Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

“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 through. 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?”