Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

Bond was ready to draw his gun. Reggab put his hand on his friend’s arm, indicating that he had it under control. He leaned out the window and spoke quickly to the men in Arabic. Reggab spat words at them, after which they appeared to apologize, bowed, got back into the Mercedes, and drove away.

“What was that all about?” Bond asked.

“They wanted to sell us a kilo of kif, ” Reggab replied. “If we hadn’t agreed to buy it from them, there was a possibility that we would have been forced to do so. They thought I was a guide bringing a tourist into the mountains. When I explained that I was a ‘policeman,’ they decided to leave us alone. Don’t worry; it happens all the time. You just have to know how to handle these characters.”

An hour later, the nearly full moon cast a chilling glow over a dark landscape filled with large, ominous black shapes. They were in the very heart of the Rif Mountains.

“We are almost there,” Reggab said. He peered through the windscreen, concentrating, as the road was inadequately illuminated by the headlamps. Finally, he pointed and said, “There. That’s our landmark.”

In the brief moment in which it was visible, Bond had seen a berraka built on the side of the road. At least one mule was hitched to the side and there had been a light—a campfire?—just in front of the berraka. It had been impossible to see how many human beings might have been there. Bond guessed two.

“They look like a couple of shepherds. The sheep are over there, on the side of that hill, you can barely see them in the moonlight.”

Bond said, “I see them.”

“They are really some kind of lookout for this camp. The turnoff is up ahead.”

“Won’t they report having seen you?”

Reggab shook his head. “This is still a major highway. The amount of traffic that comes through would not be worth keeping track of.”

“Unless what you’re trying to hide is important enough,” Bond suggested.

Reggab grunted in agreement and made a sharp right onto a pitchblack dirt road. It wound around a mountain and eventually came to a bridge. Reggab slowed and parked the Land Rover beside the entrance to the bridge.

“The camp is just on the other side of the bridge, about a kilometer away. There’s a gate there with at least two guards. Now. We’re going to get out here and climb this mountain. Up there you can get a good view of the place. There’s no fence on that side of the camp. The mountain serves as the barrier.”

“Lead the way,” Bond said. Before getting out of the Land Rover, he took four of Dr. Feare’s pills. The headache gauge was climbing upward toward the “excruciating” mark.

Without the moonlight, climbing the mountain would have been impossible. They settled on a ledge near the top. The camp was approximately forty meters down the south face of the hill. Several campfires were burning amidst tents, berrakas, and some portable buildings. A number of jeeps, four-wheel drives, as well as horses and mules, were set off to one side. Bond could faintly hear Moroccan folk music coming from the largest tent, which was big enough to hold a circus ring. Reggab handed him a pair of field glasses. Bond put them to his eyes and adjusted the infrared brightness. He could now see men walking about. They were dressed mostly in army fatigues. Many of them looked European or North American. Others were dressed in traditional Arab or Berber clothing. They all carried guns.

“Latif, I think you’re right about this being some kind of terrorist training camp,” Bond said. “Those men are armed. How do the police let them get away with this?”

“It’s private property,” Reggab whispered. “Whoever owns it apparently has more influence over these parts than the government. If the Union is behind it, then there is a lot of money to throw around. Morocco is not a wealthy country, so it’s very easy to bribe the officials. Look, that big tent is where they feed everyone. It serves as a mess during the day and a bar at night. We know that prostitutes are brought in some nights, and they leave in the mornings. If we could get some hard evidence that they are harboring heavy arms, we could maybe do something. So far, though, all the weapons you see are legal.” He pointed to a relatively flat area. “Sometimes helicopters land there in that field. It’s used during the day for training; the men are always out there exercising. Some target practice goes on, and we really can’t get them for that.”

“I’m going down to take a closer look,” Bond said, handing back the glasses.

“I can’t let you do that, James. It’s too dangerous.”

“You can’t stop me, Latif. Look, meet me back at the Land Rover in thirty minutes. I have to try and find these men. I’ll be as discreet as possible.”

“If they catch you, you will be on your own. I am sorry.”

“I understand. You must protect your cover. Now go on, I’ll be all right.”

Reggab hesitated, then shook Bond’s hand. “Good luck, my friend. I shall see you soon.”

Bond didn’t wait for Reggab to leave. He moved swiftly down the rocks, darting from one shadow to another. Seven minutes later, he was at the base of the hill, near a dilapidated shack that smelled of excrement. A man in fatigues came out of the shed, buckling his pants. It was obviously the latrine.

Bond stealthily crept behind the shed, then followed the man by scrambling from tent to tent, keeping to the shadows. A laundry line was stretched behind one berraka. Bond pulled off a dark jellaba and put it on. If they caught him, at least he would look the part. The man ultimately got to the big tent, where the music was much louder. There were at least thirty men out in front with drinks in their hands, and inside the place was packed. Hoots and catcalls could be heard over the live band.

A festive bar atmosphere just might provide the camouflage Bond needed. Determinedly, Bond put the hood on, then walked right through the crowd and into the tent as if he knew exactly what he was doing. The men ignored him as they talked in Arabic and laughed.

A makeshift stage had been erected at one end of the tent. A fourpiece band was performing behind a buxom belly dancer who attracted the gaze of every eye in the bar. One man played the amzhad, a single-chord violin made of wood and goatskin; two musicians played typical Arab and Berber drums, the darbuka and tebilat. The fourth man played the Arab lutelike instrument, an oud.

Bond wandered through the crowd, scanning the faces for someone familiar. After five minutes, he was about to give up and try somewhere else when a tall blond man came in and went to the bar. It was the Cockney from London—one of the thugs from the adult bookshop’s office!

Bond waited until the brute had bought four bottles of beer, then followed him outside. He was almost certainly taking them to his bosses.…

The man crossed through the tents toward one of the small portable buildings. Bond took a detour around the latrine and came up behind the building. He was in luck—a window was open. Bond positioned himself at the edge and carefully looked inside.

The man had just delivered the bottles to Walter van Breeschooten and Michael Clayton. They were sitting at a card table playing poker. Wads of dirham notes were piled in front of them.

“Thanks, Rodney,” Clayton said. The blond man grunted and left the little building. Bond waited and listened.

“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t stay in a hotel in the city,” the Englishman said.

“This is only for tonight. Will you shut up?” van Breeschooten replied.

“I just don’t know what we’re doing here!”