Doubleshot

FIVE

ESPADA

THE WOMAN WHISTLED SHARPLY SO THAT HER GLORIOUSLY WHITE Percheron stallion performed a neat elevada, a trick in which the horse rose high on its back legs. She gave him a gentle kick with her boots, and the horse leaped into the air, executing a flawless cabriola, one of the most impressive stunts the animal could do in front of an audience. The horse literally jumped up and kicked out with all four legs, suspended in midair for a moment. Its beautiful, sleek rider completed the picture by holding her hat high above her coal-black hair that was tied neatly in a bun.

When the horse was safely back on his hooves, Domingo Espada applauded from the other side of the bullring.

“Bravo,” he called. “You got him to do it!”

Margareta Piel reached around and stroked the horse’s neck. “I knew you could do it, my darling.” She pulled the reins and the horse trotted back to the bullring entrance, where Espada was standing.

“You have your new star,” she said. “I think he’s ready for an audience.”

“I think you’re right,” Espada said. He opened the large wooden door that led to the pasillo, the area beneath the seats that encircled the bullring. He then turned and watched with interest as Margareta, who had been riding sidesaddle, slid to the soft ground. Her tight-fitting pants with a slit at the bottom, worn by female equestrians, were especially flattering of her firm, rounded buttocks and muscular legs. She wasn’t a tall woman, but she had a body that most men would die for. Ironically, this was often the case. He had heard stories that claimed she could be a cruel mistress in bed, although he had never had the pleasure of finding out. Domingo Espada knew better than to make love to the Mantis Religiosa.

Margareta flicked her wide-brimmed hat, which sailed neatly, like a discus, onto the fence post. She then undid the bun, shook her head, and let her long, straight hair fall around her shoulders.

“Has our guest arrived?” she asked.

“Not yet. I expect him soon. We should get back to the house.”

“Let me take care of Sandro,” she said, leading the horse toward the second set of doors beneath the stands, to the stable in the expansive building that was part of Espada’s estate. Besides having room for a dozen horses, the annex, as it was called, also had facilities to stage a modern bullfight. There was the regulation-size bullfighter’s practice ring, which, oddly, Espada had covered with a roof after he had retired from professional bullfighting, a bullpen, facilities for bullfighters and their teams, including a chapel and infirmary, and, in a more remote section, a slaughterhouse.

Not far from the annex was a smaller house that was referred to as the “compound.” It was off-limits to anyone except Margareta and a few other select employees, and trusted guests.

They left the annex and walked out into the bright Andalucían sun. Domingo Espada’s estate was ten miles north of Marbella, the Costa del Sol’s smartest, most expensive resort. Espada had built the property in the hills just beyond Conch Mountain, which overlooked the city and faced the Mediterranean. The rich and famous all came to Marbella for holidays. Wealthy organized crime moved in as well. A “Spanish Miami Beach” of sorts, Marbella became the crossroads for smuggling in the Mediterranean area. Far too many drug and arms dealers had been caught in Marbella, simply because they couldn’t resist the urge to flash their money.

Domingo Espada had never needed to do that, for everyone in Spain knew who he was. He could probably get a free meal in any restaurant he walked into. Everyone knew the face of the bullfighter who had simply gone by the name “Espada” in the bullring. His portrait was usually featured on the walls of tapas bars and restaurants along with the photographs of Spain’s other legendary matadors. He, too, was a national hero. But in Marbella they affectionately called him El Padrino, paying tribute to the efforts he had made to boost the area’s economy. With the fortune he had earned as a matador for twenty years, Espada had invested wisely in several ventures, including tourism (in the form of casinos, hotels, and clubs) and had helped bring Marbella back from the decline in popularity it had suffered in the 1980s. He also owned and managed three bull-breeding ranches, acted as manager of several successful matadors, and had considerable influence in the world of bullfighting. The fact that he was often linked to organized crime did not lessen Domingo Espada’s popularity.

Although he had aged considerably since his bullfighting days, Domingo Espada still cut a commanding figure. At exactly six feet, he exuded an authority and self-confidence that demanded attention. At sixty-two, he remained devilishly handsome, with dark wavy hair, now streaked with gray, and a bushy mustache that covered a sullen mouth. His chin was adorned with a short, pointed salt-and-pepper beard. Women virtually swooned when he stared at them with his piercing brown eyes that seemed to be both hot and cold at the same time. The twenty-two-year-old scar that extended from the outside edge of his left eyebrow to just over the cheekbone also served to give him a sinister, Mephistophelean appearance.

His boots made crunching sounds on the tiny gravel as Espada and Margareta walked up the path to the magnificent ranch house he had built on the property. It overlooked a small artificial lake stocked with fish. Typically Spanish in its design, the house took additional elements from some of the more modern structures in Marbella, such as the palace built by the financier and arms broker Adnan Khashoggi. The main building consisted of a single level, but a unique guard tower rose four stories high so that sentries could spot approaching vehicles from miles away. The entire estate was over six hundred hectares in size, was surrounded by a high stone wall, and was protected by state-of-the-art security equipment.

The grounds contained an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a tennis court, a garage for several vehicles, and a putting green. Beyond the annex and the compound was an enclosed field, where dozens of Bos Taurus Ibericus roamed free. The beautiful black bulls, the special lineage that were bred for one purpose—to die in a corrida—lived a luxurious life eating the best food and mating with the best cows until the fateful day when they were chosen to meet their destiny. Sometimes Espada enjoyed walking in the field amongst the animals, admiring their power and pride. The bulls usually left him alone unless he came too close to the calves or made sudden moves. From birth, they attacked instinctively when they felt cornered or threatened, but in an open field they turned and walked away.

Espada and Margareta stepped onto the open patio, where a young female servant met them and asked what they wanted to drink. Espada looked at her and snapped harshly, “Where is Maria?”

The girl jumped at his bark and shyly said, “I don’t know, sir. They asked me to fill in for her today.”

“Is she ill?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Very well.” He asked for a bottle of Barbadillo Solear, a sherrylike wine made in Sanlucar de Barrameda. The girl gave a subservient bow and went inside.

Agustin, Espada’s loyal mozo de espadas, the title of a matador’s dresser and keeper of the swords, now Espada’s most trusted righthand man, came out of the house to deliver a message.

“Where is Maria?” Espada asked him.

“She is gone, Domingo,” Agustin said with a stern face. “She has escaped.”

“Escaped?” Espada nearly choked with surprise. He looked at Margareta. She stared at Agustin and asked, “How could that be possible?”

“When we sent for her this afternoon, we learned that she had left with a man. One of the other girls told me.”

“Who?”

“She didn’t know him.”

“Where is … who was guarding them? Where is Carlos?”

“Carlos was on guard all day. Would you like to speak with him?”

“Yes! Go and fetch him.” Espada was trembling.

“Yes, sir,” Agustin said. “By the way, your visitor has arrived,” he said. “They’re parking his car. Shall I bring him outside, sir?”

“Keep him waiting until after I talk to Carlos.”

Agustin nodded and went inside.

Margareta had never seen Espada so upset over the disappearance of one of his girls. He refused to admit that several had escaped with his guests in the past, despite efforts to keep them in the compound. Margareta had been lobbying for tighter security measures. She had worked for Espada for a few years; her job was to train and look after his secret harem residing in the compound. She knew that he often obtained the girls from poor families in Spain and Morocco. After they spent some time learning their “trade,” the girls were sent out to points abroad that were managed by Espada’s organization. If they were lucky, they became high-class call girls and earned a lot of money. If not, some of them simply disappeared.

“She must have been a favorite,” Margareta observed. “Was she particularly good at something?”

“Shut up,” Espada said. “Maria was the freshest, most beautiful girl I’ve ever found. She was the best. So pure, so … tight … I cannot believe she would leave!”

“Why not? You do keep them prisoners.…”

“But they have a great life here … it’s paradise … all the food and sun and …”

“… sex, whether they want it or not,” Margareta continued.

“Part of this is your fault!” Espada said.

“Oh, please, Domingo,” she said. “I train them and patch them up after you get too rough with them, but I don’t guard them.”

Carlos, a large man in his late twenties, came out onto the patio. He appeared nervous, fingering the Beretta M92 that hung on his belt.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked.

“Did you see Maria today?” Espada spat.

“No, sir.”

“What time did you come on duty?”

“Eight o’clock this morning.”

“And the girls were in their quarters all day and night?”

“Except for those with chores, sir. Maria wasn’t scheduled to work until this afternoon,” Carlos explained.

“You must have seen something.”

“No, sir, I swear,” Carlos said, shaking his head.

Espada looked at him hard. Agustin stood behind the guard, waiting for a signal from his boss. Espada glanced at his lieutenant and gave him the slightest of nods.

“Very well,” Espada said to Carlos. “You may go.”

“Thank you, sir,” Carlos replied, then went inside.

“Agustin,” Espada said. The lieutenant stopped. “Have him interrogated. In the meantime show our guest outside. I’d like you to join us, too.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, Agustin?”

“Yes?”

“What are the enrollment figures for today?”

Agustin cleared his throat. “I’ve just checked on that. We’re up to about one thousand four hundred.”

“Only fourteen hundred men? We must do better than that!”

Espada turned abruptly, holding his arms up in frustration.

“If we had a little more to spend on recruitment …” Agustin suggested.

Espada rubbed his chin a moment, then turned back to his friend and confidant. “All right. Call the accountant and tell him to release another three million pesetas. We have to reach our goal of two thousand five hundred men quickly.”

“Yes, sir.” Agustin went back inside as Espada and Margareta sat in comfortable lounge chairs with a view of the green, manicured lawn and the pool twenty meters away.

The servant girl brought the wine and poured glasses for the couple. Margareta looked her up and down, admiring the girl’s youth and wholesomeness. She was probably no more than fifteen. After she had left, Margareta said, “You sure know how to pick them, Domingo.”

Espada held up his glass and said, “Salud. Yes, I certainly do. I’ve been picking them all my life. That one, she’s from Granada. My men found her in a particularly poverty-stricken area. Her parents were quite happy to accept the money that was offered for her.”

“And how has she worked out in the bedroom?” Margareta asked with a wicked smile.

“I haven’t had the opportunity to try her out yet. I was still breaking in Maria,” Espada said, twisting his mustache. “You’re a fine teacher. So are the other girls. They all do whatever I want. Damn, that upsets me about Maria.”

“Tell me, Domingo. What would the police say if they knew you were keeping sex slaves against their will?”

“Nonsense. I give these poor girls a wonderful life. They are treated like queens. They eat the best food, live in a nice home, and have access to the outside world through the miracle of television and video. A far better life than they had before.”

“They also have to submit to you anytime you want.”

Espada laughed and said, “You’re jealous! You would like your own harem of young men, I think!”

“And tell me, Domingo. What do the police say when a body is washed up on the shore near Marbella? It happens, what, every other year or so?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I don’t, Domingo? Young girls, most of them unidentifiable, runaways, street kids … There’s a steady stream of them being found up and down the Costa del Sol.”

“You’re imagining things. Besides, the local police turn a blind eye when they see me coming. I have them all in my pocket.”

“There is a high turnover rate of your girls, Domingo.”

“That’s because they get jobs within my organization—as expensive call girls. There is no better training ground than here. They travel to exotic locations like South America or Mexico to work.”

Margareta looked sideways at Espada. “Not all of them. Come on, Domingo. What do those girls have to do to incur so much wrath that you dispose of them in so … ignoble … a fashion?”

“Look who’s talking.” Espada wagged an accusatory finger at her, then shrugged. “That only happens when one of them disobeys me.

It’s not often.”

Agustin returned with a tall, dark man in a suit and fez and said, “Señor Nadir Yassasin, sir.”

Espada didn’t get up, but instead motioned to the chair next to him. “Welcome, Nadir, sit down. Did you have a pleasant journey?”

Yassasin gave a slight bow and replied, “Yes, thank you, Señor Espada. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

“How are things in Casablanca?”

“The same. As you know, the cercle fermé met last week.”

The servant girl returned and poured the wine for Yassasin, then left. The Arab pulled a thin cigar from his jacket. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead.” Agustin leaned over with a lighter and lit the Arab’s cigar. Yassasin held it pretentiously, close to his face with his hand bent, palm upward. Margareta thought this enhanced his stereotypical image as a mysterious North African spy. Agustin sat down and pulled his chair closer.

“Now,” Yassasin said. “Le Gérant has given me instructions to thank you for your generous and impressive offer of five million dollars to the Union. The territories you control are profitable.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Espada said. “However, I do hope that Le Gérant realizes the tremendous risks I take to keep operations going. South America and Mexico are still quite new and require a lot of payoffs. Law enforcement is particularly strong when one gets near America. The drugs are doing well, but I’ve lost several men. Some were arrested, others killed by the police. It’s becoming more difficult.”

“We can all appreciate that,” Yassasin said. “It’s time to discuss your proposal.”

Espada brightened. “So Le Gérant has agreed to help me? Is he committing Union resources to my cause? I thought he said it was a ‘suicide mission.’ ”

“He still believes that, but … that’s where I come in.”

“Oh?”

“Le Gérant has taken into consideration your generous offer, your enthusiasm, and the opportunity for the Union to even the score with an enemy. So, yes, the Union will become involved in the Gibraltar project.”

“That’s very good news.” Espada lifted his glass and finished the wine.

“There are some conditions.”

“What are they?”

“Le Gérant will supply the necessary manpower to accomplish your goals. The North African district will be employed, under my supervision. You will be in charge of the Spanish district, but you must follow a plan that I have formulated.”

“You? What plan?”

“These are Le Gérant’s specific instructions. We will go into the details after dinner. Suffice it to say that my plan will accomplish much more than the siege of Gibraltar. You want to be the first Spanish governor of Gibraltar in over two hundred years? The only way you will see that happen is if you follow my orders to the letter.”

Espada’s eyes narrowed. No one ever talked to him in this manner.

“Why should I?” he asked. “I could still do this without the Union.”

“Domingo,” Margareta said gently, putting a hand on his arm.

“That wouldn’t be advisable,” Yassasin said. “Turning your back on the Union after we’ve offered to help is not very … sporting. You should know that.”

Espada grumbled, calming down. “I don’t like taking orders from someone else. No offense, Nadir. I know you’re supposed to be a brilliant planner, but I’ve always gone my own way.”

“This is Le Gérant’s condition. Take it or leave it. Why don’t you hold off on your answer until you hear what the plan is. It is … risky … but very clever, if I do say so myself.”

“All right. But before we eat, give me a hint. What happens? How does it end? I like to know the result before the setup.”

Yassasin smiled and said, “When the operation is completed, Gibraltar will be the property of Spain. You will be the new governor. The British governorwill be dead, along with the British Prime Minister.”

“The Prime Minister? We’re going to kill him?”

“That’s part of Le Gérant’s revenge against the United Kingdom for their interference in our previous major project.”

“Sounds dangerous …” Espada rubbed his chin and looked at Yassasin with doubt in his eyes. Then he grinned broadly. “I love it already! Yes! Let me hear what you have to say after dinner.”

“Very well. The important thing now is for you to build up your group to intimidating proportions. One of our concerns is how the government in Madrid will react to your revolution. They may strike you down.”

“They wouldn’t dare. They may be putting up a good face with Britain over Gibraltar, but they want it back as much as I do. I think they’ll let me get away with it.”

“And if Great Britain declares war on Spain?”

Espada rubbed his hands with glee. “What could be more exciting? Two NATO powers going at it, mano a mano! What a way to start the new millennium!”

“You could be killed, Domingo,” Margareta said.

Espada shrugged. “I have been prepared for that for a long time.

I’m sixty-two years old. If I can make a difference in the history books … if I can take Gibraltar for just one day … then I will die fulfilled.”

“I take it, then, you agree to the plan? I have full control?” Yassasin asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I’m happy to tell you that the plan has already been put into effect, and in less than a week it will all be over. I am here to set up command central at your home, for it will all culminate here. My lieutenant is in Britain as we speak, keeping watch on things as they progress. His name is Jimmy Powers, an American.”

“Command Central? Here? What the hell? What if I had said no?”

Espada asked, incredulous.

“You don’t want to ask that, Señor Espada.”

Espada was silent a moment, then eyed Yassasin and said, “If I did not know you and have respect for your reputation, Nadir, I would have killed you just now. But I know enough about you to trust that you know what you’re doing. Le Gérant must have a good deal of faith in this thing as well. All right, I agree. Let’s hear your brilliant plan.”

“After dinner,” Margareta said, pulling on Espada’s arm.

Much later, after a luxurious dinner and a tense two-hour meeting, Yassasin was put up in a guest room and Espada retired to his study. Espada liked time alone in this room, which also served as a library of sorts and a place in which he could display the many trophies, posters, and photographs from his bullfighting days. He also enjoyed putting on a costume, red-and-black traditional matador garb, the traje de luces, or “suit of lights”; although it wasn’t the same one he had worn when he was younger. This one had been made especially for a man who had gained a bit of weight since that time, even though he was physically fit and in good shape. Agustin had laid the clothes on a long wooden table, each item in placed in the requisite order.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Agustin entered the room and saw that his boss was back in the past once again. He had pledged undying loyalty to Domingo Espada, but he did think that his benefactor lost touch with reality every now and then. Once a torero retired from the bullring, he was never supposed to put on the costume again. Not Espada … he could not let go of his past and still longed for the cries of “Olé!” and the exhilarating feeling of being carried out of the ring on the shoulders of his friends and relatives after a successful corrida.

Some nights, Agustin would find Espada alone in the study, dressed in the costume, standing and staring at the stuffed bull heads that were mounted on the walls as trophies. They were all missing at least one ear, signifying the reward Espada had received after the fight. One ear was cut off for a good fight, two ears for a better one, and both ears and the tail were for the best. Espada had collected more ears and tails than he could count. He had kept some of them, but most of the time he had thrown the trophies to fans in the audience—usually beautiful señoritas who he knew would accompany him to his hotel or villa for the night.

This evening, Espada stood in the center of the room, holding the estoque, the thin sword used to thrust into the bull’s withers and through the vital organs for, hopefully, a quick kill. Espada extended the sword at one of the bull heads, his arm straight, concentrating, as if he were readying himself for the moment of truth.

“Domingo,” Agustin said.

“Yes?”

“We got Carlos to confess. Roberto Rojo paid him five hundred thousand pesetas to help him free Maria. She has run off with Roberto.”

“Roberto?” Espada cried. “How could he do this to me? That ungrateful … !”

“We will catch up with Roberto,” Agustin said.

“Roberto is one of my star matadors! He and his brother have glorious futures ahead of them. Why would Roberto choose to ruin it by stealing this girl from me?”

“Carlos said that Roberto was in love with her.”

“Damn him! He shall pay for this,” Espada said, pacing the room.

“What about Carlos?”

“He must answer for his betrayal.”

“In that case, the prisoner is ready.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

Agustin nodded and left his friend and master alone with his memories … and his madness.

Domingo Espada entered the practice bullring and raised his hat to the throngs of people sitting in the stands. He could hear the tumultuous applause and cheers, he could see them saluting him, standing for him.…

None of them were really there, of course. But to Domingo Espada, it was all real. The empty stands projected the same amount of noise and excitement as if they had been packed full of spectators.

Agustin and two other men stood inside the 1.2-meter-high barrera, the fence that enclosed the working area of the ring, near the burladero, the “trick” shields built slightly out in front of the openings in the fence. Bullfighters stood behind these to escape the charging beast. Agustin approached Espada and handed him the brightly colored capote, the cape that was red on one side and yellow on the other—traditionally used in the first two acts of a bullfight.

Once Espada was ready, Agustin gave the signal to the man at the puerta del toril, the door out of which the bull would charge. It swung open, and for a moment there was silence. Espada waited patiently, the excitement and anticipation just as powerful as it had been in the old days.

Then the object of the corrida came out into the ring. He stumbled on two legs and appeared to be lost. Carlos, badly bruised from beatings, was wearing a dirty white shirt and black pants. In his hands was a pair of bull’s horns, the kind used in training bullfighting beginners. Another person would “act” as the bull, charging the student so that he could practice with his cape.

Agustin announced loudly, as if he were projecting his voice so that the people in the very top seats could hear him, “Carlos Rodriguez, you have been found guilty of the crime of betraying your employer. Therefore, you must fight for your life in the bullring against the supreme matador, Espada!”

Carlos looked at Espada standing there in all his glory. The cape twirled with a flourish. Espada called to him as if he were a bull.

“El toro! Come!”

When Carlos realized what was about to happen to him, he turned to run back through the open doors, but they slammed shut in his face. He turned to face Espada, his eyes wide with fear. He backed up against the wooden doors, dropped the bull’s horns on the ground, then fell to his knees.

“Please, Señor Espada, have mercy!” Carlos cried. “I beg you! I’m sorry!”

Espada ignored the man’s pleas and simply waved the cape.

“Come!”

After a minute, Espada saw that Carlos wasn’t going to “play.” He nodded to Agustin, who picked up a picador’s lance, and walked toward the helpless man. As Carlos cowered on his knees, kissing the dirt, Agustin brutally thrust the lance into the man’s back and withdrew it. The sharp point had been shortened so that it would not mortally wound the man, but merely cause him pain.

Carlos yelped in pain, then rolled over. Agustin spoke to him calmly, telling him that his fate would be far worse if he didn’t get up and fight.

“Who knows,” Agustin said. “If you show great courage and spirit, the matador may grant you an indulto.” This meant that the bull’s life would be spared. “Now get up and charge!”

Carlos finally realized that he had no other choice. He got up, gave a frightening war cry, and ran at Espada. The matador performed a neat verónica with the cape, sidestepping the man. But, unlike a bull, the human could not be fooled. He swung at Espada with his fists, ready to jump on his opponent and beat him to a pulp if he had to. Espada, though, was prepared for the attack. Using the cape to protect himself, he managed to keep the bleeding, angry man from connecting his punches.

The “fight” went on like this for several minutes. Carlos was obviously becoming tired as his lunges at Espada grew less inspired. Not one of his blows had connected. Espada eventually walked away from the man, who collapsed in the middle of the ring, out of breath. Blood soaked his clothes.

Espada took two banderillas, short spikes used in the second act of a bullfight to further weaken and enrage a bull, and calmly walked back toward his victim.

Carlos saw what Espada had in his hands and knew that he could do only one thing. He pulled himself to his feet and started to run away, toward the edge of the ring. But before he could make it behind a shield, one of Agustin’s assistants pulled a switch located behind the fence.

All of the shields in the ring mechanically moved in a few feet until they were flush against the fence, blocking off any possible escape for the prisoner. All of the regular doors were shut tight.

The prisoner gathered every last bit of strength that he could muster, then charged at Espada, screaming.

Espada deftly thrust the two spikes neatly into Carlos’s back as he sidestepped the charging prisoner. The man screamed and fell to the dirt. The spikes hung grotesquely out of his back. He reached around and managed to pull one out.

Espada walked away from him, approached Agustin, and took the estoque and muleta, the sword and smaller red cape used in the final act of a bullfight. He approached the cowering, wounded man.

“El toro! Come!”

He waved the cape, the deadly sword positioned behind it.

Carlos picked up the spike he had pulled out of his back and held it like a spear. He slowly got up and faced the matador. Then, cursing, he charged, the spike out in front ready to plunge into Espada’s chest.

Like a dancer, the matador executed a smooth pase de trinchera, a low pass performed with the right hand. Carlos missed Espada entirely, falling to the dirt again.

Espada moved around to the man’s front, then held the sword at arm’s length.

Carlos, further enraged and desperate for the ordeal to be over, got to his feet and charged at Espada with the spike one last time.

The sword pierced Carlos’s chest and went cleanly through his heart.

Domingo Espada had at least one more ear to add to his collection.