Carte Blanche

by Jeffery Deaver

  ‘We can’t tell, can we?’ Bixton answered. ‘The Doughnut hasn’t broken the codes yet.’ GCHQ’s headquarters in Cheltenham was built in the shape of a fat ring. ‘The encryption packages are brand spanking new. Which has stymied everyone.’

  ‘SIGINT is cyclical over there,’ M muttered dismissively. He had been very, very senior at MI6 and had earned a reputation for unparalleled skill at mining intelligence and, more important, refiningit into something useful.

  ‘True,’ Sir Andrew agreed. ‘Rather too coincidental, though, that all these calls and emails have popped up just now, the day before Incident Twenty, wouldn’t you think?’

  Not necessarily.

  He continued, ‘And nobody’s turned up anythingthat specifically links Hydt to the threat.’

  ‘Nobody’ translated to ‘007’.

  M looked at his wristwatch, which had been his son’s, a soldier with the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. The security meeting was set to resume in a half hour. He was exhausted and Friday, tomorrow, would be an even longer session, culminating in a tiresome dinner followed by a speech by the home secretary.

  Sir Andrew noted the less-than-subtle glance at the battered timepiece: ‘Long story short, Miles, the JIC is of the opinion that this Severan Hydt fellow in South Africa’s a diversion. Maybe he’s involved but he’s not a key player in Incident Twenty. Five and Six’s people think the real actors are in Afghanistan and that’s where the attack will happen: military or aid workers, contractors.’

  Of course, that was what they would say- whatever they actually thought. The adventure in Kabul had cost billions of pounds and far too many lives; the more evil that could be found there to justify the incursion, the better. M had been aware of this from the beginning of the Incident Twenty operation.

  ‘Now, Bond-’

  ‘He’s good, we know that,’ Bixton interrupted, eyeing the chocolate biscuits M had asked not to be brought with the tea but had arrived anyway.

  Sir Andrew frowned.

  ‘It’s just that he hasn’t actually found much,’ Bixton went on. ‘Unless there’ve been details that haven’t yet circulated.’

  M said nothing, merely regarding both men with equal frost.

  Sir Andrew said, ‘Bond isa star, of course. So the thinking is that it would be good for everybody if he deployed to Kabul post haste. Tonight, if you could make that work. Put him in a hot zone along with a couple of dozen of Six’s premier-league lads. We’ll tap the CIA too. We don’t mind spreading the glory.’

  And the blame, thought M, if they get it wrong.

  Bixton said, ‘Makes sense. Bond was stationed in Afghanistan.’

  M said, ‘Incident Twenty’s supposed to happen tomorrow. It’ll take him all night to get to Kabul. How can he stop anything happening?’

  ‘The thinking is…’ Sir Andrew fell silent, realising, M supposed, that he’d repeated his own irritating verbal filler. ‘We aren’t sure it canbe stopped.’

  Silence washed in unpleasantly, like a tide polluted with hospital waste.

  ‘Our approach would be for your man and the others to head up a post-mortem analysis team. Try to find out for certain who was behind it. Put together a response proposal. Bond could even head it up.’

  M knew, of course, what was happening here: the Two Ronnies were offering the ODG a face-saving measure. Your organisation could be a star ninety-five per cent of the time, but if you erred even once, with a big loss, you might appear at the office on Monday morning and find your whole outfit disbanded or, worse, turned into a vetting agency.

  And the Overseas Development Group was on thin ice to start with, hosting as it did the 00 Section, to which many people objected. To stumble on Incident Twenty would be a big stumble indeed. By getting Bond to Afghanistan forthwith, at least the ODG would have a player in the game, even if he arrived on the pitch a bit late.

  M said evenly, ‘Your point is noted, gentlemen. Let me make some phone calls.’

  Bixton beamed. But Sir Andrew hadn’t quite finished. His persistence, infused with shrewdness, was one of the reasons M believed that future audiences with him might take place at 10 Downing Street. ‘Bond will be all-hands-on-deck?’

  The threat implicit in the question was that if 007 remained in South Africa in defiance of M’s orders, Sir Andrew’s protection of Bond, M and the ODG would cease.

  The irony in giving an agent like 007 carte blanchewas that he was supposed to exercise it and act as he saw fit – which sometimes meant he would notbe on deck with all of the other hands. You can’t have it both ways, M reflected. ‘As I said, I’ll make some calls.’

  ‘Good. We’d better be off.’

  As they departed, M stood up and went through the french doors on to the balcony, where he noted a Metropolitan Police Specialist Protection officer, armed with a machine gun. After an examination of and a nod to the new arrival on his turf, the man returned to looking down over the street, thirty feet below. ‘All quiet?’ M asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  M walked to the far end of the balcony and lit a cheroot, sucking the smoke in deep. The streets were eerily quiet. The barricades were not just the tubular metal fences you saw outside Parliament; they were cement blocks, four feet high, solid enough to stop a speeding car. The pavements were patrolled by armed guards and M noted several snipers on the roofs of nearby buildings. He gazed absently down Richmond Terrace towards Victoria Embankment.

  He took out his mobile and called Moneypenny.

  Only a single ring before she answered. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I need to talk to the chief of staff.’

  ‘He’s popped down to the canteen. I’ll connect you.’

  As he waited, M squinted and gave a gruff laugh. At the intersection, near the barricade, there was a large lorry and a few men were dragging bins to and from it. They were employees of Severan Hydt’s company, Green Way International. He realised he’d been watching them for the past few minutes yet not actually noticing them. They’d been invisible.

  ‘Tanner here, sir.’

  The dustmen vanished from M’s thoughts. He plucked the cheroot from between his teeth and said evenly, ‘Bill, I need to talk to you about 007.’

  50

  Guided by sat-nav, Bond made his way through central Cape Town, past businesses and residences. He found himself in an area of small, brightly coloured houses, blue, pink, red and yellow, tucked under Signal Hill. The narrow streets were largely cobbled. It reminded him of villages in the Caribbean, with the difference that here careful Arabic designs patterned many homes. He passed a quiet mosque.

  It was six thirty on this cool Thursday evening and he was en route to Bheka Jordaan’s house.

  Friend or foe…

  He wound the car through the uneven streets and parked nearby. She met him at the door and greeted him with an unsmiling nod. She had shed her work clothing and wore blue jeans and a close-fitting dark red cardigan. Her shiny black hair hung loose and he was taken by the rich aura of lilac scent from a recent shampooing. ‘This is an interesting area,’ he said. ‘Nice.’

  ‘It’s called Bo-Kaap. It used to be very poor, mostly Muslim, immigrants from Malaysia. I moved here with… well, with someone years ago. It was poorer then. Now the place is becoming very chic. There used to be only bicycles parked outside. Now it’s Toyotas but soon it’ll be Mercedes. I don’t like that. I’d rather it was as it used to be. But it’s my home. Besides, my sisters and I take turns to have Ugogo living with us, and they’re close so it’s convenient.’

  ‘Ugogo?’ Bond asked.

  ‘It means “grandmother”. Our mother’s mother. My parents live in Pietermaritzburg, in KwaZulu-Natal, some way east of here.’

  Bond recalled the antique map in her office.

  ‘So we look after Ugogo. That’s the Zulu way.’

  She didn’t invite him in, so, on the porch, Bond gave her an account of his trip to Green Way. ‘I need the film in this developed.’ He handed her the inha
ler. ‘It’s eight-millimetre, ISO is twelve hundred. Can you sort it?’

  ‘Me? Not your MI6 associate?’ she asked acerbically.

  Bond felt no need to defend Gregory Lamb. ‘I trust him but he raided my minibar of two hundred rands’ worth of drink. I’d like somebody with a clear head to handle it. Developing film can be tricky.’

  ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘Now, Hydt has some associates coming into town tonight. There’s a meeting at the Green Way plant tomorrow morning.’ He thought back to what Dunne had said. ‘They’re arriving at about seven. Can you find out their names?’

  ‘Do you know the airlines?’

  ‘No, but Dunne’s meeting them.’

  ‘We’ll put a stake-out in place. Kwalene is good at that. He jokes, but he’s very good.’

  He certainly is. Discreet, too, Bond reflected.

  A woman’s voice called from inside.

  Jordaan turned her head. ‘ Ize balulekile.’

  Some more Zulu words were exchanged.

  Jordaan’s face was still. ‘Will you come in? So Ugogo can see you’re not someone in a gang. I’ve told her it’s no one. But she worries.’

  No one?

  Bond followed her into the small flat, which was tidy and nicely furnished. Prints, hangings and photos decorated the walls.

  The elderly woman who’d spoken to Jordaan was sitting at a large dining table set with two places. The meal had largely concluded. She was very frail. Bond recognised her as the woman in many of the pictures in Jordaan’s office. She wore a loose orange and brown frock and slippers. Her grey hair was short. She started to rise.

  ‘No, please,’ Bond said.

  She stood anyway and, hunched, shuffled forward to shake his hand with a firm, dry grip.

  ‘You are the Englishman Bheka spoke of. You don’t look so bad to me.’

  Jordaan glared at her.

  The older woman introduced herself: ‘I’m Mbali.’

  ‘James.’

  ‘I am going to rest. Bheka, give him some food. He’s too thin.’

  ‘No, I must be going.’

  ‘You are hungry. I saw how you looked at the bobotie. It tastes even better than it looks.’

  Bond smiled. He hadbeen looking at the pot on the stove.

  ‘My granddaughter is a very good cook. You will like it. And you will have some Zulu beer. Have you ever had any?’

  ‘I’ve had Birkenhead and Gilroy’s.’

  ‘No, Zulu beer is the best.’ Mbali shot a look at her granddaughter. ‘Give him some beer and he will have some food too. Bring him a plate of bobotie. And sambalsauce.’ She looked critically at Bond. ‘You like spice?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  Exasperated, Jordaan said, ‘Ugogo, he said he has to be going.’

  ‘He said that because of you. Give him some beer and some food. Look how thin he is!’

  ‘Honestly, Ugogo.’

  ‘That’s my granddaughter. A mind of her own.’

  The old woman picked up a ceramic crock of beer and walked into a bedroom. The door closed.

  ‘Is she well?’ Bond asked.

  ‘Cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘She’s doing better than expected. She’s ninety-seven.’

  Bond was surprised. ‘I would have thought she was in her seventies.’

  As if afraid of the silence that might engender the need for conversation, Jordaan strode to a battered CD player and loaded a disc. A woman’s low voice, buoyed by hip-hop rhythms, burst from the speakers. Bond saw the CD cover: Thandiswa Mazwai.

  ‘Sit down,’ Jordaan said, gesturing at the table.

  ‘No, it’s all right.’

  ‘What do you mean, no, it’s all right?’

  ‘You don’t have to feed me.’

  Jordaan said shortly, ‘If Ugogo learns I haven’t offered you any beer or bobotie, she won’t be happy.’ She produced a clay pot with a rattan lid and poured some frothy pinkish liquid into a glass.

  ‘So that’s Zulu beer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Homemade?’

  ‘Zulu beer is always homemade. It takes three days to brew and you drink it while it’s still fermenting.’

  Bond sipped. It was sour yet sweet and seemed low in alcohol.

  Jordaan then served him a plate of bobotieand spooned on some reddish sauce. It was a bit like shepherd’s pie, with egg instead of potato on top, but better than any pie Bond had ever had in England. The thick sauce was well flavoured and indeed spicy.

  ‘You’re not joining me?’ Bond nodded towards an empty chair. Jordaan was standing, leaning against the sink, arms folded across her voluptuous chest.

  ‘I’ve finished eating,’ she said, the words clipped. She remained where she was.

  Friend or foe…

  He finished the food. ‘I must say you’re quite talented – a clever policewoman who also makes marvellous beer and,’ a nod at the cooking pot, ‘ bobotie . If I’m pronouncing that right.’

  He received no response. Did he insult her with every remark he made?

  Bond tamped down his irritation and found himself regarding the many photographs of the family on the walls and mantelpiece. ‘Your grandmother must have seen a great deal of history in the making.’

  Glancing affectionately at the bedroom door, she said, ‘Ugogo isSouth Africa. Her uncle was wounded at the battle of Kambula, fighting the British – a few months after the battle I told you about, Isandlwana. She was born just a few years after the Union of South Africa was formed from the Cape and Natal provinces. She was relocated under apartheid’s Group Areas Act in the fifties. And she was wounded in a protest in 1960.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The Sharpeville Massacre. She was among those protesting against the dompas- the “dumb pass”, it was called. Under apartheid people were legally classified as white, black, coloured or Indian.’

  Bond recalled Gregory Lamb’s comments.

  ‘Blacks had to carry a passbook signed by their employer allowing them to be in a white area. It was humiliating, it was horrible. There was a peaceful protest but the police fired on the demonstrators. Nearly seventy people were killed. Ugogo was shot. Her leg. That’s why she limps.’

  Jordaan hesitated and at last poured herself some beer, then sipped. ‘Ugogo gave me my name. That is, she told my parents what they would call me and they did. One usually does what Ugogo says.’

  ‘“Bheka”,’ Bond said.

  ‘In Zulu it means “one who watches over people”.’

  ‘A protector. So you were destined to become a policewoman.’ Bond was quite enjoying the music.

  ‘Ugogo is the old South Africa. I’m the new. A mix of Zulu and Afrikaner. They call us a rainbow country, yes, but look at a rainbow and you still see different colours, all separate. We need to become like me, blended together. It will be a long time before that happens. But it will.’ She glanced coolly at Bond. ‘Then we’ll be able to dislike people for who they really are. Not for the colour of their skin.’

  Bond returned her gaze evenly and said, ‘Thank you for the food and the beer. I should be going.’

  She walked with him to the door. He stepped outside.

  Which was when he caught his first clear glimpse of the man who’d pursued him from Dubai. The man in the blue jacket and the gold earring, the man who had killed Yusuf Nasad and had very nearly killed Felix Leiter.

  He was standing across the road, in the shadows of an old building covered with Arabic scrolls and mosaics.

  ‘What is it?’ Jordaan asked.

  ‘A hostile.’

  The man had a mobile but wasn’t making a call; he was taking a picture of Bond with Jordaan – proof that Bond was working with the police.

  Bond snapped, ‘Get your weapon and stay inside with your grandmother.’

  He sprinted hard across the street as the man fled up a narrow alley leading towards Signal Hill, through the
deepening dusk.

  51

  The man had a ten-yard lead, but Bond began closing the distance as they pounded up the alley. Angry cats and scrawny dogs fled, a child with round Malaysian features stepped out of a door into Bond’s path and was instantly jerked back by a parental hand.

  He was nearly fifteen feet from the assailant when operational instinct kicked in. Bond realised that the man might have prepared a trap to aid his escape. He glanced down. Yes! The attacker had strung a piece of wire across the alley, a foot off the ground, nearly invisible in the darkness. The man himself had known where it was – a shard of broken crockery marked the spot – and had stepped over it smoothly. Bond wasn’t able to stop in time but he could prepare himself for the fall.

  He twisted his shoulder forward and when his own momentum swept his legs out from under him, he half somersaulted on to the ground. He landed hard and lay dazed for a moment, cursing himself for letting the man get away.

  Except that he wasn’t escaping.

  The wire hadn’t been intended to hinder pursuit but to render Bond vulnerable.

  In an instant the man was on him, exuding the stench of beer, stale cigarette smoke and unwashed flesh, and ripping Bond’s Walther from the holster. Bond launched himself upwards, gripping the man’s right arm in a lock and twisting his wrist until the weapon fell to the ground. The attacker kicked the gun, which flew far from Bond’s reach. Gasping, Bond kept hold of the man’s right arm and dodged vicious blows from his other fist.

  He glanced back, wondering if Bheka Jordaan had ignored his advice and come after him, armed with her own weapon. The empty alley gaped at him.

  Now his assailant eased back to deliver a forehead blow. But, as Bond twisted to avoid it, the man rolled away, in a virtual backward somersault, like a gymnast. It was a brilliant feint. Bond recalled Felix Leiter’s words.

  Man, the SOB knows some martial arts crap…

  Then Bond was on his feet, facing the man, who stood in a fighter’s stance, a knife in his hand, blade protruding downwards, sharp edge facing out. His left hand, open and palm down, floated distractingly, ready to grab Bond’s clothing and pull him in to be stabbed to death.