Doubleshot Page 6

  “Domingo,” Agustin said.

  “Yes?”

  “We got Carlos to confess. Roberto Rojo paid him five hundred thousand pesetas to help him free Maria. She has run off with Roberto.”

  “Roberto?” Espada cried. “How could he do this to me? That ungrateful … !”

  “We will catch up with Roberto,” Agustin said.

  “Roberto is one of my star matadors! He and his brother have glorious futures ahead of them. Why would Roberto choose to ruin it by stealing this girl from me?”

  “Carlos said that Roberto was in love with her.”

  “Damn him! He shall pay for this,” Espada said, pacing the room.

  “What about Carlos?”

  “He must answer for his betrayal.”

  “In that case, the prisoner is ready.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Agustin nodded and left his friend and master alone with his memories … and his madness.

  Domingo Espada entered the practice bullring and raised his hat to the throngs of people sitting in the stands. He could hear the tumultuous applause and cheers, he could see them saluting him, standing for him.…

  None of them were really there, of course. But to Domingo Espada, it was all real. The empty stands projected the same amount of noise and excitement as if they had been packed full of spectators.

  Agustin and two other men stood inside the 1.2-meter-high barrera, the fence that enclosed the working area of the ring, near the burladero, the “trick” shields built slightly out in front of the openings in the fence. Bullfighters stood behind these to escape the charging beast. Agustin approached Espada and handed him the brightly colored capote, the cape that was red on one side and yellow on the other—traditionally used in the first two acts of a bullfight.

  Once Espada was ready, Agustin gave the signal to the man at the puerta del toril, the door out of which the bull would charge. It swung open, and for a moment there was silence. Espada waited patiently, the excitement and anticipation just as powerful as it had been in the old days.

  Then the object of the corrida came out into the ring. He stumbled on two legs and appeared to be lost. Carlos, badly bruised from beatings, was wearing a dirty white shirt and black pants. In his hands was a pair of bull’s horns, the kind used in training bullfighting beginners. Another person would “act” as the bull, charging the student so that he could practice with his cape.

  Agustin announced loudly, as if he were projecting his voice so that the people in the very top seats could hear him, “Carlos Rodriguez, you have been found guilty of the crime of betraying your employer. Therefore, you must fight for your life in the bullring against the supreme matador, Espada!”

  Carlos looked at Espada standing there in all his glory. The cape twirled with a flourish. Espada called to him as if he were a bull.

  “El toro! Come!”

  When Carlos realized what was about to happen to him, he turned to run back through the open doors, but they slammed shut in his face. He turned to face Espada, his eyes wide with fear. He backed up against the wooden doors, dropped the bull’s horns on the ground, then fell to his knees.

  “Please, Señor Espada, have mercy!” Carlos cried. “I beg you! I’m sorry!”

  Espada ignored the man’s pleas and simply waved the cape.

  “Come!”

  After a minute, Espada saw that Carlos wasn’t going to “play.” He nodded to Agustin, who picked up a picador’s lance, and walked toward the helpless man. As Carlos cowered on his knees, kissing the dirt, Agustin brutally thrust the lance into the man’s back and withdrew it. The sharp point had been shortened so that it would not mortally wound the man, but merely cause him pain.

  Carlos yelped in pain, then rolled over. Agustin spoke to him calmly, telling him that his fate would be far worse if he didn’t get up and fight.

  “Who knows,” Agustin said. “If you show great courage and spirit, the matador may grant you an indulto.” This meant that the bull’s life would be spared. “Now get up and charge!”

  Carlos finally realized that he had no other choice. He got up, gave a frightening war cry, and ran at Espada. The matador performed a neat verónica with the cape, sidestepping the man. But, unlike a bull, the human could not be fooled. He swung at Espada with his fists, ready to jump on his opponent and beat him to a pulp if he had to. Espada, though, was prepared for the attack. Using the cape to protect himself, he managed to keep the bleeding, angry man from connecting his punches.

  The “fight” went on like this for several minutes. Carlos was obviously becoming tired as his lunges at Espada grew less inspired. Not one of his blows had connected. Espada eventually walked away from the man, who collapsed in the middle of the ring, out of breath. Blood soaked his clothes.

  Espada took two banderillas, short spikes used in the second act of a bullfight to further weaken and enrage a bull, and calmly walked back toward his victim.

  Carlos saw what Espada had in his hands and knew that he could do only one thing. He pulled himself to his feet and started to run away, toward the edge of the ring. But before he could make it behind a shield, one of Agustin’s assistants pulled a switch located behind the fence.

  All of the shields in the ring mechanically moved in a few feet until they were flush against the fence, blocking off any possible escape for the prisoner. All of the regular doors were shut tight.

  The prisoner gathered every last bit of strength that he could muster, then charged at Espada, screaming.

  Espada deftly thrust the two spikes neatly into Carlos’s back as he sidestepped the charging prisoner. The man screamed and fell to the dirt. The spikes hung grotesquely out of his back. He reached around and managed to pull one out.

  Espada walked away from him, approached Agustin, and took the estoque and muleta, the sword and smaller red cape used in the final act of a bullfight. He approached the cowering, wounded man.

  “El toro! Come!”

  He waved the cape, the deadly sword positioned behind it.

  Carlos picked up the spike he had pulled out of his back and held it like a spear. He slowly got up and faced the matador. Then, cursing, he charged, the spike out in front ready to plunge into Espada’s chest.

  Like a dancer, the matador executed a smooth pase de trinchera, a low pass performed with the right hand. Carlos missed Espada entirely, falling to the dirt again.

  Espada moved around to the man’s front, then held the sword at arm’s length.

  Carlos, further enraged and desperate for the ordeal to be over, got to his feet and charged at Espada with the spike one last time.

  The sword pierced Carlos’s chest and went cleanly through his heart.

  Domingo Espada had at least one more ear to add to his collection.

  SIX

  LIVE GIRLS, ETC.

  LODGED BETWEEN THE BUSY THEATER DISTRICT TO THE SOUTH AND THE shops of Oxford Circus to the north, Soho was unusually quiet for a late weekday afternoon. The commuters had left and the theater crowds had not yet arrived. The streets were only moderately crowded with tourists and curiosity-seekers who were gawking at the sex shops, the “modeling studios,” and the “Live Girls!” dives that pervaded the area. While it tended to come alive at night, in daylight Soho was undeniably seedy.

  James Bond found the Adult News shop on Berwick Street and stood across the road to observe the building for a few minutes. Men of various types went in and out—mostly white middle-class businessmen in suits and ties—and Bond saw nothing unusual. It was a small, ground-floor establishment with a neon sign proclaiming that the shop sold “XXX Videos, Magazines, Books.”

  Bond perked up when a middle-aged woman in a business suit emerged from the shop and began to walk north toward Oxford Circus. He did a double take, for he could swear he knew her. Tall, rather severe. Not the type one would expect to see in an adult bookshop. Who was she? Damn! The headaches had clouded his normally photographic memory. Bond rubbed his eyes and looked
again, but the figure had disappeared into the crowd.

  He crossed the street going north in an attempt to catch sight of her again, but she was gone. She had slipped into a side street or got into a taxi. Had his eyes been playing tricks on him again?

  Bond walked back to his position across from the bookshop and decided to make his move. He crossed the street and entered through the strings of beads hanging in the doorway. The shop was devoid of customers at the moment, and there was a large, obese man with greasy, stringy hair sitting behind the counter and watching a portable television. Bond pretended to browse at the skin magazines for a moment, then approached the counter.

  “Excuse me, but is Mr. van Breeschooten here? He’s the manager, isn’t he?” he asked.

  The big man eyed Bond without moving his head.

  “Yes, he’s the manager, and, no, he’s not here.”

  “Can you tell me when he might be available?”

  The man turned his head to look Bond up and down. Not many people asked for the manager.

  “Are you a cop?”

  “Of course not. I’m a salesman. I wanted to talk to him about a new line of videos my company is selling. Amateur stuff. Hard-core, of course. Very high quality.”

  “He’s at the office. You’ll find him there.”

  “Ah. Thank you. Might I have the address?”

  “Down near Brewer Street.” The man rattled off a number.

  “Right,” Bond said. “Many thanks.” He turned to leave, then hesitated, as if he wanted to ask the man something but was too shy.

  “Is there anything else?” the man asked.

  “Uhm, yes, I couldn’t help but notice that pretty woman who came out of here a few minutes ago. Does she come here often?”

  Now the man really thought Bond was some kind of pervert. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Lots of women come in here. Men with their wives, couples, lesbians, you name it …”

  “Right,” Bond said sheepishly. “Well, thanks.” This time Bond hurried out of the place.

  He walked south and found the office on the ground floor of a seedy-looking building. The upper floors presumably contained residential flats. A plaque on the door read: “Clayton Enterprises.” Next to it was the residents’ entrance to the building. An intercom and listing of the tenants with buzzer numbers was attached to the alcove. He scanned the list and found a “van Breeschooten” in number 302.

  Bond knocked on the office door, but there was no answer. He tried the knob—it was unlocked. He went inside and found a cluttered room that smelled of stale coffee and cigarette smoke, but there was no one there. It contained a desk, computer, telephone, coffeemaker, and stacks of papers all over the place. The ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts. Behind the desk was another door that was ajar. Bond peered inside and saw that the rest of the ground floor had been gutted to make a storeroom for the boxes of products carried by van Breeschooten’s shops. Two men were inside, packing videos into padded envelopes for posting. They both had Cockney accents, were heavily built types, and appeared to be in their thirties. They were probably strong-arms in van Breeschooten and Clayton’s organization. He was surprised to see from the bulges at their waists that they were both armed.

  “… But then he said that the money would be bloody good, and it was!” one of them said.

  “Last month’s check was a nice surprise, I must admit,” the other said.

  “The company must be doing well. We’ll get the details on the new job any day.”

  “If the money is as good as last time, I’m there!”

  “Where is Walter, anyway?”

  “Upstairs in the flat. Clayton is with him.”

  The first man snorted. “Couple of poofters, they are …”

  Bond left them alone and turned his attention back to the cluttered office. The papers were invoices, packing slips, order forms, and the like. He opened a desk drawer and found an unsealed envelope from a travel agency addressed to Walter van Breeschooten. Bond looked inside and found airline tickets for both Clayton and van Breeschooten to fly from London to Tangier, Morocco, later that night.

  Interesting, Bond thought. The Union’s headquarters was believed to be in North Africa.

  He replaced the tickets and envelope in the desk, gave the other drawers a cursory search, and decided there was nothing else of interest.

  Bond slipped out of the office and tried the door to the residential part of the building. It was locked, so he pressed the button marked “Deliveries.” After a moment, someone buzzed him in. The building’s narrow stairwell smelled of garbage and dirty nappies. He could hear a baby crying in one of the flats above him. Bond quietly crept up to the first floor and listened at the landing. No one was about. He went up two more flights to the third and top floor. He could faintly hear the voices of two men talking behind the door of number 302, which was next to a window that opened out onto the fire escape.

  Bond raised his left foot and pried off the heel of his field-issue shoe. Major Boothroyd had recently added an ingenious listening device to the equipment inside the shoes, which included a first-aid kit, escape tools, and other odds and ends that were neatly packed in the hollowed-out spaces. The device was a high-power UHF transceiver the size of a two-penny coin. A suction cup/microphone was attached to the side so that the device could stick to any surface. Bond licked the suction cup and placed it firmly on the door. He then pulled out the earpiece that was attached to a tension wire embedded within the device. With the earpiece lodged firmly in his ear he could hear the voices clearly.

  “… And the process will continue with the distribution of the latest payments. But the new project will bring in a lot of money. I think we’ll do very well.”

  “I’ve heard that it’s very risky.”

  “It is, what I know about it. They’re keeping the details under wraps for now. You know as much as I do.”

  The first voice was Dutch, all right, so that must be van Breeschooten. The other voice was decidedly English. Michael Clayton.

  The Dutchman sighed loudly and said, “I sure don’t want to have to go back to Morocco again. I hate it there.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” the other man said. “It will be nice to get out of London for a change.”

  Bond waited, hoping that one of them would reveal something that might implicate them as Union members.

  “Well, let’s just hope that tonight goes as planned,” van Breeschooten said. “Your cousin’s news was encouraging.”

  “Yes. Everything is in place. We’ll make the bloke wish he’d never been born.”

  “How come your cousin’s always so cross?”

  “I don’t know,” Clayton said. “Been that way forever.”

  A noise in the stairwell distracted Bond. He heard the front door open downstairs. Someone was on the ground floor and was beginning to ascend. Bond willed whoever it was to stop at one of the lower floors. He was determined to hear as much of the conversation as possible.

  A Cockney voice boomed out from the stairwell, “Get your own bloody sandwich. I’m going upstairs. Back in a minute.”

  Damn! It was one of the storeroom workers. He was coming up here!

  Bond listened intently to the two men inside the flat. Come on, he thought, say something about the Union.…

  “Did I tell you what happened at the meeting three months ago?”

  van Breeschooten asked.

  “A commandant was killed?”

  The footsteps were growing louder. The man was at the first floor.

  “Throat slit, ear to ear. Right in front of us.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Cheated the company. The boss doesn’t like that.”

  The ascending worker was at the second floor. In a few seconds he would appear and Bond would be trapped.

  “The boss doesn’t like a lot of things, from what I gather.”

  “He’s quite a character,” van Breeschooten said. “I admire him a g
reat deal. You know he’s given the orders to move the headquarters out of Casablanca.”

  “Where are they moving?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  The Cockney was a few steps from the landing. Bond was ready to pull the listening device off the door when the Englishman in the flat said, “Do you think I’ll really get to meet Le Gérant this trip?”

  That was all Bond needed. He tugged the device off the door just as the Cockney thug appeared around the corner. He saw Bond and yelled, “You there! What are you doing?”

  Not giving Bond time to explain, the man pulled out a .38 Special. Bond immediately went on the offensive and kicked his right leg out and up, sending the handgun flying. Unfortunately, it discharged a round when it hit the floor and the noise reverberated in the stairwell.

  The thug swung at Bond, but 007 dodged the punch and delivered one of his own to the man’s chin. Bond felt his knuckles burn as the man fell backward and crashed into the wall. The entire building seemed to shake. Bond didn’t stop there. He lunged into the man, punching him twice in the stomach, then once more across the face. Blood splattered from the man’s nose.

  The noise attracted the attention of the tenants, several of whom opened their doors and peered out into the hall. Van Breeschooten and Clayton also looked out to see what was going on. Bond turned in time to catch a glimpse of both men, who were staring at him, wide-eyed and mouths agape. The taller of the two, probably van Breeschooten, was middle-aged, had white hair and blue eyes, and fair skin. Clayton also had a pale complexion, appeared to be a bit older, had brown hair streaked with gray, and brown eyes.

  One of the other tenants yelled, “I’m calling the police!” and slammed the door.

  The distraction gave the thug the time he needed to recover from Bond’s attack. While his head was turned, the muscleman slammed his fist into Bond’s face. The impact sent bolts of lightning into Bond’s skull, and he fell to the floor but rolled just as the big man tried to kick him in the ribs. Bond managed to grab hold of the man’s foot and twist it hard. The man yelped and lost his balance.