Seafire

9 – Cradle of History

The girls from the Seville Flamenco School presented a unique splash of color, their long skirts lifting and whirling as they danced on top of the tablao – the slightly raised platform – which had been set up some fifty yards into the Alcázar Gardens. There were two guitarists, and the four girls who danced gave a counterrhythm with castanets and stamping of feet, while one of the guitarists broke into occasional guttural shouts of encouragement that are always a part of a juerga – a carousal or spree of singing and dancing.

Juergas are held regularly in the open air during the spring and summer in Seville. The distinctive melodies and chords, the almost aggressive beat of the dancers' feet with the counterpoint of clapping, made the scene come alive for locals and tourists alike, who crowded the gardens. Looking out to the back of the palace that was the Alcázar, and the huge Cathedral, just visible behind it, eyes and ears were stunned by the music, the sensual beauty of the movement, and the almost overpowering backdrop of massive architecture.

Earlier that morning, Flicka and Bond had looked up at the Jerez Gate, walked through both the Cathedral and the Alcázar Palace, and drunk in the sense of history that shows in both architecture, setting, and even in the faces of the people of this melting pot of Europe.

Though the sky was a light, cloudless blue, the sun was still thin and there was a chill in the air. In a month or two the heat would be strong and unrelenting, but now – at around ten minutes to noon – Bond was glad of the motorcycle leathers he wore as he sat at an outside table in front of a small bar looking out across the Alcázar Gardens, a glass of rough Spanish brandy in front of him.

They had come in via Gibraltar, courtesy of a Royal Air Force jet from Northolt, on the previous evening. Two dark-skinned men, who spoke Spanish with the accents of Andalucia, and an English so faultless that it was difficult to determine their true origin, had driven them across the frontier. Then they headed up the coast to Seville, depositing Bond and Flicka at a small apartment where a third man, together with a silent suspicious-looking woman, waited to make sure they had all they needed: food, drink, and the other essential items for the pickup due to take place at noon on this the following day.

On the aircraft they had both studied detailed street maps of Seville, and marked out the route Bond would take once Dolmech had been lifted. Now they would have time to organize the final stages of that journey: a route that would bring Bond and the rescued Dolmech back to the apartment.

The man and woman at what was so obviously a safe house checked that the motorcycle leathers and helmet were right for Bond, showed him where the big Triumph Daytona was hidden, in a small lockup three minutes' walk from the apartment, and did not leave until they were satisfied that the plan for the following day was timed to the second. M had insisted that some of his other people were around to act as backup. Bond did not recognize any of them from his past long experience in the Service, but he did recognize the type: people bound by the silence of secrecy, and dedicated to seeing that a dangerous job was carried out with no hitches. If anything were to go wrong, the fault would not lie on the consciences of those who planned the operation.

For the first time in months, Bond had been given his 9mm Browning ASP and six magazines of ammunition, while Flicka was armed with a smaller, though equally deadly, Beretta automatic – her weapon of choice for the mission. In the early hours of the morning, they sat in the small apartment, stripped the weapons, checked and rechecked them, then, holding each other, drifted off into shallow sleep.

The silent woman had returned at five-thirty in the morning, gently wakening them, preparing coffee, newly baked rolls with preserves and butter. They hardly spoke to one another as they ate, or later as they walked through the town, taking in the main vantage points around the Alcázar Gardens, and the streets that twisted around the area.

Now, as the hands of his watch moved nearer to midday, Bond tossed some currency onto the table and walked away, turning left into the street around the corner from the café. He had timed it earlier: exactly two minutes to get from the café to the Daytona, draw on his gloves, and settle the helmet and visor on his head. He swung into the saddle, kicked the engine into life, and felt the immense power begin to rumble under him, his hand on the throttle, twisting and running the engine in short, noisy bursts. No wonder people who rode these beasts all the time became addicted, he considered. Finally he checked that the automatic pistol was in place and could be reached easily if necessary before knocking away the bike's stand and slowly pulling up to the street that led into the San Fernando. Across the road he caught a glimpse of Flicka moving purposefully toward his left, her shoulder bag held in her right hand, together with a copy of the Financial Times. Dolmech had arrived.

He swung the bike out onto the street, filtering into the traffic going right. There was a large traffic circle some twenty yards down, and this allowed him to turn full circle, bringing him back into San Fernando, so that he could stop on the right-hand side, within feet of Flicka. He negotiated the traffic circle, and thirty yards away, he saw Dolmech break from the crowded Gardens, walking casually toward her. He was dressed exactly as promised: blue jeans, denim shirt and jacket, the heavy leather satchel hanging almost carelessly over his right shoulder.

Bond pulled over, glancing in his mirror to the right, then left. It was as his eyes flicked over to the left that he saw the other bike. It was a Harley-Davidson, but with a pillion passenger. He cursed, as there was no way he could cut it off as it came roaring up behind him, swinging and passing close enough for him to feel a slipstream that had him momentarily fighting for balance.

Everything, from that moment, seemed to happen in slow motion. Bond had been alerted by the second bike, but did not completely take in the danger. As he straightened his motorcycle, he was aware of the Harley picking up a burst of speed, cutting in front of him, slewing to the right, causing him to brake violently.

He saw the back of the second bike and watched helplessly as it shot ahead, pulling over to slow slightly right in front of Flicka and Dolmech. Then the pillion passenger reached out, a small black shape in his gloved hand. Later Bond could have sworn he heard the three loud pops. He certainly saw the driver flick his hand out and grab at the satchel as Peter Dolmech was whipped backward by three bullets, his head disappearing in a fine mist of scarlet as the bullets caught him in the face. He saw Flicka's eyes and mouth, a dreadful carving of horror; the mouth frozen open in a scream of anger, her eyes wide, flaring. He saw her reach for the gun in her shoulder bag and turn sideways as though she expected to feel bullets penetrating her own flesh.

He was powerless, and thought that she had also been hit as the crimson cloud appeared to float over her, producing great red blotches of blood and matter across her face; but by the time she had the weapon half out of her shoulder bag, the motorcycle was roaring away, weaving through the traffic.

The Daytona under him leaped forward as his hand opened the throttle: at least he knew that this bike was more agile than the Harley. Whatever else had happened, the only thought now filling his mind was the recovery of the satchel.

In the heavy traffic that clogged the streets of inner Seville, he managed only an occasional glimpse of the bike carrying the two men. To keep up speed and follow them demanded all the concentration he could muster. The Daytona handled perfectly, and he was able to weave and dodge through the thick, slow-moving crush of cars and trucks that seemed to stretch in an endless snake. Bond leaned to left and right, slaloming through narrow gaps, behind vehicles that seemed to be bumper to bumper. His one concern was to get as near to the other motorcycle as possible. If he had been running their operation, the passenger would already have left the bike and spirited the satchel away on foot, but as he managed to get closer, he was relieved to see that both men were still on the machine. They were also heading away from the city center, out toward the perimeter of the ancient walls. Within fifteen minutes they were almost free of the city streets, bearing out into the open countryside where the flow of motor vehicles was steadier.

He was now about half a mile behind his quarry, and thought that far away behind him he heard the wail of a police siren. By this time he was touching speeds of just under a hundred miles an hour, which meant that the bike he was chasing was reaching a speed well in excess of 100mph. It flashed through his mind that, with a passenger on the bike, the torque on the machine must at times reach a dangerous level.

As it was, Bond could feel the forces of gravity on his own bike and upon himself. While it was exhilarating, there were moments when the wheels hit small indentations that caused the bike to lift and bounce. Even with the helmet and visor, his body was at times pressed back in the saddle, and he found his brain making decisions well in advance of reaching other traffic.

They hit a long incline. He could hear and feel the first strain on the engine, so he shifted down quickly, opening up the throttle again to maintain speed. Slowly, he realized, he was beginning to gain on his opponent.

They were on a three-lane highway now with no oncoming traffic, the main hazard being cars and trucks that did not bother to signal when changing lanes. The speed and power were exhilarating, and he had to focus his concentration, constantly dragging his mind back to the Harley now only a couple of hundred yards in front of him.

Without warning, he saw the bike suddenly veer off to the right, rider and passenger leaning over as the machine took a forty-five-degree angle, then righted itself and shot across the three lines of traffic, disappearing through an exit ramp.

Bond signaled and saw a large heavy van moving to the left behind him. He opened the throttle wide, leaned with the tilt as the Daytona began to angle over, heard the rasping horn of the van as it braked when he crossed directly in front of it to get into the far-right lane. The exit ramp came up very fast, and he felt the rear wheel begin to lose traction swinging outward. He shifted down, tapped the brake, and hauled the bike back to the straight and level as he shot into the exit.

Now he knew where they were heading, for he caught a glimpse of the green and white sign that said "Itálica." They were going into the very womb of the Roman Empire, the remains of the large Roman town where both the Emperors Hadrian and Trajan had been born. Ahead was a ticket point with a large notice in four languages saying the ruins were closed. He also saw the brake lights of the Harley as it whipped through the entrance, dipped, and headed up the path leading to the sprawl of skeleton buildings rising up the hillside. A great view to his right, and, slightly ahead, the steep slope that, like a bowl in the earth, contained the remains of Itálica's amphitheater. He was chasing a pair of modern murderers into one of Europe's cradles of history.

Once more Bond opened the throttle in an attempt to get even closer, but this was no place for speed. He saw the bike slew to the left, down what had once been a narrow cobbled street, but when he reached the turn there was no sign of his prey. He retarded the throttle so that the bike was barely idling, straining in the saddle to try and catch the sound of their engine, but the world had suddenly gone silent and his mind sprang forward, latching on to the worst possibility – that the couple on the Harley had a prearranged meeting here in the shadows. If that was the case, he had lost, so he might just as well get out now and save what was left.

Bond reminded himself that he had never given up on an assignment yet, reaching inside the leather jacket to slowly remove the ASP and one spare magazine. He switched off the Daytona's engine, then, with his back against the old dry and crumbling remains of the buildings, he inched forward. Instinctively, he felt that he was being watched.

It was some twenty yards to the end of the street. The first shot came as he reached the point where the cobbles ended and the remains of the buildings ran into what was virtually a T-junction. He heard the crack as the bullet hit the stone just to the left of his head, gouging a small crater, splaying dust that fell across his visor.

He ducked to the right, flicking the visor up and jumping into the ruined street that formed the crosspiece of the T, fanning his hands in a wide circle, gripping the butt of the pistol a shade too tightly.

There was movement to his left and he reacted, swinging his body in that direction without moving his feet, squeezing off the standard two shots. The figure was too quick for him, ducking back down an alley before the first bullet struck the wall where, a split second earlier, the man had been standing.

He turned again, knowing that the two men were trying to circle him, coming in a pincer movement. Sweeping his hands from left to right, back hard against the stone, he whirled in the direction of the target he had just missed. As he wheeled to his left a second time, something moved in the periphery of his vision. This time he was faster, hands coming up to a firing position and centering the guttersnipe sight of the ASP on the black-clad figure's chest.

The two rounds he fired both slammed into the target, ripping at the leather, sending a sickening gout of blood and viscous matter into the wall behind him. Now the odds had evened.

He turned left again, reached the junction where a line of uneven ruins made another rough street, parallel to the one in which he had left the Daytona. For a second his mind drifted and he felt that he was among ghosts, the men, women, and children who had once peopled this place; laughing, arguing, loving, and dying. Taking a deep breath he moved, stepping out cleanly, in a firing position, ready to take out anything that lay in his path.

The street was empty, but he could see that the man he stalked might easily be crouched within one of the undulating, fragmented buildings. The ground under his feet began to angle down. For a second he looked past the end of this row of bleached masonry and saw the beginning of the fantastic view that looked out right across the Guadalquivir Plain. This one lapse of attention almost cost him his life, for this time two bullets came from the left, shattering the stillness and hitting the old stonework to ricochet with a deadly whine within inches of his face.

He returned the fire, shooting only in the general direction from which it had come. In the quiet that followed he could hear the thudding of boots moving away from the clumps of stone.

He took off down what was left of the street, changing magazines as he did so, feeling a terrible draft of frustration as a motorcycle engine burst into life from nearby. The second killer had got to his – Bond's – machine, and he hurtled down the slight hill, pistol still in both hands as he came out on the edge of the ruins. He saw the motorbike moving slowly to his left, disappearing from view, toward the plain that stretched below.

As he reached the open he saw it again, rushing down a grassy slope, heading straight for the remains of the town's amphitheater, now an irregular oval of stone benches, with the big acting area far below. The Daytona was bumping almost casually down what had once been an aisle leading through the seating, the rider trying desperately to put on speed, but braking constantly to keep balance on the sheer angle of the hillside.

It was a long shot for a pistol, but his hands were steady as he brought the sights to bear. Later he realized that he must have fired off practically a whole magazine of ammunition. He felt the weapon jumping in his hands and saw the little explosions of dust around the motorbike, then the two shots that caught its rider in the back, lifting him into the air and returning him to the saddle, his body slumping over the handlebars. As the Daytona slewed to one side, now out of control, Bond reflexed, putting two more shots in the vicinity of the target.

The rider was still actually on the bike as it toppled over, the leather strap of the satchel slung across him over the right shoulder so that the pouch rested against his left hip as the bike and body slid in a long jarring skid down into the acting area of the amphitheater.

It was Bond's last shot that hit the gas tank.

He saw the flame dance from the bike before he heard the roar of the explosion. The fire seemed to flicker and then rise, enveloping machine, rider, and the satchel he carried in what looked like an unquenchable blossom of flame.

Bond leaped forward, running at full tilt down through one of the aisles toward the disaster – here, where hundreds of people had laughed and cried, he imagined that he could hear cries urging him on. By the time he got to the furnace bursting around the motorcycle, devouring its last rider, he realized that the cries were real, but they came from Spanish police officers ringing the edge of the bowl above him.

The smell of burning flesh wrapped around his nostrils as he plunged a gloved hand into the fire and pulled at the blackened satchel that was just about to be eaten by the flames.