Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

At least three policemen were patrolling the station, probably looking for him. Bond went into the gift shop and purchased a pair of cheap sunglasses and an American-style baseball cap with “Morocco!” stitched on the front. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it would have to do for now.

Bond spent the rest of the hour in the small snack bar, where he had a mediocre breakfast of eggs and yogurt. Nevertheless, the food made him feel better, and he thought that perhaps he could get some sleep on the train. If only the damned headache would go away … as well as the nagging feeling that he was being watched.

He took his time with the breakfast, then made his way out to the platform, where the ONCF express to Casablanca sat waiting. The trains in Morocco are modern and reliable. They are painted red and yellow with black tops, and the compartment classes are clearly marked on the outside. Bond got into the only first-class carriage and found his compartment. For the moment he was alone, but there were five other seats. He had purposefully asked for a nonsmoking compartment, thinking that it might be less crowded. If he wanted a smoke, he could go out into the corridor or stand on the platform and look out the back of the train.

Before long, the train began to move. The conductor came by and punched his ticket without saying a word. Bond settled into his seat and silently watched the scenery.

He felt more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

“It can’t be him,” M said, looking at the police sketch of the terrorist suspect.

Tanner shook his head. “I don’t believe it, either.”

“We need to determine if Double-O Seven really went to Morocco. Still no answer from Station NA?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve left three messages. If Mr. Reggab is anywhere around, he should have got back to me.”

The intercom buzzed. M pushed the button. “What is it?” she snapped.

“An urgent communication came in from Cipher. I’m sending it through on your PC,” Money penny said.

“All right, thank you,” M said.

Tanner looked over M’s shoulder as she punched the keyboard and Bond’s coded message came up.

LATIF REGGAB, STATION NA, KILLED BY THE UNION. PLEASE MAKE ARRANGEMENTS FOR HIS WIDOW ASAP. WILL REPORT WHEN I KNOW MORE.

007

M punched the intercom again.

“Moneypenny, where did this message come from?”

“Somewhere strange,” her secretary said. “Wait a second … here it is. Thailand.”

“Thailand?!”

“Cipher thought that it had been routed through several countries so that we wouldn’t know where it originated from.”

“Thank you.”

Tanner sighed. “Well, I doubt it came from Thailand.”

“He’s obviously in bloody North Africa!” M said. “You were right. That fax from Felix Leiter indicated as much. Double-O Seven’s going against my orders and is off on a mission of personal vendetta.”

Tanner sat down in front of the desk. He had found Leiter’s fax in Bond’s office, as well as the other documents concerning the Union.

“I think you need to look at it from his perspective, ma’am,” he said gently.

“I understand his perspective!” she spat. “It doesn’t mean that he can compromise SIS and my orders. Have you spoken to Inspector Howard today?”

“No, ma’am. As far as I know, Double-O Seven’s still the number one suspect in Dr. Feare’s murder.”

The red phone rang. M picked it up and said, “Yes?” She listened intently for a moment, then said, “Thank you,” and hung up.

Tanner waited for her to speak. She looked at him with concern and said, “A group of Spanish tourists were attacked in London a couple of hours ago. An angry mob surrounded them in Piccadilly. One man was killed.”

“My God.”

“The PM has asked that the summit meeting in Gibraltar be moved up. We’re waiting on the exact date and time, but it will probably be in a day or two. In the meantime, NATO and the U.N. are urging restraint.”

The intercom buzzed again. “Now what?” M asked.

“Captain Hodge is here. He says it’s urgent,” Moneypenny said. Hodge was the head of the antiterrorism section at SIS.

“Well, send him in. I can only imagine …”

Captain Hodge, a tall man in his fifties, walked into the room.

“Good morning, ma’am, Chief-of-Staff,” he said.

“What do you have for us, captain?” she asked.

“It’s not good, I’m afraid.” He held up a videocassette. “Something you ought to look at.”

M gestured to the VCR and monitor on the cabinet to her left. “Be my guest.”

Hodge popped in the cassette and turned on the monitor. The picture was grainy and black-and-white, shot from a security camera. Numerals indicated the date and time of the recording.

“This was recovered from the ferry’s camera in the dining area where the shootings occurred. It happened on Deck Seven, also known as the ‘boat deck.’ ”

They could make out a number of people dining at tables. There was a bar in the background.

“The Comarit ferry left Algeciras, Spain, at approximately seven o’clock last night. There were fifty-three passengers and eight staff. Most of them were Spanish or Moroccan citizens. The ten British citizens were businessmen and women in the hotel industry. You can see them sitting together at that table, there.” Hodge pointed to a large round table. “Now watch carefully.”

Three men came through a passage and entered the dining room. Two of them were strangers, but the third appeared to be James Bond. The trio produced automatic weapons and began to shout. There was no sound on the tape, so M and Tanner had to imagine what was being said. The reactions of the people in the room told all. Many of them ducked down under the tables. Finally, the British citizens stood warily and produced their passports to Bond. He then ushered them to the back of the room. The two Spaniards forced them to stand against the bar, their backs to the room. James Bond then stood behind them and opened fire, killing them in cold blood.

“My God,” M muttered.

As soon as the deed was done, Bond turned to the room and said something else. Then he did something strange. The killer placed his handgun on the counter. Hodge froze the frame, pressed a button, and zoomed in on the gun.

It was a Walther P99.

“Is that your missing handgun?”

Tanner squinted. “It’s a P99, all right.”

“The killer left it there on the counter, its magazine empty. We should have the serial number in an hour or two and we’ll know if it’s a match,” Hodge said. Then he manipulated the frame and zoomed in on the terrorist’s face.

Up close, there was no mistaking those features.

“We’ve positively identified the man as Double-O Seven,” Hodge said. “We think that after the shootings the three of them went down two levels, past the saloon deck, to the car deck. They probably hid inside a car or lorry until the ferry docked at Tangier. There were very few personnel aboard the ferry, so there was nothing they could do.

Once the boat got to Tangier, the police boarded, but someone started shooting. It’s still not clear what happened. The two Spaniards were killed, but Bond was nowhere to be found.”

“Damn it, it’s got to be a mistake!” M said. “Someone must be impersonating him!”

“Bond wouldn’t do this, Captain,” Tanner said.

“Nevertheless, I urge you to bring him in,” Hodge said.

“Is there anything else?” M asked.

“Yes.” Hodge handed a report to Tanner. “These are the police records on the two Spaniards. As you can see, they have a history of terrorist acts. If you’ll look at the most recent information on the ugly one, you can see that it’s unlikely that these men were working for Domingo Espada.”