They drove along the endless paths that served as roads in the shanty town, past packs of running children, skinny dogs, men sitting on doorsteps.
‘No GPS,’ the huge security man said, his first words. He wasn’t smiling and Dunne didn’t know if he was making a joke. The man had spent two hours that afternoon tracking down Dlamini’s shack. ‘There it is.’
They parked across the road. The place was tiny, one storey, as were all the shacks in Primrose Gardens, and the walls were constructed of mismatched panels of plywood and corrugated metal, painted bold red, blue, yellow, as if in defiance of the squalor. A clothes-line hung in the yard to the side, festooned with laundry for a family ranging in age, it seemed, from five or six to adulthood.
This was an efficient location for a kill. The shack was opposite a patch of empty ground so there would be few witnesses. Not that it mattered – the van had no number plate, and white vehicles of this sort were as common in the Western Cape as sea gulls at Green Way.
They sat in silence for ten minutes, just on the verge of attracting attention. Then the security man said, ‘There he is.’
Stephan Dlamini was walking down the dusty road, a tall, thin man with greying hair, wearing a faded jacket, orange T-shirt and brown jeans. Beside him was one of his sons. The boy, who was about eleven, carried a mud-streaked football, and wore a Springboks rugby shirt, without a jacket, despite the autumn chill.
Dlamini and the boy paused outside to kick the ball back and forth for a moment or two. Then they entered their home. Dunne nodded to the security man. They pulled on ski masks. Dunne surveyed the shanty. It was larger than most, but the explosives and incendiary were sufficient. The curtains were drawn across the windows, the cheap fabric glowing with light from inside.
For some reason Dunne found himself thinking again about his boss, at the event that night. He put the image away.
He gave it five minutes more, to make sure that Dlamini had used the toilet – if there was one in the shack – and that the family was seated at the dinner table.
‘Let’s go,’ Dunne said. The security guard nodded. They stepped out of the van, each holding a powerful grenade, filled with deadly copper shot. The street was largely deserted.
Seven family members, Dunne reflected. ‘Now,’ he whispered. They pulled the pins on the grenades and flung them through each of the two windows. In the five seconds of silence that followed, Dunne grabbed the firebomb – a petrol can with a small detonator – and readied it. When stunning explosions shook the ground and blew out the remaining glass, he threw the incendiary through the window and the two men leapt into the van. The security man started the engine and they sped off.
Exactly five seconds later, flames erupted from the windows and, spectacularly, a stream of fire from the cooking stove chimney rose straight into the air twenty feet, reminding Dunne of the fireworks displays he’d so enjoyed as a boy in Belfast.
41
‘ Hayi! Hayi! ’
The woman’s wail filled the night, as she stared at the fiery shack, her home, tears lensing her eyes.
She and her five children were clustered behind the inferno. The back door was open, providing a wrenching view of the rampaging flames destroying all of the family’s possessions. She struggled to run inside and rescue what she could but her husband, Stephan Dlamini, gripped her hard. He spoke to her in a language James Bond took to be Xhosa.
A large crowd was gathering and an informal fire brigade had assembled, passing buckets of water in a futile attempt to extinguish the raging flames.
‘We have to leave,’ Bond said to the tall man standing beside him, next to an unmarked SAPS van.
‘Without doubt,’ said Kwalene Nkosi.
Bond meant that they should get the family out of the township before Dunne realised they were still alive.
Nkosi, though, had a different concern. The warrant officer had been eyeing the growing crowd, who were staring at the white man; the collective gaze was not friendly.
‘Display your badge,’ Bond told him.
Nkosi’s eyes widened. ‘No, no, Commander, that is not a wise idea. Let us leave. Now.’
They shepherded Stephan Dlamini and his family into the van. Bond got in with them and Nkosi climbed behind the wheel, gunned the engine and steered them away into the night.
They left behind the angry, confused crowd and the tumultuous flames… but not a single injury.
It had been a true race to the finish line to save the family.
After he’d learned that Dlamini was going to be targeted by Dunne and that he lived virtually anonymously in a huge township, Bond had struggled to come up with a way to locate him. GCHQ and MI6 could find no mobile in his name or any personal records in South African census or trade-union records. He had taken a chance and called Kwalene Nkosi. ‘I’m going to tell you something, Warrant Officer, and I hope I can rely on you to keep it to yourself. From everyone.’
There’d been a pause and the young man had said cautiously, ‘Go on.’
Bond had laid out the problem, including the fact that the surveillance had been illegal.
‘Your signal is breaking up, Commander. I missed that last part.’
Bond had laughed. ‘But we have to find where this Stephan Dlamini lives. Now.’
Nkosi had sighed. ‘It is going to be difficult. Primrose Gardens is huge. But I have an idea.’ The minibus taxi operations, it seemed, knew far more about the shanty towns and lokasiesthan the local government did. The warrant officer would begin calling them. He and Bond had met, then driven fast to Primrose Gardens, Nkosi continuing his search for the family’s shack via his mobile. At close to six p.m. they’d been cruising through the township when a taxi driver had reported that he knew where Dlamini lived. He’d directed Bond and Nkosi there.
As they’d approached, they’d seen another van at the front, a white face glancing out.
‘Dunne,’ Nkosi had said.
He and Bond had veered away and parked behind the shanty. They’d pushed through the back door and the family had panicked, but Nkosi had told them, in their own language, that the men had come to save them. They had to get out immediately. Stephan Dlamini was not at home yet, but soon would be.
A few minutes later he’d come through the door with his young son, and Bond, knowing the attack was imminent, had had no choice but to draw his gun and force them out of the back door. Nkosi had just finished explaining Bond’s purpose and the danger, when the grenades went off, followed by the petrol bomb.
Now they were on the N1, cruising west. Dlamini gripped Bond’s hand and shook it. Then he leant forward to the front passenger seat and hugged him. Tears stood in his eyes. His wife huddled in the back with her children, studying Bond suspiciously as the agent told him who’d been behind the attack.
Finally, after hearing the story, Dlamini asked in dismay, ‘Mr Hydt? But how can that be? He is best boss. He treat all of us good. Very good. I am not understanding this.’
Bond explained. It seemed that Dlamini had learnt something about illegal activities Hydt and Dunne were engaged in.
His eyes flashed. ‘I know what you are speaking of.’ His head bobbed up and down. He told Bond that he was a maintenance man at the Green Way plant north of town. That morning he’d found the door to the company’s Research and Development office left open for deliveries. The two employees inside were at the back of the room. Dlamini had seen an overflowing bin inside. The rubbish there was supposed to be handled by somebody else but he decided to empty it anyway. ‘I just was trying to do good job. That’s all.’ He shook his head. ‘I go inside and start to empty this bin when one of the workers sees me and starts screaming at me. What did I see? What was I looking at? I said, “Nothing.” He ordered me out.’
‘And didyou see anything that might’ve upset them?’
‘I don’t think so. On the computer beside the bin there was a message, an email, I think. I saw “Serbia” in English. But I paid no more attention
.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, sir.’
Serbia…
So, some of the secrets to Gehenna lay beyond the door to Research and Development.
Bond said to Nkosi, ‘We have to get the family away. If I give them money, is there a hotel where they can stay until the weekend?’
‘I can find some rooms for them.’
Bond gave them fifteen hundred rand. The man blinked as he stared at the sum. Nkosi explained to Dlamini that he would have to stay in hiding for a short while.
‘And have him call other family members and close friends. He should tell them that he and his family are all right but that they have to play dead for a few days. Can you plant a story in the media about their deaths?’
‘I think so.’ The warrant officer was hesitating. ‘But I’m wondering if…’ His voice faded.
‘We’ll keep this between ourselves. Captain Jordaan does not need to know.’
‘Without doubt, that is best.’
As the glorious vista of Cape Town rose before them, Bond glanced at his watch. It was time for the second assignment of the night – one that would require him to enlist a very different set of tradecraft skills from dodging grenades and firebombs, though he suspected that this job would be no less challenging.
42
Bond wasn’t impressed by the Lodge Club.
Perhaps back in the day, when it was the enclave of hunters in jodhpurs and jackets embellished with loops to hold ammunition for their big-five game rifles, it had been more posh but the atmosphere now was that of a function room hosting simultaneous wedding receptions. Bond wasn’t even sure if the Cape buffalo head, staring down at him angrily from near the front door, was real or had been manufactured in China.
He gave the name Gene Theron to one of the attractive young women at the door. She happened to be blonde and voluptuous and wearing a tight-fitting crimson dress with a lazy neckline. The other hostess was of Zulu or Xhosa ancestry but equally built and clad. Bond suspected that whoever ran the fundraising organisation knew how to tactically appeal to what was, of whatever race, predominantly a male donor pool. He added, ‘Guest of Mr Hydt.’
‘Ah, yes,’ the golden-haired woman said and let him into the low-lit room where fifty or so people milled about. Still wine, champagne and soft drinks were on offer and Bond went for the sparkling.
Bond had followed Hydt’s suggestions on dress and the Durban mercenary was in light grey trousers, a black sports jacket and a light blue shirt, no tie.
Holding his champagne flute, Bond looked around the plush hall. The group behind the event was the International Organisation Against Hunger, based in Cape Town. Pictures on easels showed workers handing out large sacks to happy recipients, women mostly, Hercules planes being unloaded and boats laden with sacks of rice or wheat. There were no pictures of starving emaciated children. A tasteful compromise all around. You wanted donors to feel slightly, but not too, uneasy. Bond guessed that the world of altruism had to be as carefully navigated as Whitehall politics.
From speakers in the ceiling, the harmonies of Ladysmith Black Mambazo and the inspirational songs of the Cape Town singer Verity provided an appealing soundtrack to the evening.
The event was a silent auction – tables were filled with all sorts of items donated by supporters of the group: a football signed by players from Bafana Bafana, the South African national football team, a whale-watching cruise, a weekend getaway in Stellenbosch, a Zulu sculpture, a pair of diamond earrings and much more. The guests would circulate and write their bids for each item on a sheet of paper; the one who’d put down the highest amount when the auction closed would win the article. Severan Hydt had donated a dinner for four, worth eight thousand rand – about seven hundred pounds, Bond calculated – at a first-class restaurant.
The wine flowed generously and waiters circulated with silver trays of elaborate canapés.
Ten minutes after Bond had arrived, Severan Hydt appeared with his female companion on his arm. Niall Dunne was nowhere to be seen. He nodded to Hydt, who was in a nicely cut navy-blue suit, probably American, if he read the sloping shoulders right. The woman – her name, he recalled, was Jessica Barnes – was in a simple black dress and heavily bejewelled, all diamonds and platinum. Her stockings were pure white. Not a hint of colour was to be found on her; she didn’t even wear a touch of lipstick. His earlier impression held: how gaunt she was, despite her attractive figure and face. Her austerity aged her considerably, giving her a ghostly look. Bond was curious; every other woman here of Jessica’s age had clearly spent hours dolling herself up.
‘Ah, Theron,’ Hydt boomed and marched forward, detaching himself from Jessica, who followed. As Bond shook his hand, the woman regarded him with a noncommittal smile. He turned to her. Tradecraft requires constant, often exhausting effort. You must maintain an expression of faint curiosity when meeting a person you’re familiar with only through surveillance. Lives have been lost because of a simple slip: ‘Ah, good to see you again,’ when in fact you’ve never met face to face.
Bond kept his eyes neutral as Hydt introduced her. ‘This is Jessica.’ He turned to her. ‘Gene Theron. We’re doing business together.’
The woman nodded and, though she held his eye, took his hand tentatively. It was a sign of insecurity, Bond concluded. Another indication of this was her handbag, which she kept over her shoulder and pinned tight between arm and ribcage.
Small-talk ensued, Bond reciting snippets from Jordaan’s lessons about the country, taking care to be accurate, assuming that Jessica might report their conversation to Hydt. In a low voice he offered that the South African government should busy itself with more important things than renaming Pretoria Tshwane. He was glad the trade union situation was calming. Yes, he enjoyed life on the east coast. The beaches near his home in Durban were particularly nice, especially now that the shark nets were up, though he’d never had any problems with the Great Whites, which occasionally took bites out of people. They talked then about wildlife. Jessica had visited the famed Kruger game reserve again recently and seen two adolescent elephants tear up trees and bushes. It had reminded her of the gangs in Somerville, Massachusetts, just north of Boston – teenagers vandalising public parks. Oh, yes, he’d thought her accent was American.
‘Have you ever been there, Mr Theron?’
‘Call me, Gene, please,’ Bond said, scrolling mentally through the biography written by Bheka Jordaan and I Branch. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I hope to some day.’
Bond looked at Hydt. His body language had shifted; he was giving out signs of impatience. A glance at Jessica suggested he wished her to leave them. Bond thought of the abuse Bheka Jordaan had endured at the hands of her co-workers. This was different only in degree. A moment later the woman excused herself to ‘powder her nose’, an expression Bond had not heard in years. He thought it ironic that she used the term, considering that she probably wouldn’t be doing so.
When they were alone, Hydt said to him, ‘I’ve thought more about your proposal and I’d like to move forward.’
‘Good.’ They took refills of champagne from an attractive young Afrikaner woman. Bond said, ‘ Dankie ,’ and reminded himself not to overdo his act.
He and Hydt retired to a corner of the room, the older man waving to and shaking hands with people on the way. When the men were alone, beneath the mounted head of a gazelle or antelope, Hydt peppered Bond with questions about the number of graves, the acreage, the countries they were in, and how close the authorities were to discovering some of the killing fields. As Bond ad-libbed the answers, he couldn’t help but be impressed with the man’s thoroughness. It seemed he’d spent all afternoon thinking about the project. He was careful to remember what he told Hydt and made a mental note to write it down later so that he would be consistent in the future.
After fifteen minutes Bond said, ‘Now, there are things I would like to know. First, your operation here. I’d like to see it.’
/> ‘I think you should.’
When he didn’t suggest a time, Bond said, ‘How about tomorrow?’
‘That might be difficult, with my big project on Friday.’
Bond nodded. ‘Some of my clients are eager to move forward. You are my first choice but if there’ll be delays I’ll have to…’
‘No, no. Please. Tomorrow will be fine.’
Bond began to probe more but just then the lights dimmed and a woman ascended the raised platform near where Hydt and Bond were standing. ‘Good evening,’ she called out, her low voice glazed with a South African accent. ‘Welcome, everyone. Thank you for coming to our event.’
She was the managing director of the organisation and Bond was amused by her name: Felicity Willing.
She wasn’t, to Bond’s eye, cover-girl beautiful, as was Philly Maidenstone. However, her face was intense, striking. Expertly made up, it exuded a feline quality. Her eyes were a deep green, like late summer leaves caught in the sun, and her hair dark blonde, pulled back severely and pinned up, accentuating the determined angles of her nose and chin. She wore a close-fitting navy-blue cocktail dress that was cut low at the front and lower still at the back. Her silver shoes sported thin straps and precarious heels. Faintly pink pearls shone at her throat and she wore one ring, also a pearl, on her right index finger. Her nails were short and uncoloured.
Carte Blanche Page 22
