“As a matter of fact,” Bond said, “I am a bit tired. Bit of a headache, too. I think Hedy has the right idea. I’m sorry, Heidi, but I’m afraid I will be retiring after dinner, too.”
“Well, shoot,” Heidi said. “Here I am in the city where ‘As Time Goes By’ came from, and I have to go to bed early.”
“Heidi, Casablanca was made in Hollywood,” Hedy said, rolling her eyes.
Bond insisted on putting their meals on his bill, for which Heidi was overly grateful and Hedy seemed resentful. He bid good-bye to the girls as they walked to the lift.
“We’re in room 415, if you can’t sleep,” Heidi said with a giggle.
“Heidi …” her sister groaned.
Bond got off at the third floor and went to his suite. He had enjoyed the girls’ company, but there was something odd about them that he couldn’t quite place his finger on. The wig business was a bit strange. He didn’t completely buy their explanation for their taking turns wearing it. Hedy could be a problem, but he wasn’t going to worry about her. He didn’t think she would try to turn him in to the authorities, even if she did suspect him of the terrorist attack. It was too bad he couldn’t have found a way to be alone with Heidi. She seemed rather spirited … but after further thought he knew that he needed to rest. She probably would have kept him up all night.…
Bond undressed, took a warm bath, took four of Dr. Feare’s tablets, and got into bed naked, his Walther PPK safely underneath his pillow. He fell into a deep, troubled sleep and dreamed fitfully about his double. The other Bond was pointing a gun at him and smiling malevolently. Heidi and Hedy were on either side of him, laughing. The gun went off and Bond thought he was falling into a dark, bottomless pit.
That’s where he stayed until the alarm clock woke him at six o’clock.
At 7:45, Bond stood on the street called Ville de Casablanca inside the medina, watching the exterior of the address on Clayton’s piece of paper. The door was part of a large building with several shop fronts. Berrakas had been built in around several of them, including number 14. Various wares were displayed for sale, but number 14 was curiously empty. The door itself was cloaked in shadow and couldn’t be seen.
A beggar sat cross-legged just on the outside of the berraka, a tin plate with a few coins in front of him. He didn’t look particularly homeless; on the contrary, he was dressed in a clean jellaba and appeared healthy. A watchman, perhaps?
Bond had arrived at the scene fifteen minutes earlier. The night had not given him the rest he had hoped for, so he had begun the day with the persistent headache and a nervous energy that bordered on anxiety. He had eaten a light breakfast of eggs and toast in the hotel (and hadn’t seen the twins, thank God), then walked the quarter mile to the medina. Now, though, as he watched the old quarter of town come alive with the noise and smells of the day’s bartering, Bond felt a little better. The anticipation of something happening, of some possible revelation, brought back the welcome rush of excitement and interest.
A man in a business suit stepped up to the berraka, tossed a coin into the beggar’s plate, then went under the covering. He disappeared into the shadows, and ultimately into the building. In fact, it appeared that the man had gone into the berraka and walked straight into the brick wall. Bond was pretty sure that he didn’t see a door open.
Now more curious than ever, Bond thought he should get a closer look at the inside of the berraka. Playing the tourist, he wandered over to the beggar. Instead of holding out his hand and pleading for a handout, the beggar sat still, staring straight ahead. Was he waiting for some kind of signal?
Bond reached into his pocket, grabbed a couple of ten-dirham coins, and dropped them into the plate. The beggar nodded and muttered something in Arabic. Bond went under the berraka, and, as he suspected, found himself facing a brick wall. The number 14, which was displayed outside on the berraka, was also painted on the bricks. But there was no door.
He reached out and ran his fingers along the edges of the bricks, searching for a trapdoor catch. He knew it had to be there somewhere.
Bond looked at his watch. It was now nearly 8:00. He backed out of the berraka and walked across the street. The beggar looked up once at him, then continued his stare into space. Bond resumed his station, where he was partially hidden by a fruit cart.
Right on time, Walter van Breeschooten came walking down the narrow street. Bond drew the PPK, put it in his jacket pocket, and then smoothly joined the Dutchman in his stride. He leaned in close, nudging the barrel into van Breeschooten’s side.
“Keep walking, up this way,” Bond said, gesturing past number 14 to another narrow street full of vendors.
“You!” van Breeschooten said. He was clearly shocked.
“Shut up and walk,” Bond said.
They maneuvered in and out of the crowd of people, turning several corners and up a small flight of steps. Bond escorted him to an out-of-the-way passage where no one was about. He then frisked the man roughly and found a Smith & Wesson Model 60 .38 Special. Bond threw it on the ground away from them.
“I don’t know anything!” van Breeschooten pleaded, falling to his knees.
“I don’t want to know anything,” Bond said with murder in his heart. “I already know that you slit Helena Marksbury’s throat.” He pulled out the gun and aimed it at the Dutchman’s head. “Empty your pockets. Slowly.”
Van Breeschooten took a stuffed envelope out of his jacket and dropped it.
“You’re making a big mistake,” he said.
“How is that?” Bond asked menacingly.
“The Union are after you in a big way.”
“What else is new?”
James Bond exercised his licence to kill and pulled the trigger. He felt no remorse, but it didn’t give him any satisfaction either. He felt absolutely nothing. Bond had once again transformed himself into the blunt instrument of death, something which he had been able to do at will ever since he began his career in government service. When he did it, Bond shut himself off from every possible emotion and performed the task coldly and objectively.
As for van Breeschooten, his last, terrifying thought was that he now realized that the Union had set him up to die this way. He had been a piece of Yassasin’s plan all along. This was his punishment for the failure of the Skin 17 project.
Looking down at the corpse’s face, Bond used his foot to roll the dead man facedown.
The stuffed envelope was still on the ground. Bond picked it up and opened it. Inside was a map of the Málaga province of Spain, which included the Costa del Sol cities of Málaga, Marbella, and Torremolinos. There was an “X” marked slightly north of Marbella.
Also in the envelope was a ticket to a bullfight in Málaga, scheduled in two days. It was paper-clipped to a flyer announcing a “public rally” by Domingo Espada to take place before the corrida. Bond noted that the headlining matador was Javier Rojo.
Bond holstered his gun, put the envelope in his pocket, and slowly walked away from the bloody scene. He considered what had just happened and the implications of the envelope’s contents.
They meant that the Union were involved with Domingo Espada in this conflict with Britain. Otherwise, what would van Breeschooten have been doing with a ticket to Espada’s rally?
Bond’s thoughts were rocked by the deafening sound of an explosion. It wasn’t far away, just a few streets over. He looked up and saw a billowing black cloud above the rooftops. Bond ran out of the deserted street and retraced his steps back toward Ville de Casablanca. People were running and screaming in sheer panic.