“So what brings you from Japan to Morocco?” Bond asked.
“My sister and I are travel guide writers. We’ve done a series of books on various countries. Perhaps you’ve seen them? The Small World books?”
“I can’t say that I have. Sorry.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “We’ve only done four. This is our fifth. We’re published in America and Britain.”
“That sounds like a fun job.”
She finished her cigarette and tossed the butt onto the tracks. “It is. It’s more work than you think, though. It’s not just traveling to exotic places. The business side of it is overwhelming. But you’re right, it’s great fun to travel. We hope to visit every country in the world, my sister and I.”
“That’s quite an ambition.”
“I know, it’s impossible, but we like to imagine it.”
“Where are you going? Rabat?”
“No, to Casablanca. To Marrakesh after two nights. Rabat on the way back. What brings you here?”
“I’m an importer and exporter,” Bond replied.
“What do you import and export?”
“Junk, mostly. A whole lot of nothing.”
She laughed.
Bond offered the cigarette case to her, but she shook her head. “No, thanks, I’m going back inside. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Cork.” She held out her hand. Bond took it.
“Call me John. It was a pleasure, Heidi. Where are you staying in Casablanca?”
Her hand was smooth and cool. She allowed him to hold it.
“The Royal Mansour Meridien.”
“What a coincidence!” Bond said. “That’s my hotel, too.”
“Small world,” she said, smiling wickedly.
Actually, Bond hadn’t thought about where he would stay, but he knew the hotel. It was one of the best in Casablanca. Staying at a large five-star hotel like that might be what the authorities looking for him would least expect him to do. And if he happened to have a girlfriend … ? A perfect cover, one the police weren’t looking for …
She withdrew her hand, turned and opened the door. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“Heidi,” Bond said, stopping her. “Would you care to have dinner with me at the hotel tonight? It has a lovely Moroccan restaurant.”
“Why, thank you, John, that sounds terrific. I’ll see you later, then.”
And she was gone.
Bond congratulated himself. His way with women had not changed. Screw the headache, he thought. There was desire in that girl’s eyes!
Bond finished his cigarette and went back inside the train. He made his way back to his compartment, which was still empty, and he collapsed heavily into his seat. He put his feet up on the opposite seat and looked out the window at the passing rows of cacti, which seemed to be more plentiful as the train went farther south. The color of the earth changed, too, as the climate became hotter and more arid.
He shut his eyes and felt merciful waves of drowsiness pull him toward unconsciousness. The movement of the train, combined with physical exhaustion, lulled Bond into a fitful but badly needed sleep.
When he opened his eyes, the train was still rocking and rumbling toward its destination. He felt another presence in the compartment with him.
Heidi was sitting across from him, with a seat between hers and the one where his feet were propped. She was reading a romance novel and had on reading glasses; otherwise she was still dressed in the tight jeans and white blouse.
“Hello there,” Bond said, sitting up and straightening his jacket. “I must have dozed off.”
She glanced at him and gave a cursory smile and nodded, but kept silent. Her eyes went back to the book.
Odd, Bond thought. What was the matter with her?
“So,” he said, “what time are we having dinner?”
The blonde looked up at him over her glasses. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dinner? Tonight? At the hotel? What time?”
Heidi opened her mouth as if she had just been insulted. She closed her book and stood. “I think I’ll go back to the compartment I was in before.” She opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Her parting words were, “You have some nerve, asshole.” Then she walked on.
What the hell? Bond rubbed his eyes. Did he dream that?
He felt foolish and confused.
Dizzy woman, he thought. Well, she had admitted being from California. She had probably grown up on the beach, wearing skimpy bikinis and giving all the teenaged boys inflexible frustration. To hell with her …
The train stopped in Rabat, Morocco’s capital. There was a half-hour wait before it departed, so Bond took the opportunity to don his sunglasses and baseball cap and stretch his legs. Rabat station is larger and has more amenities than the one in Tangier. He scanned the newspapers in the gift shop but couldn’t find one in English. A French paper proclaimed that war between Britain and Spain was imminent. There was a photo of Domingo Espada, surrounded by bodyguards, giving a speech at a bullring. Several matadors were standing beside him.
Bond recognized one of them. Javier Rojo was a young bullfighter whom Bond got to know by accident just a few years ago at an art gallery in Lisbon. Bond’s date had been a friend of the artist. Apparently Javier’s date was, too. They had met at the bar, where Bond was busy with a vodka martini in an effort to avoid the small talk of the art crowd. Rojo was having a soft drink, and he turned to Bond and said, in English, “The only alcohol I drink is wine at dinner.”
“Why?” Bond had asked.
“You have to be sober to do what I do.”
He was a handsome, fiery young man in his mid-twenties, and he had come from a long line of bullfighters. His grandfather had been one of the most famous matadors in Spain until he was killed in the ring. Rojo’s father was also a very successful bullfighter who had passed the torch on to his two sons when he retired. Javier Rojo was wealthy, popular, and as much a celebrity as one could be in Spain.
Bond blinked when he saw the headline of a related story on the inside of the paper. “ROBERTO ROJO MURDERED.”
That was Javier’s younger brother!
Bond read with incredulity how the young matador and the body of an unidentified young girl had been found slain in his hotel room in Ronda. According to the police, the bullfighter’s “throat had been cut.”
It was the Union way. Could it be a coincidence? Bond wondered.
He thought back to the beginning of his friendship with Javier Rojo.
That night in Lisbon, Bond and the young bullfighter had struck up a conversation and found that they got along well. Bond had always held the art of bullfighting at arm’s length until Rojo had enlightened him. Like most non-Spaniards, Bond was of the opinion that bullfighting was both cruel and archaic. This notion changed after Rojo convinced Bond to come to a corrida and watch him fight. Rojo had taken the time to teach Bond the history of bullfighting and its traditions, and why the Spanish were so passionate about it. After a week as Javier’s guest, Bond began to see why men like Ernest Hemingway and Orson Welles had become fascinated by bullfighting. Bond grew to appreciate the art and drama behind the spectacle, and he admired the courage of the matadors who risked their lives to face a charging bull.
Bond studied the newspaper carefully. So Javier Rojo was in with Domingo Espada now. Bond wished that he didn’t have the Union to deal with. Otherwise, he could be in Spain, seeking out Espada and stopping him from instigating this idiotic conflict between their two countries. Perhaps Rojo could be of help.
Bond sighed. He couldn’t think about that now. He had other, more important things to worry about. Britain would deal with Spain. If war broke out, it would be over quickly. NATO or the U.N. would negotiate a settlement. Bond didn’t have to worry.