Carte Blanche Part 18

'All right. Oh, but I was supposed to mention one thing. Something odd. He said to tell you that the problem he's got is the same as at Isandlwana in the 1870s.'

Hydt looked away from the doc.u.ments on his desk. A moment later he realised he was gripping the phone hard. 'You're sure that's what he said?'

'Yes. "The same as at Isandlwana". No idea what he meant.'

'He's in Durban?'

'His company's headquarters are there. He's at his Cape Town office for the day.'

'See if he's free to come in.'

'When?' the sales manager asked.

A fractional pause, then Hydt said, 'Now.'

In January 1879, the war between Great Britain and the Zulu Kingdom kicked off in earnest with a stunning defeat for the British. At Isandlwana, overwhelming forces (twenty thousand Zulus versus fewer than two thousand British and colonial troops) and some bad tactical decisions resulted in a complete rout. It was there that the Zulus broke the British Square, the famous defensive formation in which one line of soldiers fired while another, directly behind, reloaded, offering the enemy a nearly unremitting volley of bullets in that instance, with the deadly Martini-Henry breech-loading rifles.

But the tactic hadn't worked; thirteen hundred British soldiers and allied forces died.

The 'disposal' problem that the Afrikaner had referred to could mean only one thing. The battle had occurred in January, the fiercely hot dog days of summer in the region of what was now KwaZulu-Natal; removing the bodies quickly was a necessity . . . and a major logistical issue.

The disposal of remains was also one of the major problems that Gehenna would present in future projects and Hydt and Dunne had been discussing it over the past month.

Why on earth would a businessman from Durban have a problem along these lines that required Hydt's a.s.sistance?

Ten lengthy minutes later his secretary stepped into his doorway. 'A Mr Theron is here, sir. From Durban.'

'Good, good. Show him in. Please.'

She vanished and returned a moment later with a tough-looking, edgy man, who glanced around Hydt's office cautiously, yet with an air of challenge. He was dressed in the business outfit common to South Africa: a suit and smart s.h.i.+rt, but no tie. Whatever his line he must have been successful; a heavy gold bracelet encircled his right wrist and his watch was a flashy Breitling. A gold initial ring too, which was a touch brash, Hydt thought.

'Morning.' The man shook Hydt's hand. He noticed the long yellowing fingernails but did not recoil, as had happened on more than one occasion. 'Gene Theron,' he said.

'Severan Hydt.'

They exchanged business cards.

Eugene J. Theron President, EJT Services, Ltd Durban, Cape Town and Kinshasa Hydt reflected: an office in the capital of Congo, one of the most dangerous cities in Africa. This was interesting.

The man glanced at the door, which was open. Hydt rose and closed it, returned to his desk. 'You're from Durban, Mr Theron?'

'Yes, and my main office is there. But I travel a lot. And you?' The faint accent was melodious.

'London, Holland and here. I get to the Far East and India too. Wherever business takes me. Now, "Theron". The name's Huguenot, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'We forget Afrikaners are not always Dutch.'

Theron lifted an eyebrow as if he'd heard such comments since he was a child and was tired of them.

Hydt's phone trilled. He looked at the screen. It was Niall Dunne. 'Excuse me a moment,' he said to Theron, who nodded. Then: 'Yes?' Hydt asked, pressing the phone close to his ear.

'Theron's legit. South African pa.s.sport. Lives in Durban and has a security company with headquarters there, with branches here and in Kinshasa. Father's Afrikaner, mother's British. Grew up mostly in Kenya.'

Dunne continued, 'He's been suspected of supplying troops and arms to conflict regions in Africa, South East Asia and Pakistan. No active investigations. The Cambodians detained him in a human trafficking and mercenary investigation because of what he'd been up to in Shan, Myanmar, but let him go. Nothing in Interpol. And he's pretty successful, from what I can tell.'

Hydt had deduced that himself; the man's Breitling was worth around five thousand pounds.

'I just texted a picture to you,' Dunne added.

It appeared on Hydt's screen and showed the man in front of him. Dunne went on, 'But . . . whatever he's proposing, are you sure you want to think about it now?'

Hydt thought he sounded jealous perhaps that the mercenary might have a project that would deflect attention from Dunne's plans for Gehenna. He said, 'Those sales figures are better than I thought. Thank you.' He disconnected. Then he asked Theron, 'How did you hear about me?'

Although they were alone Theron lowered his voice as he turned hard, knowing eyes on Hydt: 'Cambodia. I was doing some work there. Some people told me of you.'

Ah. Hydt understood now and the realisation gave him a thrill. Last year on business in the Far East he'd stopped to visit several gravesites of the infamous Killing Fields, where the Khmer Rouge had slaughtered millions of Cambodians in the 1970s. At the memorial at Choeung Ek, where nearly nine thousand bodies had been buried in ma.s.s graves, Hydt had spoken to several veterans about the slaughter and taken hundreds of pictures for his collection. One of the locals must have mentioned his name to Theron.

'You had business there, you say?' Hydt asked, thinking of what Dunne had learnt.

'Nearby,' Theron replied with a suitable brush of evasion.

Hydt was intensely curious but, a businessman first and foremost, he tried not to appear too enthusiastic. 'And what do Isandlwana and Cambodia have to do with me?'

'They are places where there was a great loss of life. Many bodies were interred where they fell in battle.'

Choeung Ek was genocide, not a battle, but Hydt did not correct him.

'They've become sacred areas. And that's good, I suppose. Except . . .' The Afrikaner paused. 'I'll tell you about a problem I have become aware of and about a solution that has occurred to me. Then you can tell me if that solution is possible and if you have an interest in helping me achieve it.'

'Go on.'

Theron said, 'I have many connections to governments and companies in various parts of Africa.' He paused. 'Darfur, Congo, Central African Republic, Mozambique, Zimbabwe, a few others.'

Conflict regions, Hydt observed.

'And these groups are concerned about the consequences that arise after, say, a terrible natural disaster like drought or famine or storms or, frankly, anywhere that a major loss of life has occurred and bodies have been buried. As in Cambodia or Isandlwana.'

Hydt said innocently, 'Such cases have serious health implications. Water supply contamination, disease.'

'No,' Theron said bluntly. 'I mean something else. Superst.i.tion.'

'Superst.i.tion?'

'Say, for instance, because of a lack of money or resources, bodies have been left in ma.s.s graves. A shame, but it happens.'

'Indeed it does.'

'Now, if a government or a charity wishes to build something for the good of the people a hospital, a housing development or a road in that area they would be reluctant to do so. The land is perfectly good, there is money to build and workers who wish to be employed but many people would fear ghosts or spirits and be afraid to go to that hospital or move into those houses. It's absurd to me, and to you too, I'm sure. But that's how many people feel.' Theron shrugged. 'How sad for the citizens of those areas if their health and safety were to suffer because of such foolish ideas.'

Hydt was riveted. He was tapping his nails on the desk. He forced himself to stop.

'So. Here is my idea: I am thinking of offering a service to, well, those government agencies to remove the human remains.' His face brightened. 'This will allow more building of factories, hospitals, roads, farms, schools, and it will help the poor, the unfortunate.'

'Yes,' Hydt said. 'Rebury the bodies somewhere else.'

Theron laid his hands on the desk. The gold initial ring glittered in a shaft of sunlight. 'That's one possibility. But it would be very expensive. And the problem might arise later at the new location.'

'True. But are there other alternatives?' Hydt asked.

'Your speciality.'

'Which is?'

In a whisper Theron said, 'Perhaps . . . recycling.'

Hydt saw the scenario clearly. Gene Theron, a mercenary and obviously a very successful one, had supplied troops and weapons to various armies and warlords throughout Africa, men who'd secretly ma.s.sacred hundreds or thousands of people and hidden the bodies in ma.s.s graves. Now they were growing worried that legitimate governments, peacekeeping forces, the press or human-rights groups would discover the corpses.

Theron had made money by providing the means of destruction. Now he wanted to make money by removing the evidence of their use.

'It seemed to me an interesting solution,' Theron continued. 'But I wouldn't know how to go about it. Your . . . interests in Cambodia and your recycling business here told me that perhaps this is something you had thought of, too. Or would be willing to consider.' His cold eyes regarded Hydt. 'I was thinking maybe concrete or plaster. Or fertiliser?'

Turning the bodies into products that ensured they couldn't be recognised as human remains! Hydt could hardly contain himself. Utterly brilliant. Why, there must be hundreds of opportunities like this throughout the world Somalia, the former Yugoslavia, Latin America . . . and there were killing fields aplenty in Africa. Thousands. His chest pounded.

'So, that's my idea. A fifty-fifty partners.h.i.+p. I provide the refuse and you recycle it.' Theron seemed to find this rather amusing.

'I think we may be able to do business.' Hydt offered his hand to the Afrikaner.

35.

The worst risk of James Bond a.s.suming the NOC nonofficial cover of Gene Theron was that Niall Dunne had perhaps got a look at him in Serbia or the Fens, or had been given his description in Dubai if the blue-jacketed man who'd been tailing him was in fact working for Hydt.

In which case when Bond walked brazenly into the Green Way office in Cape Town and sought to hire Hydt to dispose of bodies hidden in secret graves throughout Africa, Dunne would either kill him on the spot or spirit him to their own personal killing field, where the job would be done with cold efficiency.

But now, having shaken hands with an intrigued Severan Hydt, Bond believed his cover was holding. So far. Hydt had been suspicious at first, of course, but he had been willing to give Theron the benefit of the doubt. Why? Because Bond had tempted him with a dangle, a lure he couldn't resist: death and decay.

That morning, at SAPS headquarters, Bond had contacted Philly Maidenstone and Osborne-Smith his new ally and they had data-mined Hydt's and Green Way's credit cards. They'd learnt that he'd not only travelled to the Killing Fields in Cambodia but to Krakow, Poland, where he'd taken several tours of Auschwitz. Among his purchases at the time were double-A batteries and a second flash chip for a camera.

Man's got a whole new idea about p.o.r.n . . .

Bond decided that to work his way into Hydt's life he would offer a chance to satisfy that l.u.s.t: access to secret killing fields throughout Africa and a proposal to recycle human remains.

For the past three hours Bond had struggled, under the tutelage of Bheka Jordaan, to become an Afrikaner mercenary from Durban. Gene Theron would have a slightly unusual background: he'd had Huguenot rather than Dutch forebears and his parents favoured English and French in the household of his youth, which explained why he didn't speak much Afrikaans. A British education in Kenya would cover his accent. She had, however, made Bond learn something of the dialect; if Leonardo DiCaprio and Matt Damon had mastered the subtle intonation for recent films and they were American, for heaven's sake he could do so too.

While she'd coached him on facts that a South African mercenary might know, Sergeant Mbalula had gone to the evidence locker and found an incarcerated drug dealer's gaudy Breitling watch, to replace Bond's tasteful Rolex, and gold bracelet for the successful mercenary to wear. He'd then sped to a jeweller in the Gardens Shopping Centre in Mill Street, where he'd bought a gold signet ring and had it engraved with the initials EJT.

Meanwhile, Warrant Officer Kwalene Nkosi had worked feverishly with the ODG's I Branch in London to create the fictional Gene Theron, uploading to the Internet biographical information about the hard-boiled mercenary, with Photoshopped pictures and details about his fictional company.

A series of lectures on cover ident.i.ties at Fort Monckton could be summarised in the instructor's introductory sentence: 'If you don't have a web presence, you're not real.'

Nkosi had also printed business cards for EJT Services Ltd, and MI6 in Pretoria pulled in some favours to get the company registered in record time, the doc.u.ments backdated. Jordaan was not happy about this it was, to her, a breach of the sacred rule of law but since she and SAPS were not involved, she let it go. I Branch also created a fake criminal investigation in Cambodia about Theron's questionable behaviour in Myanmar, which mentioned shady activities in other countries too.

The faux Afrikaner was over the first hurdle. The second and most dangerous was close. Hydt was on the phone summoning Niall Dunne to meet 'a businessman from Durban'.

After he'd hung up, Hydt said casually, 'One question. Would you happen to have pictures of the fields? The graves?'

'That can be arranged,' Bond said.

'Good.' Hydt smiled like a schoolboy. He rubbed the back of his hand on his beard.

Bond heard the door behind him open. 'Ah, here is my a.s.sociate, Niall Dunne . . . Niall, this is Gene Theron. From Durban.'

Now for it. Was he about to be shot? Bond rose, turned and went up to the Irishman, looking straight into his eyes and offering the stiff smile of one businessman meeting another for the first time. As they shook hands, Dunne stared at him, a knife slash from the chill blue eyes.

There was, however, no suspicion in the gaze. Bond was confident he had not been recognised.

Closing the door behind him, the Irishman shot a quizzical glance at his boss, who handed him the EJT Services business card. The men sat down. 'Mr Theron has a proposition,' Hydt said enthusiastically. He ran through the plan in general terms.

Bond could see that Dunne, too, was intrigued. 'Yes,' he said. 'This could be good. Some logistics to consider, of course.'

Hydt continued, 'Mr Theron's going to arrange for us to see pictures of the locations. Give us a better idea of what would be involved.'

Dunne shot him a troubled glance the Irishman wasn't suspicious, but seemed put off by this. He reminded Hydt, 'We have to be at the plant by fifteen thirty. That meeting?' He turned his eyes on Bond again. 'Your office is just round the corner.' He'd memorised the address at a glance, Bond noted. 'Why don't you get them now? Those pictures?'

'Well . . . I suppose I could,' Bond said, stalling.

Dunne eyed him levelly. 'Good.' As he opened the door for Bond, his jacket swung open, revealing the Beretta pistol on his belt, probably the one he'd used to murder the men in Serbia.

Was it a message? A warning?

Bond pretended not to see it. He nodded to both men. 'I'll be back in thirty minutes.'

But Gene Theron had been gone only five when Dunne said, 'Let's go.'

'Where to?' Hydt frowned.

'To Theron's office. Now.'

Hydt noted that the gangly man had one of those expressions on his face, challenging, petulant.

That bizarre jealousy again. What went on in Dunne's soul?