Doubleshot

FOURTEEN

JOURNEY BY RAIL

THE TRAIN ROLLED OUT OF TANGIER AND HEADED SOUTH ALONG THE coastline toward Rabat. Bond stared wearily at the passing scenery, which grew flatter as the journey progressed. For the first time in hours, he had a chance to sit and mull over the events of the past two days. He wished that he could relax, but he was wound up like a coil.

It wasn’t long before he craved a cigarette. He got up and left his compartment, made his way through the narrow corridor and stepped out onto the rumbling platform at the back of the train. He removed the gunmetal case, took a cigarette, and lit it.

Had his career finally come to an end? he asked himself. Was it time to give it up? Had he begun to pay the price for living on the edge for so long? He had seen it in other agents. Something in them finally snaps and they have to put in for early retirement. Was this happening to him? Was he absolutely certain that he could beat this thing on his own? What if he really was going insane?

Stop it! he commanded himself. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s some kind of Union plot … it’s obviously some kind of Union plot.…

Bond’s thoughts were interrupted when an attractive blonde opened the door and joined him on the platform. She didn’t look at him or speak; she dug into a handbag, found her own cigarettes, and attempted to light one.

“Allow me,” he said. He produced the Ronson lighter and cupped the flame close to her face.

She got it lit and said, “Thank you.”

For a moment, they stood there in the open air, enjoying that exhilarating sensation of watching the tracks rush away from the train.

“I get claustrophobic on trains,” she said. “Smoking in the corridor isn’t cool even though everyone does it. I’m in a smoking car, but it’s just too crowded. I like to smoke but I don’t like to live in a cloud of it. I had to get some air.”

She had an American accent. She seemed to be in her mid- to late twenties.

“I know what you mean,” Bond said. “You’re welcome to join me in my compartment. It’s nonsmoking, I’m afraid, but there’s no one else in there.”

She eyed him up and down, then smiled. “That was the quickest pickup line I think I’ve ever heard.”

“Forgive me,” Bond said. “I didn’t mean it that way. My name’s Cork. John Cork.”

She looked him up and down again, then smiled once more. “Hello, John Cork. My name is Heidi Taunt.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Bond said. “What brings you to Morocco from the States?”

“How do you know I live in the States?”

“I assumed that you’re American.”

“I’m a California girl, born and raised, but I don’t live there,” she said. “We live in Tokyo.”

Hell, Bond thought. She was married.

“My sister and I,” she added. Heidi looked back through the window into the corridor. “What about you? You sound English.”

“I live in London,” Bond admitted.

“You don’t look English.”

“How does one look English?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I just meant that you don’t look English here, in Morocco. You have that ‘dark, handsome foreign stranger’ quality.” She shrugged and smiled.

She was flirting with him!

Heidi Taunt was tall and well built. She was wearing designer jeans, which tightly outlined her long legs without revealing too much and offending the social sensibilities of the Moroccans. She had on a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up. The top two buttons were undone, exposing substantial cleavage.

Her shoulder-length blond hair was fine and straight, parted in the middle. She had dark brown eyes that exhibited intelligence and a sense of humor. Bond found her incredibly sexy.

“So what brings you from Japan to Morocco?” Bond asked.

“My sister and I are travel guide writers. We’ve done a series of books on various countries. Perhaps you’ve seen them? The Small World books?”

“I can’t say that I have. Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “We’ve only done four. This is our fifth. We’re published in America and Britain.”

“That sounds like a fun job.”

She finished her cigarette and tossed the butt onto the tracks. “It is. It’s more work than you think, though. It’s not just traveling to exotic places. The business side of it is overwhelming. But you’re right, it’s great fun to travel. We hope to visit every country in the world, my sister and I.”

“That’s quite an ambition.”

“I know, it’s impossible, but we like to imagine it.”

“Where are you going? Rabat?”

“No, to Casablanca. To Marrakesh after two nights. Rabat on the way back. What brings you here?”

“I’m an importer and exporter,” Bond replied.

“What do you import and export?”

“Junk, mostly. A whole lot of nothing.”

She laughed.

Bond offered the cigarette case to her, but she shook her head. “No, thanks, I’m going back inside. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Cork.” She held out her hand. Bond took it.

“Call me John. It was a pleasure, Heidi. Where are you staying in Casablanca?”

Her hand was smooth and cool. She allowed him to hold it.

“The Royal Mansour Meridien.”

“What a coincidence!” Bond said. “That’s my hotel, too.”

“Small world,” she said, smiling wickedly.

Actually, Bond hadn’t thought about where he would stay, but he knew the hotel. It was one of the best in Casablanca. Staying at a large five-star hotel like that might be what the authorities looking for him would least expect him to do. And if he happened to have a girlfriend … ? A perfect cover, one the police weren’t looking for …

She withdrew her hand, turned and opened the door. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Heidi,” Bond said, stopping her. “Would you care to have dinner with me at the hotel tonight? It has a lovely Moroccan restaurant.”

“Why, thank you, John, that sounds terrific. I’ll see you later, then.”

And she was gone.

Bond congratulated himself. His way with women had not changed. Screw the headache, he thought. There was desire in that girl’s eyes!

Bond finished his cigarette and went back inside the train. He made his way back to his compartment, which was still empty, and he collapsed heavily into his seat. He put his feet up on the opposite seat and looked out the window at the passing rows of cacti, which seemed to be more plentiful as the train went farther south. The color of the earth changed, too, as the climate became hotter and more arid.

He shut his eyes and felt merciful waves of drowsiness pull him toward unconsciousness. The movement of the train, combined with physical exhaustion, lulled Bond into a fitful but badly needed sleep.

When he opened his eyes, the train was still rocking and rumbling toward its destination. He felt another presence in the compartment with him.

Heidi was sitting across from him, with a seat between hers and the one where his feet were propped. She was reading a romance novel and had on reading glasses; otherwise she was still dressed in the tight jeans and white blouse.

“Hello there,” Bond said, sitting up and straightening his jacket. “I must have dozed off.”

She glanced at him and gave a cursory smile and nodded, but kept silent. Her eyes went back to the book.

Odd, Bond thought. What was the matter with her?

“So,” he said, “what time are we having dinner?”

The blonde looked up at him over her glasses. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dinner? Tonight? At the hotel? What time?”

Heidi opened her mouth as if she had just been insulted. She closed her book and stood. “I think I’ll go back to the compartment I was in before.” She opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Her parting words were, “You have some nerve, asshole.” Then she walked on.

What the hell? Bond rubbed his eyes. Did he dream that?

He felt foolish and confused.

Dizzy woman, he thought. Well, she had admitted being from California. She had probably grown up on the beach, wearing skimpy bikinis and giving all the teenaged boys inflexible frustration. To hell with her …

The train stopped in Rabat, Morocco’s capital. There was a half-hour wait before it departed, so Bond took the opportunity to don his sunglasses and baseball cap and stretch his legs. Rabat station is larger and has more amenities than the one in Tangier. He scanned the newspapers in the gift shop but couldn’t find one in English. A French paper proclaimed that war between Britain and Spain was imminent. There was a photo of Domingo Espada, surrounded by bodyguards, giving a speech at a bullring. Several matadors were standing beside him.

Bond recognized one of them. Javier Rojo was a young bullfighter whom Bond got to know by accident just a few years ago at an art gallery in Lisbon. Bond’s date had been a friend of the artist. Apparently Javier’s date was, too. They had met at the bar, where Bond was busy with a vodka martini in an effort to avoid the small talk of the art crowd. Rojo was having a soft drink, and he turned to Bond and said, in English, “The only alcohol I drink is wine at dinner.”

“Why?” Bond had asked.

“You have to be sober to do what I do.”

He was a handsome, fiery young man in his mid-twenties, and he had come from a long line of bullfighters. His grandfather had been one of the most famous matadors in Spain until he was killed in the ring. Rojo’s father was also a very successful bullfighter who had passed the torch on to his two sons when he retired. Javier Rojo was wealthy, popular, and as much a celebrity as one could be in Spain.

Bond blinked when he saw the headline of a related story on the inside of the paper. “ROBERTO ROJO MURDERED.”

That was Javier’s younger brother!

Bond read with incredulity how the young matador and the body of an unidentified young girl had been found slain in his hotel room in Ronda. According to the police, the bullfighter’s “throat had been cut.”

It was the Union way. Could it be a coincidence? Bond wondered.

He thought back to the beginning of his friendship with Javier Rojo.

That night in Lisbon, Bond and the young bullfighter had struck up a conversation and found that they got along well. Bond had always held the art of bullfighting at arm’s length until Rojo had enlightened him. Like most non-Spaniards, Bond was of the opinion that bullfighting was both cruel and archaic. This notion changed after Rojo convinced Bond to come to a corrida and watch him fight. Rojo had taken the time to teach Bond the history of bullfighting and its traditions, and why the Spanish were so passionate about it. After a week as Javier’s guest, Bond began to see why men like Ernest Hemingway and Orson Welles had become fascinated by bullfighting. Bond grew to appreciate the art and drama behind the spectacle, and he admired the courage of the matadors who risked their lives to face a charging bull.

Bond studied the newspaper carefully. So Javier Rojo was in with Domingo Espada now. Bond wished that he didn’t have the Union to deal with. Otherwise, he could be in Spain, seeking out Espada and stopping him from instigating this idiotic conflict between their two countries. Perhaps Rojo could be of help.

Bond sighed. He couldn’t think about that now. He had other, more important things to worry about. Britain would deal with Spain. If war broke out, it would be over quickly. NATO or the U.N. would negotiate a settlement. Bond didn’t have to worry.

Or did he? The terrorists aboard the ferry in Tangier—they had claimed that they were working for Domingo Espada.

The police sketch of the suspect was also on the front page. The caption said that the “British terrorist was still at large.” Although he hadn’t been identified yet, there was some speculation that he was with British secret intelligence.

Wonderful, Bond thought. He wagered that the press would know his name within a day.

He rejoined the train after eating a dry roast beef sandwich and drinking a Spéciale Flag beer. His compartment now had three new people in it—a man, his veiled wife, and a small boy, who was already fussing over a toy that his father had taken from him. Bond wasn’t about to stand for that, so he excused himself and went back out to the corridor as the train pulled away from the station.

He went to the rear of the train to smoke another cigarette and watch the remnants of Rabat disappear. Trains were Bond’s favorite means of traveling if he couldn’t drive a fast car. There was something old-fashioned and romantic about train travel. Airplanes simply dropped a person in the middle of a location. With trains, one was injected into the bloodstream of a country, and enabled to see the people and places and cultures. It took more time to get around, but it was far more gratifying.

The door to the corridor opened behind him and Heidi Taunt came out to join him.

“Hi there,” she said, brightly. She was smiling broadly, as if the earlier encounter in the train compartment had never happened. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Bond didn’t say anything, wondering what her game was. He did offer her a cigarette, which she took.

“Thanks,” she said. “Hey, what time do you want to meet for dinner?”

Even more confused, Bond said, “Eight o’clock?”

“Fine,” she said. “The Moroccan restaurant. I can’t wait to see the King Hassan II mosque. I hear it’s one of the wonders of the world. Have you seen it?”

“Yes, it’s lovely,” Bond said. “But I must say that Casablanca is not my favorite city in Morocco.”

“I hear it’s not so great,” she concurred. “Marrakesh is supposed to be the place to go. I hear Fes is nice, too.”

“You’re right on both counts.” Bond finished his cigarette. Why was she so friendly now, when just a little while ago she had treated him with disdain?

Without warning, she said, “Excuse me,” and reached up to remove Bond’s sunglasses. She peered at his face, studying it. “I just wanted to see your eyes. They’re very sexy.” She handed back the sunglasses. “Here you go.”

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.