They could make out a number of people dining at tables. There was a bar in the background.
“The Comarit ferry left Algeciras, Spain, at approximately seven o’clock last night. There were fifty-three passengers and eight staff. Most of them were Spanish or Moroccan citizens. The ten British citizens were businessmen and women in the hotel industry. You can see them sitting together at that table, there.” Hodge pointed to a large round table. “Now watch carefully.”
Three men came through a passage and entered the dining room. Two of them were strangers, but the third appeared to be James Bond. The trio produced automatic weapons and began to shout. There was no sound on the tape, so M and Tanner had to imagine what was being said. The reactions of the people in the room told all. Many of them ducked down under the tables. Finally, the British citizens stood warily and produced their passports to Bond. He then ushered them to the back of the room. The two Spaniards forced them to stand against the bar, their backs to the room. James Bond then stood behind them and opened fire, killing them in cold blood.
“My God,” M muttered.
As soon as the deed was done, Bond turned to the room and said something else. Then he did something strange. The killer placed his handgun on the counter. Hodge froze the frame, pressed a button, and zoomed in on the gun.
It was a Walther P99.
“Is that your missing handgun?”
Tanner squinted. “It’s a P99, all right.”
“The killer left it there on the counter, its magazine empty. We should have the serial number in an hour or two and we’ll know if it’s a match,” Hodge said. Then he manipulated the frame and zoomed in on the terrorist’s face.
Up close, there was no mistaking those features.
“We’ve positively identified the man as Double-O Seven,” Hodge said. “We think that after the shootings the three of them went down two levels, past the saloon deck, to the car deck. They probably hid inside a car or lorry until the ferry docked at Tangier. There were very few personnel aboard the ferry, so there was nothing they could do.
Once the boat got to Tangier, the police boarded, but someone started shooting. It’s still not clear what happened. The two Spaniards were killed, but Bond was nowhere to be found.”
“Damn it, it’s got to be a mistake!” M said. “Someone must be impersonating him!”
“Bond wouldn’t do this, Captain,” Tanner said.
“Nevertheless, I urge you to bring him in,” Hodge said.
“Is there anything else?” M asked.
“Yes.” Hodge handed a report to Tanner. “These are the police records on the two Spaniards. As you can see, they have a history of terrorist acts. If you’ll look at the most recent information on the ugly one, you can see that it’s unlikely that these men were working for Domingo Espada.”
Tanner and Mread it together. One of the men was wanted in Israel for a bombing. The Union had later claimed responsibility for it.
“The Union,” M said flatly. “Of course.”
“They’re trying to stir things up between Britain and Spain,” Tanner suggested.
“But why? What’s in it for them?”
Tanner shrugged. “Revenge?”
“We need to get this information to the PM and to Spain. It might help alleviate the tension if they know that the Union was behind this attack, not Britain,” M said.
“I’ll get on the phone right away,” Tanner said.
“What about Double-O Seven?” Hodge asked.
M set her jaw. “We have to hope that all of this is a tremendous error, but we also have to assume the worst. We must accept the possibility that Bond has joined the Union. They’ve been successful in recruiting our people before. I would be remiss in my responsibilities if I didn’t issue an all-points alert for the apprehension of Double-O Seven.”
FOURTEEN
JOURNEY BY RAIL
THE TRAIN ROLLED OUT OF TANGIER AND HEADED SOUTH ALONG THE coastline toward Rabat. Bond stared wearily at the passing scenery, which grew flatter as the journey progressed. For the first time in hours, he had a chance to sit and mull over the events of the past two days. He wished that he could relax, but he was wound up like a coil.
It wasn’t long before he craved a cigarette. He got up and left his compartment, made his way through the narrow corridor and stepped out onto the rumbling platform at the back of the train. He removed the gunmetal case, took a cigarette, and lit it.
Had his career finally come to an end? he asked himself. Was it time to give it up? Had he begun to pay the price for living on the edge for so long? He had seen it in other agents. Something in them finally snaps and they have to put in for early retirement. Was this happening to him? Was he absolutely certain that he could beat this thing on his own? What if he really was going insane?
Stop it! he commanded himself. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s some kind of Union plot … it’s obviously some kind of Union plot.…
Bond’s thoughts were interrupted when an attractive blonde opened the door and joined him on the platform. She didn’t look at him or speak; she dug into a handbag, found her own cigarettes, and attempted to light one.
“Allow me,” he said. He produced the Ronson lighter and cupped the flame close to her face.
She got it lit and said, “Thank you.”
For a moment, they stood there in the open air, enjoying that exhilarating sensation of watching the tracks rush away from the train.
“I get claustrophobic on trains,” she said. “Smoking in the corridor isn’t cool even though everyone does it. I’m in a smoking car, but it’s just too crowded. I like to smoke but I don’t like to live in a cloud of it. I had to get some air.”
She had an American accent. She seemed to be in her mid- to late twenties.
“I know what you mean,” Bond said. “You’re welcome to join me in my compartment. It’s nonsmoking, I’m afraid, but there’s no one else in there.”
She eyed him up and down, then smiled. “That was the quickest pickup line I think I’ve ever heard.”
“Forgive me,” Bond said. “I didn’t mean it that way. My name’s Cork. John Cork.”
She looked him up and down again, then smiled once more. “Hello, John Cork. My name is Heidi Taunt.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Bond said. “What brings you to Morocco from the States?”
“How do you know I live in the States?”
“I assumed that you’re American.”
“I’m a California girl, born and raised, but I don’t live there,” she said. “We live in Tokyo.”
Hell, Bond thought. She was married.
“My sister and I,” she added. Heidi looked back through the window into the corridor. “What about you? You sound English.”
“I live in London,” Bond admitted.
“You don’t look English.”
“How does one look English?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just meant that you don’t look English here, in Morocco. You have that ‘dark, handsome foreign stranger’ quality.” She shrugged and smiled.
She was flirting with him!
Heidi Taunt was tall and well built. She was wearing designer jeans, which tightly outlined her long legs without revealing too much and offending the social sensibilities of the Moroccans. She had on a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up. The top two buttons were undone, exposing substantial cleavage.
Her shoulder-length blond hair was fine and straight, parted in the middle. She had dark brown eyes that exhibited intelligence and a sense of humor. Bond found her incredibly sexy.