Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

Something started happening on the TV monitor. Margareta Piel entered the picture, accompanied by a tall, black man in a fez. They sat at the table as Espada’s voice boomed out of the speakers.

“Sit, sit,” he said. “We have some wonderful paella tonight.”

Espada and another man, a bit older, entered the frame and sat at the head of the table. “Wonderful corrida in Málaga, although it was unfortunate about Javier.” He shook his head and made a “tsk tsk” sound. “I am sorry to lose him.”

Bond couldn’t help but catch the glance that Margareta gave the Moroccan.

“So, Nadir, are we on schedule?” Espada asked him.

“Yes, Domingo, everything is prepared. Jimmy Powers is in Gibraltar and was successful in planting the weapons in the chapel. We will leave here tonight after dinner. I suggest that you leave only a skeleton force here, for we will need every competent man with us,” the man called Nadir said.

“I was planning on it. Now, what about the assassin?”

Margareta spoke up. “He should be here any minute. He had to change clothes and wash. Oh … here he is now.”

Espada stood and looked toward the camera. A man entered the frame, his back to Bond.

“Domingo Espada, I’d like you to meet James Bond, formerly with Her Majesty’s Secret Service in Great Britain.”

Bond’s jaw dropped when the man turned to reveal his profile and shake hands with Espada.

“Welcome, Mr. Bond,” Espada said. “I have heard great things about you. Despite my hatred for your homeland, I welcome you here.” He gestured to the other man at the table. “This is Agustin, my mozo de espadas. ”

“Thank you, sir, I’ve already met Agustin,” the imposter said. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”

My God! The man was an exact replica of him! He hadn’t been imagining a double at all … there really was one! How had they done this? The man didn’t completely sound like him, Bond thought. The speech was a little off … in fact, the accent was Welsh. People close to Bond might detect the slight differences in inflection, but for all intents and purposes, the man on the television was James Bond.

Beads of sweat began to form on Bond’s forehead. He knew that the science of plastic surgery had advanced by leaps and bounds in the last few years. The best in the field could literally do anything short of cloning a person. That was what they must have done. But … why? Just to frame him? To set him up as a criminal? Surely London would see through such a ploy.…

A servant girl poured wine, and then the paella was served. As a first course they had tortilla de patatas, an omelette made from potatoes. Bond felt his stomach rumble as he watched them eat.

“So, Mr. Bond, what are your feelings about what we are about to do tomorrow?” Espada asked, picking up a crawfish with his hands and biting into it with a crunch.

The look-alike made an offhand gesture that Bond instantly recognized as his own way of dismissing an idea. The man, whoever he was, had done his homework.

“I have felt for years that my country has been extremely selfish with Gibraltar,” the pseudo-Bond said. “I am half Scottish, so I can sympathize with anyone who takes issue with who runs their government, who owns their land, and what constitutes a fair treaty.”

“Why did you leave your country? Why do you want to help me?” Espada asked.

“British intelligence is no longer interesting,” the man said. “In the past decade, SIS came out of the woodwork, so to speak. We … er, they used to be a secret organization. No one knew where our headquarters were located in London. Our covers were solid, all around the world. Nowadays, SIS is in plain sight, in that ugly building on the Thames, and the newspapers print photographs of the leading personnel. Foreign intelligence networks seem to have an uncanny knack of identifying agents. The Union infiltrates them and embarrasses the company. While the work was always political in nature, the mere machinations of playing at secret agent have become political. It got to where I couldn’t make decisions on my own. Too much red tape. Too much bureaucracy.”

Bond shook his head in disbelief. The imposter had him nailed. While Bond was nowhere as cynical in his opinions, he had entertained similar thoughts recently.

“Mr. Bond,” Espada said, “I suppose what I really want to know is if you are prepared to perform the task which Nadir Yassasin and Margareta Piel here tell me that you have been hired to do. You are about to betray your country, commit treason and murder.”

The imposter Bond smiled and replied, “I have no love for Britain anymore. I have lost … people I have loved … because of my work for the British government. One was my wife. It is time for me to pay them back. What have they done for me? My salary was adequate, but compared to what a hit man in the Italian Mafia makes for an assassination, I’m a pauper. Killing people has always been a part of my job. It’s time I was paid properly for doing it. That’s why I joined the Union.”

Espada seemed pleased with the answers. He turned to Yassasin and said, “I believe you were right, Nadir. This man will do nicely. I like him.” He raised his wineglass, and the others followed suit.

“To James Bond,” he said. “May you perform your deed tomorrow morning with finesse and accuracy.”

So that was it, Bond thought. The Union was going to use a double to assassinate someone—someone important—and he would get the blame.

Hedy made her way into the dark valley, trying her best not to stumble over a rock or a fallen branch. The area was thick with oak trees, and the half-moon barely penetrated the leaves. Nevertheless, she finally made it to the path leading up the hill and soon found herself back in the pale illumination of the night sky.

She crept over a ridge overlooking the estate and crouched in the shadows. The back of the annex was visible now, and she could see the minivan parked by a few other vehicles. She wondered what the circular section of the building might be, not realizing that it was a bullring.

The main house was well lit, and she could see at least two guards pacing the grounds around it. A barbed-wire fence surrounded the entire property.

What the hell should she do now? she wondered. She spoke into her microphone.

“Anything happening over there?” she asked in a whisper.

“Nothing,” Heidi answered. “What about you? Where are you?”

“I’m above the main house, on the hill looking down into their backyard. I see a swimming pool, tennis courts, a garden … the van’s behind that barn and there are … two, three, four other vehicles parked there. There’s another parking area at the side of the house, and I see at least a half-dozen cars over there.”

“So if there’s one person per vehicle, then we’re outnumbered,” Heidi said. “Assuming that there are at least two people per vehicle, we’re seriously outnumbered.”

“We can’t just go rushing in there like the cavalry, either. We have no grounds, no warrant. Espada is expected at a major political to-do in the morning, and who are we to screw that up?”

“Maybe we should just make a report and get instructions,” Heidi suggested.

“You’re probably right. You do it. I’m going to stay—” She screamed when a torch beam flooded the area around her. A voice commanded her in Spanish to stand up and raise her hands. Without thinking about the consequences, she went for her gun. A blow on the back of her head put a stop to that, and she fell over.

Espada apparently liked to talk, and he dominated the dinner conversation.