Doubleshot

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 containing 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.

Bond walked into the medina, shaking his head at a man who wanted to “show you something special, my friend,” and moved past the numerous shop fronts where anything and everything was sold. The small streets were full of donkeys and cats, beggars and children, hawkers and tourists. It was the smell of the place, in particular, that seemed to be a common trait with all of the medinas in Morocco. The fresh fish, meats, and spices combined with the surrounding humanity to create a confusion of odors that, to Bond, smelled of rotten eggs mixed with incense and urine.

Bond made his way deep into the medina to the busy little square known as the Petit Socco. Children were kicking a ball back and forth between the constant movement of carts and wagons, women dressed in caftans and veils who were buying the day’s produce, and “students” looking for tourists to befriend. He passed the Pension Fuentes, which had been one of Tangier’s luxury hotels at the end of the nineteenth century. At that time, the medina was the sole center of activity and the city’s administration was established there. Important international offices had once resided in the medina, such as the old American Legation, which was now a museum. This all came to an end when the ville nouvelle was built at the beginning of the new century.

At first Bond thought he might have taken a wrong turn, but then he recognized some landmarks and continued on his way up Rue de Almohades to a three-story Berber house. Built around a courtyard, the square structure had high ramparts and corner towers. Magnificent, colorful, handmade carpets hung on the outside, and the ground floor was covered with arts and crafts, from textiles to pottery and ceramics. Brass and copperware were abundant, and jewelry, woodwork, and basketware dominated the premises. Everything was of very high quality.

A teenage boy approached Bond, saying in English, “Come in, sir, come in. Español? American? We have best prices in Tangier. You like carpets? Please, we give you free demonstration.”

“No, thank you,” Bond said. “I’mhere to see Latif Reggab. Is he here?”

“Yes, sir, he is always here. Please, come in and look around. I will find him for you.”

The walls and floor of the room were decorated in the intricate and exquisite tile work that was prevalent in Moroccan architecture. The smell of incense was stronger inside, covering the foul odors of the medina. A few American tourists were haggling with a shopkeeper over the price of a black leather jacket. Some Spaniards were admiring the precious stones that were protected in a glass case.

“As-salaam ‘alaykum, may I help you?” said a familiar voice behind Bond.

He turned to see a rather short man in his fifties. He was dressed in the traditional white jellaba, wore glasses, had dark, curly hair flecked with gray, and large brown eyes with an unusual bluish tint. His skin color was light, as was common among indigenous Berber people. When the man saw who it was standing in his shop, he beamed.

“Well, Allah be praised. I don’t believe it!”

“Hello, Latif,” Bond said. “It’s been a long time.”

“James Bond, as I live and breathe. Welcome!” Latif Reggab laughed heartily and embraced Bond warmly, planting kisses on both cheeks. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

“I couldn’t, for security reasons,” Bond said, quietly, as he glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Latif, I need your help. I need a place to stay while I’m here, and no one must know about it.”

“Of course, of course! No problems. You are always welcome here. Consider this your own personal funduq.” Latif was referring to the smelly “motels” used by caravans.

“And,” Bond added, “I would also appreciate it if London didn’t know I was here as well.”

Latif grinned conspiratorially and said, “Oh, are we up to some kind of international intrigue? Are you in pursuit of dangerous terrorists? Has the spy network returned to Tangier?”

Bond laughed. “Not quite. Let’s just say that I’m on a personal mission. So, tell me, Latif, how are things in T Branch of Station NA?

How is your family?”

“Come upstairs, James, please, and I’ll tell you.” He led Bond up the flights of stairs, past the carpet and rug gallery on the first floor, upward beyond the living quarters, and onto the flat roof, where several carpets had been hung or laid out to dry in the sun. On the way, Latif had barked an order in Arabic to a young man on the second floor.

They could see the entire medina from this height. It looked much as it did hundreds of years ago, with the crowded clusters of flat rooftops, hanging laundry, and the occasional minaret. The only difference was that now most of the rooftops were sprinkled with television aerials or satellite dishes.

“My family is wonderful,” Latif answered. “My wife is still beautiful and my children are almost all grown. My eldest has already made me a grandfather. You met my youngest son earlier. That was Hussein.”

“My lord, the last time I saw him, he was—” Bond held his hand at his waist to indicate the boy’s height.

“Yes, they grow like wildflowers, these kids.”

“Grandpa, eh?”

“Yes, it’s a blessing,” Latif said, smiling broadly, revealing large, yellow teeth. “Anyway, they’re all fine, and the branch is fine, too. To tell the truth, I am very bored with intelligence work. Most of the time these days I simply run my shop and sell beautiful carpets to tourists. There is hardly anything for me to do anymore. Most of the North Africa station’s activity is concentrated in Egypt now; we never have any excitement in Morocco. I’m hoping you have some excitement up your sleeve and that you will allow me to have some of it.”

The second boy appeared, carrying a tray with two glasses of hot mint tea.

“Please, James, have some tea,” Latif said.

Bond wasn’t a big admirer of tea in any form, but he knew that it was customary to accept the offer of mint tea in Moroccan households. It was way too sweet for his tastes, but he made a show of drinking it.

They sat in two wooden chairs overlooking the medina. Just to the north, they could see the coastline. A European cruise ship had just put in to the port, which they could plainly see to the northeast.

“We’re getting all the cruise ships that were supposed to stop in Gibraltar,” Latif said. “Sticky situation there, eh? Anyway, so tell me what this secret mission of yours is.”

“I need to locate two men who flew here from London last night on the British Airways flight. An Englishman named Michael Clayton, and a Dutchman named Walter van Breeschooten. Can you get on to your contacts at Immigration?”

“Sure, no problems. They can tell us if they passed through Immigration all right. But they could be anywhere in the country by now, you know.”

“It’s essential that I find them.”

“Perhaps they wrote their Moroccan address on their Immigration card,” Latif said facetiously.

“That would be the headquarters of the Union.”

Latif raised his bushy eyebrows. “I see. That’swhat this is about, then.”

“What can you tell me about them? Do you have any idea where the Union keeps its main base?”

“As you know, we have an ongoing directive from London to gather information on the Union. I have a little, not much.”

“Then I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”

“We’ll have some lunch and can talk,” Latif said. “Let me show you to your room.”

Bond found his room modest but comfortable. It was small, with a single bed, a tiny window, and a dresser. The bathroom was down the hall, and he would be sharing it with Latif’s extended family. He didn’t plan to stay long.

He went into the bathroom and stared at his hard face. It didn’t reveal the torment he was feeling inside. He looked tired, but otherwise seemed fit and alert. In fact, he felt like hell. He was still jittery after the shock of discovering Kimberley Feare’s body. He hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in days. The headache was stable but persistent.

Bond did what he could to make himself look presentable, put on his shoulder holster and PPK, and covered them with a light sports jacket. He also put on the ISP-3 holster for the P99. The handgun was bulky, but he felt it would be better to keep both guns on him at all times. He rejoined Latif in the family room on the second floor, where a woman in a caftan was setting the dining table.

“You remember my wife, Maliza?” Latif asked, gesturing to her.

“Of course,” Bond said. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said to Maliza. She smiled and nodded at him, then scurried out of the room.

“She doesn’t speak English,” Latif said. “Sit down, my friend. Tell me more about this mysterious mission you’re on.”

Bond sat down in a wooden chair as Latif offered him an ashtray. He removed the gunmetal case that was as much a fixture on his person as his belovedWalther, removed a cigarette with the three distinctive gold bands made by Tor Importers, and held the case open for Latif. The Ronson lighter appeared and lit both cigarettes.

“The Union killed someone close to me,” Bond said flatly. “They almost killed me. They’ve made it personal. I want them. That’s all.”

Latif looked at Bond a long time before saying, “My friend. You realize that when they make it personal, it becomes too dangerous. You lose objectivity. That’s when you need to step back and let someone else handle the job.”

“I hear you, Latif, but I can’t do that. That’s not all. Last night, I’m pretty sure the Union tried to set me up for murdering a woman in London—a doctor.”

Latif’s eyes narrowed. “So let me understand this … you’re on the run?”

“You might say that,” Bond said. “I’m looking for answers.”

“Do you even know what the questions are?”

“I’m making them up as I go along.”

That caused Latif to smile. “My friend, James. Don’t worry. You can trust me. I will help you in any way I can.”

After a bit of silence, he spoke again. “You know, I read somewhere … I think it was on the Internet … that if we could shrink the earth’s population down to a village of precisely one hundred people, with all the existing human ratios remaining the same, the results are quite extraordinary. I was so struck by the revelations that the numbers are permanently imprinted onmy brain. Therewould be fifty-seven Asians and twenty-one Europeans. There would be only fourteen people from the entireWestern Hemisphere, both north and south. There would be eight Africans. Of these hundred people, fifty-two would be female, forty-eight male. Seventy would be nonwhite, thirty white. Seventy would be non-Christian, thirty would be Christian. Eighty-nine would be heterosexual, eleven homosexual. Fifty-nine percent of the village’s wealth would be in the hands of only six people, and all six would be Americans. Eighty people would live in substandard housing. Seventy would be unable to read. Fifty would suffer from malnutrition. One would be near death, one would be near birth. Only one person would have a college education, and only one would own a computer.”

Reggab let that sink in, then said, “When one considers our world from such a compressed perspective, the need for both acceptance and understanding becomes glaringly apparent.”

Maliza brought food to the table and beckoned to the men. They sat down to a meal of chicken curry with rice, served with bottled sparkling water. Bond knew that Latif, purportedly a devout Muslim, didn’t keep alcohol in his home. He wasn’t adverse, though, to slipping into bars with Bond for the occasional drink.

“I’ll tell you what I know about the Union,” Latif said. “Everyone is becoming scared of them. They are the number-one priority with Interpol. The Union have gained a lot of power in the past couple of years.”

“Yes.”

“I think they’re in Casablanca. It makes sense. It’s the financial center of Morocco. It’s a port and has the largest airport.”

“Do you think Le Gérant is Moroccan?”

“Yes. Partly, anyway. I’ve been waiting for some more information before I submit my report on the Union to London. I think I know who Le Gérant is.”

Bond’s heart skipped a beat. “Do tell.”

Latif shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. You see, I’m a Berber. My people came from the Rif Mountains. I have heard talk of a man, a Westerner, whose mother was Berber. He came to the mountains some years ago and was regarded as some kind of prophet. The word was that he had a French father who had once served in the government here during the Second World War. Anyway, this man, they say, is blind, but he possesses extrasensory powers that normal human beings do not have. He had tremendous influence over some of the tribes in the mountains. He took many people with him and disappeared back into Western civilization.”

“Do you know his name?”

“If it’s who I think it is, his name is Olivier Cesari.”

“A French name? Corsican?”

“Corsican. Although he was born into the Berber tribe, he was raised and educated in France by his father. He probably has a Berber name as well, but I don’t know it.”

“How did you find this out?”

“Well … for one thing …” Latif said, smiling devilishly, “I went to university with Olivier in Paris.”

“Really?”

Latif nodded. “It’s true what they say about him. Tremendously gifted. He was an excellent student, extremely intelligent. He studied law, as I did, but changed to economics. And I remember him walking on campus with a stick, never bumping into anything. Once I came into the classroom and he was the only one in there. I didn’t say anything, and after a few seconds, he greeted me by name. Uncanny.”

“Why do you think this man is Le Gérant?” Bond asked.

“I don’t know,” Latif said. “As I said, I’ve heard these stories from the Riffians about this so-called prophet. In fact, that’s what they called him in the mountains. Prophet. Unfortunately, no one has seen him in fifteen, twenty years.”

“We should go ahead and have London investigate him.”

“They already have. I put in the request a long time ago. According to official records, Olivier Cesari disappeared from Paris when he was in his twenties.”

“Which was … what, thirty years ago?” Bond surmised.

“Right. Olivier is my age, roughly, which is fifty.”

Reggab’s mobile rang. He answered it, speaking in Arabic. After a few short exchanges he hung up and said, “Your two men came through Customs last night, all right. So they’re in the country.”

“How do we find them?”

“My source at the airport said that they took a taxi toward Tangier.

That’s all we know. But don’t worry. I have eyes and ears all over this country. Let me make some calls this afternoon.”

Latif’s youngest son came in with an overnight courier envelope. “This came for you, Papa.”

“Thank you, son,” Latif said. He examined it, his brow wrinkling. “Now what is … ?” He opened it and found a large brown envelope inside. “Ah. It’s for a case I’m working on. These are the photos I was expecting.”

“Anything interesting?”

“In a way. There’s a strange campsite in the mountains, between the villages of Chefchaouen and Ketama. It sprung up there about a year ago on some land that’s owned by a private company. A bank. Anyway, it’s like a compound—they have it surrounded by barbed wire and the dirt road leading to it is guarded off the main highway. It looks like soldiers are in training there, but no one has got close enough to make sure. I’ve been ordered by London to find out if it’s some kind of terrorist training camp.”

Latif shared the photos with Bond. They were eight-by-tens in black-and-white and looked as if they had been shot with a camera hidden in someone’s clothing. The lighting was bad, as they were obviously night shots and had depended on the little illumination made by a couple of spotlights at the scene.

“These are quite good, considering the location of the camera,” Latif said. “We had to put it in Rizki’s tarbouch. He’s one of the men who helps me. I had him stationed on the hill above the entrance to the camp. It’s quite a way off the main road. He was to take photographs of everyone going in and out.”

The photographs, obviously blown up from a smaller size, showed various figures at a checkpoint gate. Bond could make out tents, lean-tos, and campers within the compound. Among the figures in the shots were men in military fatigues sitting in a jeep, being waved through by two guards dressed in traditional Berber jellabas. The guards were carrying automatic weapons, but it was difficult to discern what they were.

Bond flipped through the photographs and stopped at the last one. It showed twoCaucasians in business suits getting out of a taxi at the gate.

They were Walter van Breeschooten and Michael Clayton.

“Latif, when were these photos taken?” Bond asked.

“Last night. Rizki got them to me quickly, he’s a good—”

Bond slapped the photo. “These are the men I’m looking for!”

“Really?” Latif took it and stared. “That’s incredible!”

“How soon can we get to this camp?”

“We’ll have to go after dark. Is tonight soon enough?”

For the first time in days, Bond smiled and breathed a sigh of relief.