Maliza brought food to the table and beckoned to the men. They sat down to a meal of chicken curry with rice, served with bottled sparkling water. Bond knew that Latif, purportedly a devout Muslim, didn’t keep alcohol in his home. He wasn’t adverse, though, to slipping into bars with Bond for the occasional drink.
“I’ll tell you what I know about the Union,” Latif said. “Everyone is becoming scared of them. They are the number-one priority with Interpol. The Union have gained a lot of power in the past couple of years.”
“Yes.”
“I think they’re in Casablanca. It makes sense. It’s the financial center of Morocco. It’s a port and has the largest airport.”
“Do you think Le Gérant is Moroccan?”
“Yes. Partly, anyway. I’ve been waiting for some more information before I submit my report on the Union to London. I think I know who Le Gérant is.”
Bond’s heart skipped a beat. “Do tell.”
Latif shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. You see, I’m a Berber. My people came from the Rif Mountains. I have heard talk of a man, a Westerner, whose mother was Berber. He came to the mountains some years ago and was regarded as some kind of prophet. The word was that he had a French father who had once served in the government here during the Second World War. Anyway, this man, they say, is blind, but he possesses extrasensory powers that normal human beings do not have. He had tremendous influence over some of the tribes in the mountains. He took many people with him and disappeared back into Western civilization.”
“Do you know his name?”
“If it’s who I think it is, his name is Olivier Cesari.”
“A French name? Corsican?”
“Corsican. Although he was born into the Berber tribe, he was raised and educated in France by his father. He probably has a Berber name as well, but I don’t know it.”
“How did you find this out?”
“Well … for one thing …” Latif said, smiling devilishly, “I went to university with Olivier in Paris.”
“Really?”
Latif nodded. “It’s true what they say about him. Tremendously gifted. He was an excellent student, extremely intelligent. He studied law, as I did, but changed to economics. And I remember him walking on campus with a stick, never bumping into anything. Once I came into the classroom and he was the only one in there. I didn’t say anything, and after a few seconds, he greeted me by name. Uncanny.”
“Why do you think this man is Le Gérant?” Bond asked.
“I don’t know,” Latif said. “As I said, I’ve heard these stories from the Riffians about this so-called prophet. In fact, that’s what they called him in the mountains. Prophet. Unfortunately, no one has seen him in fifteen, twenty years.”
“We should go ahead and have London investigate him.”
“They already have. I put in the request a long time ago. According to official records, Olivier Cesari disappeared from Paris when he was in his twenties.”
“Which was … what, thirty years ago?” Bond surmised.
“Right. Olivier is my age, roughly, which is fifty.”
Reggab’s mobile rang. He answered it, speaking in Arabic. After a few short exchanges he hung up and said, “Your two men came through Customs last night, all right. So they’re in the country.”
“How do we find them?”
“My source at the airport said that they took a taxi toward Tangier.
That’s all we know. But don’t worry. I have eyes and ears all over this country. Let me make some calls this afternoon.”
Latif’s youngest son came in with an overnight courier envelope. “This came for you, Papa.”
“Thank you, son,” Latif said. He examined it, his brow wrinkling. “Now what is … ?” He opened it and found a large brown envelope inside. “Ah. It’s for a case I’m working on. These are the photos I was expecting.”
“Anything interesting?”
“In a way. There’s a strange campsite in the mountains, between the villages of Chefchaouen and Ketama. It sprung up there about a year ago on some land that’s owned by a private company. A bank. Anyway, it’s like a compound—they have it surrounded by barbed wire and the dirt road leading to it is guarded off the main highway. It looks like soldiers are in training there, but no one has got close enough to make sure. I’ve been ordered by London to find out if it’s some kind of terrorist training camp.”
Latif shared the photos with Bond. They were eight-by-tens in black-and-white and looked as if they had been shot with a camera hidden in someone’s clothing. The lighting was bad, as they were obviously night shots and had depended on the little illumination made by a couple of spotlights at the scene.
“These are quite good, considering the location of the camera,” Latif said. “We had to put it in Rizki’s tarbouch. He’s one of the men who helps me. I had him stationed on the hill above the entrance to the camp. It’s quite a way off the main road. He was to take photographs of everyone going in and out.”
The photographs, obviously blown up from a smaller size, showed various figures at a checkpoint gate. Bond could make out tents, lean-tos, and campers within the compound. Among the figures in the shots were men in military fatigues sitting in a jeep, being waved through by two guards dressed in traditional Berber jellabas. The guards were carrying automatic weapons, but it was difficult to discern what they were.
Bond flipped through the photographs and stopped at the last one. It showed twoCaucasians in business suits getting out of a taxi at the gate.
They were Walter van Breeschooten and Michael Clayton.
“Latif, when were these photos taken?” Bond asked.
“Last night. Rizki got them to me quickly, he’s a good—”
Bond slapped the photo. “These are the men I’m looking for!”
“Really?” Latif took it and stared. “That’s incredible!”
“How soon can we get to this camp?”
“We’ll have to go after dark. Is tonight soon enough?”
For the first time in days, Bond smiled and breathed a sigh of relief.
ELEVEN
SWIFT SETTLEMENT
IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON WHEN M RANG OFF WITH THE PRIME MINISTER AND Miss Moneypenny buzzed.
“Yes?”
“Chief-of-Staff is here and would like a word.”
“Send him in.”
M was still thinking about the conversation that she had just had when Bill Tanner came into the office and sat down. He was carrying a folder and had an odd expression on his face. M sat up, instinctively sensing that something was wrong.
“I have some disturbing news, ma’am,” he began.
“What is it?”
“Have you heard about the murder of the young doctor in Harley Street last night? The police and building superintendent found her body this morning.…”
“I heard something on the news. What about it?”
“She was one of ours.”
“What?”
“Dr. Kimberley Feare. She was a colleague of Sir James Molony. He’s away and Dr. Feare had taken over some of his cases.”
“I remember her name on some reports.”
“I’ve just had a look at the police report. Ma’am, it was a particularly brutal murder. There is one detail in particular that concerns me.”
“What is that?” M was a bit shaken by this news.
“Her throat had been cut, Union-style.”
“My lord, what could they want with a girl like her? She was young and new, wasn’t she?”