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  Although he had aged considerably since his bullfighting days, Domingo Espada still cut a commanding figure. At exactly six feet, he exuded an authority and self-confidence that demanded attention. At sixty-two, he remained devilishly handsome, with dark wavy hair, now streaked with gray, and a bushy mustache that covered a sullen mouth. His chin was adorned with a short, pointed salt-and-pepper beard. Women virtually swooned when he stared at them with his piercing brown eyes that seemed to be both hot and cold at the same time. The twenty-two-year-old scar that extended from the outside edge of his left eyebrow to just over the cheekbone also served to give him a sinister, Mephistophelean appearance.

  His boots made crunching sounds on the tiny gravel as Espada and Margareta walked up the path to the magnificent ranch house he had built on the property. It overlooked a small artificial lake stocked with fish. Typically Spanish in its design, the house took additional elements from some of the more modern structures in Marbella, such as the palace built by the financier and arms broker Adnan Khashoggi. The main building consisted of a single level, but a unique guard tower rose four stories high so that sentries could spot approaching vehicles from miles away. The entire estate was over six hundred hectares in size, was surrounded by a high stone wall, and was protected by state-of-the-art security equipment.

  The grounds contained an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a tennis court, a garage for several vehicles, and a putting green. Beyond the annex and the compound was an enclosed field, where dozens of Bos Taurus Ibericus roamed free. The beautiful black bulls, the special lineage that were bred for one purpose—to die in a corrida—lived a luxurious life eating the best food and mating with the best cows until the fateful day when they were chosen to meet their destiny. Sometimes Espada enjoyed walking in the field amongst the animals, admiring their power and pride. The bulls usually left him alone unless he came too close to the calves or made sudden moves. From birth, they attacked instinctively when they felt cornered or threatened, but in an open field they turned and walked away.

  Espada and Margareta stepped onto the open patio, where a young female servant met them and asked what they wanted to drink. Espada looked at her and snapped harshly, “Where is Maria?”

  The girl jumped at his bark and shyly said, “I don’t know, sir. They asked me to fill in for her today.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Very well.” He asked for a bottle of Barbadillo Solear, a sherrylike wine made in Sanlucar de Barrameda. The girl gave a subservient bow and went inside.

  Agustin, Espada’s loyal mozo de espadas, the title of a matador’s dresser and keeper of the swords, now Espada’s most trusted righthand man, came out of the house to deliver a message.

  “Where is Maria?” Espada asked him.

  “She is gone, Domingo,” Agustin said with a stern face. “She has escaped.”

  “Escaped?” Espada nearly choked with surprise. He looked at Margareta. She stared at Agustin and asked, “How could that be possible?”

  “When we sent for her this afternoon, we learned that she had left with a man. One of the other girls told me.”

  “Who?”

  “She didn’t know him.”

  “Where is … who was guarding them? Where is Carlos?”

  “Carlos was on guard all day. Would you like to speak with him?”

  “Yes! Go and fetch him.” Espada was trembling.

  “Yes, sir,” Agustin said. “By the way, your visitor has arrived,” he said. “They’re parking his car. Shall I bring him outside, sir?”

  “Keep him waiting until after I talk to Carlos.”

  Agustin nodded and went inside.

  Margareta had never seen Espada so upset over the disappearance of one of his girls. He refused to admit that several had escaped with his guests in the past, despite efforts to keep them in the compound. Margareta had been lobbying for tighter security measures. She had worked for Espada for a few years; her job was to train and look after his secret harem residing in the compound. She knew that he often obtained the girls from poor families in Spain and Morocco. After they spent some time learning their “trade,” the girls were sent out to points abroad that were managed by Espada’s organization. If they were lucky, they became high-class call girls and earned a lot of money. If not, some of them simply disappeared.

  “She must have been a favorite,” Margareta observed. “Was she particularly good at something?”

  “Shut up,” Espada said. “Maria was the freshest, most beautiful girl I’ve ever found. She was the best. So pure, so … tight … I cannot believe she would leave!”

  “Why not? You do keep them prisoners.…”

  “But they have a great life here … it’s paradise … all the food and sun and …”

  “… sex, whether they want it or not,” Margareta continued.

  “Part of this is your fault!” Espada said.

  “Oh, please, Domingo,” she said. “I train them and patch them up after you get too rough with them, but I don’t guard them.”

  Carlos, a large man in his late twenties, came out onto the patio. He appeared nervous, fingering the Beretta M92 that hung on his belt.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked.

  “Did you see Maria today?” Espada spat.

  “No, sir.”

  “What time did you come on duty?”

  “Eight o’clock this morning.”

  “And the girls were in their quarters all day and night?”

  “Except for those with chores, sir. Maria wasn’t scheduled to work until this afternoon,” Carlos explained.

  “You must have seen something.”

  “No, sir, I swear,” Carlos said, shaking his head.

  Espada looked at him hard. Agustin stood behind the guard, waiting for a signal from his boss. Espada glanced at his lieutenant and gave him the slightest of nods.

  “Very well,” Espada said to Carlos. “You may go.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Carlos replied, then went inside.

  “Agustin,” Espada said. The lieutenant stopped. “Have him interrogated. In the meantime show our guest outside. I’d like you to join us, too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, Agustin?”

  “Yes?”

  “What are the enrollment figures for today?”

  Agustin cleared his throat. “I’ve just checked on that. We’re up to about one thousand four hundred.”

  “Only fourteen hundred men? We must do better than that!”

  Espada turned abruptly, holding his arms up in frustration.

  “If we had a little more to spend on recruitment …” Agustin suggested.

  Espada rubbed his chin a moment, then turned back to his friend and confidant. “All right. Call the accountant and tell him to release another three million pesetas. We have to reach our goal of two thousand five hundred men quickly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Agustin went back inside as Espada and Margareta sat in comfortable lounge chairs with a view of the green, manicured lawn and the pool twenty meters away.

  The servant girl brought the wine and poured glasses for the couple. Margareta looked her up and down, admiring the girl’s youth and wholesomeness. She was probably no more than fifteen. After she had left, Margareta said, “You sure know how to pick them, Domingo.”

  Espada held up his glass and said, “Salud. Yes, I certainly do. I’ve been picking them all my life. That one, she’s from Granada. My men found her in a particularly poverty-stricken area. Her parents were quite happy to accept the money that was offered for her.”

  “And how has she worked out in the bedroom?” Margareta asked with a wicked smile.

  “I haven’t had the opportunity to try her out yet. I was still breaking in Maria,” Espada said, twisting his mustache. “You’re a fine teacher. So are the other girls. They all do whatever I want. Damn, that upsets me about Maria.”

  “Tell me, Domingo. What would the police say if
they knew you were keeping sex slaves against their will?”

  “Nonsense. I give these poor girls a wonderful life. They are treated like queens. They eat the best food, live in a nice home, and have access to the outside world through the miracle of television and video. A far better life than they had before.”

  “They also have to submit to you anytime you want.”

  Espada laughed and said, “You’re jealous! You would like your own harem of young men, I think!”

  “And tell me, Domingo. What do the police say when a body is washed up on the shore near Marbella? It happens, what, every other year or so?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I don’t, Domingo? Young girls, most of them unidentifiable, runaways, street kids … There’s a steady stream of them being found up and down the Costa del Sol.”

  “You’re imagining things. Besides, the local police turn a blind eye when they see me coming. I have them all in my pocket.”

  “There is a high turnover rate of your girls, Domingo.”

  “That’s because they get jobs within my organization—as expensive call girls. There is no better training ground than here. They travel to exotic locations like South America or Mexico to work.”

  Margareta looked sideways at Espada. “Not all of them. Come on, Domingo. What do those girls have to do to incur so much wrath that you dispose of them in so … ignoble … a fashion?”

  “Look who’s talking.” Espada wagged an accusatory finger at her, then shrugged. “That only happens when one of them disobeys me.

  It’s not often.”

  Agustin returned with a tall, dark man in a suit and fez and said, “Señor Nadir Yassasin, sir.”

  Espada didn’t get up, but instead motioned to the chair next to him. “Welcome, Nadir, sit down. Did you have a pleasant journey?”

  Yassasin gave a slight bow and replied, “Yes, thank you, Señor Espada. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

  “How are things in Casablanca?”

  “The same. As you know, the cercle fermé met last week.”

  The servant girl returned and poured the wine for Yassasin, then left. The Arab pulled a thin cigar from his jacket. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Go ahead.” Agustin leaned over with a lighter and lit the Arab’s cigar. Yassasin held it pretentiously, close to his face with his hand bent, palm upward. Margareta thought this enhanced his stereotypical image as a mysterious North African spy. Agustin sat down and pulled his chair closer.

  “Now,” Yassasin said. “Le Gérant has given me instructions to thank you for your generous and impressive offer of five million dollars to the Union. The territories you control are profitable.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Espada said. “However, I do hope that Le Gérant realizes the tremendous risks I take to keep operations going. South America and Mexico are still quite new and require a lot of payoffs. Law enforcement is particularly strong when one gets near America. The drugs are doing well, but I’ve lost several men. Some were arrested, others killed by the police. It’s becoming more difficult.”

  “We can all appreciate that,” Yassasin said. “It’s time to discuss your proposal.”

  Espada brightened. “So Le Gérant has agreed to help me? Is he committing Union resources to my cause? I thought he said it was a ‘suicide mission.’ ”

  “He still believes that, but … that’s where I come in.”

  “Oh?”

  “Le Gérant has taken into consideration your generous offer, your enthusiasm, and the opportunity for the Union to even the score with an enemy. So, yes, the Union will become involved in the Gibraltar project.”

  “That’s very good news.” Espada lifted his glass and finished the wine.

  “There are some conditions.”

  “What are they?”

  “Le Gérant will supply the necessary manpower to accomplish your goals. The North African district will be employed, under my supervision. You will be in charge of the Spanish district, but you must follow a plan that I have formulated.”

  “You? What plan?”

  “These are Le Gérant’s specific instructions. We will go into the details after dinner. Suffice it to say that my plan will accomplish much more than the siege of Gibraltar. You want to be the first Spanish governor of Gibraltar in over two hundred years? The only way you will see that happen is if you follow my orders to the letter.”

  Espada’s eyes narrowed. No one ever talked to him in this manner.

  “Why should I?” he asked. “I could still do this without the Union.”

  “Domingo,” Margareta said gently, putting a hand on his arm.

  “That wouldn’t be advisable,” Yassasin said. “Turning your back on the Union after we’ve offered to help is not very … sporting. You should know that.”

  Espada grumbled, calming down. “I don’t like taking orders from someone else. No offense, Nadir. I know you’re supposed to be a brilliant planner, but I’ve always gone my own way.”

  “This is Le Gérant’s condition. Take it or leave it. Why don’t you hold off on your answer until you hear what the plan is. It is … risky … but very clever, if I do say so myself.”

  “All right. But before we eat, give me a hint. What happens? How does it end? I like to know the result before the setup.”

  Yassasin smiled and said, “When the operation is completed, Gibraltar will be the property of Spain. You will be the new governor. The British governorwill be dead, along with the British Prime Minister.”

  “The Prime Minister? We’re going to kill him?”

  “That’s part of Le Gérant’s revenge against the United Kingdom for their interference in our previous major project.”

  “Sounds dangerous …” Espada rubbed his chin and looked at Yassasin with doubt in his eyes. Then he grinned broadly. “I love it already! Yes! Let me hear what you have to say after dinner.”

  “Very well. The important thing now is for you to build up your group to intimidating proportions. One of our concerns is how the government in Madrid will react to your revolution. They may strike you down.”

  “They wouldn’t dare. They may be putting up a good face with Britain over Gibraltar, but they want it back as much as I do. I think they’ll let me get away with it.”

  “And if Great Britain declares war on Spain?”

  Espada rubbed his hands with glee. “What could be more exciting? Two NATO powers going at it, mano a mano! What a way to start the new millennium!”

  “You could be killed, Domingo,” Margareta said.

  Espada shrugged. “I have been prepared for that for a long time.

  I’m sixty-two years old. If I can make a difference in the history books … if I can take Gibraltar for just one day … then I will die fulfilled.”

  “I take it, then, you agree to the plan? I have full control?” Yassasin asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m happy to tell you that the plan has already been put into effect, and in less than a week it will all be over. I am here to set up command central at your home, for it will all culminate here. My lieutenant is in Britain as we speak, keeping watch on things as they progress. His name is Jimmy Powers, an American.”

  “Command Central? Here? What the hell? What if I had said no?”

  Espada asked, incredulous.

  “You don’t want to ask that, Señor Espada.”

  Espada was silent a moment, then eyed Yassasin and said, “If I did not know you and have respect for your reputation, Nadir, I would have killed you just now. But I know enough about you to trust that you know what you’re doing. Le Gérant must have a good deal of faith in this thing as well. All right, I agree. Let’s hear your brilliant plan.”

  “After dinner,” Margareta said, pulling on Espada’s arm.

  Much later, after a luxurious dinner and a tense two-hour meeting, Yassasin was put up in a guest room and Espada retired to his study. Espada liked time alone in this room,
which also served as a library of sorts and a place in which he could display the many trophies, posters, and photographs from his bullfighting days. He also enjoyed putting on a costume, red-and-black traditional matador garb, the traje de luces, or “suit of lights”; although it wasn’t the same one he had worn when he was younger. This one had been made especially for a man who had gained a bit of weight since that time, even though he was physically fit and in good shape. Agustin had laid the clothes on a long wooden table, each item in placed in the requisite order.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  Agustin entered the room and saw that his boss was back in the past once again. He had pledged undying loyalty to Domingo Espada, but he did think that his benefactor lost touch with reality every now and then. Once a torero retired from the bullring, he was never supposed to put on the costume again. Not Espada … he could not let go of his past and still longed for the cries of “Olé!” and the exhilarating feeling of being carried out of the ring on the shoulders of his friends and relatives after a successful corrida.

  Some nights, Agustin would find Espada alone in the study, dressed in the costume, standing and staring at the stuffed bull heads that were mounted on the walls as trophies. They were all missing at least one ear, signifying the reward Espada had received after the fight. One ear was cut off for a good fight, two ears for a better one, and both ears and the tail were for the best. Espada had collected more ears and tails than he could count. He had kept some of them, but most of the time he had thrown the trophies to fans in the audience—usually beautiful señoritas who he knew would accompany him to his hotel or villa for the night.

  This evening, Espada stood in the center of the room, holding the estoque, the thin sword used to thrust into the bull’s withers and through the vital organs for, hopefully, a quick kill. Espada extended the sword at one of the bull heads, his arm straight, concentrating, as if he were readying himself for the moment of truth.