Doubleshot Page 4

  Bond had a thought and picked up the phone. He quickly consulted his Rolodex and found Felix Leiter’s number in the States. His longtime friend, formerly with the CIA, Pinkerton’s, and the DEA, was now working as a freelance intelligence agent out of his home in Austin, Texas.

  A woman with a lovely Spanish accent answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Manuela?” Manuela Montemayor was Leiter’s live-in companion and a formidable FBI agent.

  “Yes?”

  “James Bond calling from London.”

  “James! How are you?”

  “I’d be better if you were standing in front of me, but I’m fine. How are you and Felix?”

  “We’re great. It’s so nice to hear your voice! Wait a second, I’ll put Felix on.” Bond heard their Dalmatian barking in the background and Manuela shushing him. After a moment, Bond recognized the easy drawl that he knew so well.

  “James! How the hell are ya, my friend?”

  “Hello, Felix. I’m fine. And you?”

  “We’re happier than pigs in slop. Hey, I increased the horsepower in my wheelchair so that it now goes seventeen miles an hour!” Leiter was referring to the Action Arrow power chair he had been using for the past couple of years since the deterioration of his leg muscles.

  “That’s impressive, Felix, but I hear the Texas highway patrol just loves to give speeding tickets.”

  Leiter laughed. “What’s up? You coming to the States?”

  “No, but this is a business call, I’m afraid. I need some information.”

  “Sure, how can I help?”

  “The Union. I need everything you have on them.”

  Leiter whistled. “You and everyone else. Those guys are just gettin’ to be too damned popular, you know what I mean? Why, are you havin’ more trouble with ’em?”

  “Something like that. I’d like to see if your government has any updated information about them—the suspected location of their HQ, leadership, the organization and … I’d be interested in any leads you can track down in the Portland area, where Taylor Harris was killed. Are there any Union members left there? Where did his three lieutenants go? What became of them?”

  “Hold on, Manuela is just handing me a file,” Leiter said. “You know about their leader? He has a French name.…”

  “Le Gérant. I’ve just read about him.”

  Bond heard him turning pages. “The lieutenants. You talkin’ about Samuel Anderson, James Powers, and Julius Wilcox?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right. According to the file we have here, those three guys left the U.S.A. in 1996 and haven’t been heard fromsince. But I’ll see what I can do. I have a contact in Portland. I’ll get the latest from Washington, too.”

  “Great, Felix. It’s always a little slow-going for other intelligence agencies to share information. You know how it is.”

  “You bet I do. When do you need this stuff?”

  “The sooner the better. Can you fax whatever you find to my office?”

  “Sure thing. Give me two or three hours, is that all right?”

  “That’s better than all right. Thanks, Felix.”

  “Take care, James.”

  Bond hung up the phone and rubbed the back of his head. The headache was manageable now, but it was still a nuisance.

  A blinking red light on the auxiliary telephone caught his attention. This was the line he used for incoming messages, usually filtered through a number of security checkpoints. He picked up the receiver, punched in the code, and listened.

  “Hello, Commander Bond, this is Deborah Reilly at Dr. Feare’s office.” Bond detected a distinct, punctilious sniff. “I’ve had a chat with the doctor. I’m afraid she can’t see you today. She will be tied up for the rest of the day in surgery. This evening she will be attending a meeting at the hospital and will be having dinner at The Ivy with some colleagues at around eight o’clock. She asked me to tell you that if this is an emergency, I can page her, of course. Otherwise you can expect a call from her in the morning.”

  Snooty bitch, Bond thought, as he erased the message and set down the receiver. She must have thought that mentioning the doctor’s plans to dine at a fashionable restaurant would elevate her feeling of self-importance.

  Glancing at his “IN” tray again, he noticed the corner of a brown padded envelope beneath several sheets of interoffice memorandums. He pulled it out and saw that it was addressed to him, marked “Personal,” and had been sent through the post. SIS had stamped it “Cleared by X Ray.”

  He tore it open, found a paperback book inside, and was shocked and puzzled by its title: Helena’s House of Pain. It was a pornographic book, with a cover illustration showing a dominatrix spanking an “innocent” schoolgirl on the bare bottom. Inside the book was a sales receipt for £5.99 from a shop called “Adult News,” with an address in Soho.

  Scrawled in ink on the back were the words “She had it coming.”

  What kind of sick joke was this? Who would send this to him?

  Once again, the all-too-familiar waves of nausea and dizziness enveloped him. Was he about to black out again? He felt a rush of warmth to his face and perspiration under his arms. He thought he was about to be sick.…

  Bond gripped the side of his desk, shut his eyes, and willed the uncomfortable sensations away. Again, his heart was pounding in his chest and he felt suffocated by a blanket of anxiety.

  “Are you all right, James?”

  Bond opened his eyes and saw Bill Tanner, M’s Chief-of-Staff, standing in the doorway. He was holding a stack of files and looked concerned.

  Bond nodded grimly. “Just feeling a bit under the weather,” he managed to say.

  “Well, you look bloody awful,” Tanner said, coming into the office. “Should you go to the infirmary?”

  Bond shook his head. “I’ll be all right in a minute. Just something … I ate, I think.”

  Tanner sat down in the chair on the other side of Bond’s desk. “You’re supposed to be on leave anyway, James. What are you doing here?”

  “I can’t stay away, Bill. If M isn’t going to put me on the case, I’m doing it myself.”

  “I didn’t hear you say that.”

  “The bloody Union is still out there, Helena’s murder isn’t solved, and I’m a bloody sitting duck here in London. I should be out there looking for them, Bill! I’m no good doing nothing. You know that.

  Isn’t there anything you can say to M?”

  “Actually, I’ve tried, James,” Tanner said. “She’s quite adamant about you staying away for a while. For one thing, you’re on medical leave. You have to be cleared for duty. And she also feels that, and I’m afraid I agree with her, you wouldn’t treat the case objectively. You’re too close to it, James.”

  “But that’s what makes me the best man for the job!” Bond spat, slamming his fist on the desk. “I’m beginning to know these people—the Union. You have to get close to them to understand them. Damn it, they want me as much as I want them! One has to be emotionally involved!”

  “James,” Tanner said gently. “Don’t turn this into an obsession. You know the Union is a very high priority, but right now we have our hands full with the Gibraltar situation. You’ve heard what happened this morning?”

  “No.”

  “Domingo Espada’s supporters threw rocks and bottles at the Immigration officials at the La Linea border. There was gunfire. We don’t know if anyone was hurt yet. It’s becoming ugly. Espada’s a menace.”

  Bond vaguely remembered reading the memorandum on Espada. He was a Spanish millionaire, a businessman with a political agenda. He had recently made a loud noise in southern Spain with renewed calls for the U.K. to give back Gibraltar. He was even at odds with the government in Madrid but apparently had an enormous amount of influence in the country.

  “Go home,” Tanner said. “You look terrible and obviously need some rest. Don’t let M see you like this. Please. Do yourself a favor.”

&n
bsp; Bond shut his eyes again and took a deep breath, forcing the headache to subside a little. Finally, he nodded.

  “Good,” Tanner said. He got up. “Call if you need anything.”

  After the Chief-of-Staff had left the room, Bond slipped the Adult News receipt into his pocket, threw the book into a desk drawer, and made his way to the lift.

  Bond rarely had a reason to visit New Scotland Yard, the imposing and unsightly twenty-story structure that seemed to be made of nothing but windows. Since MI6 dealt with cases outside the U.K., the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard or the people at MI5 usually handled crimes that were committed within the boundaries of Great Britain. Most of the time this jurisdiction was strictly enforced. Nevertheless, Bond had never paid much attention to protocol. If he needed information from one of SIS’s sister organizations, he wasn’t afraid to go and get it.

  Bond took a taxi to 10 Broadway, not far from Westminster Abbey, and gave his credentials to the guard at reception.

  “Detective Inspector Howard will see you now,” the man said after calling upstairs.

  Bond took the lift and was met at the floor by Stuart Howard, a medium-built man in his forties with a mass of curly brown and gray hair.

  “Commander Bond,” he said, offering his hand. He squinted when he saw 007’s unkempt appearance.

  “Hello, Inspector. Please excuse the way I look; I’ve been working round the clock.”

  “I hate it when that happens,” Howard said, chuckling. “Come on down to my office.”

  They walked past a dozen secretaries, both male and female, and into a private office that was cluttered with files, papers, photographs, and faxes.

  “It may look like a mess, but I assure you I know where everything is,” Howard said. “Do sit down. Would you like some coffee?”

  “That would be fine,” Bond said. “Black, please.”

  “Right. Be back in a sec …”

  Bond sat and rubbed his temples, glancing around the room for anything pertaining to Helena’s case, but the only things that stood out were various unrelated gruesome crime scene photos tacked to the bulletin board.

  Howard returned with the coffee and sat behind his desk. Bond took a sip and said, “You fellows must use the same coffee vendor as SIS.”

  “Well, it’s not the gourmet stuff,” Howard said, smiling. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Helena Marksbury. I’d like you to tell me how the investigation is progressing.”

  Howard frowned.

  “Please.”

  “Commander Bond, this is slightly irregular, wouldn’t you say?”

  Bond leaned forward. “Inspector Howard. Helena was my personal assistant. I had a nasty scrape with the Union a few weeks ago, as you know. I just want information. I’d like the peace of mind of knowing what is happening with the case. That’s all.”

  Howard studied the disheveled man in front of him and, against his better judgment, said, “All right. I don’t suppose there can be any harm in telling you what we know. It’s confidential, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Howard dug into a pile of folders on his desk and found the appropriate one. He opened it and scanned two or three pages quickly.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t got very far,” he said. “Whoever killed her at that hotel in Brighton left no traces. No fingerprints. Nothing. The blue van that was seen outside the hotel was abandoned at Heathrow. It had been stolen.”

  “I suppose you’ve investigated her background?” Bond asked. “She had family in America.”

  “Yes, with the help of the FBI in California, we were able to locate them. No leads there, but we’ve arranged for their protection. We conducted interviews with Miss Marksbury’s neighbors, people listed in her address book, and her landlord. No clues there either.…”

  Bond held out his hand. “May I?”

  Howard shrugged and handed the file to him. Bond scanned the typed pages of interviews. There were two or three girlfriends who all stated that Helena never mentioned anything unpleasant, and several neighbors and a building maintenance man who reported that they barely knew or rarely saw her. Bond stopped at the interview with the owner of her building in West Kensington. His name was Michael Clayton.

  “You won’t find anything there,” Howard said. “The landlord seemed clean enough. He claimed he had never met his tenant. A superintendent looks after the building and an estate agent handled the lease.”

  “English?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This Michael Clayton. Is he English?”

  “Yes. Owns a number of residential buildings, a pub, and some bookshops in Soho.”

  This news shook Bond. “Bookshops?”

  “Yes, what does he say down there near the bottom? About his business partner?”

  Bond read further and found the passage Howard was referring to. Michael Clayton had a partner named Walter van Breeschooten. They owned the various properties jointly.

  “His partner is Dutch?” Bond asked.

  “That’s right. Kind of a sleazy character, but we did a background check and he came up spotless. The bookshops are the adult variety. They sell pornography, you know, videos, magazines, books …”

  Bond did his best to keep the excitement of this discovery to himself. Helena had told him before she died that the two men from the Union whom she had “dealt with” were English and Dutch. She had always spoken to one of them on the phone and had never met them until that fateful day in Brighton.

  Bond closed the folder and gave it back to Howard.

  “I’m sorry there isn’t anything else, Commander Bond,” Howard said. “We’re doing our best.”

  “I understand. I am sorry to have troubled you.”

  “No trouble.”

  “Do me a favor, please, and keep me informed, would you?” Bond asked.

  Howard nodded. “Certainly.”

  Bond got up, shook the inspector’s hand, and left the building. Rather than going back to Chelsea, however, Bond grabbed a taxi and told the driver to take him to Soho.

  FIVE

  ESPADA

  THE WOMAN WHISTLED SHARPLY SO THAT HER GLORIOUSLY WHITE Percheron stallion performed a neat elevada, a trick in which the horse rose high on its back legs. She gave him a gentle kick with her boots, and the horse leaped into the air, executing a flawless cabriola, one of the most impressive stunts the animal could do in front of an audience. The horse literally jumped up and kicked out with all four legs, suspended in midair for a moment. Its beautiful, sleek rider completed the picture by holding her hat high above her coal-black hair that was tied neatly in a bun.

  When the horse was safely back on his hooves, Domingo Espada applauded from the other side of the bullring.

  “Bravo,” he called. “You got him to do it!”

  Margareta Piel reached around and stroked the horse’s neck. “I knew you could do it, my darling.” She pulled the reins and the horse trotted back to the bullring entrance, where Espada was standing.

  “You have your new star,” she said. “I think he’s ready for an audience.”

  “I think you’re right,” Espada said. He opened the large wooden door that led to the pasillo, the area beneath the seats that encircled the bullring. He then turned and watched with interest as Margareta, who had been riding sidesaddle, slid to the soft ground. Her tight-fitting pants with a slit at the bottom, worn by female equestrians, were especially flattering of her firm, rounded buttocks and muscular legs. She wasn’t a tall woman, but she had a body that most men would die for. Ironically, this was often the case. He had heard stories that claimed she could be a cruel mistress in bed, although he had never had the pleasure of finding out. Domingo Espada knew better than to make love to the Mantis Religiosa.

  Margareta flicked her wide-brimmed hat, which sailed neatly, like a discus, onto the fence post. She then undid the bun, shook her head, and let her long, straight hair fall around her shoulders.

 
; “Has our guest arrived?” she asked.

  “Not yet. I expect him soon. We should get back to the house.”

  “Let me take care of Sandro,” she said, leading the horse toward the second set of doors beneath the stands, to the stable in the expansive building that was part of Espada’s estate. Besides having room for a dozen horses, the annex, as it was called, also had facilities to stage a modern bullfight. There was the regulation-size bullfighter’s practice ring, which, oddly, Espada had covered with a roof after he had retired from professional bullfighting, a bullpen, facilities for bullfighters and their teams, including a chapel and infirmary, and, in a more remote section, a slaughterhouse.

  Not far from the annex was a smaller house that was referred to as the “compound.” It was off-limits to anyone except Margareta and a few other select employees, and trusted guests.

  They left the annex and walked out into the bright Andalucían sun. Domingo Espada’s estate was ten miles north of Marbella, the Costa del Sol’s smartest, most expensive resort. Espada had built the property in the hills just beyond Conch Mountain, which overlooked the city and faced the Mediterranean. The rich and famous all came to Marbella for holidays. Wealthy organized crime moved in as well. A “Spanish Miami Beach” of sorts, Marbella became the crossroads for smuggling in the Mediterranean area. Far too many drug and arms dealers had been caught in Marbella, simply because they couldn’t resist the urge to flash their money.

  Domingo Espada had never needed to do that, for everyone in Spain knew who he was. He could probably get a free meal in any restaurant he walked into. Everyone knew the face of the bullfighter who had simply gone by the name “Espada” in the bullring. His portrait was usually featured on the walls of tapas bars and restaurants along with the photographs of Spain’s other legendary matadors. He, too, was a national hero. But in Marbella they affectionately called him El Padrino, paying tribute to the efforts he had made to boost the area’s economy. With the fortune he had earned as a matador for twenty years, Espada had invested wisely in several ventures, including tourism (in the form of casinos, hotels, and clubs) and had helped bring Marbella back from the decline in popularity it had suffered in the 1980s. He also owned and managed three bull-breeding ranches, acted as manager of several successful matadors, and had considerable influence in the world of bullfighting. The fact that he was often linked to organized crime did not lessen Domingo Espada’s popularity.