Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

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 dashiki s and brocade sets and, for the women, kente kaftans 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, innocent 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.’