Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

There were framed photographs on Jordaan’s desk. A blond man and a dark-skinned woman held hands in one – they appeared in several others. The woman bore a vague resemblance to Jordaan, and Bond assumed they were her parents. Prominent also were pictures of an elderly woman in traditional African clothing and several featuring children. Bond decided that they weren’t Jordaan’s. There were no shots of her with a partner.

Divorced, he recalled.

Her desktop was graced with fifty or so case folders. The world of policing, like espionage, involves far more paperwork than firearms and gadgets.

Despite the late autumn season in South Africa, the weather was temperate and her office warm. After a moment of debate, Jordaan removed her red jacket and hung it up. Her black blouse was short sleeved and he saw a large swath of make-up along the inside of her right forearm. She didn’t seem like the tattoo sort but perhaps she was concealing one. Then he decided that, no, the cream covered a lengthy and wide scar.

Gold Cross for Bravery…

Bond sat across from her, beside Nkosi, who unbuttoned his jacket and remained stiffly upright. Bond asked them both, ‘Did Colonel Tanner tell you about my mission here?’

‘Just that you were investigating Severan Hydt on a matter of national security.’

Bond ran through what they knew of Incident Twenty – a.k.a. Gehenna – and the impending deaths on Friday.

Nkosi frowned ridges into his high forehead. Jordaan took in the information with still eyes. She pressed her hands together – modest rings encircled the middle fingers of both hands. ‘I see. And the evidence is credible?’

‘It is. Does that surprise you?’

She said evenly, ‘Severan Hydt is an unlikely evil. We are aware of him, of course. He opened Green Way International here two years ago and has contracts for much of the refuse collection and recycling in the major cities in South Africa – Pretoria, Durban, Port Elizabeth, Joburg and, of course, throughout the west here. He’s done many good things for our nation. Ours is a country in transition, as you know, and our past has led to problems with the environment. Gold and diamond mining, poverty and lack of infrastructure have taken their toll. Refuse collection was a serious problem in the townships and squatters’ settlements. To make up for the displacement caused by the Group Areas Act under apartheid, the government built residences – lokasies , or locations, they are called – for the people to live in instead of shacks. But even there the population was so high that refuse collection could not be performed efficiently, or sometimes at all. Disease was a problem. Severan Hydt has reversed much of that. He also donates to AIDS and hunger-relief charities.’

Most serious criminal enterprises have public-relations specialists on board, Bond reflected; being an ‘unlikely evil’ did not exempt you from diligent investigation.

Jordaan seemed to note his scepticism. She continued, ‘I’m simply saying that he does not much fit the profile of a terrorist or master criminal. But if he is, my department stands ready to do all it can to help.’

‘Thank you. Now, do you know anything about his associate, Niall Dunne?’

She said, ‘I had never heard the name until this morning. I’ve looked into him. He comes and goes here on a legitimate British passport and has been doing so for several years. We’ve never had any problem with him. He’s not on any watchlists.’

‘What do you know of the woman with them?’

Nkosi consulted a file. ‘American passport. Jessica Barnes. She’s a cipher to us, I’d say. No police record. No criminal activity. Nothing. We have some photos.’

‘That’s not her,’ Bond said, looking at the images of a young, truly beautiful blonde.

‘Ah, I am sorry, I should have said. These are old shots. I got them off the Internet.’ Nkosi turned the picture over. ‘This was from the ’70s. She was Miss Massachusetts and competed in the Miss America contest. She is now sixty-four years old.’

Bond could see the resemblance, now that he knew the truth. Then he asked, ‘Where is the Green Way office?’

‘There are two,’ Nkosi said. ‘One nearby and one about twenty miles north of here – Hydt’s major refuse disposal and recycling plant.’

‘I need to get inside them, find out what he’s up to.’

‘Of course,’ Bheka Jordaan said. There came a lengthy pause. ‘But you are speaking of legal means, correct?’

‘“Legal means”?’

‘You can follow him on the street, you can observe him in public. But I cannot get a warrant for you to place a bug in his home or office. As I said, Severan Hydt has done nothing wrong here.’

Bond nearly smiled. ‘In my job I don’t generally ask for warrants.’

‘Well, I do. Of course.’

‘Captain, this man has twice tried to kill me, in Serbia and the UK, and yesterday he engineered the death of a young woman and possibly a CIA asset in Dubai.’

She frowned, sympathy evident in her face. ‘That’s very unfortunate. But those crimes did not happen on South African soil. If I’m presented with extradition orders from those jurisdictions, approved by a magistrate here, I will be happy to execute them. But barring that…’ She lifted her palms.

‘We don’t want him arrested,’ Bond said, with exasperation. ‘We don’t want evidence for trial. The point of my coming here is to find out what he has planned for Friday and stop it. I intend to do that.’

‘And you may, provided you do so legally. If you’re thinking of breaking into his home or office, that would be trespass, subjecting you to a criminal complaint.’ She turned her eyes, like black granite, towards him, and Bond had absolutely no doubt that she would enjoy ratcheting the shackles on to his wrists.

‘He has to die.’

Sitting in his office at the Green Way International building in the centre of Cape Town, Severan Hydt was holding his phone tightly as he listened to Niall Dunne’s chilly words. No, he reflected, that wasn’t accurate. There was neither chill nor heat. His comment had been completely neutral.

Which was chilling in its own way.

‘Explain,’ Hydt said, absently tracing a triangle on the desktop with a long, yellowing fingernail.

Dunne told him that a Green Way worker had very likely learnt something about Gehenna. He was one of the legitimate workers in the Cape Town disposal plant to the north of the city, who had known nothing of Hydt’s clandestine activities. He’d accidentally got into a restricted area in the main building and might have seen some emails about the project. ‘He wouldn’t know what they meant at this point but when the incident makes the news later in the week – which it’s going to, of course – he might realise we were behind it and tell the police.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘I’m looking into it now.’

‘But if you kill him, won’t the police ask questions? Since he’s an employee?’

‘I’ll take care of him where he lives – a squatters’ camp. There won’t be many police, probably none at all. The taxis’ll look into it, most likely, and they won’t cause us any problems.’

In the townships, squatters’ settlements and even the new lokasies , the minibus companies were more than just transport providers. They had taken on the role of vigilante judge and jury, hearing cases and tracking down and punishing criminals.

‘All right. Let’s move fast, though.’

‘Tonight, after he gets home.’

Dunne disconnected and Hydt returned to his work. He’d spent all morning since their arrival making arrangements for the manufacture of Mahdi al-Fulan’s new hard-drive destruction machines and for Green Way’s sales people to start hawking them to clients.