As he couldn’t possibly have done that horrible deed, someone was obviously impersonating him. The Union was behind it. That had to be the answer. It was some kind of diabolical plot, and he was a part of it. The only way to uncover this mystery was to go to Casablanca and find the Union headquarters. He would kill everyone in the place if he had to. Walter van Breeschooten would be number one on the hit list.
“SmeH leeya! Inta!”
Bond looked up and saw a policeman ten feet away, walking toward him. Without a second’s hesitation, Bond turned and ran. The policeman called on him to halt in Arabic and French and the chase began. Bond crossed the square and ran up stone steps that connected to a major avenue, Rue de la Liberté. The traffic was heavy, and Bond used this to his advantage by darting in and out between cars. Horns blared and drivers shouted at him as they slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting him. Bond glanced back and saw that the policeman was still in pursuit. He forged ahead, running down the avenue to the Place de France roundabout, then turned southeast onto Boulevard Pasteur and ran across a bridge overlooking the Grand Socco below. Another set of stone stairs led back down, so he took them three at a time. Bond ran past men selling piles of silver, smelly fish, then slipped into a crowd of veiled women. They screamed as he pushed through and turned a corner, finding himself in a narrow alley. He stopped and pressed himself against a wall, attempting to catch his breath. He waited, hoping he had lost the policeman.
“Put your hands up!” The voice came from the other end of the alley. It was the policeman. He must have known another way around. He held a handgun and was calmly walking toward Bond.
Perhaps the smartest thing he could do at this point was surrender, Bond thought. He should let London handle it. Surely Bill Tanner would believe that Bond had not committed those crimes.
Bond slowly raised his hands. The policeman had a glint in his eye. He had caught the terrorist!
A gunshot rang out, reverberating in the narrow alley. Bond was confused—at first he thought that the policeman had fired his gun. Instead, the officer stumbled and dropped his firearm. A red splotch spread across the man’s chest, and he fell to the ground. Bond looked around frantically, trying to pinpoint where the shot had come from. There were some windows in the building overlooking the alley, but they were dark.
He scanned both ends of the alley. They were clear. Rather than ask questions, he decided to keep running. He backed out of the alley and ran back to the square, and then climbed up the stairs to Boulevard Pasteur. He hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him straight to the railway station.
The station was crowded with commuters coming into the city from the outskirts. Bond bought a one-way first-class ticket to Casablanca. His timing was perfect. He could catch a rapid-service train in one hour. Now he only had to stay unnoticed in the waiting area.
At least three policemen were patrolling the station, probably looking for him. Bond went into the gift shop and purchased a pair of cheap sunglasses and an American-style baseball cap with “Morocco!” stitched on the front. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it would have to do for now.
Bond spent the rest of the hour in the small snack bar, where he had a mediocre breakfast of eggs and yogurt. Nevertheless, the food made him feel better, and he thought that perhaps he could get some sleep on the train. If only the damned headache would go away … as well as the nagging feeling that he was being watched.
He took his time with the breakfast, then made his way out to the platform, where the ONCF express to Casablanca sat waiting. The trains in Morocco are modern and reliable. They are painted red and yellow with black tops, and the compartment classes are clearly marked on the outside. Bond got into the only first-class carriage and found his compartment. For the moment he was alone, but there were five other seats. He had purposefully asked for a nonsmoking compartment, thinking that it might be less crowded. If he wanted a smoke, he could go out into the corridor or stand on the platform and look out the back of the train.
Before long, the train began to move. The conductor came by and punched his ticket without saying a word. Bond settled into his seat and silently watched the scenery.
He felt more alone than he had ever felt in his life.
“It can’t be him,” M said, looking at the police sketch of the terrorist suspect.
Tanner shook his head. “I don’t believe it, either.”
“We need to determine if Double-O Seven really went to Morocco. Still no answer from Station NA?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve left three messages. If Mr. Reggab is anywhere around, he should have got back to me.”
The intercom buzzed. M pushed the button. “What is it?” she snapped.
“An urgent communication came in from Cipher. I’m sending it through on your PC,” Money penny said.
“All right, thank you,” M said.
Tanner looked over M’s shoulder as she punched the keyboard and Bond’s coded message came up.
LATIF REGGAB, STATION NA, KILLED BY THE UNION. PLEASE MAKE ARRANGEMENTS FOR HIS WIDOW ASAP. WILL REPORT WHEN I KNOW MORE.
007
M punched the intercom again.
“Moneypenny, where did this message come from?”
“Somewhere strange,” her secretary said. “Wait a second … here it is. Thailand.”
“Thailand?!”
“Cipher thought that it had been routed through several countries so that we wouldn’t know where it originated from.”
“Thank you.”
Tanner sighed. “Well, I doubt it came from Thailand.”
“He’s obviously in bloody North Africa!” M said. “You were right. That fax from Felix Leiter indicated as much. Double-O Seven’s going against my orders and is off on a mission of personal vendetta.”
Tanner sat down in front of the desk. He had found Leiter’s fax in Bond’s office, as well as the other documents concerning the Union.
“I think you need to look at it from his perspective, ma’am,” he said gently.
“I understand his perspective!” she spat. “It doesn’t mean that he can compromise SIS and my orders. Have you spoken to Inspector Howard today?”
“No, ma’am. As far as I know, Double-O Seven’s still the number one suspect in Dr. Feare’s murder.”
The red phone rang. M picked it up and said, “Yes?” She listened intently for a moment, then said, “Thank you,” and hung up.
Tanner waited for her to speak. She looked at him with concern and said, “A group of Spanish tourists were attacked in London a couple of hours ago. An angry mob surrounded them in Piccadilly. One man was killed.”
“My God.”
“The PM has asked that the summit meeting in Gibraltar be moved up. We’re waiting on the exact date and time, but it will probably be in a day or two. In the meantime, NATO and the U.N. are urging restraint.”
The intercom buzzed again. “Now what?” M asked.
“Captain Hodge is here. He says it’s urgent,” Moneypenny said. Hodge was the head of the antiterrorism section at SIS.
“Well, send him in. I can only imagine …”
Captain Hodge, a tall man in his fifties, walked into the room.
“Good morning, ma’am, Chief-of-Staff,” he said.
“What do you have for us, captain?” she asked.
“It’s not good, I’m afraid.” He held up a videocassette. “Something you ought to look at.”
M gestured to the VCR and monitor on the cabinet to her left. “Be my guest.”
Hodge popped in the cassette and turned on the monitor. The picture was grainy and black-and-white, shot from a security camera. Numerals indicated the date and time of the recording.
“This was recovered from the ferry’s camera in the dining area where the shootings occurred. It happened on Deck Seven, also known as the ‘boat deck.’ ”