Doubleshot

NINETEEN

DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON

JAVIER ROJO ARRIVED AT THE ESPADA ESTATE AT 7:00 ON SUNDAY MORNING. He told the guard at the gate that he had been invited to breakfast on the morning of the corrida. Since Javier was a familiar face at the ranch, the guard let him in without verifying the appointment.

He drove the Porsche around the annex and parked at the back. He quietly entered the house from the back door, which he knew would be unlocked. Javier thought that if Espada were really involved in criminal activities, then he should have better security!

He heard people talking in a room beyond the kitchen. They were indeed having breakfast on the patio, located off the immense living room. If he could creep into the living room and hide behind some furniture, perhaps he could hear their conversation.

Javier started to sneak into the room, but the sound of footsteps in the corridor to his right stopped him. He quickly moved back and stood behind a tall cactus in a painted clay pot.

He couldn’t believe what he saw.

A man came out of the corridor and went into the living room, obviously headed for the patio.

It was James Bond! What the hell was he doing here?

In confusion, Javier stepped out from behind the cactus, hoping to get another look before the man disappeared outside.

“May I help you?”

It was the woman. Margareta Piel. She must have been just behind Bond.

“Hola,” Javier said. “I thought I saw someone I knew.…”

“Were you invited here this morning, Javier?” she asked.

“Well, no, but I thought that … considering that today … tonight …”

“Domingo isn’t here,” she said. “As much as I’d like to say I would love to have breakfast with you, Javier, it’s just not convenient this morning. I’m sorry. You’ll have to leave. Besides, Javier, you need to be ready for tonight! Go on! You know Domingo wouldn’t like it if he saw you here, anyway. You’re supposed to be preparing for the corrida! ”

“Fine,” Javier said. Now he wasn’t so sure that he had seen what he had thought. Perhaps his eyes had been playing tricks on him. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Señorita Piel.” He said it as if he were spitting on her.

She flared her eyes at him as he left the way he had come in.

Jimmy Powers stepped out of the corridor. He had been listening just a few feet away the entire time.

“I hate to say I told you so,” he said to Margareta. “He came looking for something, all right. What did he see?”

“I’m not sure, but I think he saw Peredur,” she replied.

“Well,” Powers said. “Please tell Nadir. Someone needs to keep an eye on the kid and make sure he doesn’t go near our friend in Marbella before tonight. I’m off to Gibraltar.”

Powers left the room. Margareta turned and went outside to the patio to find Yassasin.

“Nadir, I need to speak with you,” she said. She led him to a corner of the patio and whispered softly. Peredur Glyn watched her, totally absorbed by the gorgeous woman he had spent the night with. When they came back to the table, Margareta sat in the chair next to him and squeezed his thigh.

Margareta told the servant what she wanted, then turned to Peredur. He was one of the most handsome men she had ever met. Dark. Cold. She liked that.

When Peredur Glyn had arrived at the ranch yesterday, she knew she had to sleep with him. He was terribly good-looking. The fact that she knew he was going to die tomorrow excited her even more.

They killed time in Bar Flor, the sidewalk café directly across the street from Málaga’s Plaza de Toros La Malagueta. Bond sat with Heidi at one of the sidewalk tables, while Hedy, wearing the red wig, a scarf and sunglasses, sat inside the cafeteria, apart from them. She could hear their conversation by means of an earpiece and a small microphone attached to a button on Heidi’s blouse.

It was a busy little place, crowded with anxious spectators waiting for the doors of the bullring to open. The two slot machines made a tremendous racket, and the air was buzzing with patrons’ exuberance. These were people who loved bullfighting, and bullfighting is as widely discussed there as football is debated in Britain.

The throngs of people outside the bullring fascinated Bond and Heidi. They were all dressed in traditional garb for corridas—the women wore large, colorful dresses and headpieces, and carried fans. Every man was equipped with a cigar, and groups carried botas, pouches full of wine. While the atmosphere was not as festive as during the annual August feria, which had occurred a week earlier, there was still enough excitement to generate anticipation in even the most jaded person.

Bond wanted to catch Domingo Espada’s speech before the bullfight, so he finished the sherry and took one last bite of pork.

“Hedy doesn’t like the idea of you going in there alone,” Heidi said.

“Hedy, don’t worry,” Bond said, directing his voice at the button on Heidi’s blouse. “Something is destined to happen here. I just wonder if the Union are expecting me. And … thanks for giving me back my gun.”

Hedy had handed it over before they reached Málaga. “I’m giving this back to you on one condition,” she had said. “That you promise not to run away from us, do anything rash, shoot us, or kill more tourists.”

She had gradually warmed to Bond over the last twenty-four hours. While Heidi was the consummate flirt and continued to show the most obvious interest, Bond was beginning to find Hedy the more attractive of the twins. He liked her style.

“I suggest you follow me at a very safe distance,” Bond said to Heidi. “No doubt I’m being watched. You know whom to call if something goes wrong. I’m going to do my best to obtain a face-to-face meeting with Espada. Hopefully this ticket will be for a seat somewhere near him.”

He stood and left some pesetas on the table. He leaned over and kissed Heidi on the cheek. “That was for you, too, Hedy,” Bond said to the button.

“Good luck,” Heidi said.

Bond crossed the street and joined the masses of people entering the beige bullring. While not as old as the one in Ronda, it is a beautiful, historic landmark. It is the site of not only bullfights, but also rock concerts, motorbike shows, operas, elections, and political rallies. The city had grown around it; tall apartment buildings stood on all sides of the ring, offering spectacular views for tenants owning binoculars.

The energy around him was palpable as Bond entered the pasillo and walked past the refreshment stands. Much like at an American sporting event, hawkers sold sweets, sunflower seeds, beer, and soft drinks during the corrida. Bond stopped and bought a beer, and then swallowed four of Dr. Feare’s tablets, noticing that he was running low. What would he do when he needed to refill the prescription?

The place was filling up quickly, so Bond made his way to the tendidos. His seat was in one of the best sections, the tendido sombra, where patrons are able to sit in the shade. Next to it was the apoderados section, where managers and other bullfighting regulators sat. Some prime seats there had obviously been draped and reserved for VIPs, presumably Espada and his team. The president of the corrida and his aides sat in a section a few rows higher than Bond. Directly across the ring was the orchestra, the members of which were settling down, ready to begin the music. The fight was completely sold out; the roar of the spectators grew louder as the seats filled, section by section. The seat next to Bond’s, however, remained empty.

Bond looked around the place with interest. Ever since he had met Javier and learned a thing or two about bullfighting, he genuinely enjoyed the spectacle. It was already an assault of colors, noise, and expectation—and the bullfight had yet to begin! He noted that the flags of Spain, Andalucía, and Málaga’s local provincial government hung over the puerta de cuadrillas, where the procession of matadors and their teams would enter. Banners or advertisements, prominently displayed during concerts and other events, were prohibited at bullfights.

He didn’t notice Hedy Taunt taking a seat in one of the sections above him. She could get a good view of Bond with a pair of opera glasses she had brought.

“I see him, Heidi,” she said into her microphone. “So far, nothing unusual.”

Bullfights, miraculously, always began on time. At exactly 6:25, Domingo Espada walked out to the center of the ring, carrying a microphone, ready to make the most of his five minutes. The crowd immediately gave him an ovation. Espada smiled broadly and waved, then raised the microphone to his mouth and began to speak.

“My friends, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Málaga’s Plaza de Toros. I will not take up too much of your time, for we have an exciting corrida today. You probably know that I am scheduled to go to Gibraltar tomorrow morning to meet the Prime Ministers of Spain and Great Britain, and the Governor of Gibraltar. I have pledged the remainder of my life to raising public consciousness regarding the Gibraltar issue. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but I am asking any able-bodied men to come with me and join my security force. The pay is very good. We have nearly two thousand men already. My goal is to increase the size of the force to twenty-five hundred. I need to show the other side that Domingo Espada’s party is powerful and has the will of the people behind it. You will find recruitment centers located at the exits. If you are over eighteen years of age, please, I would love to have you work for me. If you want to see Spain become a major force in the politics of the world again, you will support my cause. I need you. The people need you. Spain needs you.

“And now, I salute the brave men facing the bulls tonight!”

This brought a loud cheer from the stands. Espada waved again and began walking toward the fence. Bond noted the man’s natural charisma that carried even at this distance. If he was as articulate and intelligent as he was supposed to be, Bond could see why so many people wanted to follow him.

At that point, a strikingly attractive woman with long black hair moved into the aisle and sat down in the seat next to Bond’s. She was dressed in a green traditional flamenco dress with a yellow and orange flower pattern.

“Hello,” Bond said.

“Hola,” she said, not smiling. She settled into the chair, then looked out over the heads as if she were looking for someone. Bond glanced at her every few seconds, but she seemed to be ignoring him.

“You’re not Spanish,” she said, finally, still not looking at him.

“No, I’m not,” Bond answered. At last. He was getting somewhere.

“Where are you from?”

“Britain.”

He saw the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Bond was fascinated with her face. She had classic Spanish features, but there was something very cold in her dark eyes. The woman exuded a worldliness that was immediately attractive. She had exquisite poise, as if she had stepped out of a painting.

“My name is Margareta Piel,” she said. “What is your name?”

“John Cork.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cork. Do you enjoy bullfighting?”

“Yes, I do. I find it fascinating.”

“I’m surprised,” she said. “Most people who are not Spanish do not like it.”

“It’s because they don’t understand it.”

“Quite so,” she agreed.

The band suddenly struck up the pasodoble and the bullring gate swung open, right on time.

A corrida always begins with a paseo, or procession, of the three matadors who are fighting, followed by their cuadrillas, the teams made up of banderilleros, picadors, and mulilleros.

Javier Rojo, as the senior matador, was walking in the middle. He would fight the first and fourth bulls of the corrida. All of the men, grouped together in their colorful costumes, made a spectacular vignette on the field.

After the procession, the field was rapidly brushed by men wielding rastrillos, the wooden brooms used to smooth the dirt.

Bond felt a twinge of anxiety as he watched Javier prepare for the entrance of the first bull. One never knew if a matador would live or die in the ring. It is a far more dangerous “sport” than most people realize, although it is no sport to the Spanish. Javier assumed his position near one of the shields in front of the fence. The music ceased and the crowd grew quiet. The moment at which the bull entered the ring was among the most dramatic in a bullfight. It was then that a matador could see exactly how brave and strong the bull was.

The gate swung open and a huge, black beast thundered into the ring. The first act, the tercio de varas, had begun. With the help of his banderilleros, the bullfighter would now test the bull by having him charge at the capes. One of the banderilleros called to him, waving a cape. The bull immediately charged the target, but the man stepped inside a shield in the nick of time. The bull’s horns slammed into the wood. The crowd cried, “Olé!”

Another banderillero called to the bull and waved the bright red cape. The bull turned, snorted, and rushed toward him. Again, the man stepped inside a shield, barely escaping injury.

At last, it was Javier’s turn. He stepped out into the ring and called to the bull. Much of the appeal of a bullfighter was the way he carried himself. The more arrogant and egotistical he was, the more popular he would be. There was a great deal of posing and grimacing involved in being a matador, but even that required skill. Javier did it well, simultaneously displaying pride, honor, and a demand for respect.

Somehow, the bull knew that this was the man who was his true enemy. The bull pawed the dirt in front of him, then charged. Javier performed a neat verónica and sidestepped the bull. The crowd went wild.

“This matador is one of the best,” Margareta said. “Have you seen him before?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Bond said.

The picadors entered the ring on horseback. It was their job to wound the bull with lances called varas without causing injury to the horses, even though coverings made of cotton and steel mesh protected the animals to some extent.

At this point, Domingo Espada and two men entered the stands and sat down in their seats not far away from Bond and the girl.

“He’s also quite an orator,” Bond said.

“And very popular with the people,” Margareta agreed. “At one time he was a great matador. Now he is a great politician.”

“It sounds as if you admire him,” Bond said.

“I have to. I work for him.”

“Do you? Why, I’d really like to meet him. As an interested expat, of course.”

“Of course,” she said. “I can arrange that. After the bullfight.”

“I’m beginning to believe that our rendezvous was no coincidence,” Bond said.

“You might be right,” she said seductively, as she rubbed her leg against his.

Out in the ring, the bull had been stabbed twice with lances. A good deal of blood was streaming down the animal’s side.

Before the third lance, Javier spent several minutes in the middle of the ring, taunting the bull. The bull would rush him, but the matador deftly countered with the cape in a series of maneuvers. His movements were pure and smooth as he stood, feet together and back arched. Bond could appreciate that a matador’s dance with the bull was very sexual; it was no wonder that bullfighters were considered sex symbols. It was almost as if the matador was seducing the bull. As Javier had said, the two living things—man and beast—had become one in the ring. With the cape, the matador had molded the animal’s wild charges into something of beauty.

Javier gave way so that the picador could gallop his horse around the ring, leading the bull into a charge. The horse turned sharply, heading off the bull so that the picador could thrust the lance into the bull’s withers, the hump on its back that was the gateway to its vital organs.

The signal was given for the change in acts, to the tercio de banderillas. The banderilleros were older men, usually matadors who never made it to the top. They strutted out into the field, each holding a pair of the colorful spikes called banderillas. Again, each man had to taunt the bull to charge and, as it came within inches of his body, accurately thrust both spikes into the bull’s withers. It was one of the most dangerous parts of the bullfight, since the bull, at this point, was in pain, angry, and ready to gore anything that moved.

The bull charged Javier’s first banderillero, who was standing alone and unprotected near the center of the ring, the sticks held high above his head, back arched, and raised on tiptoes. He neatly sidestepped the animal and stabbed it with the spikes. The crowd cried out in approval. After the second pair of spikes was delivered, Javier motioned to the corrida president that he would opt to administer the third pair.

Javier moved to the center of the ring and beckoned to the bull. The animal was now wary of the men in the colorful costumes. He was learning and adapting his strategy for attack. Without warning, the bull charged and brushed against Javier, knocking him to the ground. Javier dropped the spikes and rolled to avoid being gored. The spectators gasped loudly. Javier jumped to his feet before the bull could turn and charge again. Forced to retreat to the fence, Javier brushed off the accident and picked up two more spikes.

This time, Javier boldly moved to the center of the ring and called to the bull. He arched his back and held the sticks high. It charged and the matador perfectly administered the spikes. The spectators roared.

It was time for the third and final act, the tercio de la muerte. The president gave his permission for the bull to be killed, something that was always traditionally asked for by the matador. Javier then looked around the bullring for someone to dedicate the bull to. Matadors would often pay tribute to a woman, a visiting dignitary, a friend or relative, by offering his hat to that person. If he wished to dedicate the fight to the entire crowd, he would throw the hat into the ring.

Javier strode toward the section where Bond was sitting. Their eyes met, and Javier flung the hat up and over the heads of the people in the first rows. Bond reached and caught the hat as the audience applauded. Javier smiled at Bond, then took his cape and sword from his assistant.

The matador has a time limit in which to kill the bull in the third act. It has to be done with precision, for no one likes to see the bull suffer. Aimed correctly, the estoque would sever the bull’s spinal cord and other vital organs, killing it quickly. If it were still alive after falling to the ground, a member of the team would stab it in the back of the head with a short knife. Death was then instantaneous.

Javier stood in the middle of the ring, daring the bull to come closer and closer with each charge. He expertly twirled the cape, holding back the sword so that the bull would not expect it. This is the point at which a matador indulges in his most risky maneuvers, allowing the bull to get as near to his body as possible. With each pass, the crowd cried, “Olé!” and cheered. The music started up again and the first bullfight was quickly approaching its climax.

The dance of the matador and the bull became a ballet as Javier created beautiful flourishes with the cape, sometimes dropping to one knee to accept the animal’s charge. He enthralled the crowd by performing a kneeling pinwheel maneuver. In this vulnerable position the matador moved the cape to one side, crossing his body with his arm. Then, once the horns passed, he spun in the opposite direction to the bull’s charge, wrapping the cape around his hips. It was a decorative pass, but it was necessary with a quick-turning bull such as this one.

Finally, Javier faced the bull and dropped to his knees again. He called to the bull, daring it to charge a defenseless man on his knees.

“He is brave, that young man,” Margareta said.

At that moment, one of the banderilleros, the only one dressed in red, stepped out of the shield directly behind the bull, in Javier’s view. He stood there a moment, as if waiting for some kind of reaction from Javier.

Bond could see that something was wrong. Javier stood and, for a moment, he looked at the banderillero. He rubbed his eyes and appeared disoriented. The bull sensed the man’s hesitation and charged.

The crowd screamed as Javier was picked up by the bull’s horns and thrown over the animal’s back. Javier landed with a thud on the ground. The rest of the team ran toward him, shouting, attempting to attract the bull’s attention, but the animal wasn’t to be distracted. It turned and plunged its horns into the matador’s body. There were more screams from the spectators. Bond stood in alarm, clutching Javier’s hat.

The banderillero in red had disappeared.

The men brought out a stretcher and rolled Javier’s body onto it. The blood on his side was quite evident. In the meantime, one of the other matadors came out to finish the job. Taking a cape and sword, the new man stood in front of the bull and held the sword out in front, taking careful aim. Then, just as the bull charged, the matador lunged forward and thrust the sword into the bull’s back. It was a perfect kill. The crowd cheered wildly as the bull collapsed, the blood pouring out if its wound.

Bond began to move out of the stand. “I have to see about Javier,” he muttered to the woman.

She followed him down the stairs into the pasillo, where a number of people had already gathered to see about Javier Rojo’s condition.

Hedy stood and spoke into her mike. “He’s on the move, and that woman who was sitting with him is right behind him. Damn, he’s getting lost in the crowd.” She shoved her way out of the row and attempted to keep sight of Bond, but the swarm of spectators blocked her view.

Bond pushed through the crowd, running toward the enfermería, a fully equipped emergency room.

What the hell happened out there? Had he imagined it?

He got caught up in the mass of people, and suddenly Bond’s head started to spin and he felt pressure in his chest.

“Let me through!” he tried to shout, but no one could hear him.

Someone cried, “Javier Rojo is dead!” There were screams of despair from the crowd.

Bond’s vision blurred and he stumbled, but he felt a soft hand take his.

“Come with me,” Margareta said.

Bond let her lead him out of the crowd and into the chapel, often called the “place of fright,” because that’s where the matadors left their fear before entering the bullring.

Bond collapsed to his knees.

“You don’t look well, Mr. Bond,” Margareta said.

“Who … are … you?” Bond asked, but the words came out as gibberish.

Margareta walked around him and opened a side door. The banderillero in red entered the chapel and began to remove his costume.

Bond looked up through the hazy film in his eyes and attempted to focus on the man who had killed his friend.

“Murderer …” Bond gasped.

The vision became a little clearer.

The banderillero was the double—the man who looked like Bond! Javier had become fatally distracted when he saw his “friend” in the bullring!

Margareta slammed the butt of a pistol down on the back of Bond’s head.

Hedy made her way into the pasillo and frantically searched the faces of the crowd for James Bond. It was pandemonium, as the media had already descended into the area to find out more about Javier’s condition.

“Heidi, I’ve lost the bastard,” she said.

“Keep looking,” Heidi instructed. “I’m watching the street.”

Hedy was near the chapel when the door opened and the woman with the dark hair emerged. Hedy spotted her and watched as the woman directed a couple of men to follow her. They were carrying a stretcher, upon which lay a body covered by a sheet. Hedy moved forward, but then she saw James Bond come out of the chapel and bring up the rear of the little group.

Hedy followed them out of the pasillo toward the VIP parking area. There, the men loaded the stretcher into a red minivan. The woman got in the back with the stretcher, and James Bond took the passenger seat. In a moment, the van backed out of the parking space and was on its way.

“Damn!” Hedy said. “Heidi, get the car, quick!”

James Bond became aware of a low rumbling sound as he opened his eyes. He was on a stretcher in the back of a vehicle—a van perhaps? His wrists were bound behind him and his head felt as if it were on fire. Then he noticed that his clothes had been removed and exchanged for a white cotton shirt and dark trousers. Margareta Piel sat across from him with a Glock in her hand.

“Just stay calm, Mr. Bond,” she said. “We’re going to your meeting with Domingo Espada.”

Bond squinted and saw that another man was riding in the front with the driver. It might have been the banderillero, but a shaded barrier made it impossible to tell.

“Women who point guns at me usually regret it in the end,” Bond said.

“Is that a threat, Mr. Bond?” she asked.

“Just a warning.”

“You’re awfully handsome, Mr. Bond. I like dark men like you. You don’t have any Spanish blood, do you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Pity.” She crossed her legs, inviting him to gaze at her.

Instead, Bond looked out the window and saw that the minivan had entered the motorway, heading west toward Marbella and the home of Domingo Espada.