Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

Hedy made her way into the pasillo and frantically searched the faces of the crowd for James Bond. It was pandemonium, as the media had already descended into the area to find out more about Javier’s condition.

“Heidi, I’ve lost the bastard,” she said.

“Keep looking,” Heidi instructed. “I’m watching the street.”

Hedy was near the chapel when the door opened and the woman with the dark hair emerged. Hedy spotted her and watched as the woman directed a couple of men to follow her. They were carrying a stretcher, upon which lay a body covered by a sheet. Hedy moved forward, but then she saw James Bond come out of the chapel and bring up the rear of the little group.

Hedy followed them out of the pasillo toward the VIP parking area. There, the men loaded the stretcher into a red minivan. The woman got in the back with the stretcher, and James Bond took the passenger seat. In a moment, the van backed out of the parking space and was on its way.

“Damn!” Hedy said. “Heidi, get the car, quick!”

James Bond became aware of a low rumbling sound as he opened his eyes. He was on a stretcher in the back of a vehicle—a van perhaps? His wrists were bound behind him and his head felt as if it were on fire. Then he noticed that his clothes had been removed and exchanged for a white cotton shirt and dark trousers. Margareta Piel sat across from him with a Glock in her hand.

“Just stay calm, Mr. Bond,” she said. “We’re going to your meeting with Domingo Espada.”

Bond squinted and saw that another man was riding in the front with the driver. It might have been the banderillero, but a shaded barrier made it impossible to tell.

“Women who point guns at me usually regret it in the end,” Bond said.

“Is that a threat, Mr. Bond?” she asked.

“Just a warning.”

“You’re awfully handsome, Mr. Bond. I like dark men like you. You don’t have any Spanish blood, do you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Pity.” She crossed her legs, inviting him to gaze at her.

Instead, Bond looked out the window and saw that the minivan had entered the motorway, heading west toward Marbella and the home of Domingo Espada.

TWENTY

THE MAN WHO CAME TO DINNER

THEY WERE SITTING IN THE BMW, WHICH THEY HAD PARKED NOT FAR FROM the bullring. Hedy was driving and the car screeched out of the parking space onto the main avenue.

“How far are they ahead?” Hedy asked.

“They’re pulling onto the expressway,” Heidi replied.

Hedy accelerated, shooting past the slower-moving vehicles. “I sure as hell hope he didn’t skip out on us.”

“I don’t think he would do that,” Heidi said.

“How do you know?”

“I think he likes us.”

Hedy snorted. “Then he’d better be hot on Espada’s tail.”

“It looks like they’re heading for Torremolinos … and Marbella is just beyond that. How much do you want to bet he’s headed for Espada’s ranch? You know, the ‘X’ on that map he had …”

“If we lose him, we’ll have hell to pay.”

They drove silently for a few minutes, and then Hedy asked, “You really think he likes us?”

Heidi turned to her sister and smiled. “Sure. Can’t you tell?”

Hedy shrugged. She had a mischievous look in her eyes. “I think he likes you. ”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Heidi, we’re not going to get into another situation like that, are we?” Hedy asked.

“Don’t you like him, too?” Heidi asked. “I think he’s a hunk and a half.”

Hedy acknowledged her sister’s remark with an approving grin. “All right, I admit it. He’s not bad.”

“Not bad, are you kidding? The guy oozes sex.” Heidi squinted at her sister. “You do like him, don’t you?”

Hedy refused to answer, but instead observed, “You saw him first.”

Heidi shrugged. “Well, you’re the one who’s undersexed. We can work that out later.…”

The tension in the air over Gibraltar Town’s Main Street was palpable late on Sunday afternoon. Nevertheless, the shops had remained open, their proprietors hoping that at least one tourist would venture in and spend some money. But it was not to be. Gibraltar’s ports were closed, and the airport open only for official governmental business. It would seem that the inhabitants should panic and flee in fear of a Spanish takeover. Instead, the stalwart Gibraltarians chose to put their faith in the existing government. After all, the Rock had been threatened many times in the past, and it had a long history of surviving.

With or without tourists, the King’s Chapel was always open to the public at the weekend. Officially a part of the Convent, the Governor’s private residence, it dated back to 1533. The original Franciscan Chapel had been built in the shape of a cross, although a portion was later appropriated for the Governor’s residence. The shape is more or less retained and today is used by both the Church of England and by Roman Catholics.

Jimmy Wayne Powers sighed, finishing a pint at one of the Angry Friar pub’s sidewalk tables, perfectly situated across the street from the Convent and the chapel. He noted the heightened security around the front of the Governor’s residence. On a “black” security code day, there would be at least one guard from the Gibraltar Regiment standing outside, whereas, on an “amber” code day, there might be four. Today was a “red” code day, and Powers counted eight men outside the Convent. There was no telling how many more were inside.

Powers thought this whole thing was crazy, but he didn’t attempt to question it. If Nadir Yassasin claimed it would succeed, then he had to believe him.

Time to get to work.

He left some money, picked up his brown briefcase, and crossed the street. The soldiers eyed him suspiciously, but they treated everyone that way. He went straight into the King’s Chapel and found himself in a surprisingly quiet and peaceful room furnished in exquisite elegance. The front of the chapel was on the east end of the “cross.” A locked white door led to the Convent at the south end. The congregation sat in the western portion, and the entrance and memorial hall lay in the north section.

He was alone.

Powers was good at this kind of work. He excelled in stealth skills and was an expert in sabotage. Why, he had tailed the great James Bond for over a month and the fool never knew it! Powers was pleased that he could supply such reliable information about the Union’s target.

Now he had something different to do.

He quickly opened the briefcase, working silently at high speed. He removed six white silk bags and a roll of tape. Each bag contained a firearm: three of them Spanish 9mm Super Star automatics, two Brownings, and one Walther PPK.

Powers spent the next five minutes taping the bags under various pews in the chapel. When he was done, he put the tape back in the briefcase, closed it, and made his way past the memorials to the entrance. He paused long enough to sign the guest book.

In it, he wrote the date and “Richard Bunyon—Washington, D.C.”

He glanced at his watch. By now, Union killers would have pulled off a relatively simple job in the United States capital. The limousine driver for two State Department officials, the real Richard Bunyon and an Arab named Said Arif, would inadvertently get lost on his way to Dulles Airport.

The two men would never check in for their flight to Gibraltar. By the time their superiors discovered they were missing, it would be too late.