Doubleshot

TWENTY

THE MAN WHO CAME TO DINNER

THEY WERE SITTING IN THE BMW, WHICH THEY HAD PARKED NOT FAR FROM the bullring. Hedy was driving and the car screeched out of the parking space onto the main avenue.

“How far are they ahead?” Hedy asked.

“They’re pulling onto the expressway,” Heidi replied.

Hedy accelerated, shooting past the slower-moving vehicles. “I sure as hell hope he didn’t skip out on us.”

“I don’t think he would do that,” Heidi said.

“How do you know?”

“I think he likes us.”

Hedy snorted. “Then he’d better be hot on Espada’s tail.”

“It looks like they’re heading for Torremolinos … and Marbella is just beyond that. How much do you want to bet he’s headed for Espada’s ranch? You know, the ‘X’ on that map he had …”

“If we lose him, we’ll have hell to pay.”

They drove silently for a few minutes, and then Hedy asked, “You really think he likes us?”

Heidi turned to her sister and smiled. “Sure. Can’t you tell?”

Hedy shrugged. She had a mischievous look in her eyes. “I think he likes you. ”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Heidi, we’re not going to get into another situation like that, are we?” Hedy asked.

“Don’t you like him, too?” Heidi asked. “I think he’s a hunk and a half.”

Hedy acknowledged her sister’s remark with an approving grin. “All right, I admit it. He’s not bad.”

“Not bad, are you kidding? The guy oozes sex.” Heidi squinted at her sister. “You do like him, don’t you?”

Hedy refused to answer, but instead observed, “You saw him first.”

Heidi shrugged. “Well, you’re the one who’s undersexed. We can work that out later.…”

The tension in the air over Gibraltar Town’s Main Street was palpable late on Sunday afternoon. Nevertheless, the shops had remained open, their proprietors hoping that at least one tourist would venture in and spend some money. But it was not to be. Gibraltar’s ports were closed, and the airport open only for official governmental business. It would seem that the inhabitants should panic and flee in fear of a Spanish takeover. Instead, the stalwart Gibraltarians chose to put their faith in the existing government. After all, the Rock had been threatened many times in the past, and it had a long history of surviving.

With or without tourists, the King’s Chapel was always open to the public at the weekend. Officially a part of the Convent, the Governor’s private residence, it dated back to 1533. The original Franciscan Chapel had been built in the shape of a cross, although a portion was later appropriated for the Governor’s residence. The shape is more or less retained and today is used by both the Church of England and by Roman Catholics.

Jimmy Wayne Powers sighed, finishing a pint at one of the Angry Friar pub’s sidewalk tables, perfectly situated across the street from the Convent and the chapel. He noted the heightened security around the front of the Governor’s residence. On a “black” security code day, there would be at least one guard from the Gibraltar Regiment standing outside, whereas, on an “amber” code day, there might be four. Today was a “red” code day, and Powers counted eight men outside the Convent. There was no telling how many more were inside.

Powers thought this whole thing was crazy, but he didn’t attempt to question it. If Nadir Yassasin claimed it would succeed, then he had to believe him.

Time to get to work.

He left some money, picked up his brown briefcase, and crossed the street. The soldiers eyed him suspiciously, but they treated everyone that way. He went straight into the King’s Chapel and found himself in a surprisingly quiet and peaceful room furnished in exquisite elegance. The front of the chapel was on the east end of the “cross.” A locked white door led to the Convent at the south end. The congregation sat in the western portion, and the entrance and memorial hall lay in the north section.

He was alone.

Powers was good at this kind of work. He excelled in stealth skills and was an expert in sabotage. Why, he had tailed the great James Bond for over a month and the fool never knew it! Powers was pleased that he could supply such reliable information about the Union’s target.

Now he had something different to do.

He quickly opened the briefcase, working silently at high speed. He removed six white silk bags and a roll of tape. Each bag contained a firearm: three of them Spanish 9mm Super Star automatics, two Brownings, and one Walther PPK.

Powers spent the next five minutes taping the bags under various pews in the chapel. When he was done, he put the tape back in the briefcase, closed it, and made his way past the memorials to the entrance. He paused long enough to sign the guest book.

In it, he wrote the date and “Richard Bunyon—Washington, D.C.”

He glanced at his watch. By now, Union killers would have pulled off a relatively simple job in the United States capital. The limousine driver for two State Department officials, the real Richard Bunyon and an Arab named Said Arif, would inadvertently get lost on his way to Dulles Airport.

The two men would never check in for their flight to Gibraltar. By the time their superiors discovered they were missing, it would be too late.

Powers walked out of the chapel onto Main Street, ignored the guards as he strolled past the front of the Convent, then climbed the hill to the Rock Hotel, where he would spend the rest of the evening enjoying dinner and a good book.

The minivan zipped through Torremolinos and made it to Marbella in an hour. The sun was setting as the van turned north to drive into the hills. Margareta had stayed silent during the trip, but the way she stared at Bond unnerved him. She had a glint behind her eyes that he recognized all too well. He had seen it many times before, and it meant bad news. This woman was a killer. His experience had taught him how to identify that particular trait in a person. She might be beautiful and refined, but Margareta Piel was probably as dangerous as they come.

When the minivan pulled into the drive in front of the ranch, two guards peered inside. They saw Margareta and waved the van through as they opened the gate. Bond was impressed with the spread. It was a beautiful location here, up in the hills overlooking the Mediterranean. They drove past enclosed fields full of bulls, and a large barnlike structure that looked as if it was some kind of slaughterhouse. Bond noted the circular annex to the building, and guessed that it was probably a practice bullring of some kind.

The dirt road curved up and around a small hill, and the main estate loomed ahead of them. It was a splendid mansion built in a Roman tradition with Arab influence and Mudéjar decoration. It was a flat-roofed structure common in cortijos, built of earth, mud, and lime. Wood was only used as a framework for the walls, for the roof, and as beams. The windows and doors were framed. The overall impression was that it was a modern version of an eighteenth-century neoclassical palace.

The minivan turned and drove on a side road around behind the barn. Eventually the driver stopped at the back of the building, out of sight from the main road.

Margareta leveled her gun at Bond and said, “Get out. No funny stuff.” The driver opened the door for him. The other passenger had already got out and walked into the building before Bond could get a good look at him. He could have sworn that the man had been wearing Bond’s clothes. Was he really a double, or had Bond’s eyes been playing tricks on him again?

The woman marched him inside, through a passageway, and into a small room furnished with a table, chairs, and a television. The walls were covered with old bullfight posters.

“Sit there,” Margareta said, pointing to the largest chair in the room, facing the television.

“You’re not so cruel that you’re going to make me watch Spanish television, are you?” he quipped.

“Shut up.” The driver shoved Bond into the chair and then secured him to it with leather straps.

“So, señorita, how long have you been with the Union?” he asked.

Margareta expected that he would know and would have been disappointed if he had not figured it out. “Not long. In fact, I won’t officially be a member until after tomorrow. That’s when I get my tattoo.”

“Your tattoo?” Bond asked.

Margareta drew a sharp intake of air. She suddenly wasn’t sure how much Bond knew about the Union. The laser-implanted tattoo on a new member’s right retina was a part of the initiation. How secret was it?

“I thought I told you to shut up,” she said.

“What happened to our bullfighting friend?” he asked. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch his name.…”

“You’ll meet him formally in a while. First, though, you’ve been invited to have dinner with Señor Espada. Unfortunately, you won’t get to taste the wonderful food his chef prepared for tonight’s feast. However, you do get to watch it on TV.”

Margareta turned on the television. It was a closed-circuit picture of a dining table. A servant girl was placing silverware and glasses at the settings.

“Virtual dinners, I love them,” Bond said. “Low on calories.”

Margareta stepped closer to him and took his chin in her hands. “You won’t be making jokes too much longer, Mr. Bond. This is the end of the line. I’m sure you’ve been traced here, which is exactly what we want. You’ve walked right into the trap. It won’t be long before your people in London know that you’re at Domingo Espada’s home.”

“So?”

Margareta smiled. “In time you will know all.…” With that, she leaned over and kissed him hard on the mouth. He let her do it, but he didn’t reciprocate at all. When she was done, she licked her lips and said, “Mmm, not bad, Mr. Bond. You taste … like fresh meat.”

She turned to go. The driver held open the door for her.

“Don’t try to escape. You’re heavily guarded. I’ll be back after dinner,” she said. “Enjoy the show.”

With that, she left. The driver slammed the door shut and Bond heard the locks turn.

Heidi and Hedy pulled over about a mile away from Espada’s ranch.

“He’s there, no doubt about that,” Heidi said. “What do we do now?”

“I wish we knew if he went willingly or not.” Hedy thought for a moment. “Should we call for backup?”

“Who’s gonna come?” Heidi asked. “Our operatives are in Madrid, Barcelona, and Seville. By the time anyone gets here, the show, whatever it is, will be over.”

“You’re right.” Hedy opened the glove compartment and removed a pair of binoculars. She got out of the car, adjusted the glasses for infrared vision, and put them to her eyes. She had a fairly good view of the entire estate, save for a portion of the main house that was blocked by the large annex.

“I see some men at the gate,” she said. “I don’t see the minivan. It might be behind that barn.” She scanned the buildings and then said, “Oh no.”

“What?”

“I see him,” Hedy said. “It’s James. He’s walking from that other building to the main house. Look.” She handed the glasses to Heidi.

Sure enough, James Bond was entering the front door, accompanied by other men and the Spanish woman.

“Goddamn him!” Heidi said. “Do you think he really is in cahoots with Espada? He walked in there like he owned the place! And that woman! Who the hell is she?”

“Heidi, I think he fooled us.”

Heidi looked as if she might cry.

Hedy took back the binoculars. “I wonder if there’s another way around. You know, an approach from the back.”

Heidi peered at the road ahead and pointed. “Look,” she said.

“There’s some kind of trail there. See? It leads down to that valley. You think maybe there’s another trail that leads up and around?”

“I don’t think the car will make it. I’ll have to go on foot. Let’s split up.”

“Why you? I should go.”

“No, I’ll go.”

“Let’s flip for it.”

“Forget it, Heidi, I’m going!”

“Well, what’s our plan?” Heidi asked. “We gotta have a plan.”

“I’m making it up as we go along,” Hedy said. “You stay here. Is your communicator still working?”

“Of course.”

“If you see anyone come out of the house, let me know.” She handed the binoculars to her. “If you get into trouble, just press the panic button. I’ll do the same thing. Either way, we come running, all right?”

“How the hell will I know where you are?”

“I’ll scream,” Hedy said, shrugging. “If nothing happens, let’s meet back here at midnight. If he’s not out by then, we’ll call London.”

“Okay,” Heidi said hesitantly.

Hedy checked her weapon and ammunition, and gave her sister a peck on the cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” Before Heidi could respond, Hedy had set off down the road toward the trail.

The pain in James Bond’s head had increased tenfold since he had been tied to the chair, exacerbated by the recent blow. He had to force himself to concentrate on his surroundings and search for a way out of his predicament. The bindings were terribly tight, but he could scoot the chair across the floor if he wanted to. That wouldn’t do much good, unfortunately. Perhaps it was best to let them play out the game. They had some kind of a plan in mind, and he was part of it. He couldn’t intelligently plot a course of action without knowing what it was.

Something started happening on the TV monitor. Margareta Piel entered the picture, accompanied by a tall, black man in a fez. They sat at the table as Espada’s voice boomed out of the speakers.

“Sit, sit,” he said. “We have some wonderful paella tonight.”

Espada and another man, a bit older, entered the frame and sat at the head of the table. “Wonderful corrida in Málaga, although it was unfortunate about Javier.” He shook his head and made a “tsk tsk” sound. “I am sorry to lose him.”

Bond couldn’t help but catch the glance that Margareta gave the Moroccan.

“So, Nadir, are we on schedule?” Espada asked him.

“Yes, Domingo, everything is prepared. Jimmy Powers is in Gibraltar and was successful in planting the weapons in the chapel. We will leave here tonight after dinner. I suggest that you leave only a skeleton force here, for we will need every competent man with us,” the man called Nadir said.

“I was planning on it. Now, what about the assassin?”

Margareta spoke up. “He should be here any minute. He had to change clothes and wash. Oh … here he is now.”

Espada stood and looked toward the camera. A man entered the frame, his back to Bond.

“Domingo Espada, I’d like you to meet James Bond, formerly with Her Majesty’s Secret Service in Great Britain.”

Bond’s jaw dropped when the man turned to reveal his profile and shake hands with Espada.

“Welcome, Mr. Bond,” Espada said. “I have heard great things about you. Despite my hatred for your homeland, I welcome you here.” He gestured to the other man at the table. “This is Agustin, my mozo de espadas. ”

“Thank you, sir, I’ve already met Agustin,” the imposter said. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”

My God! The man was an exact replica of him! He hadn’t been imagining a double at all … there really was one! How had they done this? The man didn’t completely sound like him, Bond thought. The speech was a little off … in fact, the accent was Welsh. People close to Bond might detect the slight differences in inflection, but for all intents and purposes, the man on the television was James Bond.

Beads of sweat began to form on Bond’s forehead. He knew that the science of plastic surgery had advanced by leaps and bounds in the last few years. The best in the field could literally do anything short of cloning a person. That was what they must have done. But … why? Just to frame him? To set him up as a criminal? Surely London would see through such a ploy.…

A servant girl poured wine, and then the paella was served. As a first course they had tortilla de patatas, an omelette made from potatoes. Bond felt his stomach rumble as he watched them eat.

“So, Mr. Bond, what are your feelings about what we are about to do tomorrow?” Espada asked, picking up a crawfish with his hands and biting into it with a crunch.

The look-alike made an offhand gesture that Bond instantly recognized as his own way of dismissing an idea. The man, whoever he was, had done his homework.

“I have felt for years that my country has been extremely selfish with Gibraltar,” the pseudo-Bond said. “I am half Scottish, so I can sympathize with anyone who takes issue with who runs their government, who owns their land, and what constitutes a fair treaty.”

“Why did you leave your country? Why do you want to help me?” Espada asked.

“British intelligence is no longer interesting,” the man said. “In the past decade, SIS came out of the woodwork, so to speak. We … er, they used to be a secret organization. No one knew where our headquarters were located in London. Our covers were solid, all around the world. Nowadays, SIS is in plain sight, in that ugly building on the Thames, and the newspapers print photographs of the leading personnel. Foreign intelligence networks seem to have an uncanny knack of identifying agents. The Union infiltrates them and embarrasses the company. While the work was always political in nature, the mere machinations of playing at secret agent have become political. It got to where I couldn’t make decisions on my own. Too much red tape. Too much bureaucracy.”

Bond shook his head in disbelief. The imposter had him nailed. While Bond was nowhere as cynical in his opinions, he had entertained similar thoughts recently.

“Mr. Bond,” Espada said, “I suppose what I really want to know is if you are prepared to perform the task which Nadir Yassasin and Margareta Piel here tell me that you have been hired to do. You are about to betray your country, commit treason and murder.”

The imposter Bond smiled and replied, “I have no love for Britain anymore. I have lost … people I have loved … because of my work for the British government. One was my wife. It is time for me to pay them back. What have they done for me? My salary was adequate, but compared to what a hit man in the Italian Mafia makes for an assassination, I’m a pauper. Killing people has always been a part of my job. It’s time I was paid properly for doing it. That’s why I joined the Union.”

Espada seemed pleased with the answers. He turned to Yassasin and said, “I believe you were right, Nadir. This man will do nicely. I like him.” He raised his wineglass, and the others followed suit.

“To James Bond,” he said. “May you perform your deed tomorrow morning with finesse and accuracy.”

So that was it, Bond thought. The Union was going to use a double to assassinate someone—someone important—and he would get the blame.

Hedy made her way into the dark valley, trying her best not to stumble over a rock or a fallen branch. The area was thick with oak trees, and the half-moon barely penetrated the leaves. Nevertheless, she finally made it to the path leading up the hill and soon found herself back in the pale illumination of the night sky.

She crept over a ridge overlooking the estate and crouched in the shadows. The back of the annex was visible now, and she could see the minivan parked by a few other vehicles. She wondered what the circular section of the building might be, not realizing that it was a bullring.

The main house was well lit, and she could see at least two guards pacing the grounds around it. A barbed-wire fence surrounded the entire property.

What the hell should she do now? she wondered. She spoke into her microphone.

“Anything happening over there?” she asked in a whisper.

“Nothing,” Heidi answered. “What about you? Where are you?”

“I’m above the main house, on the hill looking down into their backyard. I see a swimming pool, tennis courts, a garden … the van’s behind that barn and there are … two, three, four other vehicles parked there. There’s another parking area at the side of the house, and I see at least a half-dozen cars over there.”

“So if there’s one person per vehicle, then we’re outnumbered,” Heidi said. “Assuming that there are at least two people per vehicle, we’re seriously outnumbered.”

“We can’t just go rushing in there like the cavalry, either. We have no grounds, no warrant. Espada is expected at a major political to-do in the morning, and who are we to screw that up?”

“Maybe we should just make a report and get instructions,” Heidi suggested.

“You’re probably right. You do it. I’m going to stay—” She screamed when a torch beam flooded the area around her. A voice commanded her in Spanish to stand up and raise her hands. Without thinking about the consequences, she went for her gun. A blow on the back of her head put a stop to that, and she fell over.

Espada apparently liked to talk, and he dominated the dinner conversation.

“Reclaiming Gibraltar for Spain has been an ambition of mine since my days with Franco. Bless his soul, he shared my views on the matter. I made a promise to him that one day I would do something significant to further our cause in that regard. Tomorrow, that dream will be fulfilled. It is Spain’s destiny. And … I am willing to die for the cause, if that is the final outcome.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Domingo,” Margareta said. “Mr. Bond here is a professional. He will not miss his targets. And Nadir, Jimmy, and I will be there, too, just in case something goes wrong.”

“And I will not let anything happen to you,” Agustin said, “if I can help it.”

What the hell were they planning to do? Bond wondered. Keep talking! What were the details of their terrible scheme?

But before he could learn more, a guard entered the dining room and whispered something to Espada.

“Bring her in, let’s have a look,” Espada said aloud. The guard went out of the room. “It seems we have another guest. An uninvited one.”

After a moment, the guard brought in Hedy. The wig was gone. Her blouse was torn, revealing a white bra, and her hands were tied behind her back.

Oh no! Bond thought. Which one was she? Heidi or Hedy … ?

The guard held her as Espada addressed her in English. “Who are you, my dear?”

She kept silent.

“Oh, not talking are we?” The guard tossed some things onto the table. They were her identification, microphone, and earpiece. Espada picked up the ID.

“Hillary Taunt. Travel writer,” he read. “What makes you want to spy on my house, eh? You’re not really writing about a private property, are you?”

The girl continued to glare at him.

“She’s with the CIA,” Yassasin said. “We know all about her. She’s based in Casablanca.”

“She’s beautiful,” Margareta said. “So blond … nice figure …”

“Yes, indeed,” Espada agreed. “CIA, eh?” He addressed the guard. “Take her to the compound. I think I might keep her a while. She’s a little older than what I’m accustomed to, but she might provide some amusement for a few nights before she’s discovered missing. After that …” He shrugged.

The guard pulled her away and out of the room. Espada turned to the imposter Bond and asked, “Perhaps you would like to try her out tonight? She will be my gift to you in appreciation for what you are going to do for me tomorrow.”

The imposter Bond smiled lecherously and said, “Why, thank you, Señor Espada. I might just do that.”

Nadir Yassasin cleared his throat. “Whatever happens, we must not be late for the boat. Domingo, you and Agustin and the rest of the men are expected in La Linea by midnight. We have some final preparations to do with Mr. Bond, and he and Margareta will join you in the morning for the border crossing into Gibraltar. Jimmy Powers and I will arrive separately. Remember, when we’re all together at the Convent, you do not know us.”

“I’m no fool,” Espada said. “Very well. Shall we go?”

He stood and held out his hand to the imposter Bond. “I will see you in the morning, then.”

“Thank you, sir, for this opportunity,” the double said.

Espada said good-bye to Margareta and Yassasin, then started to leave the room. He turned back and addressed them all. “Mr. Bond can have his way with that girl tonight, and then we’ll get rid of her. I don’t need a blond American in my harem.”

After Espada and Agustin left the room, Margareta looked at the camera.

“Dinner is over, Mr. Bond,” she said, addressing him. “It’s time for dessert.”