She had forgotten about Maria until there was a scream on the stairs behind her. Margareta turned to see the wet, naked girl, recoiling in horror at the bloody sight.
Margareta slowly ascended the stairs as Maria fell to her knees on the steps, trembling with fright.
Margareta silenced the girl with one swift slash of the knife.
She then stepped over the body and went into the bathroom. She paused long enough to step into the shower and wash the blood off her body. Back downstairs, she dressed quickly and put on the backpack, then returned to the bedroom and walked through the open balcony doors.
It would not do to stroll back through the hotel lobby and outside in full view of the police.
The valley was one hundred meters below. It was a breathtaking vista.
Margareta reached behind and pulled straps from the backpack, fastened and adjusted them, then stepped up onto the balcony edge. She held herself steady and concentrated on what she was about to do.
BASE-jumping was illegal, but many daredevils liked to attempt it. A BASE rig allowed one to jump from a low altitude, such as a building or a cliff, and use a parachute to land. Margareta’s rig was a Precision Dynamics “Super Raven 4” canopy, which was especially well suited for BASE-jumping. The low aspect ratio chute had been free-packed to ensure against “bag spin” or “bag lock” and enhance the odds of a straight-ahead opening. Even so, she had made sure the rig was set with deep and multiple brake settings so that it would fly slowly. That would buy her time to react if the canopy were to open pointing her toward the deadly cliff face. The slider had been removed to give almost instantaneous inflation of the canopy, but to soften that opening jolt, the chute was made of nonzero porosity fabric.
Margareta raised her arms wide, holding the rig’s pilot chute in her right hand. She leaped from the balcony as far out as possible and dropped into the abyss. Once she was in midair, she threw the pilot chute out into the air stream. The nine-foot bridle line was long enough to ensure that the pilot chute would easily clear the burble of air. As the bridle line snapped taught, it dragged the canopy out of the pack.
The chute snapped open before Margareta had fallen one hundred feet. The seven-cell, ram-air canopy allowed her to glide like a hawk. She floated down to the valley, where a white Percheron stallion was waiting for her. He was tied to a tree, saddled and ready to go. Margareta flared the chute steeply and lightly touched down in seconds. She stripped off the backpack, and untied the horse. She took a moment to pat his neck and whisper quiet endearments in his ear, then she mounted the beautiful beast.
She looked up at the hotel on the edge of the cliff. Now the sky was a bright orange and blue, as the last rays of the sun streaked across the panorama. It would be ten minutes or so before the bodies were found. By then, she would be long gone. The bellboy and other eyewitnesses might recall seeing a beautiful woman dressed in black come through the hotel lobby … but they wouldn’t be able to say whether or not they saw her leave.
Margareta jabbed the horse with her heels, and it galloped away into the hills.
TWELVE
THE CAMP
JUST BEFORE THE SUN SET, LATIF REGGAB AND JAMES BOND DROVE OFF IN A Land Rover on the main road that led southeast out of Tangier. As they drove toward the Hispanic-Moroccan city of Tetouan, the landscape became more hilly and green. It was a two-lane road populated by numerous slow-moving lorries, and Reggab muttered a prayer under his breath every time he attempted to pass them. After about half an hour the road became steeper and more twisting as they traveled higher into the Rif Mountains. Occasionally the hillsides were spotted with groups of stone houses and clusters of goats or sheep herded by jellaba-clad men. Bond noticed that the only landmarks along the road were petrol stations and the occasional checkpoint, where officers in gray uniforms, the gendarmes, sometimes stopped vehicles to look for drugs or check identity cards. Taxis were often targets for these random stops, due to regulations that restricted where certain types of them could go.
“Take a good look before it gets dark,” Reggab said. “Very beautiful scenery driving into the Rif. Unfortunately, there are all these slow trucks.”
Bond noticed that a gendarme waved the Land Rover through a checkpoint.
“They all know me,” Reggab explained. “It is sad that such beautiful country is the main source for kif.”
Kif, Moroccan slang for marijuana, was the region’s biggest export.
“Smoking that stuff is an ancient tradition in northern Morocco,”
Reggab said. “The cultivation is tolerated because it’s the only way the people there can make a living. The government is searching for alternative crops, but until then …” He shrugged.
They came upon Tetouan an hour after they had left Tangier, but Reggab took the road south, higher into the mountains. Twenty minutes later, Reggab pulled over and stopped at a group of white buildings. The sun had nearly set, but Bond could see some activity behind the structures.
“This is a souq,” Reggab said. “It’s closing down for the evening, but there’s a man here I need to see. It concerns our mission, tonight. We won’t be long.”
Bond was grateful to get out and stretch his legs. The headache was holding steady, even though he had miraculously caught three hours of sleep that afternoon in Latif’s spare bedroom. He had washed and shaved after the nap, then prepared for the evening’s excursion by dressing in dark clothing, strapping a Sykes Fairbairn commando knife to his shin, and carrying the P99 in a holster at his waist and the PPK under his arm, plainly visible.
The souq’s “parking lot” was filled with mules. The flea market itself was made up of dozens of tents, berrakas (canopies supported by four poles), and lean-tos. The Berber tribes had come down from their various mountain homes to sell their wares. Many of them were packing up now, as the business day was finished.
Reggab led Bond through the crowd, shaking his head at the veiled women who were holding and offering live chickens. They came upon a tent where a man in a burnous was pouring spices into containers. Reggab and the man spoke Arabic and embraced each other, and then Reggab introduced Bond.
“This is my friend Khalil.”
“Hello … how … are … you?” Khalil said in rehearsed English.
Reggab and Khalil continued to speak in Arabic. Reggab reacted to some news with dismay. The conversation continued as Bond wandered a few feet away to gaze upon the extraordinary sights of the souq. Only in countries like this could one see a market that was no different now than the way it was hundreds of years ago. Once one got away from the major cities, Morocco offered such cultural diversity that it would take Bond years to discern between the various tribes and ethnic groups.
Reggab took Bond’s arm and said, “Let’s go.”
When they got back in the Land Rover and drove on, Reggab said, “I just heard some upsetting news. Rizki, my man in the mountains, was found dead this afternoon. They think he was seen taking those photographs last night, and whoever runs that camp was responsible.”
“I’m sorry,” Bond said. “They killed him for taking the pictures?”