“Just the type the Union go for. If she was involved with the Union, we could have some security problems again.”
M cursed. Bill Tanner rarely heard her do it, but this wasn’t the first time and it surely wouldn’t be the last.
Tanner shifted in his chair.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” M snapped.
“Yes, ma’am,” Tanner said. “It’s Double-O Seven, ma’am.”
“What about him?”
“He may be involved.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dr. Feare’s nurse reported that Bond had called her office yesterday, insisting on an appointment. Preliminary investigation has shown that he was seen with Dr. Feare last night in front of her building.”
“Is that true?”
“Well, we don’t know. The porter at the building remembers her coming home in a taxi and being approached by a man on the pavement. He accompanied her inside the building and he matched the description of Double-O Seven.”
The expression on M’s face indicated that she simply didn’t know what to say.
“As you recall, Dr. Feare diagnosed Bond’s condition after his return from the Himalayas. That’s all we know, except that Double-O Seven doesn’t call back when we page him,” Tanner said. “We think … we think he’s missing.”
Finally M burst out with, “I don’t believe a bloody word of this.”
Tanner tapped the folder. “It’s all here in the police report. MI5 is being brought in to the case.”
“Who alerted the police in the first place?”
“It was an anonymous phone call. Someone called the police and said that a woman had been murdered. They gave Dr. Feare’s address and hung up.”
“The real murderer, no doubt. Where was Double-O Seven?”
“The porter saw him leave the building after midnight, if that’s what you mean. There is one puzzling piece to the porter’s statement.”
“What is that?”
“He says that after he had seen Dr. Feare and the man enter the building, an hour or two later he saw the same man, alone, coming into the building with a key. The porter thought that he had probably missed seeing him leave the building the first time, perhaps on an errand to fetch a bottle of champagne or something, and that Dr. Feare had given him a key to use upon returning.”
“What do you mean?”
“If it was Double-O Seven, he was seen going into the building twice. Once with Dr. Feare, and a second time alone and with a key. Doesn’t that sound strange?”
“Indeed. The porter was mistaken, I should think. How long has Bond been seeing this woman on a social basis?”
“I have no idea. This is the first I’ve heard of it. He met her when he visited Sir James’s office.”
She tapped her fingers on the desk a moment. “Well. There he goes again, mixing business with pleasure. I shall have his hide.”
“I’m afraid the government will have more than that if he’s charged with murder, ma’am.”
She looked at him incredulously. “You’re not serious. James Bond is not a murderer. Not that kind. Surely you agree that he could not have done this?”
Tanner nodded. “Absolutely, ma’am. It’s extraordinary.”
“They can’t possibly realistically suspect Double-O Seven.…”
“He’s wanted for questioning, ma’am. We have to try and find him.” Tanner frowned again and added, “There’s something else that disturbs me.”
“What?”
“The attendant in the small arms cage down in Q Branch reported a firearm missing this morning. A Walther P99, along with its holster and some Glaser ammunition. The last man seen in the cage yesterday was Double-O Seven.”
“Are you implying that Bond stole a gun?”
“I’m afraid that’s what it looks like.”
M shut her eyes and rubbed her brow, attempting to take it all in.
Finally, she pushed her chair back from the desk. “On top of all that, we have to deal with the Gibraltar situation. I was just on the phone with the PM. He has decided to accept the offer to go there for a meeting with this Espada fellow, the Spanish Prime Minister, and the Governor of Gibraltar. We’re to send someone to accompany him as an extra bodyguard.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Tanner said. “I think Double-O One is free.” He got up to leave, still carrying the police report. M stopped him and held out her hand.
“Oh, right,” he said, handing it to her. He, too, was disturbed by what the day had brought.
After he had left the room, M began to study the contents of the folder with trepidation.
Set astride the awesome hundred-meter-deep El Tajo gorge amid the beautiful Serranía de Ronda mountains, the enchanting village of Ronda bathed in the rays of the late afternoon sun. About an hour’s drive north of the southern Spanish coastline on a winding, mountainous road that cut through forests of cork and pinsapo trees, Ronda is said to be the birthplace of the art of bullfighting. Indeed, the oldest bullring in Spain, Ronda’s Plaza de Toros, serves as a monument and symbol of the quaint community. Ernest Hemingway and Orson Welles (whose ashes were spread over Ronda per his wishes) loved the town. One of Spain’s most prestigious matadors, Antonio Ordoñez, had his ashes scattered in the bullring, in accordance with his desire to give the bulls the pleasure of stepping on his remains after he was dead.
Today, the bullring was filling up with spectators. Even though it was Wednesday and not Sunday, an exciting corrida was scheduled for 6:30 P.M., and one of Spain’s rising stars had top billing. Everyone in town had turned out for the bullfight and many fans from Marbella and Málaga had made the trip to Ronda.
However, before the bullfight, the audience was subjected to a political speech delivered by Domingo Espada. As promoter and manager of the most influential matadors in the country, he was able to do things that no one else dared to. He had been traveling through the provinces and making impassioned pleas to the people to join his party, demand that Gibraltar be ceded to Spain, and reform the current government. The people didn’t mind. To them he was a legend. He was Espada.
A surprising number of men always volunteered to join Espada at these political rallies. It helped that Espada pretended that matadors all over Spain gave him their full support.
Just southeast of the bullring stands the magnificent Parador de Ronda Hotel, perched on the edge of the gorge. Just beyond a railing, the cliff plunges down steeply to the valley of the Río Guadalevín far below. The best rooms in the five-star complex featured balconies looking out over the dazzling view. It was themost fashionable place to stay in a town where celebrities often went for a little quiet and beauty.
Margareta Piel walked across the plaza in front of the Parador, where tourists and locals sat at tables having drinks and tapas. A large number of police were positioned there as well, for the matadors staying at the hotel were on a par with rock stars; very often fans could become a nuisance.
All of the men turned their heads to look at Margareta as she walked through. She was dressed in a sleek black bodysuit that showed off her every curve, and was wearing a dark backpack and sunglasses. She knew that people, and the police, would notice her entering the hotel. They always noticed her.
There was still an hour to go before Espada’s speech. She would have preferred to perform the business at hand under the cover of darkness, but time did not permit it. She strode into the lobby as if she knew where she was going, past the bellboy, who stopped and stared, and snaked around the lounge to the lifts, got into an empty one and pressed the button for the second floor.
Inside room 214, a deluxe suite built on two levels, like a townhouse, a naked man and woman were finishing a pleasurable primal ritual.