He was disappointed to find that she didn’t seem to know much about the man that might be helpful to his mission. She mentioned the names of several of his partners who’d donated money to her group and he memorised them. She had not met Niall Dunne but she knew Hydt had some brilliant assistant who performed all sorts of technical wizardry. She lifted an eyebrow and said, ‘I just realised – you’re the one he uses.’
‘Sorry?’
‘For his security at the Green Way operation north of town. I’ve never been but one of my assistants collected a donation from him. All those metal detectors and scanners. You can’t get inside the place with a paperclip, let alone a mobile phone. You have to check everything at the door. Like in those old American westerns – you leave your guns outside when you go into the bar.’
‘He awarded that contract to somebody else. I do other jobs.’ This intelligence worried Bond; he’d intended to get into the Green Way building with far more than a paperclip and a mobile phone, despite Bheka Jordaan’s disdain for illegal surveillance. He’d have to consider the implications.
The meal wound down and they finished the wine. They were the last patrons in the restaurant. Bond called for the bill and settled it. ‘The second of my donations,’ he said.
They returned to the entrance, where he collected her black cashmere coat and draped it over her shoulders. They started down the pavement, the narrow heels of her shoes tapping on the concrete. Again she surveyed the streets. Then, relaxing, she took his arm and held it tightly. He was keenly aware of her perfume and of the occasional pressure of her breast against his arm.
They approached his hotel, Bond fishing the van key from his pocket. Felicity slowed. The night sky was clear above them, encrusted with a plenitude of stars.
‘A very nice evening,’ Felicity said. ‘And thank you for your help in delivering the leftovers. You’re even fitter than I thought.’
Bond found himself asking, ‘Another glass of wine?’
The green eyes were looking up and into his own. ‘Would youlike one?’
‘Yes,’ he said firmly.
In ten minutes they were in his room in the Table Mountain Hotel sitting on the sofa, which they had turned and slid close to the window. Glasses of a Stellenbosch pinotage were in their hands.
They looked out over the flickering lights in the bay, muted yellow and white, like benign insects hovering in anticipation.
Felicity turned to him, perhaps to say something, perhaps not, and he bent forward and pressed his lips gently to hers. Then he eased back a little, gauging her reaction, and moved forward and kissed her again, harder, losing himself in the contact, the taste, the heat. Her breath on his cheek, Felicity’s arms snaked around his shoulders as her mouth held his. Then she kissed his neck and teasingly bit the base where it met his firm shoulder. Her tongue slid along a scar that arced down to his upper arm.
Bond’s fingers slipped up her neck into her hair and pulled her closer. He was lost in the pungent musk of her perfume.
A parallel to this moment is skiing: when you pause on the ridge atop a beautiful but perilous downhill run. You have a choice to go or not. You can always snap free the bindings and walk down the mountain. But in fact, for Bond, there never was such a choice; once on the edge, it was impossible not to give in to the seduction of gravity and speed. The only true choice left is how to control the accelerating descent.
The same now, here.
Bond whisked her dress off, the insubstantial blue cloth spilling leisurely to the floor. Felicity then eased back, pulling him with her, until they were lying on the couch, she beneath him. She began tugging at his lower lip with her teeth. He cupped her neck again and pulled her face to his, while her hands rested on the small of his back, kneading hard. Felicity shuddered and inhaled sharply and he understood that, for whatever reason, she liked touching him there. He knew too that she wanted his hands to curl firmly behind her waist. Such is the way lovers communicate, and he would remember that place, the delicate bones of her spine.
For his part, Bond found rapture throughout her body, all its aspects: her hungry lips, her strong, flawless thighs, breasts encased in taut black silk, her delicate neck and throat, from which a whispered moan issued, the dense hair framing her face, the softer strands elsewhere.
They kissed endlessly and then she broke away and locked onto his fierce eyes with her own, whose lids, dusted with faint green luminescence, halfway lowered. Mutual surrender, mutual victory.
Bond lifted her easily. Their lips met once more, briefly, and he carried her to the bed.
Thursday – DISAPPEARANCE ROW
44
He awoke with a start from a nightmare he could not remember. Curiously James Bond’s first thought was of Philly Maidenstone. He felt – absurdly – that he’d been unfaithful, yet his most intimate contact with her had been a brief brush of cheeks that had lasted half a second.
He rolled over. The other side of the bed was empty. He looked at the clock. It was half past seven. He could smell Felicity’s perfume on the sheets and pillows.
The previous evening had begun as an exercise in learning about his enemy and his enemy’s purpose but had become something more. He had felt a strong empathy with Felicity Willing, a tough woman who’d conquered the City and was now turning her resources to a nobler battle. He reflected that, in their own ways, they were both knights errant.
And he wanted to see her again.
But first things first. He got out of bed and pulled on a towelling dressing-gown. He hesitated for a moment then told himself: has to be done.
He went to his laptop in the suite’s living area. The device had been modified by Q Branch to incorporate a motion-activated, low-light camera. Bond booted up the machine and looked over the replay. It had been pointed only at the front door and the chair, where Bond had tossed his jacket and trousers, containing his wallet, passport and mobile. At around five thirty a.m., according to the time stamp, Felicity, dressed, had walked past his clothing, showing no interest in his phone, pockets or the laptop. She paused and looked back towards the bed. With a smile? He believed so but couldn’t be sure. She put something on the table by the door and let herself out.
He stood up and strode to the table. Her business card lay next to a lamp. She had penned a mobile number underneath her organisation’s main phone line. He slipped the card into his wallet.
He cleaned his teeth, showered and shaved, then dressed in blue jeans and a loose black Lacoste shirt, chosen to conceal his Walther. Laughing to himself, he donned the gaudy bracelet and watch and slipped on his finger the initial ring, EJT.
Checking his texts and emails, he found one from Percy Osborne-Smith. The man was staying true to his reformed ways and gave a succinct update on the investigation in Britain, though little headway had been made. He concluded:
Our friends in Whitehall are positively obsessed with Afghanistan. I say, all the better for us, James. Looking forward to sharing a George Cross with you, when we see Hydt in shackles.
While he had breakfast in his room, he considered his impending trip to Hydt’s Green Way plant, thinking back to last night, to all he’d seen and heard, especially about the super-tight security. When he finished, he called Q Branch and got through to Sanu Hirani. He could hear children’s voices in the background and supposed he had been patched through to the branch director’s mobile at home. Hirani had six children. They all played cricket, and his eldest daughter was a star batswoman.
Bond told him of his communications and weapons needs. Hirani had some ideas but was uncertain that he could come up quickly with a solution. ‘What’s your time frame, James?’
‘Two hours.’
There followed a thoughtful exhalation from down the line seven thousand miles away. Then: ‘I’ll need a cut-out in Cape Town. Somebody with knowledge of the area and top clearance. Oh, and a solid NOC. Do you know anybody who fits the bill?’
‘I’m afraid I do.’
At ten thirty a.m. Bond, in a grey windcheater, made his way to the central police station and was escorted to the Crime Combating and Investigation Division office.
‘Morning, Commander,’ Kwalene Nkosi said, smiling.
‘Warrant Officer.’ Bond nodded. Their eyes met conspiratorially.
‘You see the news this morning?’ Nkosi asked, tapping the Cape Times. ‘Tragic story. A family was killed in a firebombing in Primrose Gardens township last night.’ He frowned rather obviously.
‘How terrible,’ Bond said, reflecting that, despite his West End ambitions, Nkosi was not a very good actor.
‘Without doubt.’
He glanced into Bheka Jordaan’s office and she waved him inside. ‘Morning,’ he said, spotting a pair of well-worn trainers in the corner of the office. He hadn’t noticed them yesterday. ‘You run much?’
‘Now and then. It’s important to stay in shape for my job.’
When he was in London, Bond spent at least an hour a day exercising and running, using the ODG’s gym and jogging along the paths in Regent’s Park. ‘I enjoy it too. Maybe if time permits you could show me some running trails. There must be some beautiful ones in town.’
‘I’m sure the hotel will have a map,’ she said dismissively. ‘Was your meeting at the Lodge Club successful?’
Bond gave her a rundown of what had happened at the fundraiser.
Jordaan then asked, ‘And afterwards? Ms Willing proved… useful to you?’
Bond lifted an eyebrow. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in unlawful surveillance.’
‘Making certain someone is safe on the public sidewalks and streets is hardly illegal. Warrant Officer Nkosi told you of our CCTV cameras in the centre of town.’
‘Well, in answer to your question, yes, she washelpful. She gave me some information about the enhanced security at Green Way.’ He added stiffly, ‘I was lucky she did. No one else seemed to be aware of it. Otherwise my trip there today might have been disastrous.’
‘That’s fortunate, then,’ Jordaan said.
Bond told her the names of the three donors Felicity had mentioned last night – the men Hydt had introduced her to.
Jordaan knew of two as successful legitimate businessmen. Nkosi conducted a search and learnt that neither they nor the third had any criminal record. In any event, all three were out of town. Bond assessed they would not be of any immediate help.
Bond was looking at the policewoman. ‘You don’t like Felicity Willing?’
‘You think I’m jealous?’ Her face said: just what a man would believe.
Nkosi turned away. Bond glanced toward him but he was offering no allegiance to Britain in this international dispute.
‘That idea couldn’t have been further from my mind. Your eyes told me you don’t like her. Why?’
‘I’ve never met her. She’s probably a perfectly nice woman – I don’t like what she represents.’
‘Which is?’
‘A foreigner who comes here to pat us on the head and dispense alms. It’s twenty-first-century imperialism. People used to exploit Africa for diamonds and slaves. Now it’s exploited for its ability to purge the guilt of wealthy Westerners.’
‘It seems to me,’ Bond said evenly, ‘that no one can progress when they’re hungry. It doesn’t matter where the food comes from, does it?’
‘Charity undermines. You need to fight your way out of oppression and deprivation. We can do it ourselves. Perhaps more slowly but we will do it.’
‘You have no problem when Britain or America imposes arms embargoes on warlords. Hunger’s as dangerous as rocket-propelled grenades and land mines. Why shouldn’t we help stop that too?’
‘It’s different. Obviously.’
‘I don’t see how,’ he said coolly. ‘Besides, Felicity might be more on your side than you give her credit for. She’s made some enemies among the big corporations in Europe, America and Asia. She thinks they’re meddling in African affairs and that more should be left to the people here.’ He remembered her ill ease on the short walk to the restaurant last night. ‘My take is that she’s put herself at quite some risk saying so. If you’re interested.’
But Jordaan clearly wasn’t. How completelyirritating this woman was.
Bond looked at his huge Breitling watch. ‘I should leave for Green Way soon. I need a car. Can someone arrange a hire in Theron’s name?’
Nkosi nodded enthusiastically. ‘Without doubt. You like to drive, Commander.’
‘I do,’ Bond said. ‘How did you know?’
‘On the way from the airport yesterday you looked with some interest at a Maserati, a Moto Guzzi and a left-hand-drive Mustang from America.’
‘You notice things, Warrant Officer.’
‘I try to. That Ford – it was a very nice set of wheels. Some day I will own a Jaguar. It is my goal.’
Then a loud voice was calling a greeting from the corridor. ‘Hallo, hallo!’
Bond wasn’t surprised it belonged to Gregory Lamb. The MI6 agent strode into the office, waving to everyone. It was obvious that Bheka Jordaan didn’t care for him, as Lamb had admitted yesterday, though he and Nkosi seemed to get on well. They had a brief conversation about a recent football match.
Casting a cautious glance at Jordaan, the big, ruddy man turned to Bond. ‘Came through for you, my friend. Got a signal from Vauxhall Cross to help you out.’
Lamb was the cut-out whom Bond had reluctantly mentioned to Hirani earlier that morning. He couldn’t think of anybody else to use on such short notice and at least the man had been vetted.
‘Leapt into the fray, even missed breakfast, my friend, I’ll have you know. Talked to that chap in your office’s Q Branch. Is he always so bloody cheerful that early in the morning?’
‘Actually he is,’ said Bond.
‘Got talking to him. I’m having some navigation problems on my ship charters. Pirates’ve been jamming signals. Whatever happened to the eye patches and peg legs, hmm? Well, this Hirani says there are devices that will jam the jammers. He wouldn’t ship me any, though. Any chance you could put in a word?’
‘You know our outfit doesn’t officially exist, Lamb.’
‘We’re all part of the same team,’ he said huffily. ‘I’ve got a huge charter coming up in a day or so. Massive.’
Helping Lamb’s lucrative cover career was the last thing on Bond’s mind at the moment. He asked sternly, ‘And your assignment today?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Lamb handed Bond the black satchel he was carrying as if it contained the Crown Jewels. ‘Must say in all modesty the morning’s been a smashing success. Positively brilliant. I’ve been running hither and yon. Had to tip rather heavily. You’ll reimburse me, of course?’
‘I’m sure it’ll get sorted.’ Bond opened the satchel and regarded the contents. He examined one item closely. It was a small plastic tube labelled, ‘Re-Leef. For Congestion Problems Caused by Asthma’.
Hirani was a genius.
‘An inhaler. You have lung problems?’ Nkosi asked. ‘My brother too. He is a gold miner.’
‘Not really.’ Bond pocketed it, along with the other items Lamb had delivered.
Nkosi took a call. When he hung up he said, ‘I have a nice car for you, Commander. Subaru. All-wheel drive.’
A Subaru, thought Bond, sceptical. A suburban estate wagon. But Nkosi was beaming so he said graciously, ‘Thank you, Warrant Officer. I’ll look forward to driving it.’
‘The petrol mileage is very good,’ Nkosi said enthusiastically.
‘I’m sure it is.’ He started out of the door.
Gregory Lamb stopped him. ‘Bond,’ he said softly. ‘Sometimes I’m not sure the powers that be in London take me all that seriously. I was exaggerating a bit yesterday – about the Cape, I mean. Fact is, the worst that happens down here is a warlord coming in from Congo to take the waters. Or a Hamas chap in transit at the airport. Just want to thank you for including me, my friend. I-’
Bond interrupted, ‘You�
��re welcome, Lamb. But how’s this: let’s just assume I’m your friend. Then you won’t have to keep repeating it. How’s that?’
‘Fair enough, my… fair enough.’ A grin spread over the fat face.
Then Bond was out the door, thinking: next stop, hell.
45
James Bond enjoyed Kwalene Nkosi’s little joke.
Yes, the car he’d procured for the agent’s use was a small Japanese import. It wasn’t, however, a staid family saloon but a metallic blue Subaru Impreza WRX, the STI model, which boasted a turbocharged 305-horsepower engine, six gears and a high spoiler. The jaunty little vehicle would be far more at home on rally courses than in some Asda car park and, settling into the driver’s seat, Bond couldn’t restrain himself. He laid twin streaks of rubber as he sped up Buitenkant Street, heading for the motorway.
For the next half-hour he made his way north of Cape Town proper, guided by sat-nav, and finally skidded the taut little Subaru off the N7 and proceeded east along an increasingly deserted road, past a vast bottomless quarry and then into a grubby landscape of low hills, some green, some brown with autumn tint. Sporadic stands of trees broke the monotony.
The May sky was overcast and the air was humid but dust rose from the road, churned up by the Green Way lorries carting their refuse in the direction Bond was going. In addition to the typical dustcarts, there were much larger ones, painted with the Green Way name and distinctive green leaf – or dagger – logo. Signs on the sides indicated that they came from company operations throughout South Africa. Bond was surprised to see one lorry was from a branch in Pretoria, the administrative capital of the country, many miles away – why would Hydt go to the expense of bringing rubbish to Cape Town when he could open a recycling depot where it was needed?
Bond changed down and blew past a series of the lorries at speed. He was enjoying this sprightly vehicle very much. He’d have to tell Philly Maidenstone about it.
A large road sign, stark in black and white, flashed past.
Carte Blanche Page 24
