Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

She looked up at the hotel on the edge of the cliff. Now the sky was a bright orange and blue, as the last rays of the sun streaked across the panorama. It would be ten minutes or so before the bodies were found. By then, she would be long gone. The bellboy and other eyewitnesses might recall seeing a beautiful woman dressed in black come through the hotel lobby … but they wouldn’t be able to say whether or not they saw her leave.

Margareta jabbed the horse with her heels, and it galloped away into the hills.

TWELVE

THE CAMP

JUST BEFORE THE SUN SET, LATIF REGGAB AND JAMES BOND DROVE OFF IN A Land Rover on the main road that led southeast out of Tangier. As they drove toward the Hispanic-Moroccan city of Tetouan, the landscape became more hilly and green. It was a two-lane road populated by numerous slow-moving lorries, and Reggab muttered a prayer under his breath every time he attempted to pass them. After about half an hour the road became steeper and more twisting as they traveled higher into the Rif Mountains. Occasionally the hillsides were spotted with groups of stone houses and clusters of goats or sheep herded by jellaba -clad men. Bond noticed that the only landmarks along the road were petrol stations and the occasional checkpoint, where officers in gray uniforms, the gendarmes, sometimes stopped vehicles to look for drugs or check identity cards. Taxis were often targets for these random stops, due to regulations that restricted where certain types of them could go.

“Take a good look before it gets dark,” Reggab said. “Very beautiful scenery driving into the Rif. Unfortunately, there are all these slow trucks.”

Bond noticed that a gendarme waved the Land Rover through a checkpoint.

“They all know me,” Reggab explained. “It is sad that such beautiful country is the main source for kif. ”

Kif, Moroccan slang for marijuana, was the region’s biggest export.

“Smoking that stuff is an ancient tradition in northern Morocco,”

Reggab said. “The cultivation is tolerated because it’s the only way the people there can make a living. The government is searching for alternative crops, but until then …” He shrugged.

They came upon Tetouan an hour after they had left Tangier, but Reggab took the road south, higher into the mountains. Twenty minutes later, Reggab pulled over and stopped at a group of white buildings. The sun had nearly set, but Bond could see some activity behind the structures.

“This is a souq,” Reggab said. “It’s closing down for the evening, but there’s a man here I need to see. It concerns our mission, tonight. We won’t be long.”

Bond was grateful to get out and stretch his legs. The headache was holding steady, even though he had miraculously caught three hours of sleep that afternoon in Latif’s spare bedroom. He had washed and shaved after the nap, then prepared for the evening’s excursion by dressing in dark clothing, strapping a Sykes Fairbairn commando knife to his shin, and carrying the P99 in a holster at his waist and the PPK under his arm, plainly visible.

The souq’s “parking lot” was filled with mules. The flea market itself was made up of dozens of tents, berrakas (canopies supported by four poles), and lean-tos. The Berber tribes had come down from their various mountain homes to sell their wares. Many of them were packing up now, as the business day was finished.

Reggab led Bond through the crowd, shaking his head at the veiled women who were holding and offering live chickens. They came upon a tent where a man in a burnous was pouring spices into containers. Reggab and the man spoke Arabic and embraced each other, and then Reggab introduced Bond.

“This is my friend Khalil.”

“Hello … how … are … you?” Khalil said in rehearsed English.

Reggab and Khalil continued to speak in Arabic. Reggab reacted to some news with dismay. The conversation continued as Bond wandered a few feet away to gaze upon the extraordinary sights of the souq. Only in countries like this could one see a market that was no different now than the way it was hundreds of years ago. Once one got away from the major cities, Morocco offered such cultural diversity that it would take Bond years to discern between the various tribes and ethnic groups.

Reggab took Bond’s arm and said, “Let’s go.”

When they got back in the Land Rover and drove on, Reggab said, “I just heard some upsetting news. Rizki, my man in the mountains, was found dead this afternoon. They think he was seen taking those photographs last night, and whoever runs that camp was responsible.”

“I’m sorry,” Bond said. “They killed him for taking the pictures?”

“The strange thing is that he had been dead at least twelve hours. A courier sent that envelope this morning. That means someone other than Rizki took care of sending me the photos.”

This revelation sent off alarms in Bond’s mind. “You have no other people in the Rif?”

“No. Rizki was the only one.”

“Then the enemy must have made sure you got those photos.

Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll find out.”

A little less than an hour later, they arrived in the quaint village of Chefchaouen, which was known as the “blue city.” This was because the walls of the buildings were painted blue four or five times a year. The blue paint supposedly kept the interiors cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

“Chaouen is one of my favorite places in Morocco,” Reggab said as he pulled the Land Rover onto a main artery entering the city. “I think I will retire here. We are going to stop a moment, all right? I need to pay respects to Rizki’s family.”

The blue-washed houses were built up a gentle slope that culminated in a magnificent mountain overlooking the entire village. In the moonlight, they appeared to be ghostly, luminescent structures floating above ground level.

Bond followed Reggab into the medina, which was now sparsely populated and dark. The odors of the day’s produce lingered, and Bond wondered if they ever went away. After a couple of twists and turns in the path, they came upon a baker’s quarters. Reggab knocked on the door. When it opened, an older man almost said something nasty to the stranger who was disturbing the family’s grief, but he recognized Reggab and embraced him warmly.

As is common in Morocco, the door was set into a frame in the wall so that one had to step over a sill to enter the building. A family of six or seven men and women were inside, all mourning the loss of their loved one. Reggab spoke quietly with the older woman, whom Bond presumed to be Rizki’s wife. Mint tea was offered, and Reggab and Bond felt obliged to stay for a while. Bond was sorry for the family’s loss and that one of Latif’s operatives had been murdered, but he was anxious to get to the campsite.

Finally, Reggab made his excuses and stood up to leave. He embraced each family member and led Bond away with a loaf of bread in each hand.

On the way back to the Land Rover, he said, “Rizki’s body was found on the side of the road near the camp. His throat had been cut.”

The men exchanged glances, knowing full well what that implied.

The journey continued eastward toward Ketama, which was supposedly the hub of kif activity in Morocco. At one point, an intimidating black Mercedes appeared from nowhere in front of them, moving slowly. Reggab slowed down and was forced to follow closely behind the Mercedes. The narrow, winding road was treacherous in the dark, and even the most courageous of drivers would think twice before overtaking. Before Reggab could attempt it, the Mercedes stopped abruptly. Reggab slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel to avoid ramming the back of the car. Three rough-looking characters got out of the Mercedes and approached the Land Rover.