The throngs of people outside the bullring fascinated Bond and Heidi. They were all dressed in traditional garb for corridas—the women wore large, colorful dresses and headpieces, and carried fans. Every man was equipped with a cigar, and groups carried botas, pouches full of wine. While the atmosphere was not as festive as during the annual August feria, which had occurred a week earlier, there was still enough excitement to generate anticipation in even the most jaded person.
Bond wanted to catch Domingo Espada’s speech before the bullfight, so he finished the sherry and took one last bite of pork.
“Hedy doesn’t like the idea of you going in there alone,” Heidi said.
“Hedy, don’t worry,” Bond said, directing his voice at the button on Heidi’s blouse. “Something is destined to happen here. I just wonder if the Union are expecting me. And … thanks for giving me back my gun.”
Hedy had handed it over before they reached Málaga. “I’m giving this back to you on one condition,” she had said. “That you promise not to run away from us, do anything rash, shoot us, or kill more tourists.”
She had gradually warmed to Bond over the last twenty-four hours. While Heidi was the consummate flirt and continued to show the most obvious interest, Bond was beginning to find Hedy the more attractive of the twins. He liked her style.
“I suggest you follow me at a very safe distance,” Bond said to Heidi. “No doubt I’m being watched. You know whom to call if something goes wrong. I’m going to do my best to obtain a face-to-face meeting with Espada. Hopefully this ticket will be for a seat somewhere near him.”
He stood and left some pesetas on the table. He leaned over and kissed Heidi on the cheek. “That was for you, too, Hedy,” Bond said to the button.
“Good luck,” Heidi said.
Bond crossed the street and joined the masses of people entering the beige bullring. While not as old as the one in Ronda, it is a beautiful, historic landmark. It is the site of not only bullfights, but also rock concerts, motorbike shows, operas, elections, and political rallies. The city had grown around it; tall apartment buildings stood on all sides of the ring, offering spectacular views for tenants owning binoculars.
The energy around him was palpable as Bond entered the pasillo and walked past the refreshment stands. Much like at an American sporting event, hawkers sold sweets, sunflower seeds, beer, and soft drinks during the corrida. Bond stopped and bought a beer, and then swallowed four of Dr. Feare’s tablets, noticing that he was running low. What would he do when he needed to refill the prescription?
The place was filling up quickly, so Bond made his way to the tendidos. His seat was in one of the best sections, the tendido sombra, where patrons are able to sit in the shade. Next to it was the apoderados section, where managers and other bullfighting regulators sat. Some prime seats there had obviously been draped and reserved for VIPs, presumably Espada and his team. The president of the corrida and his aides sat in a section a few rows higher than Bond. Directly across the ring was the orchestra, the members of which were settling down, ready to begin the music. The fight was completely sold out; the roar of the spectators grew louder as the seats filled, section by section. The seat next to Bond’s, however, remained empty.
Bond looked around the place with interest. Ever since he had met Javier and learned a thing or two about bullfighting, he genuinely enjoyed the spectacle. It was already an assault of colors, noise, and expectation—and the bullfight had yet to begin! He noted that the flags of Spain, Andalucía, and Málaga’s local provincial government hung over the puerta de cuadrillas, where the procession of matadors and their teams would enter. Banners or advertisements, prominently displayed during concerts and other events, were prohibited at bullfights.
He didn’t notice Hedy Taunt taking a seat in one of the sections above him. She could get a good view of Bond with a pair of opera glasses she had brought.
“I see him, Heidi,” she said into her microphone. “So far, nothing unusual.”
Bullfights, miraculously, always began on time. At exactly 6:25, Domingo Espada walked out to the center of the ring, carrying a microphone, ready to make the most of his five minutes. The crowd immediately gave him an ovation. Espada smiled broadly and waved, then raised the microphone to his mouth and began to speak.
“My friends, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Málaga’s Plaza de Toros. I will not take up too much of your time, for we have an exciting corrida today. You probably know that I am scheduled to go to Gibraltar tomorrow morning to meet the Prime Ministers of Spain and Great Britain, and the Governor of Gibraltar. I have pledged the remainder of my life to raising public consciousness regarding the Gibraltar issue. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but I am asking any able-bodied men to come with me and join my security force. The pay is very good. We have nearly two thousand men already. My goal is to increase the size of the force to twenty-five hundred. I need to show the other side that Domingo Espada’s party is powerful and has the will of the people behind it. You will find recruitment centers located at the exits. If you are over eighteen years of age, please, I would love to have you work for me. If you want to see Spain become a major force in the politics of the world again, you will support my cause. I need you. The people need you. Spain needs you.
“And now, I salute the brave men facing the bulls tonight!”
This brought a loud cheer from the stands. Espada waved again and began walking toward the fence. Bond noted the man’s natural charisma that carried even at this distance. If he was as articulate and intelligent as he was supposed to be, Bond could see why so many people wanted to follow him.
At that point, a strikingly attractive woman with long black hair moved into the aisle and sat down in the seat next to Bond’s. She was dressed in a green traditional flamenco dress with a yellow and orange flower pattern.
“Hello,” Bond said.
“Hola,” she said, not smiling. She settled into the chair, then looked out over the heads as if she were looking for someone. Bond glanced at her every few seconds, but she seemed to be ignoring him.
“You’re not Spanish,” she said, finally, still not looking at him.
“No, I’m not,” Bond answered. At last. He was getting somewhere.
“Where are you from?”
“Britain.”
He saw the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Bond was fascinated with her face. She had classic Spanish features, but there was something very cold in her dark eyes. The woman exuded a worldliness that was immediately attractive. She had exquisite poise, as if she had stepped out of a painting.
“My name is Margareta Piel,” she said. “What is your name?”
“John Cork.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cork. Do you enjoy bullfighting?”
“Yes, I do. I find it fascinating.”
“I’m surprised,” she said. “Most people who are not Spanish do not like it.”
“It’s because they don’t understand it.”
“Quite so,” she agreed.
The band suddenly struck up the pasodoble and the bullring gate swung open, right on time.
A corrida always begins with a paseo, or procession, of the three matadors who are fighting, followed by their cuadrillas, the teams made up of banderilleros, picadors, and mulilleros.