The Governor gave the order to secure the airport and allow only the reinforcements from Britain to land. All other traffic in and out of Gibraltar was to cease.
Captain Berley was told to keep calm and stand his ground. Help was on the way, but it wouldn’t arrive until midafternoon.
The mob was becoming ugly. The shouting and insults were increasing by the minute. The police were doing their best to keep cool and not retaliate in kind. The situation was a powder keg, ready to ignite. Rocks broke one of the windows in the Immigration office. Berley wondered if he should employ tear gas in an attempt to disperse the crowd.
Suddenly, a deafening explosion rocked the Immigration building. A fireball engulfed the surrounding area. Chaos erupted as some of the Spanish crowd cheered, while others screamed and ran. Several soldiers had been caught by the blast and were now lying on the pavement, dead or seriously wounded.
Berley ran out of the smoking building and ordered the men to fire warning shots to disperse the crowd. As the guns went off, the Spanish mob thought they were being fired upon.
Several Spaniards pulled their own guns and began to fire at the police.
Berley was horrified. He dropped to the ground, avoiding the gunfire, and crawled for cover just as a second bomb detonated at the gate.
This one created a huge explosion, killing several people on both sides.
Berley cursed aloud. He was now in the middle of a shooting war.
The events that morning at the Gibraltar border prompted a major panic in the governments of Britain and Spain. By noon, fingers were being pointed, tempers had flared, and both sides were blaming each other for the catastrophe.
The morning sun had also brought life to the streets of Casablanca. As the merchants and shopkeepers and bankers and beggars went to their respective places of business, the Union subordinates had already been working round the clock, packing various files, pieces of equipment, weaponry … it wouldn’t be long before they had finished.
Le Gérant rose from his magnificent Louis XIV four-poster bed. He reached for and felt the silk robe hanging on the hook by the bed. Putting it over his naked body, he wrapped the sash snugly around his thick waist. Le Gérant wasn’t fat, but he was what is often referred to as “stocky.”
Knowing the exact path to the bathroom, he walked in his bare feet across the tiled floor. Even if something unexpected had been placed in the way, Le Gérant would have sensed the obstacle’s presence and moved around it. He had been able to do it since he was very young. He possessed some kind of sixth sense that allowed him to “see” when he couldn’t do so physically. His mother had noticed that he had a gift, and she believed that he was a messenger from Allah. A Berber woman with a strong tribal heritage, she came from a group of Riffians in the eastern part of Morocco, near the Algerian border. He had lived with her as a child until he was ten years old, when she unexpectedly died. His Corsican father fetched him out of Morocco and brought him to Paris so that he could be educated in theWestern ways. There was also hope that a cure could be found for his blindness.
Le Gérant returned to his mother’s people in the Rif Mountains for a brief period of time as an adult. Even though he had adopted the ways of the West, he was accepted warmly, for many people remembered him.
From the moment he returned, the other Riffians regarded Le Gérant as some kind of divine being. They were amazed that he could navigate his surroundings so easily. Some wondered if he were truly blind. When he was able to call them by name before they said a word, the people were so impressed with “the Western Berber” that they became his loyal followers.
Le Gérant was a man from two countries and two cultures.
In the bathroom, Le Gérant splashed water on his face. He would miss the Union quarters here in Casablanca, but it was time to move on. Discovery of the base was imminent, and it was too costly to maintain the complex. By the end of the day, the Union would be gone. Vanished, without a trace.
Le Gérant had thought long and hard about where to move the central headquarters to. He thought that the authorities would temporarily ignore Marrakesh. That was where they would go for the time being. He thought that perhaps he should move the operations to Europe. But where to? France? He would have to think about it some more. Marrakesh would do for now.
He heard the buzz of the telephone. He walked back through the bedroom to the study. He sat in a large cushioned chair and picked up the phone.
“Yes?”
“Gérant, it’s Nadir, I hope it’s not too early.”
“I’ve been expecting your call. I trust you are on a secure line.”
“Most secure, sir.”
“Very well. What have you to report?”
Yassasin said, “Everything has worked as planned. James Bond is behaving exactly as we had hoped. He is on his way to Morocco now.”
“That’s excellent news. What about the commandant from London?”
“Mr. van Breeschooten and his colleague Clayton will also arrive this morning, sir. They have instructions to go to the training camp in the mountains, as you wished.”
“And you’re sure Mr. Bond will find them?”
“If he picks up the clues we left for him, he will. He’s smart enough to find them.”
“And Clayton’s cousin?”
“Still in place and under cover. An excellent operative, I must say.”
Le Gérant was pleased. “How is Señor Espada feeling this morning? He must be fairly happy.”
Yassasin allowed himself to smile. “He is thrilled that the confrontation at the border is going as well as it is. Just enough people have died to make the various politicians sit up and take notice. After tomorrow’s events, he is certain that his proposal to the governments of Britain, Spain, and Gibraltar will be accepted. The Governor of Gibraltar has already expressed an interest in hosting the summit meeting.”
“Perfect. Nadir, you continue to amaze me.”
“It is my pleasure to serve you, Gérant.”
“Tell me, Nadir, does Espada suspect anything?” Le Gérant asked.
“I don’t think so. He isn’t aware of anything but his own selfish dreams. He is becoming careless.”
“I’m not so sure that will matter much in a few days.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve decided that when he becomes the Governor of Gibraltar, his tenure shouldn’t last very long. When we gain control of his operations, it would be best if he wasn’t in the picture.”
“I understand. I have already built that option into the plan. His tenure will last … say … a minute?”
Le Gérant smiled. “You are a genius, my friend.”
“No, sir,” Yassasin said. “You inspire me to do my best. How is the moving going?”
“Smoothly. The next time you see me, we’ll be in Marrakesh.”
“Ma’ as-salaama, then,” Yassasin said.
“Ma’ as-salaama as well.”
Le Gérant hung up the phone. He felt very pleased with himself.