Fourth deployment to Tangier, again posing as Dorridge’s personal attachée. Dorridge, she had decided on her last deployment, was a boar but not without his charm. Maybe it was the English accent. Maybe it was that he kept a professional distance; she’d had to remind most male co-workers (and even one of the dyke ones) to keep back. Dorridge however - 
“Good lord, dear, you really must find something else to do with that hair. I can’t tell if you’re going for Eva von Berne or Eva Marie Saint.”
“I wouldn’t know either of those women, Herr Doktor.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Dorridge laughed.
He had a PhD in structural engineering, that was where Doctor came from. That and she never asked his first name. In a few hours they would attend a luncheon with the Moroccan diplomat Abdelkader in Ksar es-Seghir a half hour away to discuss, again, the strait-spanning bridge proposal from Ksar es-Seghir to Tarifa, Spain, a major shipping and ferry hub. This, somehow, Marijke was told, was going to be a part of a larger operation to secure Ceuta and Melilla as Spanish Territories once and for all and, on a grander scale, to return Gibraltar to Spain from England. The operation would begin with a simple bridge and take the next half century to come to fruition.
Marijke didn’t understand how it was supposed to pose an influence in that maneuver as not even Dorridge did. Dorridge, in fact, had said on their first deployment, “I bloody well don’t know how they intend to work that miracle. I’d have thought they’d have us speak to the Spaniards first.
“I suppose, however,” he’d continued, “that they have this worked out the way they like it.”
Marijke had nodded. She was still studying English at the time. Her time with Dorridge, along with healthy doses of American cinema, had proved instrumental in furthering her understanding of the language. Dorridge spoke plainly and clearly, if not adorning his language with “bloody” and “damnable” too much; American cinema featured dialects easier to understand than the British cinema which required Marijke to turn on the subtitles.
Marijke also preferred American slang to British but she still swore in her Belgian-German dialect.
She had been one of the fastest excelling students in her English classes and even bypassed a few levels. Now she had conversations with Dorridge and only occasionally needed him to clarify some turns of phrase and figures of speech now and again.
“Is for you my hair a problem, Herr Doktor?”
“No no, my dear girl, your hair is fine.” He sipped his white wine - it was a habit of his to drink wine between breakfast and lunch - and got up from his chair, crossing to Marijke to grab his cigarettes off the table where she was recollating files then, admiringly, said, “In fact, it’s quite lovely.” Turning back to his chair and his wine, “A bit matronly for a woman of your age.” Reclining again, “Is everything in order?”
“Almost, Herr Doktor.”
“Not that.”
Marijke remembered. The Walther P99. It had been secured in the suite by the Planters prior to their arrival. “Ja.”
“English inflection, please, dear Marie.”
She occasionally slipped into German; Dorridge, upon discovering her efforts in English, volunteered to help push her. Sometimes, she resented it. “Yeah,” and “ja” were the same damnable thing at the end of the day, weren’t they? She could have shot him in the knees but instead sighed and said, “Yeah.”
“One day, you’ll teach me German, Marie,” she hated when he called her Marie, “but, for now, we need to improve your English rapidly.”
“My English is fine, I think. I talk with you continuously - ”
“‘Constantly’ is the word you want.”
“‘Constantly’, then. I talk with you constantly when we work with each other.”
“Yes, you do,” Dorridge took a sip, “and you do damnably well. However, you are not quite perfect. I imagine one day you will take speech courses to master the accent.”
“Which accent?” she asked, leaning on one of the dining room chairs and screwing up her face into a look.
“Perhaps,” Dorridge replied, “a proper London one.”
Marijke paused. “Cockney?”
“Oh, no!” Dorridge scoffed. “Dreadful. No. No. I understand your confusion, though. I mean something altogether different.”
Marijke cocked an eyebrow. “Like you, then?”
“Yes.”
“So as to speak as an esel.”
“And, pray dear, what is an ‘esel’?”
“It means ‘Londoner’,” Marijke smiled.

In the car, Dorridge asked Marijke, “Did I ever tell you about the time I was sent to the Himalayas?”
Marijke responded, “No.” She had nearly said “nein”. Whether it would’ve been in English or German, it would’ve been a lie.
“Had a dreadful time. I was deployed with another structural engineer, A Yank by the name of Dr. Peter Henry. Good man, bloody marvelous, really. Not much for conversation, though. You remind me of him in that respect.”
“Does it bother you that I am not for conversation?”
“My dear, three times we have been deployed together and three times you’ve been a mute in front of Abdelkader. You don’t have to chat him up but for god’s sake, woman, you don’t have to be Oddjob.”
“Doktor?”
“Oddjob. The fat, shovel-head fellow with the razor-hat.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The fat Korean man? Bad guy? Never talked?”
“I don’t know who he is, Herr Doktor.”
“Dear girl, you bloody well can’t expect me to believe that you’re not familiar with one of the most popular Bond villains.”
“James Bond?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Dorridge shook his head and stared out the window.

Abdelkader and his attaché met Dorridge and Marijke a ways off the N16 at the agreed meeting place. Though the Al Ghouroub was nearby (in fact, one had to turn off road at the Al Ghouroub to arrive at the meeting place), Abdelkader preferred open-air lunches and had a patio set, replete with umbrella, set up closer to the coast. He stood to greet his guests and, in a colonial accent, announced to no one but himself, “Doctor Dorridge.”
“Sayyid Abdelkader,” came the reply.
“Please sit, sit. Would you care for a drink?”
“Bourbon, please.”
Marijke interjected, “Herr Doktor?”
Looking up, Dorridge replied, “Yes, my dear girl?”
So as not to embarrass Dorridge publicly, Marijke switched to German, knowing Abdelkader didn’t speak it but Dorridge would pick it up easily enough, “Du trank eine halbe flasche wein an diesem morgen.”
“Dear wom - ” and Dorridge stopped. He couldn’t make out half of anything she said but understood that she had switched to chide him and save him face. “Ah, yes yes. Right. Make that a small bourbon, please, Abdelkader.”
“Keeping secrets is integral to diplomacy, Doctor, but I’ve never had a secret told in front of me.”
“Hmm? Oh, that. Marie occasionally slips into German.” Then to Marijke, “Please dear, do sit.”
Abdelkader, suspicious, asked, “And what, if you’d be so good to share with me Doctor, did she say?”
Dorridge wasted no time in concocting his story, “She reminded me about a new antihistamine I’ve been taking. Alcohol interaction and so forth.” He couldn’t have Abdelkader thinking he was a drunk, especially not when trying to propose a bridge that was to span the Strait of Gibraltar.
As bowls of taktouka - Abdelkader selected it anticipating the limited and boarish palette of his two English guests - were set in front of them, Abdelkader began to question briefly Marie’s nationality. “She speaks German, then?”
Marijke interjected, “أنا دراسة اللغة العربية، أيضا.”
Dorridge was stunned, “Dear girl, what was that?”
Abdelkader chuckled, “She says she studies Arabic as well.” With drinks in front of them now, Abdelkader continued, “You have a smart girl here.” Dorridge felt sweat bead on his brow. Abdelkader could take a jab at them right here and now. Their cover would be blown. And then so much for a trip to Tarifa.
Marijke smiled warmly at Dorridge and then to Abdelkader, “He is smart to have chosen me.”
“Shit!” Dorridge thought. She spoke English, true, but she still had that damnable Belgian accent. Perhaps Abdelkader wouldn’t - 
“What part of England are you from, Marie?”
“Shit!” exploded and looped itself in Dorridge’s internal monologue.
“Sedbury. In Gloucestershire on the Welsh border. Across the river from Chepstow even.” What the hell? “So perhaps you hear a hint of Welsh in my accent. I get that a lot.” Marijke smiled again at Dorridge and then said to Abdelkader, “I imagine you have more pressing matters to tend to than where I’m from.”
Abdelkader nodded and looked at Dorridge who, it seemed to him, suddenly looked fatigued. “Certainly.” Sitting forward in his chair, “Now, about this bridge, Doctor Dorridge, I have thought long about it since your last visit. I understand your proposal that it will bring new employment opportunities to Ksar es-Seghir for the construction of the bridge but what happens after the bridge is built? What will the builders do when there is nothing to build? And then shipping across the strait can now be done by truck; what will happen to the ports of Ksar es-Seghir? And Tanger-Med, for that matter?”
“Sayyid Abdelkader, please. That’s damnably pessimistic. Consider shipping to, say, Italy. Sure, shipping by truck across the strait will be cheaper but it will take twice as long as shipping by boat. Nevermind that the ships will still have the Balearic Islands. The ports will not only stay open but they’ll flourish.”
“I think you think the Balearic Islands are more important to us than they really are, Doctor.”
Sayyid Abdelkader, believe me - Marie?” Marijke opened the brief case. “A project of this scope? Ksar es-Seghir could absorb Tanger-Med; could be another Tangier.”
Abdelkader laughed. “There’s something wrong with the Tangier we already have?”
Dorridge took a folder from Marijke and opened it in front of Abdelkader, “Look at these projections. This bridge won’t wash Ksar es-Seghir into the strait. So maybe ‘another Tangier’ is a bit lofty but you can’t deny that this kind of urban development, shipping development, would look awfully promising to the Tanger-Med. A road from Morocco to Spain? And Ksar es-Seghir has it!? All of a sudden, Ksar es-Seghir expands, Tanger-Med expands to meet it… The two merge and you have another super metropolis. Say ‘goodbye’ to your developing country status.”
“You certainly are an optimist, Doctor.”
“A lofty goal, sure. But five major metropolises - Casablanca, Rabat, Fes, Marrakech, Tangier - and a multi-port super structure - Ksar es-Seghir Tanger-Med - along the northern coast? Why should that be outside the realm of possibility?”
Abdelkader leaned back. “And if your proposal… It’s not my approval you need. You need the approval of the Moroccan people. I can’t just go back to Rabat and say, ‘This English bridge builder convinced me!’ I’ll get laughed out into the street.
“Further, this is the fourth time we’ve met - ”
“Third time.”
“What?”
“Third time. The first time Marie and I visited, we were not granted audience.”
Abdelkader stood corrected. “Very well, this is the third time we’ve met and yet I still can’t figure out what you stand to gain from this. All the work is to be done by Moroccan people to benefit Morocco and Spain together. What does an Englishman stand to gain?”
“The revenue from when you buy half the materials from his country.”
Abdelkader roared a hardy laugh. “That is rich, Doctor! Half the materials!”
Dorridge calmly confirmed, “Half the materials.”
“And where, good Doctor, will the other half come from?”
“Spain. When they buy the other half.”
Abdelkader dabbed a tear from the corner of his eye.
Dorridge continued, “You buy half the materials, you get all the labor. That kind of an opportunity for economic growth? If you don’t want to take that to Rabat…”
Abdelkader threw up a hand and stopped Dorridge short, “No need to get to hyperbolic, Doctor. There’s been quite enough of that, already. I must excuse myself momentarily.” With that, Abdelkader nodded to the two of them and began walking toward the Al Ghouroub.
Dorridge turned to Marijke, “What the bloody hell was that about Sedbury? How do you even know where - Your accent isn’t the least damnable bit Welsh!”
“I was counting on him not knowing that. It was a gamble. It paid off.”
“Well, apparently he doesn’t because you don’t sound bloody Welsh. What made you pick Welsh, anyway? Is it the ‘el’ sound? The ‘el’ in ‘Welsh’ kind of being like ‘Belgian’?”
“He asked what part of England I was from! What was I to say!? Brussels, England!? Christus, du bist ein blödian.”
“Oh and that! What in creation had you speaking bloody German!?”
“I wanted not to embarrass you by announcing to Abdelkader that you’d already drank a half bottle of wine this morning!”
“You can be discreet and still speak English, you know; you’re not a bloody fool. What the hell did you even say?”
“I reminded you that you drank a half bottle of wine this morning. You’re not a ‘bloody fool’, either. In fact, you are fucking doctor, last I was told!”
Dorridge took a deep breath, then, “OK OK. Calm down, your accent is coming out harder now.”
“And you’re the one who told me to talk.”
“Right, you’re right. Sorry.” He looked at Marijke now and thought for a moment. “And where in bloody hell did you learn Arabic?”
“I know only the one phrase. I took another gamble.”
“Well, stop gambling, my dear, you’ll give me a heart attack. And my old heart can’t take as much as it used to.”
“Fine.”
There was a short silence in the air before Dorridge asked, “What was that last thing you said? In German, I mean.”
“Christ, that’ll sink before it floats.”
Dorridge cocked an eyebrow and nodded.

“Has he gone and fucking died?” Dorridge blurted out after five minutes.
“Was?”
“Abdelkader. Has he - ? English, my dear girl.” Dorridge sighed, then went on, “If that Moroccan bastard is trying to stick me with the bill…” Looking at Marijke, “I suppose going to Tarifa wouldn’t be bad, would it? Maybe we can just shoot across the border to Ceuta.”
“Will it make a large difference?”
“What?”
“If Spain takes the labor. Will Tarifa expand the same way you promise Ksar es-Seghir will.”
“No, doubtful. This town has strived to remain relevant throughout the ages, always serving a different purpose. Tarifa thrives on its history, like a bloody museum piece.”
Marijke pondered that and itched at her jaw before saying, “If the labor goes to Spain, there is no benefit for the Moroccans. Maybe if you explain it like that.”
“Like what?”
“That the Moroccans will buy half the materials for a bridge, undergo no economic growth with the labor going to Spain, and lose any leverage they have in claiming Ceuta or Melilla.”
“Absolutely not. Bringing Ceuta and Melilla into the conversation will paint this whole operation as a threat. Morocco has been looking to annex those cities for ages and if they think a roadway into their country will cost them leverage in the argument, they’ll walk away from any proposal we put on the table. Hell, we could tell them that Spain would buy the materials and pay the Moroccan workers and they’d still walk away.”
Marijke bit her nail, “Abdelkader isn’t on the fence about this, Herr Doktor. We need something much grander to convince him. Economic growth doesn’t impress him, will threats scare him? Will bribes sway him?”
“My dear girl, suggestions like those are why I’m the diplomat and you’re the attachée.”
Marijke sat up right and stared hard at Dorridge, “That is very rude from you, Doctor Dorridge. You’ve all but exhausted your inflated promises to Abdelkader so, again, if promises don’t sway him, what will?”
Dorridge sat shocked at Marijke’s suggestion. Calmly he said, “I trust your judgment and I know you’re not prone to foolish actions but for the foreseeable future, the next ten or twenty minutes in particular, I’d like very much if you remanded possession of your firearm to me.”
Marijke said coldly, “Herr Doktor, suggestions like that are why you’re the diplomat and I’m the one with extensive combat training.”
Dorridge had plainly forgotten that she wasn’t really his attachée, over the course of their four deployments together, that’s all she ever needed to act as and, therefore, essentially became one. But her real job title was that of Independent Subcontractor, someone who could be anyone as needed. Under the umbrella of “anyone” was included the title “trained killer”. For her proficiency with knives alone, she had earned the title Der Schlächter von Brüssel.
Her skill with firearms was not to be underestimated either. Chances were that she could take down Abdelkader at the doors of the Al Ghouroub from where she sat with no more than two shots from the P99 and she could do it left handed, too. If she were any better, she could do it around Dorridge with his head blocking her line of sight.
And here she was, calling his drivers, collating his files, lugging around his brief case, and chiding him for drinking on the clock. All in all, she was a better attachée than Dorridge was a diplomat.
Dorridge was, after all, a structural engineer. He drafted things, designed things. He knew nothing of foreign policy. They had assigned him to this project because he could design a bridge. They had overlooked that he couldn’t sell one, though.
The bridge builder and the assassin sat together at the patio set, staring at the strait, pondering their strategy while their taktouka went untouched.
Dorridge the Bridge Builder, not Dorridge the Diplomat, was thinking now. Better him, the logical one, being in charge from here on out as opposed to the other one, the one who was bossing her around for the last three deployments. However, did that mean that Marijke Der Schlächter von Brüssel was sitting next to him instead of Marijke the Attachée?
Abdelkader’s own attaché approached the patio set, addressing Dorridge, “Sayyid Abdelkader regrets to inform you that he will not be joining you for the rest of the meal nor will he consider taking your offer to Rabat. However, he wishes for me to assure you that the meal and the drinks have been paid for with gratuity on his personal account. Good day, Doctor Dorridge.” With that he grave a brief nod and turned away.
Marijke could see that Dorridge was about to stand up and blurt out, “What in bloody do you mean so on an so forth and whatnot whatever,” so she clasped a hand to his shoulder (digging in her nails, Dorridge got the message to shut up) and said to him, just loud enough, she hoped, that Abdelkader’s attaché would hear, “Well, Doctor Dorridge, shall we take the offer to Tarifa as you proposed?”
Dorridge smiled and said, hoping to catch the back of the attaché’s ear, “Yes, Marie, I think we shall. Heaven knows they could prosper from this just as well.”
Marijke filled in some gaps: “Getares expressed interest, too; they might try to build an intercontinental super bridge on the strait to their own Benzú in Ceuta, bypass Morocco altogether. Then they would have their own bridge with which they could do whatever they wanted. Even do away with tolls.”
“Do away with tolls” was Marijke’s way of making sure the “fuck you” got directly to Abdelkader. If the Moroccan government bought the Ceuta thing, they were bound to consider exorbitant customs duties on anything coming in from Ceuta or trying to leave through it in an effort to encourage use of Tanger-Med. The toll-free super bridge with customs duties would put Tanger-Med out of business, not to mention the PR nightmare: The bridge is free thanks to Spain, it’s the border that’s expensive thanks to Morocco.
The earlier bit, “their own Benzú in Ceuta”, was just salting the wound.

In the hotel suite in Ceuta, Marijke had awakened early. Crossing the Moroccan-Spanish border had proved needlessly (as far as she was concerned) difficult. First, she and Dorridge had to return to their hotel suite in Tangier not only to grab their luggage, but so that Marijke could replant the P99. She then used her secure line to call the Warehouser in Algeciras and have another planted in the suite in Ceuta that Dorridge was reserving. This meant that for the hour from the suite in Tangier to the suite in Ceuta, Marijke was going to be unarmed. If Abdelkader was a malicious man, being unarmed on the N16 could be disastrous.
Abdelkader was malicious, as it turned out, just not the way Marijke anticipated or was used to. Upon arriving at the border, Marijke and Dorridge were questioned just enough as to not turn into harassment. What tipped Marijke off that Abdelkader had involved himself somehow was that she had to repeat her tale of growing up in Sedbury, her accent not being a matter that border patrol had to involve themselves with.
They held the IDs, faked, longer than necessary and it took what Marijke thought was an animated verbal protest that Dorridge claimed was an only slightly-heated plea for sensibility from Dorridge to keep them from literally tearing the car to parts after the search turned up nothing. In the end, it was that the IDs, being of superior quality (and with no small help from the local Lineman directing telecom traffic), checked out that prevented a full cannibalization of the car.
It was now, with coffee with frothy sweet cream and fine Spanish marmalade on whole grain toast on the table between her and a new P99, that she thought that, whether Dorridge liked it or not, if she saw Abdelkader again, she would take a few of his toes. There wouldn’t be much of an opportunity, though; Marijke and Dorridge would be leaving by ferry for Algeciras that afternoon.
It was now just a matter of when Dorridge would wake.
Briefly, Marijke thought she saw a shiny black sedan flying the red flag with the green pentangle of Morocco. A diplomat’s automobile.
No. Couldn’t have been.
Shit.
Marijke shook her head and stubbed out her cigarette, reaching over her toast to grab the gun. She shook her head again as she slipped the butter knife into the band of her hosiery not because all that was handy was a butter knife but because, if Abdelkader was enough of an asshole to come to Ceuta, breakfast was going to get cold. She kicked off her shoes and headed to the balcony. She had encouraged Dorridge to request a front facing room so, if need be, she could keep and eye on the parking lot.
Looking down six flights, Marijke saw clearly the flag of Morocco on a shiny black sedan. And the diplomat, Abdelkader, stepping out with the skinny, bespectacled attaché. Him, the attaché, Marijke thought was cute at least. She also thought he was an arschloch. She hated when attractive men were arschlöcher, really.
No time to mind that. She flitted to Dorridge’s room and knocked on the door. Knocked again. “Herr Doktor!”
From through the door, Dorridge groaned, “What in bloody hell is the matter!?”
“Abdelkader is in the lobby!”
A groan from inside.
“Herr Doktor?”
“Hold on.” In another moment, Dorridge was at the door in his wine red satin robe (with the green pentangle on the back, a gift from Abdelkader upon their second visit) and rubbing sleep out of his eyes, “Good, I was hoping he would come around, let me get dressed.” With that Dorridge turned back to the bed.
“‘Gut’!? Herr Doktor, hast du vergessen unsere probleme an der grenze?”
“For Christ’s sake, woman, speak English.”
Marijke was getting anxious. She took a breath and remembered to speak in Dorridge’s tongue. “I asked if you’d forgotten our trouble at the border. That was Abdelkader’s doing, after all.”
“Well, we can’t prove that, now can we? And even if he did - like I said, he’s come around.”
“Of course he’s come around! He’s in the lobby!”
“No no no, my dear girl, he’s come arou - it means he’s changed his mind. Did you think he was here to cause trouble?”
“I still think he’s here to cause trouble.”
Dorridge sat on the bed. “He’s not going to cause trouble. First of all, he’s a desk pilot. Sure sure, he can say what he wants about having powerful friends but that’s in Morocco. We’re in Spain. That’s number two: We’re in Spain. He can’t do a damnable harmful thing to us here except talk us to death. Now, put your shoes on and let me get dressed, dear girl.” With that Marijke turned to leave. In two beats, Dorridge called after her, “And put that bloody pistol away!”
The phone rang as Marijke shook her head at Dorridge’s holler. The red blinking light indicated the front desk. Marijke picked up, “¿Bueno?”
The front desk began, “Hola, esta es la recepción. Hay un Sr. Abdelkader aquí para ver Doctor Dorridge.”
Marijke understood only a bit. “Hello”, “reception”, “Abdelkahder”, and “Doctor Dorriedhay”. Better not to risk it. “No hablo Español.”
The front desk stammered, “Ah, uh, uh, this is recepción? There is, uh, Mr. - ” Marijke heard a voice in the background, a younger one. The attaché. The front desk continued, “Sorry? Sayyid Abdelkader is here to see Doctor Dorriedhay?”
Marijke corrected, “Dorridge. Dorr-idge.”
“Si.”
Marijke looked in the direction of Dorridge’s room, then held up the P99, looked at it for a minute. She licked her lips once and said into the phone. “Five minutes? ¿Cinco minutos?” The front desk said something she couldn’t understand, ‘mooey bein’, whatever the hell that was and rang off. Marijke went back to Dorridge’s room.
Dorridge was just throwing on his tie. Marijke knocked on the jamb, “They’ll be up in five minutes, Herr Doktor.”
“Good good. I trust you’ve calmed down about that border nonsense, then?”
“Calm? Yes.”
Dorridge turned to her. “Like a mountain stream.” Turning back to the mirror, Dorridge said, “Be a dear and see to it that those brutes at the crossing didn’t throw our documents too out of order, will you? Lord knows what those malcontents did…” and trailed off into “bloody”s and “damnable”s.
Marijke grabbed the briefcase on her way back to her breakfast. The toast was cold. “Verdammte scheiße.”

“Ah, the lovely Marie.” Marijke didn’t respond to Abdelkader’s greeting, only showed him and his attaché in to the sitting room to find Dorridge who stood to meet Abdelkader saying, “And Doctor Dorridge.”
“Sayyid Abdelkader. Come in come in. I must say, we weren’t expecting you.” With that, Dorridge sat, motioning at the chair across from him.
Abdelkader declined Dorridge’s offer of a seat. “I’m afraid I won’t be staying that long, Doctor. I’ve come in person only to stress how important it is to the Moroccan people that you cease your plan to - ”
“Ah, yes yes, the bridge.” Dorridge was going to play, as the Yanks said, hardball with Abdelkader. “Well, if the Moroccan people aren’t interested, surely the Spanish people will be so no need to worry, Sayyid.”
“Doctor, perhaps you misunderstand me. I do not come here to personally decline your proposal but to insist that you cease proposing it. To Morocco, to Spain, to anyone who may have an interest.”
Dorridge stopped at that. So it wasn’t that Abdelkader had come around, it was that he was going to try to kill the bridge project. For anyone. Dorridge chuckled, “For starters, Sayyid Abdelkader, Spain and Morocco are the only two countries on the strait. To follow up from that,” Dorridge stood now, “you haven’t any damnable place telling me what to do with my bridge. If Spain wants it, I’ll sell it to Spain. And I bloody well won’t ask for permission first.”
Abdelkader drew in a heavy breath through his nose. “I take it, then, Doctor, that you’ve already forgotten your border crossing yesterday?”
“Ah, Marie had her suspicions that that was your doing. Bloody dirty trick, Sayyid; juvenile, too. All it accomplished was reinforcing a strong desire never to set foot in Morocco again. And seeing as how I intend to do business with the Spaniards, I foresee no need to ever cross into your ‘fair country’ again.”
“You speak before you think is your problem, Dorridge. Consider that, for all you know, that may be the least I can do.”
“I’m not going to stand here and listen to your veiled threats and try to infer what you mean, Sayyid Abdelkader. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Marie and I have to prepare for our departure.”
“And what makes you so sure you’ll depart?” Dorridge stopped again. Abdelkader continued, “I’ll explain for you, Doctor, as you refuse to ‘infer’ what I mean. Morocco and Spain are friends, after all. Diplomats are - ”
“Oh, bloody well get on with it!”
“Until I have your word that you will stop trying to bridge the strait, you may consider yourself a permanent guest of Ceuta.”
“You fool; you’ll start a bloody war behaving like that!”
Marijke clicked off the safety on the P99.
Abdelkader replied, “What? It’s rather simple. Until I have your word on the matter, there will be a large amount of heroin waiting to be found in your luggage at the port.”
Marijke eyeballed Abdelkader’s attaché.
Dorridge scoffed, “You idiot. I could always lie to you. Then I could go back to England, go to the press, and tell them all about Moroccan diplomacy.”
Abdelkader’s attaché shifted his weight from one foot to another.
Abdelkader continued, “Not if we have your attachée. There is, of course, always a mix up with…” turning to Marijke now, “one’s reisepass, no? There is another German word for you.”
“Whatever you’re implying with that, Sayyid, it’s the wrong damnable thing to imply.”
Abdelkader’s attaché reached into his jacket and, in a flash, Marijke had the muzzle of the P99 to his temple. Carefully, measured, she told him, “Drop it.”
Abdelkader turned and let out a curse in Arabic, setting a foot forward, he barely noticed Marijke’s free hand go under her skirt one moment and holding the silver butter knife buried in his gut the next. Staring at her wide grin, he stumbled back into Dorridge’s arms.
The attaché stared at Abdelkader, mouth agape, and Dorridge blurted out, “What the fuck was that!?”
Marijke’s smile fell, “Halt den mund.” She said it because she knew Dorridge would get it. To the attaché, she said, “Hands up.”
Abdelkader’s attaché did as he was instructed. Marijke reached in and, indeed, there was a mousegun. Baby Browning. “Ich weiß das.”
Over the strangulated gulps of Abdelkader’s attempts at more Arabic curses, Dorridge blurted out, “Knock it off, Marijke!”
“Loaded, eh?”
“Standard issue,” the attaché replied.
“For an assistant? You have weapons issued?”
“No. They are issued to us through Abdelkader.”
“‘Us’? Who is ‘us’?”
“Abdelkader’s attachés.”
Marijke thought for a moment and then clubbed the attaché once with the P99, knocking him out.
“Dear god, woman, what has come over you!?”
“He was armed, Dorridge!”
“Right, and this one? What the hell did you stab him for?”
“He approached. I didn’t like it.”
“Oh, so you didn’t like it. Did you give any forethought as to what the hell we are going to do?”
Marijke shrugged, “You’re a doctor.”
“Of structural engineering! Structural engineering, goddamnit! I’m not a goddamned surgeon!”
“Do you want I should shoot him?”
“No, I bloody well don’t want you to shoot him!”
“He was going to hold me captive to keep you quiet. I have no sympathy for him.”
Abdelkader lay in Dorridge’s arms, coughing gurgling coughs until finally the words came out: “Mar”hack“aye”hack“keh.”
Marijke squatted down to meet Abdelkader eye-to-eye. “Ja.”
Coughgurglesputter. “Bu-char,” cough, “Bu-char of - ”
“ - Brussels. That’s right,” she nodded. “That’s what they call me. Der Schlächter von Brüssel.”
Dorridge shook his head. “Our cover’s blown, now,” he mumbled. “This whole thing is right buggered.”
“Nein. It is salvageable.” Marijke stood and dragged the attaché’s body over to Abdelkader’s. She took his left hand and formed a grip around the butter knife. Then, taking Abdelkader’s hand, which struggled against hers, she gripped it around the pistol. Abdelkader fought. Marijke kicked him in the bag and he gave a gross, gargled yelp.
“Herr Doktor?” She handed Dorridge the gun. “Against the temple. If he fights me, kill him.”
“What!?”
“Tun was ich sage, verdammt!”
Dorridge held the gun to Abdelkader’s temple. Abdelkader, limp and defeated, weeped a little as Marijke wrapped his fat finger through the trigger guard. She placed the barrel against the attaché’s temple and squeezed Abdelkader’s finger.
With a quick bang, there was a brief red spray out of the other side of the attaché’s head, Abdelkader fainted and Marijke began screaming frantically without moving.
Dorridge yelled, “What are you doing!?” Marijke got up, still screaming in a shrill high pitch which eventually turned to repetitions of “oh my god”s and wrote a short note at the breakfast table. She handed it to Dorridge. It read:
“They came discuss bridge. They argue (Arabic). Struggle. Skinny stabs fat, fat shoots skinny. Go with it.”
With Marijke starting to cry a little, Dorridge slowly got himself into the role. “Oh god”s repeated until it became “what happened”s and then louder and louder still.

It had taken the staff only two minutes to come up to their room. Questions came in Spanish and, when those failed, in Arabic and, when those failed, in English from the front desk boy who had been on the phone earlier acting as an inept interpreter. Dorridge and Marijke held up the story she’d concocted when the police came. It would have caused an international scandal if Marijke had not texted an extraction crew while screaming in those two minutes.
While the police were there, one agent appeared producing credentials connecting him with Interpol and another producing credentials from Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard found and concealed the P99, Interpol argued about jurisdiction with the Spaniards. Unseen by anybody was another agent, Policia, pretending to gather evidence while packing Dorridge’s and Marijke’s bags and putting them on a luggage cart to go to a car waiting downstairs in the garage. Scotland Yard talked with Dorridge and Interpol consoled Marijke on their way out the door.

On the ferry to Algeciras, Dorridge and Marijke under guard from the three extraction agents placed strategically around the ship, Dorridge said to Marijke, “That was bloody brilliant. I mean both of those, really. Bloody and brilliant.”
“I’m sure we can recover from this,” Marijke said. “We just have to explain about Abdelkader’s blackmail scheme.”
“I suspect his life is ruined now.” A pause. “He turned out to be a wicked man in the end, sure, but I knew he had a wife. Two children.”
Coldly, Marijke stared out at the strait, “He should have thought of them first, then.”
Dorridge resigned himself, “True.”
“And your wife? What will you tell her?”
“Hm? My wife? I’ll tell her that I finally saw the Butcher of Brussels in action.”
“Can you? Does she know what you do?”
Dorridge smirked a little. “It’s how we met. We were part of a team building a water treatment plant in Vietnam.”
“What is she like? You’ve told me about her but only that - that she, uh… You’ve told me only that you have a wife. You’ve never told me about her, though.”
“Oh!” Dorridge pulled a smoke from his pocket. “Well, for starters, she doesn’t let me have these anymore.” He lit up and then paused. “Oh, pardon my manners,” offering the pack to Marijke.
She said, “Danke.” Marijke stopped. “Thank you.”
“No no, it’s quiet alright. Now that this assignment is dead in the water - pardon the expression given our location - I suppose it doesn’t matter much, now.”
Marijke took a light from Dorridge and said, “So? Go on.”
Dorridge blushed. “She’s sweet. Too good to me, hell, too good for me, really. Let’s see…
“She’s from Birmingham. Uh, she’s about my height - ”
“Tall, then.”
“Oh, the woman’s practically Amazonian.” Dorridge stopped, continued. “Always wanted kids but she had a tubal ligation and I had a vasectomy. Nature of the work’s to blame, really. Hell, we shouldn’t even be married.”
“Because you’re always away?”
“That, true,” Dorridge exhaled, “and that there are days like today. Not much of a great situation to raise a child in let alone get married in but we went ahead and did it just the same.
“You know? She has this thing about Julia Childs. When we both have time at home, she always cooks something new. Has a score of Julia Childs books she inherited from her mother. And then she raids my garden for the fresh vegetables.”
“You have a garden?”
“A modest one, yes. Peter - Dr. Henry taught me about gardening. I hated it at first but I grew into it. You know? That first crop fails and you take it as a challenge after that. You plug away at it until you’ve attained success. Given that you have the right mind set.
“But she wanted children? She cooks. I… I guess maybe I do, too? I garden.
“And sometimes we talk about it. Not as much as we used to but it still happens.”
“Did you want a boy or a girl?”
“Oh, dear,” Dorridge chuckled a deep, throaty chuckle. “Ah… I wanted a son. Bond with a male, you know. Someone to shape in my image. No ‘first period’ or first dates and randy young men to worry about, you know? Raise a right gentleman. Name him something fine and fitting, too. Peter.”
“After your friend?”
Dorridge nodded quietly, then, “He was a good man. Doesn’t hurt matters that his surname is a given name. Peter Henry Dorridge.”
“You regard him very highly.”
“Indeed.” Dorridge sighed. “Nadine wanted a daughter, though. Probably for the same reasons I wanted a boy. Someone to mold after her, I suppose.”
“And what would you have named her?”
Dorridge field-stripped the butt of the cigarette over the side of the boat and slid the filter into his pocket. Without looking at Marijke, he said, “Marie.”

At 221B Baker Street, on a Saturday, Nadine Corrin-Dorridge answered the door to greet a courier with a dozen red roses. She thanked the courier and offered a generous tip before closing the door. She found her husband out in the garden in the back yard. Carrying the flowers, she snuck up behind him and asked, cheekily, “What’s this, love?”
Doctor Dorridge, inspecting his tomato plants, betrayed a start. He turned and found his lovely bride standing behind him with a dozen red roses. He stood and said, “Oh. Well, someone has a secret admirer. Are these for you?”
“Well, I should hope so; why would you send yourself roses?”
“Send myself - ?” Dorridge cocked an eyebrow. “I… Nad, I never sent roses. At least not recently.”
“No? Well, who are these from?”
“Did you read the bloody card?”
Nadine Dorridge gave a playful smack to Dorridge’s cheek. “Language, love.”
“Yes yes yes, I do beg your pardon.” With that, Dorridge kissed his bride on her cheek. Correcting himself, “Did you read the card?”
“Well, no. Who else… ” Nadine fished through the roses for a card and found it enveloped. “Oh, drat, I have my hands full, can you - ”
Dorridge cocked an eyebrow, “Your hands are full… Yes yes, let’s see it.” Taking the envelope from his bride, “You want to stir jealousy in me, do you?”
Nustling close to Dorridge, Nadine claimed, “Just giving you first dibs on who to shoot.”
Opening the envelope, Dorridge nudged his bride’s ribs with his elbow. “Oh, what a lovely card.”
“Well, open it.”
Dorridge opened it up.
“Well, who’s it from?”
Dorridge smirked. “Our daughter. The butcher.”
“What’s that then?”
Dorridge kissed his bride on the forehead. “Marie.”