Doubleshot

by Raymond Benson

  “I have some disturbing news, ma’am,” he began.

  “What is it?”

  “Have you heard about the murder of the young doctor in Harley Street last night? The police and building superintendent found her body this morning.…”

  “I heard something on the news. What about it?”

  “She was one of ours.”

  “What?”

  “Dr. Kimberley Feare. She was a colleague of Sir James Molony. He’s away and Dr. Feare had taken over some of his cases.”

  “I remember her name on some reports.”

  “I’ve just had a look at the police report. Ma’am, it was a particularly brutal murder. There is one detail in particular that concerns me.”

  “What is that?” M was a bit shaken by this news.

  “Her throat had been cut, Union-style.”

  “My lord, what could they want with a girl like her? She was young and new, wasn’t she?”

  “Just the type the Union go for. If she was involved with the Union, we could have some security problems again.”

  M cursed. Bill Tanner rarely heard her do it, but this wasn’t the first time and it surely wouldn’t be the last.

  Tanner shifted in his chair.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?” M snapped.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tanner said. “It’s Double-O Seven, ma’am.”

  “What about him?”

  “He may be involved.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dr. Feare’s nurse reported that Bond had called her office yesterday, insisting on an appointment. Preliminary investigation has shown that he was seen with Dr. Feare last night in front of her building.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Well, we don’t know. The porter at the building remembers her coming home in a taxi and being approached by a man on the pavement. He accompanied her inside the building and he matched the description of Double-O Seven.”

  The expression on M’s face indicated that she simply didn’t know what to say.

  “As you recall, Dr. Feare diagnosed Bond’s condition after his return from the Himalayas. That’s all we know, except that Double-O Seven doesn’t call back when we page him,” Tanner said. “We think … we think he’s missing.”

  Finally M burst out with, “I don’t believe a bloody word of this.”

  Tanner tapped the folder. “It’s all here in the police report. MI5 is being brought in to the case.”

  “Who alerted the police in the first place?”

  “It was an anonymous phone call. Someone called the police and said that a woman had been murdered. They gave Dr. Feare’s address and hung up.”

  “The real murderer, no doubt. Where was Double-O Seven?”

  “The porter saw him leave the building after midnight, if that’s what you mean. There is one puzzling piece to the porter’s statement.”

  “What is that?”

  “He says that after he had seen Dr. Feare and the man enter the building, an hour or two later he saw the same man, alone, coming into the building with a key. The porter thought that he had probably missed seeing him leave the building the first time, perhaps on an errand to fetch a bottle of champagne or something, and that Dr. Feare had given him a key to use upon returning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If it was Double-O Seven, he was seen going into the building twice. Once with Dr. Feare, and a second time alone and with a key. Doesn’t that sound strange?”

  “Indeed. The porter was mistaken, I should think. How long has Bond been seeing this woman on a social basis?”

  “I have no idea. This is the first I’ve heard of it. He met her when he visited Sir James’s office.”

  She tapped her fingers on the desk a moment. “Well. There he goes again, mixing business with pleasure. I shall have his hide.”

  “I’m afraid the government will have more than that if he’s charged with murder, ma’am.”

  She looked at him incredulously. “You’re not serious. James Bond is not a murderer. Not that kind. Surely you agree that he could not have done this?”

  Tanner nodded. “Absolutely, ma’am. It’s extraordinary.”

  “They can’t possibly realistically suspect Double-O Seven.…”

  “He’s wanted for questioning, ma’am. We have to try and find him.” Tanner frowned again and added, “There’s something else that disturbs me.”

  “What?”

  “The attendant in the small arms cage down in Q Branch reported a firearm missing this morning. A Walther P99, along with its holster and some Glaser ammunition. The last man seen in the cage yesterday was Double-O Seven.”

  “Are you implying that Bond stole a gun?”

  “I’m afraid that’s what it looks like.”

  M shut her eyes and rubbed her brow, attempting to take it all in.

  Finally, she pushed her chair back from the desk. “On top of all that, we have to deal with the Gibraltar situation. I was just on the phone with the PM. He has decided to accept the offer to go there for a meeting with this Espada fellow, the Spanish Prime Minister, and the Governor of Gibraltar. We’re to send someone to accompany him as an extra bodyguard.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Tanner said. “I think Double-O One is free.” He got up to leave, still carrying the police report. M stopped him and held out her hand.

  “Oh, right,” he said, handing it to her. He, too, was disturbed by what the day had brought.

  After he had left the room, M began to study the contents of the folder with trepidation.

  Set astride the awesome hundred-meter-deep El Tajo gorge amid the beautiful Serranía de Ronda mountains, the enchanting village of Ronda bathed in the rays of the late afternoon sun. About an hour’s drive north of the southern Spanish coastline on a winding, mountainous road that cut through forests of cork and pinsapo trees, Ronda is said to be the birthplace of the art of bullfighting. Indeed, the oldest bullring in Spain, Ronda’s Plaza de Toros, serves as a monument and symbol of the quaint community. Ernest Hemingway and Orson Welles (whose ashes were spread over Ronda per his wishes) loved the town. One of Spain’s most prestigious matadors, Antonio Ordoñez, had his ashes scattered in the bullring, in accordance with his desire to give the bulls the pleasure of stepping on his remains after he was dead.

  Today, the bullring was filling up with spectators. Even though it was Wednesday and not Sunday, an exciting corrida was scheduled for 6:30 P.M., and one of Spain’s rising stars had top billing. Everyone in town had turned out for the bullfight and many fans from Marbella and Málaga had made the trip to Ronda.

  However, before the bullfight, the audience was subjected to a political speech delivered by Domingo Espada. As promoter and manager of the most influential matadors in the country, he was able to do things that no one else dared to. He had been traveling through the provinces and making impassioned pleas to the people to join his party, demand that Gibraltar be ceded to Spain, and reform the current government. The people didn’t mind. To them he was a legend. He was Espada.

  A surprising number of men always volunteered to join Espada at these political rallies. It helped that Espada pretended that matadors all over Spain gave him their full support.

  Just southeast of the bullring stands the magnificent Parador de Ronda Hotel, perched on the edge of the gorge. Just beyond a railing, the cliff plunges down steeply to the valley of the Río Guadalevín far below. The best rooms in the five-star complex featured balconies looking out over the dazzling view. It was themost fashionable place to stay in a town where celebrities often went for a little quiet and beauty.

  Margareta Piel walked across the plaza in front of the Parador, where tourists and locals sat at tables having drinks and tapas. A large number of police were positioned there as well, for the matadors staying at the hotel were on a par with rock stars; very often fans could become a nuisance.

  All of the men turned their heads to look at Margareta as she walked thr
ough. She was dressed in a sleek black bodysuit that showed off her every curve, and was wearing a dark backpack and sunglasses. She knew that people, and the police, would notice her entering the hotel. They always noticed her.

  There was still an hour to go before Espada’s speech. She would have preferred to perform the business at hand under the cover of darkness, but time did not permit it. She strode into the lobby as if she knew where she was going, past the bellboy, who stopped and stared, and snaked around the lounge to the lifts, got into an empty one and pressed the button for the second floor.

  Inside room 214, a deluxe suite built on two levels, like a townhouse, a naked man and woman were finishing a pleasurable primal ritual.

  Roberto Rojo rolled off the girl, who had said her name was Maria. The sweat was beaded around her forehead, and she was still breathing heavily, her breasts moving up and down with the heaving of her chest as her heartbeat began to subside. Rojo sighed, “Oh man, oh man,” then pulled her closer. She snuggled up to him, wrapping one slinky leg over his torso. Maria had been extremely lucky that Roberto Rojo had taken a liking to her at Domingo Espada’s ranch. While leaving her family to “work” for Espada had seemed, at first, like a good idea, it had turned out to be a nightmare. She had become his concubine and he could do whatever he pleased with her. It was horrible and degrading. One day, Roberto Rojo and his brother, Javier, came to visit Espada. They were two of the most popular matadors in the country. At twenty-three, Roberto was fast becoming a superstar. His sultry looks had been plastered all over the covers of the major Spanish magazines, and his private escapades often found their way into the tabloids.

  “I’m not letting you go,” she said playfully. “Forget the bulls tonight, all right?”

  Rojo just laughed. “Are you kidding? I will make a million pesetas tonight. Providing I’m not killed, of course.”

  “Aren’t you frightened?”

  “Certainly. But not of the bull. I get stage fright. I’m afraid of the people in the audience. I don’t like to be booed.”

  She laughed. “They never boo you. You’re a hero to them.”

  He shrugged, “Yes, well … Still, it’s more of a challenge to go out there in front of all those people than to face a charging bull.”

  The phone rang. He groaned and picked it up.

  “Sí?”

  The voice on the other end was muffled. “Señor Rojo?”

  “What is it?”

  “You have something that belongs to your manager,” the voice said. “Señor Espada asks that you give it back.”

  Rojo sat up, nearly knocking Maria off of the bed. “You tell that son of a bitch Espada to leave me alone! He’s a crook and a liar and a madman. He has single-handedly given the art of bullfighting a bad name. After tonight’s corrida, I’m through with him. I’m changing managers.”

  “We beg you to reconsider, Roberto. Your life may depend on it.”

  “Is that a threat? Are you threatening me?” Rojo was furious. How dare they call him here! “How did you find me, anyway? How did you know what room I was in?”

  “That doesn’t matter now. So, do we take it that your answer is no?”

  “That’s right, it’s no!” He slammed down the phone. “Bastards,” he muttered.

  “Who was it?” Maria asked, a little frightened at the show of temper.

  “Someone who works for my ex-manager,” he said. “Espada knows you’re here. I don’t know how he found out, but he did. He wants me to give you back.”

  Her eyes widened with fright.

  Roberto kissed her. “Don’t worry. I won’t.” He kissed her again. “Espada is trying to control his matadors in ways that he shouldn’t.

  It’s part of his grand plan to get his party elected. I’m supposed to be there in time for his speech and stand up there with him. He thinks that if the matadors are part of his political machine, then the rest of the people will follow him, too. Most of the toreros I know can’t stand him. He’s double-crossed them, cheated them, and disgraced the art.”

  Rojo got up and slipped on the terry-cloth robe that the hotel supplied. He opened the doors to the balcony and stepped outside. He deeply inhaled the fresh air and used the serenity of the landscape to help calm down.

  “Want to take a shower together?” Maria called.

  Rojo thought that was an agreeable suggestion. There was still time before he had to get to the bullring.

  He went back into the bedroom and gazed at the naked girl on the bed. Perhaps he had time for one more.…

  “Let’s do it again first.”

  She laughed. “Roberto! You are a machine! No, thank you. You have worn me out. I’m taking a shower.”

  Maria got up and went into the bathroom. Roberto was about to follow her, but there was a knock on the door downstairs.

  “Christ, who could that be?” he muttered. He bounded down the wooden stairs into the living room. Without bothering to look through the peephole, he unlatched and opened the door.

  An absolutely stunning woman with long, flowing dark hair stood in the hallway.

  “What do—oh, hello,” he said.

  “Roberto Rojo?” Margareta asked, smiling seductively.

  Oh, he thought. She was a fan. She probably wanted his autograph.

  “How did you find me?” he asked. “The hotel is supposed to keep autograph seekers like you away.” He didn’t recognize her, as Margareta had never met him when he had visited Espada’s ranch.

  “I was very determined to see you,” she said.

  “Well. Normally I would turn you away, but since you are so beautiful …”

  He held the door open and gestured for her to enter. She sauntered in, pausing to run her index finger along his chin as she walked by him.

  “Oh, I see you’re not alone,” Margareta said, indicating the sound of the shower upstairs.

  “Uhm, no,” Rojo replied. “Another fan. You know how it is.”

  “I sure do,” she said. “Now. I want you to sit down in this chair while I take my clothes off for you.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Sit in this chair.” She pointed to one of the living room chairs facing the television.

  “But what about … ?” he asked, pointing upstairs.

  “We’ll ask her to join us,” Margareta said. “If she’s not interested, then she can leave.”

  Rojo laughed and practically jumped into the seat. The terry-cloth robe parted, revealing his tight, muscular body. Margareta moved around in front of him and let the backpack slip off to the floor. Then, she slowly pulled down the zipper on the front of the bodysuit, from her neck all the way to her crotch. The suit parted, revealing her shiny, tan skin. She was wearing nothing underneath.

  Rojo’s eyes bulged as he swallowed loudly.

  Margareta stepped out of the suit, kicked it behind her, and then straddled his lap. She ran her hands up and down his chest and leaned in to kiss him.

  As he closed his eyes and explored her mouth with his tongue, Margareta guided him into her. Rojo’s grunts and moans quickly covered the sound of the shower upstairs as the strange woman rocked back and forth on his lap; leisurely at first, then faster and harder.

  Margareta allowed herself a cry of pleasure as she climaxed with him. They remained motionless for a minute, clutching each other.

  “What is your name?” he asked breathlessly. His eyes were closed.

  She slowly disengaged from his body as the sound of the shower stopped. She reached down to the backpack and unsheathed a knife that was fastened to it. She brought it out and readied it.

  “Some men call me Mantis Religiosa,” she said.

  Rojo opened his eyes. “Why?”

  She paused a second, holding his chin up in her left hand. “Because of what those insects do to their mates. Oh, I almost forgot. I’m here to deliver a message from Domingo Espada.”

  With that, she swiftly drew the knife across Roberto Rojo’s throat. Blood shot out in an
arc, drenching them both.

  Rojo’s eyes bulged in horror. His hands grabbed at his neck as he fought for air and made horrible gurgling sounds. Margareta stood back as he slipped off the chair onto the floor, gagging and struggling for life. Margareta placed her foot on the back of his head and kicked it into the floor. That shut him up. He would die in silence.

  Then she realized that she had unintentionally killed him the “Union Way.” Margareta had heard stories of how the Union would sometimes make a statement by leaving a victim with a cut throat. Would this be interpreted as such? She smiled. It would be a good joke on Espada. Why not? She would soon be a full-fledged member of the Union. She was merely “between jobs.”

  She had forgotten about Maria until there was a scream on the stairs behind her. Margareta turned to see the wet, naked girl, recoiling in horror at the bloody sight.

  Margareta slowly ascended the stairs as Maria fell to her knees on the steps, trembling with fright.

  Margareta silenced the girl with one swift slash of the knife.

  She then stepped over the body and went into the bathroom. She paused long enough to step into the shower and wash the blood off her body. Back downstairs, she dressed quickly and put on the backpack, then returned to the bedroom and walked through the open balcony doors.

  It would not do to stroll back through the hotel lobby and outside in full view of the police.

  The valley was one hundred meters below. It was a breathtaking vista.

  Margareta reached behind and pulled straps from the backpack, fastened and adjusted them, then stepped up onto the balcony edge. She held herself steady and concentrated on what she was about to do.

  BASE-jumping was illegal, but many daredevils liked to attempt it. A BASE rig allowed one to jump from a low altitude, such as a building or a cliff, and use a parachute to land. Margareta’s rig was a Precision Dynamics “Super Raven 4” canopy, which was especially well suited for BASE-jumping. The low aspect ratio chute had been free-packed to ensure against “bag spin” or “bag lock” and enhance the odds of a straight-ahead opening. Even so, she had made sure the rig was set with deep and multiple brake settings so that it would fly slowly. That would buy her time to react if the canopy were to open pointing her toward the deadly cliff face. The slider had been removed to give almost instantaneous inflation of the canopy, but to soften that opening jolt, the chute was made of nonzero porosity fabric.