Raymond Benson: Doubleshot

Doubleshot

By Raymond Benson

Ian Fleming Publications

For Randi

PROLOGUE

PASEO

ONE

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE CONVENT’S SECURITY OFFICER GASPED WHEN HE SAW WHAT CAME UP on the computer screen. Domingo Espada’s British bodyguard had given his name as “PeterWoodward,” but he was positively identified as James Bond, agent 007 of SIS.

“Better have a look at this, sir,” he said to the aide-de-camp, a tall young captain from the Gibraltar Regiment.

The captain looked over the officer’s shoulder at the monitor and recognized the face—it was indeed the man who had walked into the Governor’s Residence that morning with Espada and the rest of his Spanish entourage. He was now upstairs with the other delegates, politicians, and their aides.

“I’d say he has a lot of nerve coming here like this,” the captain said. “He knows we can’t arrest him because he’s here with diplomatic immunity. I had better get on to London and let them know about it. You’re sure he passed through the metal detectors all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

The aide-de-camp frowned. “I don’t like it. The man’s a menace.‘Peter Woodward’ indeed. How long before the Governor and the PM arrive?”

Another officer was just hanging up a telephone. “The PM’s plane just landed. I would say half an hour.”

The Convent, the Governor of Gibraltar’s official residence on Main Street for over 250 years, was a hive of activity. As they were under a “Red” security alert, it was crawling with extra men from the Gibraltar Regiment. VIPs from several neighboring countries were upstairs, awaiting an important summit meeting between Britain’s Prime Minister, Spain’s Prime Minister, and others who had an interest in the Gibraltar conflict.

Another security officer rushed to the captain with a piece of paper. “This urgent fax just came in, sir.”

The captain read it. It was from the Ministry of Defence headquarters in London.

“My God” was all he could manage to say after he had absorbed the message.

Upstairs, Nadir Yassasin looked across the long table in the Banqueting Hall at the man the aide-de-camp was worried about. The man was the British secret agent, wanted by his own people, suspected of having turned terrorist, and one of the most dangerous men on the planet. There was no mistaking the face—from the three-inch scar showing whitely down the sunburned skin of his right cheek to the black hair, parted on the left and carelessly brushed so that a thick comma fell down over the right eyebrow. The gray-blue eyes were set wide and level under straight, rather long black brows. His jaw was firm and strong. His mouth was wide and finely drawn; Espada’s aide, Margareta Piel, had been correct in describing it as “somewhat cruel.”

Yassasin took a deep breath and congratulated himself for having finally arrived at this fateful moment. It had not been easy, but the project would surely go down as his finest hour. Everything had fallen into place, and he was confident that his new assassin would come through and perform his final task without hesitation. The man was already a cold-blooded killer. After undergoing the necessary “remodeling” and reconditioning, the Brit was now under Yassasin’s total control. The fool would do anything for him.

Yassasin almost allowed himself a smile. It was all going to happen in a few minutes, and agent 007 would take the blame. History would be made today, and Nadir Yassasin, the Union’s most accomplished strategist, would have a part in it. Yet, if all went according to plan, no one would ever know that he had even been in the room. Today, he was “Said Arif,” a Moroccan representative from a United States agency. He would leave the Rock under the same alias. It was sad, Yassasin thought, not to be remembered as he deserved for his role in the day that Gibraltar was besieged.

Never mind, he thought. His reward was that he had planned the entire operation, and that it was going to succeed.

Jimmy Powers glanced for the fifth time at the Gibraltar Chronicle sitting on the table beside him. The headline screamed, “PM TO MEET ESPADA TODAY,” beneath which was a picture of the Spaniard, standing at a podium with a painting of Franco behind him. His fist was raised and he was shouting to the throngs of people who would do anything he ordered. He certainly had something of Franco in him—not to mention the deadly charisma of a Hitler or a Mussolini. Another story on the front page announced, “Spanish Mob Gather at Border—UN to Mediate.”

“Gather” … that was funny, Powers thought. “Ready to erupt” would be more accurate. There were a couple of thousand men, armed and dangerous, waiting for the signal to storm across the border between Spain and Gibraltar. The Gibraltar Regiment and the Gibraltar Services Police had lined up a battery of weapons and were more than willing and ready to take them on—but this was a question of numbers, not strength. With the reinforcements from the U.K.delayed, the “Rock” didn’t have a chance. They had underestimated the power that Domingo Espada held over his people. More important, they also had no idea that the Union was behind the brilliant plan that would topple the British colony and make them look foolish. This was one time that history would not repeat itself. The most impenetrable fortress in the world was about to be assailed—from the inside.

Powers moved his right hand surreptitiously to his waistband and felt the Browning 9mm, waiting for the fateful moment when it would be called into play. According to the plan, he was not supposed to do anything unless something went wrong. If all went according to plan, then he would walk out of the Convent alive. If not, well … he would die killing as many people in the room as he could.

No one could detect the Spanish 9mm Super Star inside Margareta Piel’s jacket pocket, for she was unusually adept at moving with grace and poise. After all, she was one of the most accomplished equestrians in Spain.

Margareta took stock of the room and what was about to happen in it. She was beginning to have doubts about the Union’s choice of an assassin. If her suspicions were correct, then the entire operation was blown. She would have to do what she could to save her own skin and get out of the room alive.

Margareta scanned the others’ faces and carefully considered who might be a threat when the shooting began. The Spanish Prime Minister and the other politicians from the U.K., America, Gibraltar, and other U.N. representatives posed no danger. The only additional woman in the room was an Arab, dressed traditionally in a caftan and a veil, which hid her face entirely except for a shadowy slit for her eyes. Margareta was confident that she wouldn’t be any trouble either.

Margareta had to admire Espada, who at sixty-two looked more like fifty. He had made a fortune and won the hearts of the people during a three-decade bullfighting career. Now a businessman and politician, Espada was a staunch supporter of those who repeatedly called for Gibraltar, that “pebble in Spain’s shoe,” to be ceded back to his country. He hated the British. He had used his considerable power and influence in the Costa del Sol region of Andalucía to bring about what history would someday call a revolution. The government in Madrid didn’t like it, but there was not much they could do because of his popularity. Many of his followers called him El Padrino —“Godfather.” This was appropriate, for Domingo Espada was perhaps the most efficacious racketeer in the Mediterranean area.