Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

A man in a business suit stepped up to the berraka, tossed a coin into the beggar’s plate, then went under the covering. He disappeared into the shadows, and ultimately into the building. In fact, it appeared that the man had gone into the berraka and walked straight into the brick wall. Bond was pretty sure that he didn’t see a door open.

Now more curious than ever, Bond thought he should get a closer look at the inside of the berraka. Playing the tourist, he wandered over to the beggar. Instead of holding out his hand and pleading for a handout, the beggar sat still, staring straight ahead. Was he waiting for some kind of signal?

Bond reached into his pocket, grabbed a couple of ten-dirham coins, and dropped them into the plate. The beggar nodded and muttered something in Arabic. Bond went under the berraka, and, as he suspected, found himself facing a brick wall. The number 14, which was displayed outside on the berraka, was also painted on the bricks. But there was no door.

He reached out and ran his fingers along the edges of the bricks, searching for a trapdoor catch. He knew it had to be there somewhere.

Bond looked at his watch. It was now nearly 8:00. He backed out of the berraka and walked across the street. The beggar looked up once at him, then continued his stare into space. Bond resumed his station, where he was partially hidden by a fruit cart.

Right on time, Walter van Breeschooten came walking down the narrow street. Bond drew the PPK, put it in his jacket pocket, and then smoothly joined the Dutchman in his stride. He leaned in close, nudging the barrel into van Breeschooten’s side.

“Keep walking, up this way,” Bond said, gesturing past number 14 to another narrow street full of vendors.

“You!” van Breeschooten said. He was clearly shocked.

“Shut up and walk,” Bond said.

They maneuvered in and out of the crowd of people, turning several corners and up a small flight of steps. Bond escorted him to an out-of-the-way passage where no one was about. He then frisked the man roughly and found a Smith & Wesson Model 60 .38 Special. Bond threw it on the ground away from them.

“I don’t know anything!” van Breeschooten pleaded, falling to his knees.

“I don’t want to know anything,” Bond said with murder in his heart. “I already know that you slit Helena Marksbury’s throat.” He pulled out the gun and aimed it at the Dutchman’s head. “Empty your pockets. Slowly.”

Van Breeschooten took a stuffed envelope out of his jacket and dropped it.

“You’re making a big mistake,” he said.

“How is that?” Bond asked menacingly.

“The Union are after you in a big way.”

“What else is new?”

James Bond exercised his licence to kill and pulled the trigger. He felt no remorse, but it didn’t give him any satisfaction either. He felt absolutely nothing. Bond had once again transformed himself into the blunt instrument of death, something which he had been able to do at will ever since he began his career in government service. When he did it, Bond shut himself off from every possible emotion and performed the task coldly and objectively.

As for van Breeschooten, his last, terrifying thought was that he now realized that the Union had set him up to die this way. He had been a piece of Yassasin’s plan all along. This was his punishment for the failure of the Skin 17 project.

Looking down at the corpse’s face, Bond used his foot to roll the dead man facedown.

The stuffed envelope was still on the ground. Bond picked it up and opened it. Inside was a map of the Málaga province of Spain, which included the Costa del Sol cities of Málaga, Marbella, and Torremolinos. There was an “X” marked slightly north of Marbella.

Also in the envelope was a ticket to a bullfight in Málaga, scheduled in two days. It was paper-clipped to a flyer announcing a “public rally” by Domingo Espada to take place before the corrida. Bond noted that the headlining matador was Javier Rojo.

Bond holstered his gun, put the envelope in his pocket, and slowly walked away from the bloody scene. He considered what had just happened and the implications of the envelope’s contents.

They meant that the Union were involved with Domingo Espada in this conflict with Britain. Otherwise, what would van Breeschooten have been doing with a ticket to Espada’s rally?

Bond’s thoughts were rocked by the deafening sound of an explosion. It wasn’t far away, just a few streets over. He looked up and saw a billowing black cloud above the rooftops. Bond ran out of the deserted street and retraced his steps back toward Ville de Casablanca. People were running and screaming in sheer panic.

He got to the site of chaos and saw that it was the Union’s building that had been bombed! The berraka was completely gone, replaced by burning rubbish. He could hear sirens approaching, but as the streets were so narrow, the authorities would be running in on foot. A small police cart, however, quickly appeared on the scene. Two officers got off it and immediately began to set up barriers to keep people away.

Bond took refuge behind the fruit barrow he had used earlier and watched the unfolding drama with confusion and wonder. What the hell had happened here?

What was particularly strange, Bond suddenly realized, was that no one was coming out of the burning building. In fact, it appeared to be completely empty.

More officers arrived on the scene and were talking to a few witnesses. Bond recognized the beggar in the crowd of onlookers. The beggar wasn’t watching the building; he was looking right at Bond.

The man then approached one of the officers and said something, pointing at Bond. The policeman spotted Bond and shouted. The other officers looked up and in his direction. All of them drew their weapons and aimed them at him.

Faced with no other choice, Bond slowly put up his hands.

SIXTEEN

CHANGE OF PLANS

BOND PUSHED UP ON THE END OF THE FRUIT CART, CAUSING THE ENTIRE contents to topple to the ground. Oranges, apples, grapefruit, and assorted vegetables spilled across the street. He then shoved the entire cart forward on its wheels, toward the police, blocking their sight lines and giving Bond just the right amount of confusion he needed to make a run for it. A policeman fired his gun, but the bullet zinged off one of the walls. People screamed and parted the way for Bond as he rushed through the crowded bazaar.

Two teenage boys, trying to help the police, attempted to grab him as he ran by. One of them caught Bond’s legs, tackling him; the other one jumped on his back to pin him to the ground. Bond didn’t want to hurt them, but he didn’t want to be captured either. He rolled hard, knocking the boy off his back. He then kicked his legs wildly, preventing the other boy from holding on. Once he had freed himself, Bond got to his feet and continued to run. By now, though, the police had nearly caught up with him.

Bond took a sharp turn through a group of Berber women selling live chickens. The chickens squawked and fluttered, which prompted the women to shout at him and point the way for the police. The Berber men joined the chase, ready to make the rude foreigner pay for what he had done.

Bond ducked into a doorway and found himself in a shoemaker’s shop. The place was covered with all manner of footwear, from Moroccan cherbil slippers to the latest American athletic varieties. Bond looked around quickly and noted a large rack of shoes next to the front door and another door at the back of the shop. The policemen’s shouts were coming closer.