My God, what the hell happened here? Was he losing his mind?
Shaken by the turn of events and the uncertainty of his mental condition, Bond began to act irrationally. He rushed into the bathroom, grabbed some towels, and started wiping up the blood. He mopped up the hand and footprints, cleaned off the knife, and scrubbed down the walls and broken mirror. After ten minutes, the towels were soaked in blood, and the place was still a mess.
What the hell am I doing? he thought. I DID NOT DO THIS!
He sat on the toilet seat.
Think … think … Calm down …
Wait a minute … he thought. The throat slashing … that was the Union’s way of killing! The Union murdered Kimberley Feare! It was the only possible explanation. But how did they get in? And why kill Kimberley? If the Union were inside the flat that night, why didn’t they kill him, too?
Were they trying to frame him? His prints were everywhere. He had been seen with her that night. How could he prove that he didn’t kill her? Perhaps that was it. They wanted to pin a murder on him.
Bond buried his face in his hands and took a deep breath.
Right. Let’s get cleaned up, he decided.
He found some clean towels in the linen cupboard and got into the shower. He washed himself thoroughly, rinsing the blood down the drain. The wounds on his arms and legs were superficial, but one on his arm was still bleeding. He probably needed a stitch or two, but he wasn’t about to bother with it.
He stepped out of the shower and looked inside the medicine cabinet. He found some adhesive bandages and put one on the cut. He then gingerly stepped out of the bathroom, avoiding the broken glass and blood spots, and picked up his clothes. He dressed quickly, even though a couple of buttons were missing off his shirt. He thought he should get on his hands and knees and search for them, but the carpet was such a mess that he would probably have made a bigger one had he done so.
The shoulder holster was still on the chair where he had left it. He put it on and surveyed the scene.
The flat looked like the devil’s workshop.
He glanced at the telephone and considered calling the police.
Not a good idea at this point.
He needed to find out who had done this terrible thing and make sure he could clear his name.
Bond refused to believe that he had done it.
He put on his jacket, opened the door to the flat, and looked into the corridor. All clear. He turned back to the flat and whispered, “I’m sorry, Kimberley,” then shut the door.
As he left the building, the porter watched him suspiciously.
The thought kept nagging at Bond: What if he had done it?
He walked the streets in a daze.
For a moment he thought that someone was following him. He turned quickly, but didn’t see anyone.
Get hold of yourself! He was jumping at shadows.
The obvious thing to do would be to contact Bill Tanner. Bond should tell him everything—about the blackouts, the hallucinations, and Kimberley. On the other hand, if he did that, he would be detained and questioned by the police. He would be in the middle of an inquiry, and would end up being the prime suspect. M would suspend him from duty indefinitely, and he would never get to the bottom of this.
No, even if it was totally imprudent, Bond knew that he had to keep quiet.
Bond was unsure of where to go and what to do. He flagged down a taxi on a main street and decided that his flat was the safest place to go. In the cab, he kept telling himself what he wanted to believe.The Union was responsible.
He had to get closer to them. It was the only way. If he could track down Helena Marksbury’s killers, he would probably also find Kimberley’s murderers. If he could face his enemy, he would come to grips with what was happening to him. It just couldn’t be anything physical. He hadn’t much faith in psychiatry, either, so he was loathe to seek out additional help.
Bond made a vow to beat this himself. The only way to do it was to go after the Union with guns blazing. Leave no stone unturned. Flush them out and smash them like insects.
When he got to his flat, it was nearly dawn. His flight to Africa was looming.
He double-checked the bag he had packed and looked at the message he had left for May. He had written that he would be out of the country for a while. Bond scribbled an additional sentence—that he didn’t know when he’d be back. That was good enough.
He caught another taxi outside and went straight to Heathrow. Using his alias “John Cork,” he went swiftly through Immigration and boarded the Royal Air Maroc flight to Tangier.
As the sun rose on the southern coast of Spain, Royal Gibraltar Police border control officer Captain Brian Berley eyed the group of protestors with understandable apprehension. This was the largest group he had ever seen, and he had been stationed on the border between Spain and Gibraltar for nearly fifteen years. The mob had appeared the previous night in the sleepy town of La Linea, just north of the border. They had arrived in buses and cars, and on bicycles … and had stayed in hotels or camped out in their vehicles. As soon as the sun rose, they were out in force.
Berley picked up the phone and made a call.
“Commissioner, I think the situation down here looks extremely bad. They’re becoming quite noisy, and if they decide to storm the border, we’re outnumbered twenty to one. We need MACA immediately.” MACA stood for Military Assistance to the Civil Authorities.
He was assured that military police were on the way, but that the border should be closed until further notice. Berley issued the instructions to the Immigration officials, who lowered the barriers and told pedestrians and people in cars that there would be no entry into Gibraltar. Besides, the mob had all but blocked the road in and out of the colony.
The hundred or more protestors were bunching up as close as possible to the gates. Many of them were carrying signs that read, in Spanish and English, “Gibraltar Is Spanish, Not British!” Some signs proclaimed, “Espada—Governor of Gibraltar!” While the inhabitants of the British colony were accustomed to protests and demonstrations, having dealt with this kind of thing for centuries, the recent turn of events had them a little worried. The U.K. had been slow in sending reinforcements and, in fact, the decision to do so was being held up for political reasons.
Berley had read the newspaper reports with cynicism. The U.K. Prime Minister was attempting to find a peaceful settlement with Spain. The Madrid government’s official line was that they “disapproved” of Domingo Espada’s actions, but they were making no attempts to curb him. Berley thought that this was merely a public relations ploy and that they were in fact rubbing their hands with glee. If an upstart like Espada could take back Gibraltar without the “approval” of Spain, then the Spanish government wouldn’t be blamed. Seemed pretty simple.
A truck carrying twenty Gibraltar Services Military Police officers drove across the Gibraltar airfield’s runway, which was inconveniently located just south of the border (people entering or leaving the colony had to cross it!), and stopped at the Immigration building. The men, carrying SA-80 5.56mm assault rifles, leaped out of the truck and formed a line at the border. This prompted more shouting and abuse from the protestors, who had by now pushed themselves up as far as they could get to the border.
When the rocks started flying, Berley made another call to his superiors. The Royal Gibraltar Regiment was being dispatched as well.
The security alert at the Governor’s Residence went from “black” to “amber.” The Governor made an urgent call to London, again requesting assistance. Unfortunately he was told that rock-throwing did not constitute a threat of “serious violence” and that NATO’s European Rapid Reaction Force, which was drawn from Allied Command Europe Mobile Force Land (ACE), would not be dispatched. NATO were discussing the situation in Brussels, but these things took time. However, the U.K. was sending the 1st Battalion of the Parachute Regiment based in Aldershot. They were expected to arrive by midday.