“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Bond replied.
“Now go shower and get dressed,” Hedy ordered.
“Wow,” Heidi said. “I just thought of something.”
“What?” Hedy asked.
“That for the next couple of days we get to baby-sit a British Double-O agent who’s suspected of being a terrorist!”
“So?”
“It doesn’t get much cooler than that!”
SEVENTEEN
MOUNTING EVIDENCE
MARGARETA PIEL TOOK A SIP OF WHITE WINE, AND THEN STRETCHED LAZILY, providing the men on the dock a spectacular view of a superbly built, beautiful woman in a skimpy bikini.
“You have an audience,” Espada said, lighting a Havana cigar. He, too, was wearing swimming attire. Agustin was asleep on a recliner behind them, dressed in bathing shorts and a T-shirt.
“I always have an audience.” Margareta sighed. “They just won’t leave me alone.”
They were on the deck of Espada’s yacht at Puerto Banús, the chic Marbella harbor where the rich and famous liked to be seen. He owned an American-made 70-foot Cheoy Lee MY, a high-tech luxury boat with extensive extras. Like many of the other boats in the harbor, it was registered in the tax-free paradise of the Cayman Islands. Espada had rarely used the yacht for sailing. Mostly, he simply liked to lounge about on the deck half-naked with half-naked females waiting on him. It was the one public place where he didn’t mind being a bit of an exhibitionist, and that was simply because he liked to show the other millionaires that docked at Puerto Banús who was on top. The area had become quite fashionable with Marbella’s rise in tourism. Consisting of long stretches of beach clubs, shops, restaurants, and bars, the harbor was always alive with people. Even now, at noon, a group of male tourists were standing at a bar on the other side of the dock, gawking at Margareta. By nightfall, Puerto Banús would be packed.
“Roberto Rojo’s death is causing quite a stir,” Margareta said casually. “Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
“No.”
“At least three prominent matadors have announced defection, claiming that you are mad.”
“Who are they?” Espada demanded.
She told him. Espada threw his drink at the edge of the dock, shattering the glass.
“They will turn public opinion against you,” she said. “You can’t afford that right now.”
“Would you shut up?” he snarled. “Who made you my spiritual adviser?”
Margareta laughed. “Oh relax, Domingo. I’m teasing you. We all know you’re unstoppable.”
“I will have those three taken care of,” he said. “Tomorrow night’s corrida in Málaga will solidify my position with the matadors. When the people see me in the ring with men like Javier Rojo, they will follow me to Gibraltar.”
“Don’t you think the king will have you stopped?”
“He hasn’t made a sound yet,” Espada noted. “They’re all afraid of me in Madrid. They’re scared that I might actually run for office and win.”
“We have company,” she interrupted, gesturing to the dock. Espada squinted and saw his prize matador, standing near the boat.
Javier Rojo was tanned, muscular, and nearly six feet tall. His long black hair was combed back behind his ears and flowed down around the back of his neck. Margareta, like most warm-blooded women in Spain, found him very attractive. At twenty-six, the older of the two Rojo brothers, Javier was easily the most dynamic and charismatic in the bullring. Now, however, he was staring at Espada with hatred in his eyes.
“Hola, Javier,” Espada called. “Come aboard and join us!”
Rojo hesitated, but then stepped over the railing and jumped onto the deck. He strode over to Espada and stood before him.
“How are you, Javier? You know Margareta, don’t you?” Espada asked. “Have a drink.”
“I didn’t come to drink with you, Domingo,” Rojo said. “I have come to ask you something.”
“What is it, mi amigo? ”
“My brother. Did you have him killed?”
Espada made a show of pain. “Mother of God, Javier, you can’t possibly ask me that. Do you really believe I would do such a thing? I loved Roberto as much as I love you. He was such a promising young matador. Did your mother receive the flowers and the money I sent?”
“Yes, she did, and she thanks you. But Domingo …” Javier said, narrowing his eyes. “The talk is that Roberto did something to displease you. What was it? The police are baffled by the murder. Who was that girl he was with? I think you know something and are not telling me.”
Espada looked at Margareta and shook his head. She continued to look at the young man, admiring his build.
“Can you hear this, Margareta?” Espada asked. “He is accusing his manager of murder. I am like an uncle to him.”
“He’s upset, Domingo,” Margareta said, stone-faced. “Surely you understand that.”
Espada acknowledged this with a nod of his head. He turned back to Rojo and said, “Please, Javier, sit and have a drink. I share your sorrow, believe me. I promise you on the soul of Pedro Romero that I had nothing to do with your brother’s death.”
Javier blushed and relaxed a little at the mention of the famous bullfighter. “I’m … I’m sorry, Domingo,” he said, now feeling foolish. “You’re right, I am upset. It’s just that no one seems to know what really happened.”
“Sit down, have a drink, Javier,” Margareta repeated.
“No, thank you,” the matador answered. “I must go and rest. I am fighting tomorrow, remember?”
“Of course I know that,” Espada said. “And that is precisely the thing to get your mind off of this terrible tragedy.”
Javier turned to leave, but stopped and looked back. “If I ever find out who was responsible for this,” he said, “I will kill him with my bare hands.”
With that, he jumped off the boat, walked down the wharf, and disappeared.
Espada looked at Margareta and rolled his eyes, Agustin had woken during the exchange and was applying suntan lotion on his shoulders.
“We’ll have to be careful about him,” Espada said. “I don’t want him flying off the handle.”
“I thought you came out here to get away from business, Domingo,” Margareta said a half-hour later. “Look who’s here now.”
Espada looked up and saw Nadir Yassasin standing on the dock.
“Permission to come aboard, sir?” Yassasin asked.
Espada waved him on, and the man climbed over the rail and took a seat on the deck. Agustin sat up in his chair, alert and ready to serve his master.
“Get yourself a drink,” Espada said, gesturing to the bar.
Yassasin poured a glass of sparkling water from a bottle that was sitting in a bucket of ice.
“Everything will fall into place tomorrow night after your rally and bullfight, Domingo. The plan has succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. Each step has proceeded exactly as I predicted. Tomorrow night at dinner you will meet the assassin we have chosen.”
“How do I know he’s any good?”
Yassasin smiled. “Because he’s an ex-British SIS agent. He’s now a member of the Union.”
“Who is it?”
Yassasin pulled a photograph out of his jacket pocket, and handed it to Espada.
“His name is James Bond,” Yassasin said. “He’s a very formidable killer. He will be one of your bodyguards at the summit meeting on Monday. That’s how we get him inside the Convent.”