Carte Blanche Page 17

  ‘What’s Dunne’s story?’ Bond asked. In front of him the fish cooled but he’d lost interest in it.

  ‘It’s curious. He was born in Belfast, studied architecture and engineering, came top of his year. Then he became a sapper in the Army.’

  Sappers were combat engineers, the soldiers who built bridges, airports and bomb shelters for the troops, as well as laid and cleared minefields. They were known for their improvisational skills, building defensive or offensive machinery and bulwarks with whatever supplies were available and under less-than-ideal conditions.

  The ODG’s Lieutenant Colonel Bill Tanner had been a sapper and the soft-spoken, golf-loving chief of staff was one of the cleverest and most dangerous men Bond had ever met.

  Osborne-Smith continued, ‘After he left the service he became a freelance engineering inspector. I didn’t know that any such line of work existed but it turns out that in constructing a building, ship or plane, the project has to be inspected at hundreds of stages. Dunne would look over the work and say yea or nay. He was apparently at the top of his game – he could find flaws that nobody else could. But suddenly he quit and became a consultant, according to Inland Revenue records. He’s a damn good one, too – he makes about two hundred grand a year… and doesn’t have a company logo or cute mascots like Wenlock and Mandeville.’

  Bond found that, since the apology, he felt less impatient with Osborne-Smith’s wit, such as it was. ‘That’s probably how they met. Dunne inspected something for Green Way and Hydt hired him.’

  Osborne-Smith continued, ‘Data mining’s placed Dunne going to and from Cape Town over the past four years. He’s got a flat there and one in London, which we’ve been through, by the way, and found nothing of interest. The travel records also show he’s been in India, Indonesia, the Caribbean and a few other places where trouble’s brewing. Working on new outposts for his boss, I’d guess.’ He added, ‘Whitehall’s still looking at Afghanistan, but I don’t give a toss about their theories. I’m sure you’re on the money, James.’

  ‘Thanks, Percy. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘Delighted to be of service.’ The words that Bond would have found condescending yesterday now sounded sincere.

  They rang off and Bond told Felix Leiter what Osborne-Smith had turned up.

  ‘So that scarecrow Dunne’s an engineer? We call ’em geeks in the states.’

  A hawker had entered the restaurant and was moving from table to table selling roses.

  Leiter saw the direction of Bond’s gaze. ‘Listen up, James, I’ve had a wonderful dinner but if you’re thinking of sealing the deal with a bouquet, it ain’t gonna happen.’

  Bond smiled.

  The hawker stepped up to the table next to Bond’s and extended a flower to a young couple seated there. ‘Please,’ he said to the wife, ‘the lovely lady will have this for free, with my compliments.’ He moved on.

  After a moment Bond lifted his napkin and opened the envelope he’d casually removed from the man’s pocket in a perfect brush pass.

  Remember: flowers…

  Discreetly he examined the forgery of a South African firearms permit, suitably franked and signed. ‘We should go,’ he said, noting the time. He didn’t want to run into Hydt, Dunne and the woman on the way out of the hotel.

  ‘We’ll put this on Uncle Sam,’ Leiter said and settled the bill. They left the bar and slipped out by a side door, heading for the car park.

  Within half an hour they were at the airport.

  The men gripped hands and Leiter offered in a low voice, ‘Yusuf was a great asset, sure. But more than that, he was a friend. You run across that son-of-a-bitch in the blue jacket again and you have a shot, James, take it.’

  Wednesday – KILLING FIELDS

  32

  As the Air Emirates Boeing taxied smoothly over the tarmac towards the gate in Cape Town, James Bond stretched, then slipped his shoes back on. He felt refreshed. Soon after take-off in Dubai he’d administered to himself two Jim Beams with a little water. The nightcap had done the trick famously and he’d had nearly seven hours of blessedly uninterrupted sleep. He was now reviewing texts from Bill Tanner.

  Contact: Capt. Jordaan, Crime Combating & Investigation, SA Police Service. Jordaan to meet you landside @ airport. Surveillance active on Hydt.

  A second followed.

  MI6’s Gregory Lamb reportedly still in Eritrea. Opinion here all around, avoid him if possible.

  There was a final one.

  Happy to hear you and Osborne-Smith have kissed and made up. When’s the stag do?

  Bond had to smile.

  The plane eased to a stop at the gate and the purser ran through the liturgy of landing with which Bond was all too familiar. ‘Cabin crew, doors to manual, and crosscheck. Ladies and gentlemen, please take care when opening the overhead lockers; the contents may have shifted during the flight.’

  Bless you, my child, for Fate has decided to bring you safely back to earth… at least for a little longer.

  Bond pulled down his laptop bag – he’d checked in his suitcase, which contained his weapon – and proceeded to Immigration in the busy hall. He received a pro forma stamp in his passport. Then he went into the Customs hall. To a stocky, unsmiling officer he displayed the firearms permit so he could collect his suitcase. The man stared at him intently. Bond tensed and wondered if there was going to be a problem.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ the man said, his broad, glistening face inflated with the power of small officialdom. ‘Now you will tell me the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’ Bond asked calmly.

  ‘Yes… How do you get close enough to a kudu or springbok to use a handgun when you hunt?’

  ‘That’s the challenge,’ Bond replied.

  ‘I must say it would be.’

  Then Bond frowned. ‘But I never hunt springbok.’

  ‘No? It makes the best biltong.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but shooting a springbok would be very bad luck for England on the rugby pitch.’

  The Customs agent laughed hard, shook Bond’s hand and nodded him to the exit.

  The arrivals hall was packed. Most people were in Western clothing, though some wore traditional African garb: men’s dashikis and brocade sets and, for the women, kentekaftans and head wraps, all brightly coloured. Muslim robes and scarves were present as well and a few saris.

  As Bond made his way through the passenger meeting point he detected several distinct languages and many more dialects. He had always been fascinated by the clicking in African languages; in some words, the mouth and tongue create that very sound for consonants. Khoisan – spoken by the original inhabitants of this part of Africa – made the most use of it, although Zulus and Xhosas also clicked. Bond had tried and found the sound impossible to replicate.

  When his contact, Captain Jordaan, did not immediately appear he went into a café, dropped on to a stool at the counter and ordered a double espresso. He drank it down, paid and stepped outside, eyeing a beautiful businesswoman. She was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, with exotically high cheekbones. Her thick, wavy black hair contained a few strands of premature grey, which added to her sensuality. Her dark-red suit, over a black shirt, was cut close and revealed a figure that was full yet tautly athletic.

  I believe I shall enjoy South Africa, he thought, and smiled as he let her pass in front of him on her way to the exit. Like most attractive women in transitory worlds like airports, she ignored him.

  He stood for several moments in the centre of Arrivals, then decided that perhaps Jordaan was waiting for him to approach. He texted Tanner to ask for a photograph. But just after he hit send he spotted the police officer: a large, bearded redhead in a light-brown suit – a bear of a man – glanced at Bond once, with a hint of reaction, but he turned away rather quickly and went to a kiosk to buy cigarettes.

  Tradecraft is all about subtext: cover identities masking who you really are, dull conversations filled with code words to convey shocking facts, i
nnocent objects used for concealment or as weapons.

  Jordaan’s sudden diversion to buy cigarettes was a message. He hadn’t approached Bond because hostiles were present.

  Glancing behind him, he saw no immediate sign of a threat. Instinctively he followed prescribed procedure. When an agent waves you off, you circle casually out of the immediate area as inconspicuously as possible and contact a third-party intermediary who co-ordinates a new rendezvous in a safer location. Bill Tanner would be the cut-out.

  Bond started to move towards an exit.

  Too late.

  As he saw Jordaan slipping into the Gents, pocketing cigarettes he would probably never smoke, he heard an ominous voice close to his ear, ‘Do not turn around.’ The English was coated with a smooth layer of a native accent. He sensed that the man was lean and tall. From the corner of his eye, Bond was aware of at least one partner, shorter but stockier. This man moved in quickly and relieved him of his laptop bag and the suitcase containing his useless Walther.

  The first assailant said, ‘Walk straight out of the hall – now.’

  There was nothing for it but to comply. He turned and went where the man had told him, down a deserted corridor.

  Bond assessed the situation. From the echo of the footsteps Bond knew the tall man’s partner was far enough away that his initial move could only neutralise one of them instantly. The shorter man would have to shed Bond’s suitcase and laptop bag, which would give Bond a few seconds to get to him but he would still have a chance to draw his weapon. The man could be taken down but not before shots were fired.

  No, Bond reflected, too many innocents. It was best to wait until they were outside.

  ‘Through the door on your left. I said you are not to look back.’

  They walked out into stark sunlight. Here it was autumn, the temperature crisp, the sky a stunning azure. As they approached the kerb in a deserted construction site, a battered black Range Rover sped forward and squealed to a stop.

  More hostiles, but no one as yet was getting out of the vehicle.

  Purpose… response.

  Their purpose was to kidnap him. His response would be textbook protocol in an attempted rendition: disorient and then attack. Casually working his Rolex over his fingers to act as a knuckleduster, he turned abruptly to confront the pair with a disdainful smile. They were young, deadly serious men, their skin contrasting sharply with the brilliant white of their starched shirts. They wore suits – one brown, the other navy – and narrow dark ties. They were probably armed, but overconfidence, perhaps, had led them to keep their weapons holstered.

  As the Range Rover door swung open behind him, Bond stepped aside so that he couldn’t be attacked from behind and judged angles. He decided to break the jaw of the tallest first and use his body as a shield as he pushed forward towards the shorter man. He looked calmly into the man’s eyes and laughed. ‘I think I’ll report you to the tourist bureau. I’ve heard a lot about the friendliness of South Africans. I was expecting rather more in the way of hospitality.’

  Just before he lunged, he heard from behind him, inside the vehicle, a woman’s flinty voice: ‘And we would have offered some if you hadn’t made yourself so obvious a target by enjoying a leisurely coffee in plain view with a hostile loose in the airport.’

  Bond relaxed his fist and turned. He looked into the vehicle and tried unsuccessfully to mask his surprise. The beautiful woman he’d seen just moments ago in Arrivals was sitting in the back seat.

  ‘I’m Captain Bheka Jordaan, SAPS, Crime Combating and Investigation Division.’

  ‘Ah.’ Bond looked at her full lips, untouched by cosmetics, and her dark eyes. She wasn’t smiling.

  His mobile buzzed. The screen showed he had a message from Bill Tanner, along with, of course, an MMS picture of the woman in front of him.

  The tall abductor said, ‘Commander Bond, I am SAPS Warrant Officer Kwalene Nkosi.’ He reached out his hand and their palms met in the traditional South African way – an initial grip, as in the West, followed by a vertical clasp and back to the original. Bond knew it was considered impolite to let go too quickly. Apparently he timed the gesture right; Nkosi grinned warmly, then nodded to the shorter man, who was taking Bond’s suitcase and laptop bag to the rear of the Range Rover. ‘And that is Sergeant Mbalula.’

  The stocky man nodded unsmilingly and, after stowing Bond’s belongings, vanished fast, presumably to his own vehicle.

  ‘You will please forgive our brusqueness, Commander,’ Nkosi said. ‘We thought it best to get you out of the airport as quickly as possible, rather than spend the time to explain.’

  ‘We should not waste more time on pleasantries, Warrant Officer,’ Bheka Jordaan muttered impatiently.

  Bond eased himself into the back beside her. Nkosi got into the passenger seat in the front. A moment later Sergeant Mbalula’s black saloon, also unmarked, pulled up behind them.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Jordaan barked. ‘Quickly.’

  The Range Rover peeled away from the kerb and skidded brazenly into the traffic, earning the driver a series of energetic hoots and lethargic curses, and accelerated to more than ninety k.p.h. in a zone marked forty.

  Bond pulled his mobile off his belt. He typed into the keyboard, read the responses.

  ‘Warrant Officer?’ Jordaan asked Nkosi. ‘Anything?’

  He had been staring into the wing mirror and answered in what seemed to be Zulu or Xhosa. Bond did not speak either language but it was clear from the tone of the answer, and the woman’s reaction, that there was no tail. When they were outside the airport grounds and making their way towards a cluster of low but impressive mountains in the distance, the vehicle slowed somewhat.

  Jordaan thrust her hand forward. Bond reached out to shake it, smiling, then stopped. She was holding a mobile phone. ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said sternly, ‘you will touch the screen here.’

  So much for warming international relations.

  He took the phone, pressed his thumb into the centre of the screen and handed it back. She read the message that appeared. ‘James Bond. Overseas Development Group, Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Now, you’ll want to confirm my identity.’ She held out her hand, fingers splayed. ‘You have an app that can take my prints too, I assume.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked coolly. ‘Because I’m what passes for a beautiful woman in your mind and you have no need to check further? I could be an assassin. I could be an al-Qaeda terrorist wearing a bomb vest.’

  He decided not to mention that his earlier perusal of her figure had revealed no evidence of explosives. He answered, perhaps a bit glibly, ‘I don’t need your prints because, in addition to the photo of you that my office just sent me, my mobile read your iris a few minutes ago and confirmed to me that you are indeed Captain Bheka Jordaan, Crime Combating and Investigation Division, South African Police Service. You’ve worked for them for eight years. You live in Leeuwen Street in Cape Town. Last year you received a Gold Cross for bravery. Congratulations.’

  He had also learnt her age, thirty-two, her salary and that she was divorced.

  Warrant Officer Nkosi twisted round in his seat, glanced at the mobile and said, with a broad smile, ‘Commander Bond, that is a nice toy. Without doubt.’

  Jordaan snapped, ‘Kwalene!’

  The young man’s smile vanished. He turned back to his wing mirror sentry duty.

  She glanced with disdain at Bond’s phone. ‘We will go to my headquarters and consider how to approach the situation with Severan Hydt. I worked with your Lieutenant Colonel Tanner when he was with MI6 so I agreed to help you. He is intelligent and very devoted to his job. Quite a gentleman too.’

  The implication being that Bond himself probably was not. He was irritated that she’d taken such umbrage at what had been an innocent – relativelyinnocent – smile in the arrivals hall. She was attractive and he couldn’t have been the first man to lob a flirt her way. ‘Is Hydt in his offic
e?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s correct,’ Nkosi said. ‘He and Niall Dunne are both in Cape Town. Sergeant Mbalula and I followed them from the airport. There was a woman with them too.’

  ‘You have surveillance on them?’

  ‘That’s right,’ the lean man said. ‘We based our CCTV plan on London’s so there are cameras everywhere downtown. He is in his office and being monitored from a central location. We can track him anywhere if he leaves. We ourselves are not completely free of toys, Commander.’

  Bond smiled at him, then said to Jordaan, ‘You mentioned a hostile at the airport.’

  ‘We learnt from Immigration that a man arrived from Abu Dhabi around the time you did. He was travelling on a fake British passport. We discovered this only after he cleared Customs and disappeared.’

  The bearish man he’d mistaken for Jordaan? Or the man in the blue jacket at the shopping centre on Dubai Creek? He described them.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jordaan offered curtly. ‘As I said, our only information was documentary. Because he was unaccounted for, I thought it best not to meet you in person in the arrivals hall. I sent my officers instead.’ She leant forward suddenly and asked Nkosi, ‘Anyone now?’

  ‘No, Captain. We are not being followed.’

  Bond said to her, ‘You seem concerned about surveillance.’

  ‘South Africa is like Russia,’ she said. ‘The old regime has fallen and it is a whole new world here. This draws people who wish to make money and involve themselves in politics and all manner of affairs. Sometimes legally, sometimes not.’