Doubleshot

by Raymond Benson

  “We have to keep him alive for the time being, Javier,” Bond said, sitting up again and looking at him. “He’s part of some Union plot and I’m sure that it has to do with the summit meeting on Monday. Please … wait. Don’t do anything yet. If not for the sake of Spain, then for the sake of the future of bullfighting.”

  Javier looked out to sea. He knew that his British friend was right and nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can go to the ranch tonight. I can’t promise anything, James. If I find out that he did kill my brother, I cannot say what I will do or not do.”

  “I understand. Can we meet before the bullfight tomorrow?” Bond asked.

  Javier shook his head. “Not before. After. There’s a café across the street from the bullring in Málaga. It’s called Bar Flor. I’ll try to sneak away from the crowds and meet you there immediately after the corrida. Again, I can’t promise anything.”

  “That’s all right, Javier,” Bond said. “I have a ticket to the bullfight, by the way. Only twenty-six, and you’re already the senior bullfighter on the roster. Congratulations.”

  “I still don’t see what the big deal is with this bullfighting,” Heidi said. “It’s not really fair to the bull, is it?”

  Bond shot her a look, but Javier was used to such comments. “That is a common misconception among non-Spaniards. You see, the fighting bull is specially bred just to fight in the ring. It is a species that would otherwise be extinct if not for bullfighting. You must understand that the bulls live a glorious life on the ranches before their day of destiny in the bullring. They are treated as gods. The bull is a very special animal in Spain. We respect them because of their courage and their will to fight.”

  Javier became even more introspective as he gazed out over the Mediterranean. “There is a kind of duality that occurs between the matador and the bull. The entire lidia is a dance in which both the matador and the bull size up each other. They look into each other’s eyes. The matador must know what the bull is thinking at all times, and this he must detect simply by watching the bull from the moment when he first enters the ring. The matador must become the bull, and in many ways, the bull does the same thing—he attempts to outthink the matador as the lidia progresses. With every pass of the capote, with every charge, the bull learns from his mistakes. If he misses the matador by two inches because the man performed a flawless veronica, the bull will remember it and charge a little closer next time. It is up to the matador to predict what the bull is going to do and then meet the mighty beast at the halfway mark. It is a dance. In the ring, the bull becomes the matador’s mirror image.”

  Javier glanced at the wristwatch lying on the little table next to his lounger. “I must go now,” he said. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Good luck,” Bond said, shaking his hand again. “It was great to see you.”

  “You, too, James.” He stood up and shook hands with Heidi. “And, señorita, you are as beautiful as any woman on earth.” With that, he walked away toward the hotel grounds.

  “Is it a requirement for all bullfighters to be gorgeous hunks, or is it just him?” Heidi asked.

  Bond laughed. “Come on, let’s go back to the hotel.”

  As they walked away from the beach, Jimmy Powers made a call on his mobile. He had been lying on a lounger some fifty feet away, his nose buried in a magazine. He was sure that Bond had not noticed him at any point over the last few days. Jimmy Powers learned his special ability while growing up first in the swamp country of Louisiana and later in the forests in Oregon. He wasn’t known as the Union’s best tracker and expert in shadowing a target for nothing.

  When Nadir Yassasin heard what Powers had to say, the Moroccan made a quick decision. “Bond’s contact with the bullfighter is dangerous. It was unforeseen that he would be a friend of the young matador. I think we need to take care of this situation before something unexpected happens. We’re too close now, I don’t want anything to derail the plan. Do you know who the girl is yet?”

  Powers answered, “Preliminary search reveals that she is a CIA agent. Name of Hillary Taunt.”

  Yassasin smiled. “Good. She will have reported Bond’s whereabouts to SIS in London. They know he’s in Spain now. Things couldn’t be better. You ought to return to the ranch, Jimmy. I am confident that Bond will appear at the bullfight tomorrow, right on schedule. We need to talk about what we’re going to do about the matador, and then get you on your way to Gibraltar. I think there’s a way we can use Bond’s friendship with the matador to our advantage.”

  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 cuadrill
as, 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.