Carte Blanche Part 20

'After my great undercover work' Nkosi's arm swept around the room 'I now know I am quite the actor. I will come to London and work in the West End. That's where the famous theatres are correct?'

'Well, yes.' Though Bond had not been to one voluntarily in years.

The young man said, 'I'm sure I will be quite successful. I'm partial to Shakespeare. David Mamet is quite good too. Without doubt.'

Bond supposed that, working for a boss like Bheka Jordaan, Nkosi did not get much of a chance to exercise his sense of humour.

37.

The hotel was near Table Bay in the fas.h.i.+onable Green Point area of Cape Town. It was an older building, six storeys, in cla.s.sic Cape style, and could not quite disguise its colonial roots though it didn't try very hard; you could see them clearly in the meticulous landscaping presently being tended by a number of diligent workers, the delicate but firm reminder on placards about the dining-room dress code, the spotless white uniforms of the demure, ever-present staff, the rattan furniture on the sweeping veranda overlooking the bay.

Another clue was the enquiry as to whether Mr Theron would like a personal butler for his stay. He politely declined.

The Table Mountain Hotel referred to everywhere as 'TM' in scrolling letters, from the marble floor to embossed napkins was just the place where a well-heeled Afrikaner businessman from Durban would stay, whether a legitimate computer salesman or a mercenary with ten thousand bodies to hide.

After checking in, Bond started towards the lift, but something outside caught his eye. He popped into the gift shop for shaving foam he didn't need. Then he circled back to Reception to help himself to some complimentary fruit juice from a large gla.s.s tank surrounded by an arrangement of purple jacaranda and red and white roses.

He wasn't certain but someone might have been conducting surveillance. When he'd turned abruptly to get the juice, a shadow had vanished equally abruptly.

With many opportunities come many operatives . . .

Bond waited for a moment but the apparition didn't reappear.

Of course, operational life sows the seeds of paranoia and sometimes a pa.s.ser-by is just a pa.s.ser-by, a curious gaze signifies nothing more than a curious mind. Besides, you can't protect yourself from every risk in this business; if somebody wants you dead badly enough, they'll get their wish. Mentally Bond shrugged off the tail and took the lift to the first floor, where the rooms were accessed from an open balcony that overlooked the lobby. He stepped inside, closed and chained the door.

He tossed the suitcase on to one of the beds, strode to the window and closed the curtains. He slipped everything that identified him as James Bond into a large carbon-fibre envelope with an electronic lock on the flap and sealed it. With his shoulder he tipped a chest of drawers and pushed the pouch underneath. It might be found and stolen, of course, but any attempt to open it without his thumbprint on the lock would send an encrypted message to the ODG's C Branch, and Bill Tanner would send a Crash Dive text to alert him that his cover had been compromised.

He rang room service and ordered a club sandwich and a Gilroy's dark ale. Then he showered. By the time he'd dressed in a pair of battles.h.i.+p grey trousers and a black polo s.h.i.+rt, the food was at the door. He ran a comb through his damp hair, checked the peephole and let the waiter in.

The tray was placed on the small table, the bill signed as E. J. Theron in Bond's own handwriting; that was one thing you never tried to fake, however deep your cover. The waiter pocketed his tip with overt grat.i.tude. When Bond stepped back to the door to see the young man out and refix the chain, he automatically scanned the balcony and the lobby below.

He squinted, gazing down, then shut the door fast.

d.a.m.n.

Glancing with regret at the sandwich and even more regretfully at the beer he stepped into his shoes and flung open his suitcase. He screwed the Gemtech silencer on to the muzzle of his Walther and, although he'd done so recently at SAPS headquarters, eased the slide of the pistol back a few millimetres to verify that a round was in the chamber.

The gun went into the folds of today's edition of the Cape Times, which Bond then set on the tray between his sandwich and the beer. He lifted it one-handed over his shoulder and left the room, the tray obscuring his face. He was not dressed in a waiter's uniform but he moved briskly, head down, and might have been mistaken by a casual observer for a harried member of staff.

At the end of the corridor, he went through the fire doors of the stairwell, put the tray down and picked up the newspaper with its deadly contents. Then he descended a flight of stairs, quietly, to the ground floor.

Looking out through a porthole in the swing door, he spotted his target, sitting in an armchair in the shadows of a far corner of the lobby, nearly invisible. Facing away from Bond, he was scanning from his newspaper to the lobby to the first-floor balcony. Apparently he had missed Bond's escape.

Bond gauged distances and angles, the location and number of guests, staff and security guards. He waited while a porter wheeled a cart of suitcases past, a waiter carried a tray bearing a silver coffee pot to another guest at the far end of the lobby, and a cl.u.s.ter of j.a.panese tourists moved en ma.s.se out of the door, taking with them his target's attention.

Bond thought clinically: now.

He pushed out of the stairwell and walked fast towards the back of an armchair over which the crown of his target's head could just be seen. He circled around it and dropped into the chair just opposite, smiling as if he'd run into an old friend. He kept his finger off the trigger of the Walther, which Corporal Menzies had fine-tuned to a feather-light pull.

The freckled ruddy face glanced up. The man's eyes flashed wide in surprise that he'd been duped. In recognition too. The look said, no, it wasn't a coincidence. He had been conducting surveillance on Bond.

He was the man Bond had seen at the airport that morning, whom he'd originally taken for Captain Jordaan.

'Fancy seeing you here!' Bond said cheerfully, to allay the suspicions of anybody witnessing the rendezvous. He lifted the curled newspaper so that the muzzle of the silencer was focused on the bulky chest.

But, curiously, the surprise in the milky green eyes was replaced not by fear or desperation but amus.e.m.e.nt. 'Ah, Mr . . . Theron, is it? Is that who we are at the moment?' The accent was Mancunian. His pudgy hands swung up, palms out.

Bond c.o.c.ked his head to one side. 'These rounds are nearly subsonic. With this suppressor, you'll be dead and I'll be gone long before anybody notices.'

'Oh, but you don't want to kill me. That would go down rather badly.'

Bond had heard plenty of monologues at moments like this when he'd got the draw on an opponent. Usually the bons mots were to buy time or for distraction as the target prepared himself for a desperate a.s.sault. Bond knew to ignore what the man was saying and watch his hands and body language.

Still, he could hardly dismiss the next lines issuing from the flabby lips. 'After all, what would M say if he heard you'd gunned down one of the Crown's star agents? And in such a beautiful setting.'

38.

His name was Gregory Lamb, confirmed by the iris and fingerprint scan app MI6's man on the ground in Cape Town. The agent Bill Tanner had told him to avoid.

They were in Bond's room, sans beer and sandwich; to his consternation, the tray containing his lunch had been whisked out of the stairwell by an efficient hotel employee by the time he and Lamb had returned to the first floor.

'You could've got yourself killed,' Bond muttered.

'I wasn't in any real danger. Your outfit doesn't give out those double noughts to trigger-happy fools . . . Now, now, my friend, don't get all ruffled. Some of us know what your Overseas Development outfit really does.'

'How did you know I was in town?'

'Put it together, didn't I? Heard about some goings-on and got in touch with friends at Lambeth.'

One of the disadvantages in having to use Six or DI for intelligence was that more people knew about your affairs than you might prefer. 'Why didn't you just contact me through secure channels?' Bond snapped.

'I was going to, but just as I got here I saw somebody playing shadow.'

Now Bond paid attention. 'Male, slim, blue jacket? Gold earring?'

'Well, now, didn't see the earring, did I? Eyes aren't what they used to be. But you've got the general kit right. Hovered about for a while, then vanished like the Tablecloth when the sun comes out. You know what I mean: the fog on Table Mountain.'

Bond was in no mood for travelogues. Dammit, the man who killed Yusuf Nasad and who had nearly done the same to Felix Leiter had learned he was here. He was probably the man Jordaan had told him about, the one who'd slipped into the country that morning from Abu Dhabi on a fake British pa.s.sport.

Who the h.e.l.l was he?

'Did you get a picture?' Bond asked.

'Drat no. The man was fast as a waterbug.'

'Spot anything else about him, type of mobile, possible weapons, vehicle?'

'None. Gone. Waterbug.' A shrug of the broad shoulders, which Bond supposed were as freckled and red as the face.

Bond said, 'You were at the airport when I landed. Why did you turn away?'

'I saw Captain Jordaan. She never took to me, for some reason. Maybe she thinks I'm the great white hunter colonist here to steal back her country. She gave me a b.l.o.o.d.y tongue las.h.i.+ng a few months ago, didn't she?'

'My chief of staff said you were in Eritrea,' Bond said.

'I was indeed there and across the border in Sudan for the past week. Looks like their hearts're set on war so I tooled on up to make sure my covers would survive the gunplay. I got that sorted and heard about an ODG operation.' His eyes dimmed. 'Surprised n.o.body gave me a bell about it.'

'The thinking was that you were involved in a rather serious op. Delicate,' Bond said judiciously.

'Ah.' Lamb seemed to believe this. 'Well, anyway, I thought I'd better race here to help out. You see, the Cape's tricky. It looks neat and clean and touristy but there's a lot more to it. I hate to blow my own trumpet, my friend, but you need somebody like me to weasel under the surface, tell you what's really going on. I'm connected. You know any other Six agent who's finagled local-government-development-fund money to finance his covers? I made the Crown a tidy profit last year.'

'All went to Treasury coffers, did it?'

Lamb shrugged. 'I've got a role to play, haven't I? To the world I'm a successful businessman. If you don't live your cover for all it's worth, well, a bit of sand gets into the works and the next thing you know there's a big pearl yelling, "I'm a spy!" . . . Say, you mind if we hit that minibar of yours?'

Bond waved at it. 'Go ahead.' Lamb helped himself to a miniature of Bombay Sapphire gin, then another. He poured them into a gla.s.s. 'No ice? Pity. Well, never mind.' He sloshed in a bit of tonic.

'What is your cover?'

'Mostly I arrange cargo s.h.i.+p charters. Brilliant idea, if I say so myself. Gives me a chance to hobn.o.b with the bad boys on the docks. I also do a spot of gold and aluminium exploration and road and infrastructure construction.'

'And you still have time to spy?'

'Good one, my friend!' For some reason Lamb started telling Bond his life story. He was a British citizen, as was his mother, and his father was South African. He'd come down here with his parents and decided he liked it better than life in Manchester. After training at Fort Monckton he'd asked to be sent back. Station Z was the only one he'd ever worked for . . . and the only one he'd ever cared to. He spent most of his time in the Western Cape but travelled frequently around Africa, attending to his NOC operations.

When he noticed Bond was not listening, he swigged at his drink and said, 'So what exactly are you working on? Something about this Severan Hydt? Now there's a name to conjure with. And Incident Twenty. Love it. Sounds rather like something from DI Fifty-five you know, the characters looking into UFOs over the Midlands.'

Exasperated, Bond said, 'I was attached to Defence Intelligence. Division Fifty-five was about missiles or planes breaching British airs.p.a.ce, not UFOs.'

'Ah, yes, yes, I'm sure it was . . . Of course, that would be the line they'd give the public, wouldn't it?'

Bond was close to throwing him out. Still, it might just be worth picking his brain. 'You heard about Incident Twenty, then. Any thoughts on how it could relate to South Africa?'

'I did get the signals,' Lamb conceded, 'but I didn't pay much attention since the intercept said the attack was going to be on British soil.'

Bond reminded him of the exact wording, which gave no location but said merely that British interests would be 'adversely affected'.

'Could be anywhere, then. I didn't think of that.'

Or you didn't read it very carefully.

'And now the cyclone has touched down on my pitch. Odd how fate can strike, isn't it?'

The app on Bond's mobile that had verified Lamb's ident.i.ty had also indicated his security clearance, which was higher than Bond would have guessed. Now he felt more or less comfortable in talking about the Gehenna plan, Hydt and Dunne. He asked again, 'So, have you any thoughts on a connection here? Thousands of people at risk, British interests threatened, the plan hatched in Severan Hydt's office.'

Eyes on his gla.s.s, Lamb said thoughtfully, 'The fact is, I don't know what kind of attack here would fit the bill. We've got plenty of British ex-pats and tourists and a lot of business interests with connections to London. But killing that many people in one fell swoop? Sounds like it'd have to be civil unrest. And I don't see that happening in South Africa. We've got our troubles here, there's no denying it Zimbabwe asylum seekers, trade union unrest, corruption, AIDS . . . but we're still the most stable country on the continent.'

For once the man had provided Bond with some real insight, slight though it was. This reinforced his idea that, while b.u.t.tons might be pushed in South Africa, Friday's deaths could likely occur elsewhere.

The man had finished most of his gin. 'You're not drinking?' When Bond didn't answer, he added, 'We miss the old days, don't we, my friend?'

Bond didn't know what the old days were and decided it was unlikely he would miss them, whatever they had been. He also decided too that he quite disliked the phrase 'my friend'. 'You said you didn't get on with Bheka Jordaan.'

Lamb grunted.

'What do you know about her?'

'She's d.a.m.n good at her job, I'll give her that. She was the officer who ran that investigation of the NIA the South African National Intelligence Agency for conducting illegal surveillance on politicians here.' Lamb chuckled darkly. 'Not that that'd ever happen in our country, would it?'

Bond recalled that Bill Tanner had chosen to use an SAPS liaison rather than National Intelligence.

Lamb continued, 'They gave her the job hoping she'd fumble. But not Captain Jordaan. Oh no. That would never do.' His eyes gleamed perversely. 'She started to make headway in the case and everybody at the top got scared. Her boss at SAPS told her to lose the evidence against the NIA agents.'

'So she arrested him?'

'And his boss too!' Lamb roared with laughter and knocked back the last of his drink. 'She earned herself a big commendation.'

The Gold Cross for Bravery? 'Did she get roughed up in the investigation?'

'Roughed up?'

He mentioned her scarred arm.

'In a way. Afterwards she was promoted. Had to happen politically. You know how that works. Well some of the SAPS men who were pa.s.sed over didn't take too kindly to it. She got threats women shouldn't be taking men's jobs, that sort of thing. Somebody chucked a Molotov c.o.c.ktail under her squad car. She'd gone into the station, but there was a prisoner in the back seat, drunk and sleeping it off. None of the attackers saw him. She ran outside and saved him but got burnt in the process. They never found out who did it the perpetrators were masked. But everybody knows it was people she was working with. Maybe still is.'

'G.o.d.' Now Bond believed he understood Jordaan's att.i.tude towards him perhaps she'd thought his flirtatious glance at the airport had meant he, too, didn't take a woman seriously as a police officer.

He explained to Lamb his next step: meeting Hydt tonight.

'Oh, the Lodge Club. It's all right. Used to be exclusive but now they let in everybody . . . Hey, I saw that look. I didn't mean what you think. I just have a low opinion of the general public. I do more business with blacks and coloureds than whites . . . There's that look again!'

'"Coloureds"?' Bond said sourly.

'It just means mixed-race and it's perfectly acceptable here. No one would take offence.'

Bond's experience, however, was that people using such terms weren't the ones likely to be offended by them. But he wasn't going to debate politics with Gregory Lamb. Bond looked at the Breitling. 'Thanks for your thoughts,' he said, without much enthusiasm. 'Now, I've got work to do before my meeting with Hydt.' Jordaan had sent him some material on Afrikaners, South African culture and conflict regions that Gene Theron might have been active in.