Or did he? The terrorists aboard the ferry in Tangier—they had claimed that they were working for Domingo Espada.
The police sketch of the suspect was also on the front page. The caption said that the “British terrorist was still at large.” Although he hadn’t been identified yet, there was some speculation that he was with British secret intelligence.
Wonderful, Bond thought. He wagered that the press would know his name within a day.
He rejoined the train after eating a dry roast beef sandwich and drinking a Spéciale Flag beer. His compartment now had three new people in it—a man, his veiled wife, and a small boy, who was already fussing over a toy that his father had taken from him. Bond wasn’t about to stand for that, so he excused himself and went back out to the corridor as the train pulled away from the station.
He went to the rear of the train to smoke another cigarette and watch the remnants of Rabat disappear. Trains were Bond’s favorite means of traveling if he couldn’t drive a fast car. There was something old-fashioned and romantic about train travel. Airplanes simply dropped a person in the middle of a location. With trains, one was injected into the bloodstream of a country, and enabled to see the people and places and cultures. It took more time to get around, but it was far more gratifying.
The door to the corridor opened behind him and Heidi Taunt came out to join him.
“Hi there,” she said, brightly. She was smiling broadly, as if the earlier encounter in the train compartment had never happened. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
Bond didn’t say anything, wondering what her game was. He did offer her a cigarette, which she took.
“Thanks,” she said. “Hey, what time do you want to meet for dinner?”
Even more confused, Bond said, “Eight o’clock?”
“Fine,” she said. “The Moroccan restaurant. I can’t wait to see the King Hassan II mosque. I hear it’s one of the wonders of the world. Have you seen it?”
“Yes, it’s lovely,” Bond said. “But I must say that Casablanca is not my favorite city in Morocco.”
“I hear it’s not so great,” she concurred. “Marrakesh is supposed to be the place to go. I hear Fes is nice, too.”
“You’re right on both counts.” Bond finished his cigarette. Why was she so friendly now, when just a little while ago she had treated him with disdain?
Without warning, she said, “Excuse me,” and reached up to remove Bond’s sunglasses. She peered at his face, studying it. “I just wanted to see your eyes. They’re very sexy.” She handed back the sunglasses. “Here you go.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and tossed the butt into the air. She squeezed his arm lightly and said, “See you tonight, handsome.” She reentered the train, leaving Bond dumbfounded.
Bond took the time to smoke another cigarette, then went back inside. He didn’t feel like sitting in his compartment, so he walked through the first-class car and entered the adjoining second class. It was very crowded. He moved through the people standing in the corridor and went on into the next car.
He saw Heidi coming toward him, holding a soft drink she must have purchased from the food and drink cart.
“We’re going to be in the gossip magazines if we keep bumping into each other like this,” Bond said with a smile.
Heidi looked at him as if he were the rudest man alive. “Stop following me or I’ll call the conductor,” she said much too loudly. She pushed past him, opened a compartment door, and went inside.
Bond squinted and rubbed his brow. What the hell was going on here? Why the hot and cold treatment? Was she some kind of nut?
His old friend, the headache, was returning. He rubbed his temples, turned around, and went back to the first-class car. He rejoined the family in his compartment and sat in his seat, glumly looking out the window.
After six hours, not including the stop in Rabat, the train pulled in to Casablanca Voyageurs station, located four kilometers east of the city centre. It was midafternoon, and the place was buzzing with activity—commuters were trying to get home, tourists were catching the next express to another destination in Morocco, porters and guides were attempting to hustle business.…
Bond got off the train and looked around for Heidi. He didn’t see her in the mass of people. The train had filled up at Rabat, and now there was a rush of passengers trying to get on for the next leg of the journey.
He went outside into the warm air and hailed a taxi. The driver took him to Le Royal Mansour Meridien on Avenue des FAR, easily one of the most exclusive five-star hotels in the city. Ten stories high, it lay in the heart of the city’s business center and bore the name of Ahmed Mansour Addabhi, the most glorious line of Saadi monarchs.
Bond registered as John Cork in the circular reception space. The lobby was a large open hall, much like a cloister, with blue square divan pieces surrounding a thick marble column. The lobby was very bright, accentuated by the mirror panels set in a geometric pattern around the room. An indoor waterfall at the back and numerous potted plants created a garden atmosphere.
There was a message for him at the concierge desk. It was hastily scribbled on hotel stationery and read, “Dinner at 8:30 instead of 8:00. OK? Heidi.”
Fickle woman, Bond thought. He had a good mind to stand her up.
He took the lift to the third floor, where his suite was located. Bond was impressed with the size and tastefully decorated room. The suite contained a functional office, sitting room, bedroom with twin beds, and a bathroom tiled in white marble.
This would do nicely, Bond thought, but he needed a drink. His head was still pounding and he needed to unwind.
Rather than use the minibar, Bond took the lift to the ninth floor. La Terrasse, a bar overlooking the city, offered a superb view of the vast flat rooftops with antennas and satellite dishes, the splendid Hassan II Mosque, and Casablanca harbor. Bond ordered vodka with ice and sat at one of the tables to gaze upon the metropolis.
Bond didn’t like the city, but he appreciated its history. Originally called the port of Anfa, Casablanca had been created by Berbers. From the mid-nineteenth century onward, Casablanca became one of the most important ports in Africa, and once the French Protectorate took over in 1912, it had the biggest harbor in Morocco. Casablanca is now the fifth largest city on the continent.
Bond whiled away the remaining hours watching CNN in his room. The news was full of the British/Spanish conflict. Spanish tourists had been mobbed in London. The border between Spain and Gibraltar had been declared a no-man’s zone. All traffic across the border had been stopped. The Royal Navy patrolled the waters of the Mediterranean. The U.S. president had offered to broker a settlement. At the center of it all was the man who had sparked the trouble—Domingo Espada. He was seen in parades, marching with his supporters, calling for the return of a Franco-inspired government. The administration in Madrid had finally spoken out against Espada, claiming that he was a “rebel.” They were sitting on their hands, though, choosing to wait and see what was going to happen.
Plans for the summit meeting in Gibraltar had gone awry when the Spanish Prime Minister refused to sit at the same table with Espada. The king of Spain was intervening, and it looked as if the meeting would finally take place in four days, on Monday. Attendees would include Espada, the Spanish PM, the British PM, and several United Nations representatives from interested countries in the area.
It all seemed so far away and unimportant to Bond. At the forefront of his mind was the Union, the score he needed to settle, and the nagging fear that he was going mad.
Never mind, he thought. His rendezvous with Walter van Breeschooten was tomorrow morning.