Still spread out, they moved forward until they came to a wide-arched opening, like a man-made cave in the face of the rock. It had been barred by a large iron gate, fastened with a padlock. The padlock had been shot away, and one of the gates was half open.
“The tunnels!” Beatrice whispered, and Bond nodded, “Yes, the tunnels, and we have no idea how well he knows them.”
“What about you?”
Bond shook his head, whispenng, “I’ve only ever been in the galleries open to the public. But, where he goes we’ll have to follow.”
The phrase “As Solid as the Rock of Gibraltar” is a misnomer, for the great Rock is, in reality, like a huge, giant ants’ nest of tunnels. All of them were military in nature, and the public were allowed to see the first true feats of engineering - the Upper and Middle Galleries, built under the instruction of Sergeant Major Ince of the Sappers in the 1780s. These faced Spain, were installed with cannon, and were largely responsible for holding the Rock during the Great Siege. But that was far from the end of the story. Later tunnelling played a key role during World War Two, and sections of the tunnels were still very much in use now.
Unless you knew the way, you could get lost very easily inside the Rock of Gibraltar.
Bond and Beatrice edged their way in, trying not to allow their bodies to be highlighted against the exterior.
Inside, the lights, drilled into the ceiling, were on, and they found themselves in a high, curved vault, big enough to take a three-lane highway.
They spread out, one taking each side of the rough-chiselled wall, their eyes straining ahead for any sign of movement. There was none, and the lights seemed to go on for ever.
They stopped beside two curved nissen huts, built into a cavern carved from the rock-face. But they were locked and empty, so they continued, moving slowly, very aware of the fact that, should Baradj find a hiding-place - some dug-out in the rock - he could pick them off as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.
The tunnel branched oft’ and within a hundred yards Bond and Beatrice found themselves in the remains of what had once been a field hospital. Parts of tiled operating theatres remained, the sluices and lavatories were intact. But the hospital led nowhere and, in minutes, they were back in the wide main route.
Bond remembered now, that these tunnels were once full of men, tanks, lorries, field guns, and jeeps. Indeed, they had been used as one of the main staging posts for Operation Torch, the allied invasion of French North Africa in 1942, the force commanded by Eisenhower, way back when he was still only a Lieutenant-General. There were many ghosts in this dank and cold place, and Bond could feel them all closing in on him now as water dripped from the roof of this incredible stone highway.
“Over here,” Beatrice whispered, and he saw that there was another tunnel leading off, only large enough to drive a jeep into, and possibly reverse out again. They stopped, listened and went down the branch tunnel. The far end was blanked off by a high metal wall, into which a door had been set. Bond tried the door and it swung open easily.
Beatrice covered him while he leaped inside and was met by such an incredible sight that he almost forgot to follow the routine. He heard Beatrice gasp as she passed through the door, then the shot, echoing through this incredible place, and the bullet shattering only inches from Beatrice. They both dived for cover, and there was plenty of that.
They appeared to be in natural light, on what could have been a large film set, only the place as it appeared was so real it would be easy to imagine you were dreaming. There were streets, houses, shops, even a church in the distance.
It took Bond a few moments to realise what it was, for he had heard of this place, though never seen it before. Graffiti was daubed on walls. Jibes at the police and military.
It was all so real that it took time for the truth to sink in.
This was a training ground for troops resting in Gibraltar. A place where they could practise street fighting: the kind of work that was so often required in times of civil unrest. He had heard a rumour that some members of the quick-response teams, police and army, were sometimes flown here for training.
They were lying on a pavement, sheltering behind a wall which was part of The King’s Head, a pub that looked so real you could almost smell the beer.
Bond tried to assess where the shot had come from. “You work left,” he whispered. “I’ll cross the street and go right. Yell if you see him, or if he fires at you. Give it ten minutes.” He held up his watch. “Then we meet back here.” She nodded, and crouching low, scuttled along the wall, while Bond readied himself and made a crouching run for it, across the street to the far side, along the blank wall of Jack Berry, Family Butcher. The shop front, in the main street, was decorated with meat, carcasses hanging inside. He was almost at the angle of the wall on the far side, when two bullets came down, flinging shards off the pavement. He thought he saw the muzzle flash, from a doorway, three houses up the cramped, terraced street, and, still running, he fired, two lots of two shots, from the hip.
Bond was sure he had seen a figure duck back into the doorway.
He was panting, his back flat against the wall, working out the next move. If he went behind the butcher’s shop he should be able to make his way down the back of the parallel street, and head for the rear door opposite the house from which he thought Baradj had last fired.
Keeping his back against the wall, he edged himself behind the shop, and along the rear of the terraced houses. One. Two.
He tried the handle on the mean little door of the third house.
It moved and he stepped into a long dark passage. There were stairs going up to the right. He leaned his right shoulder against the stairs, listening, wondering if he should try the front door ahead of him, then decided to move left, into what would be the little front room. He heard nothing before the door crashed open, and two shots ripped against the stairs, one of them clipping his Browning, sending pain dancing up his arm and the pistol flying.
He waited for death to come quickly, looking up at the figure of Bassam Baradj, silhouetted in the doorway.
“Captain Bond,” Baradj said. “I am sorry about this, but in other ways pleased that the honour of being your executioner falls to me.
Goodbye, Captain Bond.” The pistol came up in the two-handed grip, and Bond winced at the shot, but felt nothing.
Tense, unable to move, he stared at Baradj who still appeared to be looking at him, his arms outstretched, the gun aimed.
Then, as in a dream sequence, Bassam Baradj buckled at the knees and toppled forward into the narrow passage.
Bond let out a deep, long breath and heard Beatrice’s sneakers thudding across the road. She stopped in the doorway. “James?”
she asked. Then, again, “James? You okay, James?”
He nodded, his arm still shaken from the thump when the bullet had caught his pistol. “Yes. Yes, I’m okay. I guess I owe you another life, my dear Beatrice.” He stepped forward, over the dead body of Bassam Baradj, and took her in his arms. “It’s one hell of a way to make a living,” he said.
“James?” she whispered. “Ilove me?”
He held her close. “I love you very much,” and he realised that he meant it.
Together, they walked back down the unreal-real street, to the door which would take them to the tunnels and finally to the light outside.
Some Die It was summer, and an hour before dusk: hot and pleasant.
The Villa Capricciani looked lovely at this time of day. Lizards basked under the foliage, the flowers were in full bloom, and the lilies buned yellow from the pond below the house.