Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

“Javier, don’t do anything rash. Have you ever heard of the Union?” Bond asked.

“Which union?”

“Not a bullfighting union, but a criminal organization called ‘the Union’?”

“I don’t think so.”

“They’re like a mafia, only they operate worldwide. We think Domingo Espada may be associated with them. As you know, he’s stirring up trouble between my country and Spain over Gibraltar. If we can prove that the Union is backing Espada before Monday’s summit conference in Gibraltar, we may have a chance of bringing him down.”

“Being Spanish, I have mixed feelings about that situation,” Javier admitted. “Gibraltar is a part of Spain and always has been.”

“Not according to treaty, Javier,” Bond said. “Gibraltar rightfully belongs to Great Britain until we decide otherwise. You wouldn’t want a war to break out over it, would you?”

“Of course not.”

Heidi interrupted. “We think Espada and the Union might be planning something catastrophic for Monday. It could affect everyone in this region … Spain, Gibraltar, Britain, North Africa … the whole Mediterranean.”

“What’s he going to do?” Javier asked.

“We don’t know. We’d like you to find out, if you can.”

“Me? What can I do? I’m not that close to Domingo. I’m beginning to hate him. I can’t believe that I’ve treated him like family for years. I feel betrayed. The more I think about it, the more certain I am that he killed Roberto.”

A sharp pain shot though Bond’s chest. The look on his face must have given it away, for Heidi asked, “James? What’s wrong?”

It was the suffocating anxiety again. He suddenly felt disoriented and nauseated. He shut his eyes, willing away the uncomfortable, dreadful feeling.

“I’m all right,” he whispered. He rubbed his brow and lay back on the lounger.

“You don’t look so good,” Heidi said. “Maybe we ought to go back to the room?”

Bond shook his head. “It will pass. Keep talking, Javier. How about it? Will you help us?”

“James, I’m twenty-six years old. My entire career is ahead of me. I can’t afford to cross a man like Espada. I have a fiancée. We plan to get married next year. If Espada doesn’t kill me, he could make things very difficult for me. I might not get to fight at all, and that’s my livelihood. But … Domingo has given the art of bullfighting a bad name lately.”

“All we need is some kind of evidence that Espada is with the Union,” Heidi said. “We need it before Monday. Can you get to his ranch and snoop around?”

“Somehow that seems more risky than killing him,” Javier said. He was obviously frightened, but he took a deep breath and then said with resolve, “It was Pedro Romero, the father of modern bullfighting, who said, ‘El cobarde no es hombre y para el toreo se necesitan hombres.’ ‘A coward is not a man, and for bullfighting you need men.’ I’m certainly not a coward in the bullring, and I’ll be damned if I will be with this. He deserves to die!”

“We have to keep him alive for the time being, Javier,” Bond said, sitting up again and looking at him. “He’s part of some Union plot and I’m sure that it has to do with the summit meeting on Monday. Please … wait. Don’t do anything yet. If not for the sake of Spain, then for the sake of the future of bullfighting.”

Javier looked out to sea. He knew that his British friend was right and nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can go to the ranch tonight. I can’t promise anything, James. If I find out that he did kill my brother, I cannot say what I will do or not do.”

“I understand. Can we meet before the bullfight tomorrow?” Bond asked.

Javier shook his head. “Not before. After. There’s a café across the street from the bullring in Málaga. It’s called Bar Flor. I’ll try to sneak away from the crowds and meet you there immediately after the corrida. Again, I can’t promise anything.”

“That’s all right, Javier,” Bond said. “I have a ticket to the bullfight, by the way. Only twenty-six, and you’re already the senior bullfighter on the roster. Congratulations.”

“I still don’t see what the big deal is with this bullfighting,” Heidi said. “It’s not really fair to the bull, is it?”

Bond shot her a look, but Javier was used to such comments. “That is a common misconception among non-Spaniards. You see, the fighting bull is specially bred just to fight in the ring. It is a species that would otherwise be extinct if not for bullfighting. You must understand that the bulls live a glorious life on the ranches before their day of destiny in the bullring. They are treated as gods. The bull is a very special animal in Spain. We respect them because of their courage and their will to fight.”

Javier became even more introspective as he gazed out over the Mediterranean. “There is a kind of duality that occurs between the matador and the bull. The entire lidia is a dance in which both the matador and the bull size up each other. They look into each other’s eyes. The matador must know what the bull is thinking at all times, and this he must detect simply by watching the bull from the moment when he first enters the ring. The matador must become the bull, and in many ways, the bull does the same thing—he attempts to outthink the matador as the lidia progresses. With every pass of the capote, with every charge, the bull learns from his mistakes. If he misses the matador by two inches because the man performed a flawless veronica, the bull will remember it and charge a little closer next time. It is up to the matador to predict what the bull is going to do and then meet the mighty beast at the halfway mark. It is a dance. In the ring, the bull becomes the matador’s mirror image.”

Javier glanced at the wristwatch lying on the little table next to his lounger. “I must go now,” he said. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Good luck,” Bond said, shaking his hand again. “It was great to see you.”

“You, too, James.” He stood up and shook hands with Heidi. “And, señorita, you are as beautiful as any woman on earth.” With that, he walked away toward the hotel grounds.

“Is it a requirement for all bullfighters to be gorgeous hunks, or is it just him?” Heidi asked.

Bond laughed. “Come on, let’s go back to the hotel.”

As they walked away from the beach, Jimmy Powers made a call on his mobile. He had been lying on a lounger some fifty feet away, his nose buried in a magazine. He was sure that Bond had not noticed him at any point over the last few days. Jimmy Powers learned his special ability while growing up first in the swamp country of Louisiana and later in the forests in Oregon. He wasn’t known as the Union’s best tracker and expert in shadowing a target for nothing.

When Nadir Yassasin heard what Powers had to say, the Moroccan made a quick decision. “Bond’s contact with the bullfighter is dangerous. It was unforeseen that he would be a friend of the young matador. I think we need to take care of this situation before something unexpected happens. We’re too close now, I don’t want anything to derail the plan. Do you know who the girl is yet?”

Powers answered, “Preliminary search reveals that she is a CIA agent. Name of Hillary Taunt.”

Yassasin smiled. “Good. She will have reported Bond’s whereabouts to SIS in London. They know he’s in Spain now. Things couldn’t be better. You ought to return to the ranch, Jimmy. I am confident that Bond will appear at the bullfight tomorrow, right on schedule. We need to talk about what we’re going to do about the matador, and then get you on your way to Gibraltar. I think there’s a way we can use Bond’s friendship with the matador to our advantage.”