.

  That’s where he stayed until the alarm clock woke him at six o’clock.

  At 7:45, Bond stood on the street called Ville de Casablanca inside the medina, watching the exterior of the address on Clayton’s piece of paper. The door was part of a large building with several shop fronts. Berrakas had been built in around several of them, including number 14. Various wares were displayed for sale, but number 14 was curiously empty. The door itself was cloaked in shadow and couldn’t be seen.

  A beggar sat cross-legged just on the outside of the berraka, a tin plate with a few coins in front of him. He didn’t look particularly homeless; on the contrary, he was dressed in a clean jellaba and appeared healthy. A watchman, perhaps?

  Bond had arrived at the scene fifteen minutes earlier. The night had not given him the rest he had hoped for, so he had begun the day with the persistent headache and a nervous energy that bordered on anxiety. He had eaten a light breakfast of eggs and toast in the hotel (and hadn’t seen the twins, thank God), then walked the quarter mile to the medina. Now, though, as he watched the old quarter of town come alive with the noise and smells of the day’s bartering, Bond felt a little better. The anticipation of something happening, of some possible revelation, brought back the welcome rush of excitement and interest.

  A man in a business suit stepped up to the berraka, tossed a coin into the beggar’s plate, then went under the covering. He disappeared into the shadows, and ultimately into the building. In fact, it appeared that the man had gone into the berraka and walked straight into the brick wall. Bond was pretty sure that he didn’t see a door open.


  Now more curious than ever, Bond thought he should get a closer look at the inside of the berraka. Playing the tourist, he wandered over to the beggar. Instead of holding out his hand and pleading for a handout, the beggar sat still, staring straight ahead. Was he waiting for some kind of signal?

  Bond reached into his pocket, grabbed a couple of ten-dirham coins, and dropped them into the plate. The beggar nodded and muttered something in Arabic. Bond went under the berraka, and, as he suspected, found himself facing a brick wall. The number 14, which was displayed outside on the berraka, was also painted on the bricks. But there was no door.

  He reached out and ran his fingers along the edges of the bricks, searching for a trapdoor catch. He knew it had to be there somewhere.

  Bond looked at his watch. It was now nearly 8:00. He backed out of the berraka and walked across the street. The beggar looked up once at him, then continued his stare into space. Bond resumed his station, where he was partially hidden by a fruit cart.

  Right on time, Walter van Breeschooten came walking down the narrow street. Bond drew the PPK, put it in his jacket pocket, and then smoothly joined the Dutchman in his stride. He leaned in close, nudging the barrel into van Breeschooten’s side.

  “Keep walking, up this way,” Bond said, gesturing past number 14 to another narrow street full of vendors.

  “You!” van Breeschooten said. He was clearly shocked.

  “Shut up and walk,” Bond said.

  They maneuvered in and out of the crowd of people, turning several corners and up a small flight of steps. Bond escorted him to an out-of-the-way passage where no one was about. He then frisked the man roughly and found a Smith & Wesson Model 60 .38 Special. Bond threw it on the ground away from them.

  “I don’t know anything!” van Breeschooten pleaded, falling to his knees.

  “I don’t want to know anything,” Bond said with murder in his heart. “I already know that you slit Helena Marksbury’s throat.” He pulled out the gun and aimed it at the Dutchman’s head. “Empty your pockets. Slowly.”