“Are you all right?” Reggab asked.
“Yes, let’s get out of here!”
They jumped into the vehicle and fired it up. Reggab spun the wheels and took off. They heard more gunfire behind them. Bond looked back and saw three pairs of headlamps.
“They’re right behind us. Step on it!”
“I’m going as fast as I can!” Reggab shouted.
The Land Rover made it to the main highway. Reggab swerved out of the dirt road and skidded on the gravel, straightened, and sped west toward Ketama. As they passed the landmark berraka, two men with automatic rifles stepped out into the middle of the road and began firing in their direction. Bullets broke the back window and took out a taillight. The three pursuing vehicles were gaining fast. They appeared to be jeeps, but it was really too dark to tell for certain.
Bond leaned out of the window and fired the Walther at them, but the road had too many bends. He couldn’t get a good bead on them.
He sat back in the cab and said, “We’re just going to have to outrun them.”
“No problem,” Reggab said, clutching the steering wheel. “Better fasten your seat belt.”
But one of the jeeps had gained ground and was not far behind. More bullets slammed into the back of the Land Rover. There was a loud boom, the recognizable sound of a blowout. The Land Rover swerved and screeched as Reggab struggled to gain control. To avoid sailing off the cliff into a dark abyss, he pulled the wheel toward the mountain. The Land Rover sideswiped a rough patch of rocks, causing it to topple onto its side. The vehicle slid for twenty feet and crashed into the mountainside.
Bond was dazed. The first thing he was aware of was the sound of the Land Rover’s blaring horn. Then he smelled the petrol leaking out the back. Bond looked over at Reggab. His friend was slumped forward, his head bent grotesquely. There was a bullet hole at the base of his skull.
Without another thought, Bond kicked at the passenger door above his head. He got it open and struggled to pull himself out. The three jeeps had stopped thirty yards away. Men with guns piled out and stood watching him.
Bond fell to the ground and crawled away from the Land Rover. He fought to get to his feet, but the sudden pain in his head and chest prevented him from doing so. He reached up and felt the sticky, wet blood in his hair. He collapsed on the road just as the Land Rover’s petrol tank exploded behind him and the sudden waves of heat rolled over his body.
One of the men in uniform ran to him and dragged him across to the side of the road. Bond was woozy, unable to fight back. He felt his shirt sleeve being unbuttoned and rolled over. There was the prick of a needle, and in a moment he felt nothing.
THIRTEEN
ALL-POINTS ALERT
JAMES BOND OPENED HIS EYES.
Three alley cats were eyeing him suspiciously. When they saw that the human was awake, they scurried away.
The smell of urine and rotten eggs was overwhelming.
It was dawn. Bond could hear roosters crowing in the distance. His surrounding were bathed in the dim light of the new day.
He was lying on something scratchy.
Bond rose carefully. His head was spinning wildly, and he had a massive headache. Where the hell was he?
It was a street. A medina. He was lying on a pile of hay used to feed mules. Bond recognized Latif’s shop across the little street and down a few doors.
He was back in Tangier! How did he get here?
Bond got to his feet and found that he was steadier than he expected. He took stock of his body. To his surprise, the Walther PPK was in the shoulder holster and the knife was in its sheath. His passport was in his pocket.
Hold on … the P99. It was gone. The holster on his belt was empty.
There were some cuts and bruises and a crusty wound on his head from the Land Rover wreck, but otherwise he seemed to be in one piece.
Again.
What the hell?
How did he get here? Could the Union have brought him here? If so, why? Wouldn’t they have left him to die, or better yet, made sure of it?
Then he remembered the needle. He had been drugged.
Bond was convinced more than ever that something extraordinary was going on. Someone wanted him alive. In London, he had distinctly heard Clayton and von Breeschooten order their thugs not to shoot at him. After the Land Rover crash outside the terrorist training camp, he remembered seeing several vehicles and armed men surrounding him before he had succumbed to his injuries. They had put him to sleep and then carted him back to Tangier. It was the only possible explanation.
Bond wearily stumbled to Latif’s shop and went inside. Reggab’s son Hussein was shocked at Bond’s appearance.
“I’m sorry,” Bond said. “I have something I need to tell your mother.”
The boy knew what the problem was just by looking at Bond’s face. He immediately embraced Bond and sobbed. Bond held the boy and stroked his head before going inside to break the news to the rest of the family.
An hour later, Bond was back on the street, dressed respectably, and feeling as refreshed as he possibly could. He walked out of the medina so that he could catch a taxi to the railway station. Once again he examined the piece of paper he had taken from Michael Clayton. The slip said: “14 Ville de Casablanca.” The Union headquarters.
As he entered the Grand Socco, he noticed that there was a high concentration of police cars circling the square. There seemed to be excitement in the air. People were rushing about and shouting. Something had happened.
He caught a Westerner and asked in French, “What’s going on?”
“Terrorists on a ferry,” the man said. “Some men shot a bunch of British tourists last night.”
“What?”
“That’s all I know. They’re looking for the gunman.”
Bond went to the nearest newsstand and bought an English newspaper.
He couldn’t believe what he saw on the front page. It was madness! Utter madness!
The headline read: “TERRORISTS KILL BRITISH TOURISTS!” What was more disconcerting was a police drawing of a suspect who had fled the scene of the crime.
The man in the drawing looked just like Bond.
Bond quickly scanned the article to glean the details. Apparently, the ferry was on its way from Spain to Tangier. Sometime in the late evening hours, three armed men had taken control of the ship. Witnesses described them as “two Spaniards and an Englishman.” The men entered the dining room and called for everyone with a British passport to come with them. There were ten in all—six men and four women. The men marched them to the front of the dining room. The British terrorist announced to the crowd, in English, that what they were doing was in the name of Domingo Espada of Spain. The man then called for an immediate surrender of Gibraltar, or war would break out between Spain and Britain. He then said, “This is the first strike.” With that, he shot each and every British tourist, one by one. The two Spaniards held the rest of the crowd back with their weapons.
After the murders, the three men ran out of the room and hid somewhere on another deck. When the ferry got to Tangier, the police stormed the boat. Panic ensued as gunfire erupted all over the ship. The two Spaniards were killed, but the Brit slipped away unseen. He might have escaped with the crowd of frightened passengers who rushed the gangway after the incident.
Eyewitnesses described the unidentified Briton and the police were looking for the man shown in the drawing.
Bond dropped the paper in a dustbin and kept walking.
Christ! he thought. This was all becoming too bizarre.