by William Boyd
‘I was sure,’ Bond said. ‘Now I don’t know. He was shockingly injured.’
Bond felt sick and angry with himself. Had Henrick simply wanted to deny the authorities a corpse? Or had there been some vital sign of life in Breed’s ruined body? Was Breed lying at the bottom of some river nearby weighted with stones? Or was he in some secret surgical theatre being put back together? Bond was troubled – perhaps the coup de grâce of the switchblade had just missed.
‘Don’t worry about Breed,’ Felix said. ‘We’ll pick him up. If you did the damage you say you did he’ll have to find a doctor or go to a hospital. Or maybe he’ll just die.’
‘Possibly,’ Bond said, wondering if there was any way Breed could be realistically patched up. His right shoulder and arm had been shattered, pulverised. He wondered what kind of new deformities a living Kobus Breed would display.
‘Don’t look so serious, James,’ Felix said. ‘You broke up a giant drug-smuggling operation. We got the bad guys – most of them – and saved Gabriel Adeka. Not bad for a British spy on vacation.’
Bond decided to tell Felix the reality of the situation.
‘He’s not Gabriel Adeka,’ Bond said, flatly.
‘You need to go back to your hotel, take a shower, have some breakfast, sleep for a day – and you’ll be your old self again.’
‘I’m sorry, Felix,’ Bond said. ‘That man’s not Gabriel Adeka – he’s Solomon Adeka. Brigadier Solomon Adeka, former C.-in-C. of the Dahum armed forces. He’s disguised as Gabriel Adeka – people are meant to think he’s Gabriel Adeka. But he isn’t.’
‘How do you know?’ Felix wasn’t smiling any more.
‘Because I’ve met him. And I’ve met his brother. I recognised him. I know them both.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Yes. But . . .’
‘But what?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Let nothing stand in the way of proof, James.’
‘All right,’ Bond said, calling Felix’s bluff. ‘Can you whistle us up an aeroplane?’
12
ZANZARIM REVISITED
Bond felt very strange being back in Port Dunbar. It was as if the events between his last visit and this one had taken place in a malign parallel universe. Here he was standing in the cemetery that ringed the small cathedral almost exactly in the same location – at the back, the modest spire of the cathedral to his left – as when he had witnessed Brigadier Solomon Adeka’s funeral. Except that this time he was alongside Felix Leiter and the guard of honour had been replaced by a magistrate and his clerk, some officials from the interim government of Zanzarim and a small, tracked, orange excavator that was manoeuvring into position in front of Solomon Adeka’s grave.
Twenty-four hours after the events at Rowanoak Hall, Felix and Bond had been flown out of Andrews Field on a USAF Boeing 707 transport. They had been met at Sinsikrou airport by the American ambassador to Zanzarim and then, in a small convoy of embassy cars, they had been driven down the transnational highway to Port Dunbar, where government officials received them at the cathedral and informed them that all relevant permissions and waivers from the ecclesiastical authorities for the disinterment of Solomon Adeka’s body had been granted. Bond had been impressed by the level of power and influence such despatch had displayed. It seemed that Felix Leiter just had to snap his fingers and all his demands were met. Why such efficient haste? Bond wondered. Why were they being treated like visiting dignitaries? Once again he felt there were other agendas beside his own that were for the moment invisible to him. He was also aware – because he knew Felix so well – that he was not telling him everything. No matter: he could bide his time because Felix would indeed tell him if he insisted – they were too good and too old a pair of friends to hold anything back if total honesty was demanded. But Bond decided it might be more interesting to watch and wait.
Driving through the city towards the cathedral, Bond could see from the windows of their limousine that Port Dunbar had reclaimed its usual bustle and energy. The journey south had also demonstrated that almost every sign of the civil war was being swiftly erased. There were some temporary Bailey bridges across rivers; here and there a few burnt-out vehicles waited to be carried away for scrap. And there were many more Zanza Force soldiers on the streets – manning checkpoints, directing traffic – than was normal for a peaceful country. All the same, Bond thought, you would hardly believe a bitter civil war had raged here for two years, remembering the time he’d spent in the beleaguered Republic of Dahum as it entered its final days and hours. Once again he thought it was as if he’d existed in a parallel universe or a dream of some kind. A bad dream, Bond corrected himself, because it featured Kobus Breed.
There was a call from the graveside and Bond and Felix made their way towards the small crowd that had gathered now that the key moment was at hand.
The tracks of the digger clattered noisily as it lined itself up and its lobster claw delicately began to scrape away the packed earth in front of the gravestone.
‘I remember this funeral well,’ Bond said. ‘It was all very elaborate and formal. Very cleverly planned – orations, rifle salutes, grieving populace . . . How is Adeka anyway, have you heard?’
‘They say he’s doing very well,’ Felix said. ‘Getting the best possible help. Should make a full recovery.’
‘Must be strange coming back from the dead.’
‘Ha-ha,’ Felix said, drily. He was still highly sceptical, but he knew this was the one and only way of proving or disproving Bond’s claim.
The lid of the coffin was revealed and six gravediggers stepped forward. After some diligent spadework the whole of the coffin was uncovered and heavy strapping was tied to its brass handles and attached to the digger’s boom. Slowly, easily, the coffin was raised, lifted clear of the earth and lowered to the ground. Two of the gravediggers prised open the lid with jemmies.
The gasp of astonishment from those peering in was almost comic. Three sacks of cement were removed and laid beside each other on the parched turf.
Felix looked serious and prodded a sack with his foot as if it might suddenly become corporeal. He looked at Bond.
‘Looks like three sacks of cement to me,’ Bond said.
‘Well, I’ll be hog-tied,’ Felix said, not amused. ‘You were right.’
Bond shrugged modestly.
‘So,’ Felix said, ‘if the man we’ve got is Solomon Adeka, where’s his brother Gabriel?’
Bond lit a cigarette. ‘I suspect that if I took you to a small shop in Bayswater and you dug up the concrete floor you’d find his mortal remains.’ He paused, thinking. ‘It was all very elaborately planned.’
Felix looked shrewdly at Bond.
‘Do you know what’s going on, James?’
‘About eighty per cent, I reckon,’ Bond said with a smile. ‘I have a feeling you might be able to supply the missing twenty.’
Felix prodded a bag of cement again with his shoe, thinking. Then he looked up.
‘Let’s go and get a serious drink someplace,’ he said.
The Grand Central Hotel in Port Dunbar had possessed a variety of names in its short history: the Schloss Gustavberg, the Relais de la Côte d’Or and the Royal Sutherland. Now it was the bland Grand Central, having been requisitioned by the Dahum junta for use as its centre of government bureaucracy during the civil war. It was as if all that history was meant to be effaced by the re-christening. The Grand Central heralded a new and more prosperous future.
There was a bar on the ground floor with a wide veranda that looked over the newly renamed main street – Victory Boulevard. The veranda was crowded so Bond and Felix found a seat in a dark corner underneath a whirring ceiling fan. Bond surveyed the clientele – half a dozen black faces, all the rest white – and all men, men in suits, perspiring over their cold beers.
Bond signalled a waiter over.
‘Do you have gin?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sar. We have ever
ything now. Gordon’s or Gilbey’s.’
‘Good. Bring me a bottle of Gordon’s, two glasses, a bucket of ice and some limes. Do you have limes?’
‘Plenty, plenty, sar.’
The ingredients were brought to their table. Bond filled the glasses to the brim with ice then poured a liberal few slugs of gin on to the ice and squeezed the juice of half a lime into each glass.
‘It’s called an African dry martini,’ Bond said. ‘Cheers, Felix.’
They clinked glasses and drank. The gin was ideally chilled, Bond thought, and the freshness of the lime juice took the edge off the alcohol. They both lit cigarettes, Felix holding his delicately between two of the pincers of his tungsten claw.
‘So, Felix,’ Bond said, looking at him squarely. ‘We know each other too well. Total honesty from us both. Deal?’
‘Nothing but,’ Felix said.
‘Shall I start the inquisition?’
‘Fire away, Torquemada.’
Bond paused.
‘Why did Massinette kill Linck?’ Bond saw Felix’s eyes flicker – he wasn’t expecting the unravelling of the story to begin there, obviously. He drew on his cigarette, nodded, pursed his lips, buying a few more seconds.
‘Because he was going to kill you.’
‘Not so. Linck had just “surrendered” to me. He’d put his gun on the table.’
‘He had another gun. It was a ruse.’
‘Massinette planted that gun,’ Bond said. ‘I saw him do it.’ He paused again. ‘Massinette was there to kill Linck, come what may. Linck was going to be killed. Why?’
Felix sighed. ‘Total honesty – I don’t know. And believe me, Brig doesn’t know. Massinette was assigned to the Milford Plaza operation. He’s not regular CIA personnel.’
‘So what is he? Some kind of CIA contract killer?’
‘Like a Double O? Maybe. It doesn’t smell good, I have to admit. But Massinette sticks by his story. He killed Linck to stop him killing you.’
‘How convenient.’
Felix topped up their glasses from the gin bottle and looked around the room.
‘OK. Here’s the thing, James. Let’s start at the beginning. This is what I know as far as I know.’
Felix lit another cigarette and proceeded to outline the facts. Towards the end of the war in Dahum, when the heartland was shrinking and the military and humanitarian situation was becoming ever more desperate, Brigadier Solomon Adeka was secretly approached by one Hulbert Linck, a philanthropic multimillionaire with an altruistic love of freedom and Africa. Linck offered to supply arms, aircraft, white mercenaries, ammunition, food, essential medical supplies – anything to keep Dahum alive.
‘But there was a price to pay,’ Bond said. ‘Altruism is expensive.’
‘Exactly. There always is. There’s no money in the free-lunch business,’ Felix said and gestured at the crowded bar and the veranda beyond. ‘You see all these white men?’
‘Yes,’ Bond said.
‘Who do you think they are?’ Felix didn’t wait for an answer. ‘They’re oil company executives.’
‘Flies round the Zanzarim honey pot,’ Bond said.
‘Indeed. The Adeka family have been important chiefs in the Fakassa tribe for hundreds of years. The Zanza River Delta is their tribal homeland. Solomon Adeka is the sovereign chief.’
‘No he’s not,’ Bond said. ‘He couldn’t be. His older brother is – Gabriel Adeka. I’ll explain when you finish.’
‘Anyway, the price Hulbert Linck demanded for his military aid was a twenty-five-year lease on the oil rights in the Fakassa tribal homelands. Profits to be split fifty-fifty. Solomon Adeka granted him the lease – anything to save Dahum.’
‘So Linck owned the land where the oil was.’
‘In fact it’s owned by a company in Luxembourg called Zanza Petroleum SA. It’s Linck’s company. He had all the leases. Signed and sealed.’
Bond was thinking – pieces were fitting together, fast. Signed and sealed – but by the wrong Adeka brother.
‘And Linck certainly tried hard,’ Bond said. ‘I give that to him. For him a free independent Dahum was the best option. I saw what he did, what he spent.’
‘But it was never going to work,’ Felix said. ‘Dahum was never going to win this civil war, was never going to be an independent state. Too many powerful countries had other plans.’
‘And Linck was no fool. He could see the writing on the wall, eventually. His leases weren’t going to be worth a penny when Zanzarim was reunited. And that’s when the conspiracy started,’ Bond said. ‘Plan B began when they saw that the war was going to be lost.’ He sipped at his drink. ‘And I suspect another factor was when Linck discovered that the leases weren’t Solomon Adeka’s to sell. With the war over and the older brother, Gabriel, on the scene Zanza Petroleum would be no more.’
‘Go on,’ Felix said, leaning forward. ‘This is where it gets confusing for me. Remember I thought Gabriel Adeka was alive and well and living in Washington DC.’
‘The only way for Linck to keep the integrity of his oil leases going was to have them “authorised” by the older brother – the paramount chief of the Fakassa. How was that to be achieved? Solomon Adeka had to “die” and become Gabriel . . .’ Bond felt more clarity arriving as he articulated the plan to Felix. ‘I think Linck contacted Gabriel Adeka in London right at the end of the war. Spun him some sort of story about aid to Dahum. That’s why the two Constellations I saw suddenly had AfricaKIN painted on them. Even that last night as everyone was fleeing. Linck knew about Gabriel and that he was the older brother – that proves it.’ Bond thought further. Gabriel Adeka must have been found and located, agreed to ‘partner’ Linck in the airlift to Dahum. Perhaps it was just a ruse to gain his confidence. He might even have been dead already when that last Constellation touched down at Janjaville.
‘From Linck and Solomon Adeka’s point of view the key thing was to have Gabriel Adeka dead,’ Bond said, adding – ‘not only dead but “disappeared”. There would be no body. As far as anyone in London was concerned Gabriel had gone to America to set up the new charity – AfricaKIN Inc.’ Bond remembered his encounter with Peter Kunle at the Bayswater offices. How Kunle had been surprised at Gabriel’s untypical complacency about his borrowed typewriter, not living up to his usual impeccable behaviour patterns.
‘You’re saying Adeka and Linck planned all this,’ Felix said, frowning. ‘To kill Gabriel.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. The rewards were immense. Fratricide has a long history – starting with Cain and Abel.’ Bond added more ice to his glass. ‘Solomon Adeka feigned his terminal illness and his death. By the way – you might want to interrogate an Indian doctor called Dr Masind. He was in Rowanoak as well. He must have done the drugging, written the death certificate. It was very effective. Solomon “dies”, the war ends and enter the CIA. Gabriel Adeka, meanwhile, has been invited to set up AfricaKIN in Washington DC.’ Bond smiled. ‘The timing was perfect. Gabriel Adeka apparently leaves London – suddenly he’s not there – and another “Gabriel Adeka” arrives in Washington. Meanwhile Solomon Adeka has been buried with full military honours in Port Dunbar.’
Felix shook his head cynically. ‘How were we to know? You meet a man who says he’s Gabriel Adeka. How could we know that it was the younger brother, Solomon? He had a shaven head and a small goatee, just like Gabriel. Solomon was dead and buried – who’s going to be suspicious?’ Felix nodded, almost as if he had to convince himself of the elaborate nature of the subterfuge.
‘I bet you didn’t see much of him,’ Bond said.
‘No, that’s true. There were some initial meetings – “Gabriel” was unwell, we were told – this Colonel Denga was the frontman. Very efficient. Very precise.’
‘Part of the team.’ Bond lit another cigarette. ‘I’m pretty sure this was how it must have happened. Gabriel Adeka was lured into a kind of collaboration with Linck and his aid plans for Dahum. At some meeting an unsuspecting Ga
briel would have been killed – probably by one of Kobus Breed’s buddies and the body disposed of – buried under fresh concrete in the Bayswater office. Breed is Linck’s enforcer – he would have arranged everything. Maybe he’s his partner, for all I know. I bet you it was Breed who saw other opportunities for AfricaKIN and its “mercy flights”. Maybe Linck was in on it.’ He shrugged. ‘Clearly he’s a man who likes to make a profit, one way or another.’ Bond spread his hands. ‘But we’ll never know now, thanks to Agent Massinette.’
Felix wasn’t going to follow this line of speculation, Bond saw. He shook his glass, making the ice cubes spin.
‘So, just to be on the safe side, to keep their control, they turned Solomon into a junkie,’ Felix added, nodding to himself again.
‘Absolutely perfect control,’ Bond said, adding more gin to their glasses. They were halfway through the bottle. ‘Linck and Breed were running things now. They didn’t want their Adeka brother changing his mind in any way.’
‘So you reckon Linck wasn’t a prisoner at all,’ Felix said.
‘No. Why would a prisoner dye his hair and grow a beard?’ Bond posed the question. ‘That little ploy was Linck’s escape route, or so he hoped. Kobus Breed was the mastermind. So Linck would have had us believe.’
‘Why didn’t he just run for it? Why did he surrender to you?’
‘You answered that. While he was alive he still – just about – owned Zanza Petroleum. Linck must have known that the whole AfricaKIN cover would be blown. Better to present himself as a victim along with poor Gabriel Adeka. You said the leases were all legal. He might have been able to pick up where he left off. He could have claimed some sort of negotiating position, at least.’
‘Except he hadn’t reckoned on you – the fact that you knew both brothers.’
‘Linck didn’t know that. And Massinette blew him away the moment he saw him.’ Bond clicked his fingers. ‘Just like that. I wonder why . . .’
‘I think I may be able to answer that question, now.’ Felix nodded. Bond could see clarity was visiting him, also.
