“Don’t you like him, too?” Heidi asked. “I think he’s a hunk and a half.”
Hedy acknowledged her sister’s remark with an approving grin. “All right, I admit it. He’s not bad.”
“Not bad, are you kidding? The guy oozes sex.” Heidi squinted at her sister. “You do like him, don’t you?”
Hedy refused to answer, but instead observed, “You saw him first.”
Heidi shrugged. “Well, you’re the one who’s undersexed. We can work that out later.…”
The tension in the air over Gibraltar Town’s Main Street was palpable late on Sunday afternoon. Nevertheless, the shops had remained open, their proprietors hoping that at least one tourist would venture in and spend some money. But it was not to be. Gibraltar’s ports were closed, and the airport open only for official governmental business. It would seem that the inhabitants should panic and flee in fear of a Spanish takeover. Instead, the stalwart Gibraltarians chose to put their faith in the existing government. After all, the Rock had been threatened many times in the past, and it had a long history of surviving.
With or without tourists, the King’s Chapel was always open to the public at the weekend. Officially a part of the Convent, the Governor’s private residence, it dated back to 1533. The original Franciscan Chapel had been built in the shape of a cross, although a portion was later appropriated for the Governor’s residence. The shape is more or less retained and today is used by both the Church of England and by Roman Catholics.
Jimmy Wayne Powers sighed, finishing a pint at one of the Angry Friar pub’s sidewalk tables, perfectly situated across the street from the Convent and the chapel. He noted the heightened security around the front of the Governor’s residence. On a “black” security code day, there would be at least one guard from the Gibraltar Regiment standing outside, whereas, on an “amber” code day, there might be four. Today was a “red” code day, and Powers counted eight men outside the Convent. There was no telling how many more were inside.
Powers thought this whole thing was crazy, but he didn’t attempt to question it. If Nadir Yassasin claimed it would succeed, then he had to believe him.
Time to get to work.
He left some money, picked up his brown briefcase, and crossed the street. The soldiers eyed him suspiciously, but they treated everyone that way. He went straight into the King’s Chapel and found himself in a surprisingly quiet and peaceful room furnished in exquisite elegance. The front of the chapel was on the east end of the “cross.” A locked white door led to the Convent at the south end. The congregation sat in the western portion, and the entrance and memorial hall lay in the north section.
He was alone.
Powers was good at this kind of work. He excelled in stealth skills and was an expert in sabotage. Why, he had tailed the great James Bond for over a month and the fool never knew it! Powers was pleased that he could supply such reliable information about the Union’s target.
Now he had something different to do.
He quickly opened the briefcase, working silently at high speed. He removed six white silk bags and a roll of tape. Each bag contained a firearm: three of them Spanish 9mm Super Star automatics, two Brownings, and one Walther PPK.
Powers spent the next five minutes taping the bags under various pews in the chapel. When he was done, he put the tape back in the briefcase, closed it, and made his way past the memorials to the entrance. He paused long enough to sign the guest book.
In it, he wrote the date and “Richard Bunyon—Washington, D.C.”
He glanced at his watch. By now, Union killers would have pulled off a relatively simple job in the United States capital. The limousine driver for two State Department officials, the real Richard Bunyon and an Arab named Said Arif, would inadvertently get lost on his way to Dulles Airport.
The two men would never check in for their flight to Gibraltar. By the time their superiors discovered they were missing, it would be too late.
Powers walked out of the chapel onto Main Street, ignored the guards as he strolled past the front of the Convent, then climbed the hill to the Rock Hotel, where he would spend the rest of the evening enjoying dinner and a good book.
The minivan zipped through Torremolinos and made it to Marbella in an hour. The sun was setting as the van turned north to drive into the hills. Margareta had stayed silent during the trip, but the way she stared at Bond unnerved him. She had a glint behind her eyes that he recognized all too well. He had seen it many times before, and it meant bad news. This woman was a killer. His experience had taught him how to identify that particular trait in a person. She might be beautiful and refined, but Margareta Piel was probably as dangerous as they come.
When the minivan pulled into the drive in front of the ranch, two guards peered inside. They saw Margareta and waved the van through as they opened the gate. Bond was impressed with the spread. It was a beautiful location here, up in the hills overlooking the Mediterranean. They drove past enclosed fields full of bulls, and a large barnlike structure that looked as if it was some kind of slaughterhouse. Bond noted the circular annex to the building, and guessed that it was probably a practice bullring of some kind.
The dirt road curved up and around a small hill, and the main estate loomed ahead of them. It was a splendid mansion built in a Roman tradition with Arab influence and Mudéjar decoration. It was a flat-roofed structure common in cortijos, built of earth, mud, and lime. Wood was only used as a framework for the walls, for the roof, and as beams. The windows and doors were framed. The overall impression was that it was a modern version of an eighteenth-century neoclassical palace.
The minivan turned and drove on a side road around behind the barn. Eventually the driver stopped at the back of the building, out of sight from the main road.
Margareta leveled her gun at Bond and said, “Get out. No funny stuff.” The driver opened the door for him. The other passenger had already got out and walked into the building before Bond could get a good look at him. He could have sworn that the man had been wearing Bond’s clothes. Was he really a double, or had Bond’s eyes been playing tricks on him again?
The woman marched him inside, through a passageway, and into a small room furnished with a table, chairs, and a television. The walls were covered with old bullfight posters.
“Sit there,” Margareta said, pointing to the largest chair in the room, facing the television.
“You’re not so cruel that you’re going to make me watch Spanish television, are you?” he quipped.
“Shut up.” The driver shoved Bond into the chair and then secured him to it with leather straps.
“So, señorita, how long have you been with the Union?” he asked.
Margareta expected that he would know and would have been disappointed if he had not figured it out. “Not long. In fact, I won’t officially be a member until after tomorrow. That’s when I get my tattoo.”
“Your tattoo?” Bond asked.
Margareta drew a sharp intake of air. She suddenly wasn’t sure how much Bond knew about the Union. The laser-implanted tattoo on a new member’s right retina was a part of the initiation. How secret was it?
“I thought I told you to shut up,” she said.
“What happened to our bullfighting friend?” he asked. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch his name.…”
“You’ll meet him formally in a while. First, though, you’ve been invited to have dinner with Señor Espada. Unfortunately, you won’t get to taste the wonderful food his chef prepared for tonight’s feast. However, you do get to watch it on TV.”
Margareta turned on the television. It was a closed-circuit picture of a dining table. A servant girl was placing silverware and glasses at the settings.