Carte Blanche

by Jeffery Deaver

  She scanned the audience with a penetrating, almost challenging gaze and said, ‘I must warn you all…’ Tension swelled. ‘At university I was known as Felicity Wilful- an appropriate name, as you’ll find out later when I make the rounds. I advise you all, for your own safety, to keep your chequebooks at the ready.’ A smile replaced the fierce visage.

  As the laughter died down, Felicity began to talk about the problems of hunger. ‘Africa must import twenty-five per cent of its food… While the population has soared, crop yields today are no higher than they were in 1980… In places like the Central African Republic, nearly a third of all households are food insecure… In Africa iodine deficiency is the number-one cause of brain damage, vitamin A deficiency is the number-one cause of blindness… Nearly three hundred million people in Africa do not have enough to eat – that number equals the entire population of the United States…’

  Africa, of course, was not alone in the need for food aid, she continued, and her organisation was attacking the plague on all fronts. Thanks to the generosity of donors, including many here, the group had recently expanded its charter from being a purely South African charity to an international one, opening offices in Jakarta, Port-au-Prince and Mumbai, with others planned.

  And, she added, the biggest shipment of maize, sorghum, milk powder and other high-nutrient staples ever to arrive in Africa was soon to be delivered in Cape Town for distribution across the continent.

  Felicity acknowledged the applause. Then her smile vanished and she gazed at the crowd with piercing eyes once more, speaking in a low, even menacing, voice about the need to make poorer countries independent of Western ‘agropolies’. She railed against the prevailing approach of America and Europe to end hunger: foreign-owned megafarms forcing their way into third-world nations and squeezing out the local farmers – the people who knew how to get the best yield from the land. Those enterprises were using Africa and other nations as laboratories to test untried methods and products, like synthetic fertilisers and genetically engineered seeds.

  ‘The vast majority of international agribusiness cares only about profit, not about relieving the suffering of the people. And this is simply not acceptable.’

  Finally, having delivered her assault, Felicity smiled and singled out the donors, Hydt among them. He responded to the applause with a wave. He was smiling too, but his whisper to Bond told a different story: ‘If you want adulation, just give away money. The more desperate they are, the more they love you.’ He clearly didn’t want to be here.

  Felicity stepped off the platform to circulate as the guests continued their silent bidding.

  Bond said to Hydt, ‘I don’t know if you have plans but I was thinking we could go for some dinner. On me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Theron, but I have to meet an associate who’s just arrived in town for that project I mentioned.’

  Gehenna… Bond certainly wanted to meet whoever this man was. ‘I’d be happy to take everyone out, your associate too.’

  ‘Tonight’s no good, I’m afraid,’ Hydt said absently, pulling his iPhone out and scrolling through messages or missed calls. He glanced up and spotted Jessica standing by herself awkwardly in front of a table on which items were being offered for auction. When she looked at him he beckoned her over impatiently.

  Bond tried to think of some other way to conjure an invitation but decided to back off before Hydt became suspicious. Seduction in tradecraft is like seduction in love; it works best if you make the object of your desire come to you. Nothing ruins your efforts faster than desperate pursuit.

  ‘Tomorrow then,’ Bond said, seemingly distracted and glancing at his own phone.

  ‘Yes – good.’ Hydt looked up. ‘Felicity!’

  With a smile, the charity’s managing director detached herself from a fat, balding man in a dusty dinner jacket. He’d been gripping her hand for far longer than courtesy dictated. She joined Hydt, Jessica and Bond.

  ‘Severan. Jessica.’ They brushed cheeks.

  ‘And an associate, Gene Theron. He’s from Durban, in town for a few days.’

  Felicity gripped Bond’s hand. He asked obvious questions about her organisation and the shipments of food arriving soon, hoping Hydt would change his mind about dinner.

  But the man looked once more at his iPhone and said, ‘I’m afraid we have to be going.’

  ‘Severan,’ Felicity said, ‘I don’t think my remarks really conveyed our gratitude. You’ve introduced some important donors to us. I really can’t thank you enough.’

  Bond took note of this. So she knew the names of some of Hydt’sassociates. He wondered how best to exploit this connection.

  Hydt said, ‘I’m delighted to help. I’ve been lucky in life. I want to share that good fortune.’ He turned to Bond. ‘See you tomorrow, Theron. Around noon, if that’s convenient. Wear old clothes and shoes.’ He brushed his curly beard with an index finger whose nail reflected a streak of jaundiced light. ‘You’ll be taking a tour of hell.’

  After Hydt and Jessica had left, Bond turned to Felicity Willing. ‘Those statistics were disturbing. I might be interested in helping.’ Standing close, he was aware of her perfume, a musky scent.

  ‘Might be interested?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  Felicity kept a smile on her face but it didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Well, Mr Theron, for every donor who actually writes a cheque, two others say they’re “interested” but I never see a rand. I’d rather somebody told me up front they don’t want to give anything. Then I can get on with my business. Forgive me if I’m blunt, but I’m fighting a war here.’

  ‘And you don’t take prisoners.’

  ‘No,’ she said, smiling sincerely now. ‘I don’t.’

  Felicity Wilful…

  ‘Then I’ll most certainly help,’ Bond said, wondering what A Branch would say when they encountered a donation on his expense account back in London. ‘I’m not sure I’m able to rise to Severan’s level of generosity.’

  ‘One rand donated is one rand closer to solving the problem,’ she said.

  He paused a judicious moment, then said, ‘Just had a thought: Severan and Jessica couldn’t make it for dinner and I’m alone in town. Would you care to join me after the auction?’

  Felicity considered this. ‘I don’t see why not. You look reasonably fit.’ And turned away, a lioness preparing to descend on a herd of gazelles.

  43

  At the conclusion of the event, which raised the equivalent of £30,000 – including a modest donation on the credit card of Gene Theron – Bond and Felicity Willing walked to the car park behind the Lodge Club.

  They approached a large van, beside which were dozens of large cardboard cartons. She tugged up her hem, bent down, like a stevedore on a dock, and muscled a heavy box through the open side door of the vehicle.

  The reference to his physical well-being was suddenly clear. ‘Let me,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll both do it.’

  Together they began to transfer the cartons, which smelt of food. ‘Left-overs,’ he said.

  ‘Didn’t you think it was rather ironic that we were serving gourmet finger food at a campaign to raise money for the hungry?’ Felicity asked.

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘If I’d offered tinned biscuits and processed cheese, they’d have devoured the lot. But with fancier stuff – I extorted some three-star restaurants to donate it – they didn’t dare take more than a bite or two. I wanted to make sure there was plenty left over.’

  ‘Where are we delivering the excess?’

  ‘A food bank not far away. It’s one of the outlets my organisation works with.’

  When they had finished loading, they got into the van. Felicity climbed into the driver’s seat and slipped off her shoes to drive barefoot. Then they sped into the night, bounding assertively over the uneven tarmac as she tormented the clutch and gearbox.

  In fifteen minutes they were at the Cape Town Interdenominational Food Bank Centr
e. Her shoes back on, Felicity opened the side door and together they offloaded the scampi, crab cakes and Jamaican chicken, which the staff carried inside the shelter.

  When the van was empty, Felicity gestured to a large man in khaki slacks and T-shirt. He seemed impervious to the May chill. He hesitated, then joined them, eyeing Bond curiously. Then he said, ‘Yes, Miss Willing? Thank you, Miss Willing. Lot of good food for everyone tonight. Did you see inside the shelter? It’s crowded.’

  She ignored his questions, which to Bond had sounded like diversionary chatter. ‘Joso, last week a shipment disappeared. Fifty kilos. Who took it?’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything-’

  ‘I didn’t ask whether you heard anything. I asked who took it.’

  His face was a mask, but then it sagged. ‘Why you asking me, Miss Willing? I didn’t do nothing.’

  ‘Joso, do you know how many people fifty kilos of rice will feed?’

  ‘I-’

  ‘Tell me. How many people.’ He towered over her but Felicity held her ground. Bond wondered if thiswas what she had meant with her assessment of his fitness – she had wanted someone to back her up. But her eyes revealed that, to her, Bond wasn’t even present. This was between Felicity and a transgressor who’d stolen food from those she’d pledged to protect, and she was entirely capable of taking him on alone. Her eyes reminded him of his when he confronted an enemy. ‘How many people?’ she repeated.

  Miserably, he lapsed into Zulu or Xhosa.

  ‘No,’ she corrected. ‘It will feed more than that, many more.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ he protested. ‘I forgot to close the door. It was late. I was working-’

  ‘It was no accident. Someone saw you unlock the door before you left. Who has the rice?’

  ‘No, no you must believe me.’

  ‘Who?’ she persisted coolly.

  He was defeated. ‘A man from the Flats. In a gang. Oh, please, Miss Willing, if you tell the SAPS, he’ll find out it was me. He’ll know I told you. He will come for me and he will come for my family.’

  Her jaw tightened and Bond couldn’t dislodge the impression he’d had earlier, of a feline – now about to strike. There was no sympathy in her voice as she said, ‘I won’t go to the police. Not this time. But you’ll tell the director what you did. And he’ll decide whether to keep you on or not.’

  ‘This is my only job,’ he protested. ‘I have a family. My only job.’

  ‘Which you were happy to endanger,’ she responded. ‘Now, go and tell Reverend van Groot. And if he keeps you on and another theft occurs, I willtell the police.’

  ‘It will not happen again, Miss Willing.’ He turned and vanished inside.

  Bond couldn’t help but be impressed with her cool, efficient handling of the incident. He noted too it made her all the more attractive.

  She caught Bond’s eye and her face softened. ‘The war I’m fighting? Sometimes you’re never quite sure who the enemy is. They might even be on your side.’

  How well do I know that? thought Bond.

  They returned to the van. Felicity bent down to remove her shoes again but Bond said quickly, ‘I’ll drive. Save you unstrapping.’

  She laughed. They got in and set off. ‘Dinner?’ she asked.

  He almost felt guilty, after all he’d heard about hunger. ‘If you’re still up for it.’

  ‘Oh, I most certainly am.’

  As they drove, Bond asked, ‘Would he really have been killed if you’d gone to the police?’

  ‘The SAPS would have laughed at the idea of investigating fifty kilos of stolen rice. But the Cape Flats aredangerous, that’s true, and if anyone there thought Joso betrayed them, he very likely would be killed. Let’s hope he’s learnt his lesson.’ Her voice grew cool again as she added, ‘Leniency can win you allies. It can also be a cobra.’

  Felicity guided him back to Green Point. Since the restaurant she’d suggested was near the Table Mountain Hotel, he left the van there and they walked on. Several times, Bond noted, Felicity glanced behind her, her face alert, shoulders tensed. The road was deserted. What did she feel threatened by?

  She relaxed once they were in the front lobby of the restaurant, which was decorated with tapestry, the fixtures dark wood and brass. The large windows overlooked the water, which danced with lights. Much of the illumination inside came from hundreds of cream-coloured candles. As they were escorted to the table, Bond noticed that her clinging dress glistened in the light and seemed to change colour with every step, from navy to azure to cerulean. Her skin glowed.

  The waiter greeted her by name, then smiled at Bond. She ordered a Cosmopolitan, and Bond, in the mood for a cocktail, ordered the drink he had had with Philly Maidenstone. ‘Crown Royal whisky, a double, on ice. Half a measure of triple sec, two dashes of Angostura. Twist of orange peel, not a slice.’

  When the waiter left, Felicity said, ‘I’ve never heard of that before.’

  ‘My own invention.’

  ‘Have you named it?’

  Bond smiled to himself, recalling that the waiter at Antoine’s in London had wondered about the drink too. ‘Not yet.’ He had a flash of inspiration from his conversation with M several days earlier. ‘Though I think I will now. I’ll call it the Carte Blanche. In your honour.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, her narrow brow furrowed.

  ‘Because if your donors drink enough of them, they’ll give you complete freedom to take their money.’

  She laughed and squeezed his arm, then picked up the menu.

  Sitting closer to her now, Bond could see how expertly she’d applied her make-up, accentuating the feline eyes and the thrust of her cheeks and jaw. A thought came to him. Philly Maidenstone was perhaps more classically attractive, but hers was a passive beauty. Felicity’s was far more assertive, forceful.

  He upbraided himself for dwelling on the comparison, reached for the menu and began to study it. Scanning the extensive card he learnt that the restaurant, Celsius, was famed for its special grill, which reached 950 degrees centigrade.

  Felicity said, ‘You order for us. Anything to start but I must have a steak for my main course. There’s nothing like the grilled meat at Celsius. My God, Gene, you’re not a vegan, are you?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  When the waiter arrived Bond ordered fresh grilled sardines to be followed by a large rib-eye steak for two. He asked if the chef could grill it with the bone in – known in America as the ‘cowboy cut’.

  The waiter mentioned that the steaks were typically served with exotic sauces: Argentinian Chimichurri, Indonesian Coffee, Madagascan Peppercorn, Spanish Madeira or Peruvian Anticuchos. But Bond declined them all. He believed that steaks had flavour enough of their own and should be eaten with only salt and pepper.

  Felicity nodded that she was in agreement.

  Bond then selected a bottle of South African red wine, the Rustenberg Peter Barlow Cabernet 2005.

  The wine came and was as good as he’d expected. They clinked glasses and sipped.

  The waiter brought the first course and they ate. Bond, deprived of his lunch by Gregory Lamb, was starving.

  ‘What do you do for a living, Gene? Severan didn’t say.’

  ‘Security work.’

  ‘Ah.’ A faint chill descended. Felicity was obviously a tough, worldly businesswoman and recognised the euphemism. She would guess he was in some way involved with the many conflicts in Africa. War, she’d said during her speech, was one of the main causes for the plague of hunger.

  He said, ‘I have companies that install security systems and provide guards.’

  She seemed to believe this was at least partly true. ‘I was born in South Africa and have been living here now for four or five years. I’ve seen it change. Crime is less of a problem than it used to be, but security staff are still needed. We have a number of them at the organisation. We must. Charitable work doesn’t exempt us from risk.’ She added darkly, ‘I’m happy to give food away. I won’t have i
t stolen from me.’

  To divert her from asking more questions about him Bond enquired about her life.

  She’d grown up in the bush, in the Western Cape, the only child of English parents, her father a mining company executive. The family had moved back to London when she was thirteen. She was an outsider at boarding school, she confessed. ‘I might have fitted in a bit better if I’d kept my mouth shut about how to field-dress gazelles – especially in the dining hall.’

  Then it had been the London Business School and a stint at a major City investment bank, where she’d done ‘all right’; her dismissive modesty suggested she’d done extremely well.

  But the work had proved ultimately unsatisfying. ‘It was too easy for me, Gene. There was no challenge. I needed a steeper mountain. Well, four or five years ago I decided to reassess my life. I took a month off and spent some time back here. I saw how pervasive hunger was. And I decided to do something about it. Everybody told me not to bother. It was impossible to make a difference. Well, that was like waving a red flag at a bull.’

  ‘Felicity Wilful.’

  She smiled. ‘So, here I am, bullying donors to give us money and taking on the American and European megafarms.’

  ‘“Agropoly”. Clever term.’

  ‘I coined it,’ she said, then burst out, ‘They’re destroying the continent. I’m not going to let them get away with it.’

  The serious discussion was cut short when the waiter appeared with the steak sizzling on an iron platter. It was charred on the outside and succulent within. They ate in silence for a time. At one point he sliced off a crusty piece of meat, but took a sip of wine before he put it into his mouth. When he returned to his plate the morsel was gone and Felicity was chewing mischievously. ‘Sorry. I tend to go after things that appeal to me.’

  Bond laughed. ‘Very clever, stealing from under the nose of a security expert.’ He waved to the sommelier, and a second bottle of the cabernet appeared. Bond steered the conversation to Severan Hydt.