“If they catch you, you will be on your own. I am sorry.”
“I understand. You must protect your cover. Now go on, I’ll be all right.”
Reggab hesitated, then shook Bond’s hand. “Good luck, my friend. I shall see you soon.”
Bond didn’t wait for Reggab to leave. He moved swiftly down the rocks, darting from one shadow to another. Seven minutes later, he was at the base of the hill, near a dilapidated shack that smelled of excrement. A man in fatigues came out of the shed, buckling his pants. It was obviously the latrine.
Bond stealthily crept behind the shed, then followed the man by scrambling from tent to tent, keeping to the shadows. A laundry line was stretched behind one berraka. Bond pulled off a dark jellaba and put it on. If they caught him, at least he would look the part. The man ultimately got to the big tent, where the music was much louder. There were at least thirty men out in front with drinks in their hands, and inside the place was packed. Hoots and catcalls could be heard over the live band.
A festive bar atmosphere just might provide the camouflage Bond needed. Determinedly, Bond put the hood on, then walked right through the crowd and into the tent as if he knew exactly what he was doing. The men ignored him as they talked in Arabic and laughed.
A makeshift stage had been erected at one end of the tent. A fourpiece band was performing behind a buxom belly dancer who attracted the gaze of every eye in the bar. One man played the amzhad, a single-chord violin made of wood and goatskin; two musicians played typical Arab and Berber drums, the darbuka and tebilat. The fourth man played the Arab lutelike instrument, an oud.
Bond wandered through the crowd, scanning the faces for someone familiar. After five minutes, he was about to give up and try somewhere else when a tall blond man came in and went to the bar. It was the Cockney from London—one of the thugs from the adult bookshop’s office!
Bond waited until the brute had bought four bottles of beer, then followed him outside. He was almost certainly taking them to his bosses.…
The man crossed through the tents toward one of the small portable buildings. Bond took a detour around the latrine and came up behind the building. He was in luck—a window was open. Bond positioned himself at the edge and carefully looked inside.
The man had just delivered the bottles to Walter van Breeschooten and Michael Clayton. They were sitting at a card table playing poker. Wads of dirham notes were piled in front of them.
“Thanks, Rodney,” Clayton said. The blond man grunted and left the little building. Bond waited and listened.
“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t stay in a hotel in the city,” the Englishman said.
“This is only for tonight. Will you shut up?” van Breeschooten replied.
“I just don’t know what we’re doing here!”
“All will be clear tomorrow. We can’t leave until … you know …”
“Until he shows up, I know …” Clayton said. “How do we know he will?”
“The strategist is always right,” the Dutchman answered. “Now.
We’ll be splitting up tomorrow. You have the address in Casablanca?”
“Yes, I have it written down. It’s in my pocket.”
“Don’t go to the Central Market. That entrance is closed. You have to go to the medina.”
“We’ve been over this already.”
“I just don’t want you to get lost. We have to be there at eight in the morning, sharp. Day after tomorrow.”
“I know, I know. I have to go and piss.”
“Hurry back.”
Bond heard Clayton leave the building, then crouched below the sight lines of the windows and moved to the edge of the building. Bond stepped out onto the path, assuming a normal stride behind his prey as he headed for the latrine. When Clayton went in, Bond followed him.
The man went into the smelly stall. Bond reached down and unsheathed the commando knife, which he had previously bound to his shin. He waited until Clayton was finished. When he stepped out of the stall, Bond grabbed hold of him and put the blade to his neck. He shoved him into a dark corner of the latrine.
“Mr. Clayton,” Bond said. “Do you know who I am?”
Clayton’s eyes were wide with fear. He nodded.
“I want the address of the Union headquarters in Casablanca. Give it to me or I’ll carve out your Adam’s apple and feed it to the mules.”
“It’s … it’s in my pocket,” Clayton stammered.
“You get it,” Bond said. “No tricks.”
The man reached into his trousers and pulled out a slip of notepaper. Bond took it and noted the address.
“Thank you,” Bond said. “Now you have to answer for Helena Marksbury.”
“Oh, God, please, no!” the man cried. “I didn’t do it, I swear! It was Walter. My partner. He’s the real Union man. He’s one of the commandants. I just work for him. I swear. It was all his doing. I just followed orders.”
“And did you kill her?”
“No, I swear,” Clayton pleaded. “It was Walter. He did it. He does all the dirty work like that. He … he likes it! Please, don’t hurt me!”
“And what about Dr. Feare?”
“Dr. Feare?”
Then Bond remembered. Clayton and van Breeschooten had already left London by the time Kimberley had been killed.
“Do you know who killed her?” Bond applied a little more pressure with the knife. The blade made a small nick in Clayton’s neck.
“I don’t know anything about Dr. Feare! I swear!”
The man seemed to be telling the truth. He was too frightened not to.
“Why was she killed? Was she Union?”
“I don’t know! Maybe my cousin does! Please have mercy!”
“Who’s your cousin?”
Bond heard voices approaching. At least two men were on their way inside. He had run out of time.
Clayton heard them and started to scream for help. Bond savagely sliced the man’s neck, then stabbed him in the heart.
“There’s your mercy. I made it quick,” Bond spat.
Clayton gasped, his eyes bulging, then fell to the floor. Bond wiped the knife clean on the man’s clothes, then walked out of the latrine just as the two men were stepping inside. One of them said something in Arabic and Bond grunted.
As soon as he was outside, Bond began to run. He heard shouts behind him, and the two men ran out of the latrine in pursuit. Bond zigzagged through the groups of tents and headed toward the hill. Shots were fired, and then a siren wailed.
A big man appeared in front of him and shouted, “Hey!” It was Rodney. Bond kicked, swinging his foot in the shape of a crescent moon. There was a discernable crack as he connected with Rodney’s jaw. The man screamed and fell to the ground. Bond leaped over him and kept running.
Two floodlights snapped on and began to sweep the area. Men were running about in a state of confusion. What’s the trouble? What happened? An intruder? Where?
Bond made it to the cliff just as a floodlight beam passed over him. There was more shouting, and two bullets whizzed uncomfortably close and ricocheted off nearby rocks. He didn’t stop, praying that he could stay ahead of the light. It found him anyway, and it stayed with him as he ascended.
Bond turned with the Walther in hand to aim at the floodlight, but realized that he was out of range. More bullets chopped up the earth around him. He tried to roll out of the spotlight and keep climbing, but the light followed him to the top. Fortunately, he was up and over before any of the men could stop him.
He ran for the bridge, crossed it, and was never so happy to see a Land Rover waiting for him.