Doubleshot

by Raymond Benson

  “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?
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  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.

  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 rem
oved 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.