Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

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?

‘Why, don’t you trust him?’

‘It’s not a bad idea, mind,’ Dunne said off-handedly. ‘We’ve been talking about disposal of the bodies. But it doesn’t matter for Friday. It just seems a bit dodgy to me that he shows up out of the blue. Makes me nervous.’

As if such an emotion would ever register with the icy sapper.

Hydt relented. He needed somebody to keep his feet on the ground and it was true that he’d been seduced by Theron’s proposition. ‘You’re right, of course.’

They picked up their jackets and left the office. Dunne directed them up the street, to the address printed on the man’s business card.

The Irishman was right, but Severan Hydt prayed that Theron was legitimate. The bodies, the acres of bones. He wanted to see them so badly, to breathe in the air surrounding them. And he wanted the pictures too.

They came to the office building where Theron’s Cape Town branch was located. It was typical of the city’s business district, functional metal and stone. This particular structure seemed half deserted. There was no guard in the lobby, which was curious. The men took the lift to the fourth floor and found the office door, number 403.

‘There’s no company name,’ Hydt observed. ‘Just the number. That’s odd.’

‘This doesn’t look right,’ Dunne said. He listened. ‘I don’t hear anything.’

‘Try it.’

He did so. ‘Locked.’

Hydt was fiercely disappointed, wondering if he’d given anything away to Theron, anything incriminating. He didn’t think so.

Dunne said, ‘We should get some of our security people together. When Theron comes back, if he does, we’ll take him down to the basement. I’ll find out what he’s about.’

They were about to leave when Hydt, desperate to believe Theron was legitimate, said, ‘Knock – see if anybody’s in there.’

Dunne hesitated, then drew aside his jacket, exposing the Beretta’s grip. The man’s large knuckles rapped on the wooden door.

Nothing.

They turned to the lift.

Just then the door swung open.

Gene Theron blinked in surprise. ‘Hydt… Dunne. What are you doing here?’

The Afrikaner hesitated for a moment then bluntly gestured the two men inside. They entered. There had been no sign outside but here on the wall was a modest plaque: EJT Services Ltd, Durban, Cape Town, Kinshasa.

The office was small and staffed with only three employees, their desks covered with files and the paperwork that is the mainstay of such entrepreneurial dens throughout the world, however noble or dark their products or services.

Dunne said, ‘We thought we’d save you the trouble.’

‘Did you now?’ Theron responded.

Hydt knew that the mercenary understood that they had made their surprise visit because they didn’t trust him completely. On the other hand, Theron was in a line of work where trust was as dangerous as unstable explosives, so his displeasure was minimal. After all, Theron must have done much the same, checking out Hydt’s credentials with the Cambodians and elsewhere before coming to him with his proposal. That was how business worked.

Scuffed walls and windows offering a bleak view of a courtyard reminded Hydt that even illegal activity such as Theron plied was not necessarily as lucrative as the movies and news portrayed it. The biggest office, at the back, was Theron’s but even that was modest.

One employee, a tall young African, was scrolling through an online catalogue of automatic weapons. Some were flagged with bold stars, indicating a 10 per cent discount. Another employee was typing urgently on a computer keyboard, using only his index fingers. Both men were in white shirts and narrow ties.

A secretary sat at a desk outside Theron’s office. Hydt saw she was attractive but she was young and therefore of no interest to him.

Theron glanced at her. ‘My secretary was just printing out some of the files we were talking about.’ A moment later pictures of mass graves began easing from the colour printer.

Yes, these are good, Hydt thought, staring down at them. Very good indeed. The first images had been taken not long after the killings. Men, women and children had been gunned down or hacked to death. Some had suffered earlier amputations – hands or arms above the elbow – a popular technique used by warlords and dictators in Africa to punish and control the people. About forty or so lay in a ditch. The setting was sub-Saharan but it was impossible to say exactly where. Sierra Leone, Liberia, Ivory Coast, Central African Republic. There were so many possibilities on this troubled continent.

Other pictures followed, showing different stages of decay. Hydt lingered on those particularly.

‘LRA?’ Dunne asked, looking them over clinically.

It was the tall, skinny employee who answered. ‘Mr Theron does not work with the Lord’s Resistance Army.’

The rebel group, operating out of Uganda, the Central African Republic and parts of Congo and Sudan, had as its philosophy, if you could call it that, religious and mystical extremism – a violent Christian militia of sorts. It had committed untallied atrocities and was known, among other things, for employing child soldiers.

‘There’s plenty of other work,’ Theron said.

Hydt was amused by his sense of morality.

Another half-dozen pictures rolled from the printer. The last few showed a large field from which protruded bones and partial bodies with desiccated skin.

Hydt showed the pictures to Dunne. ‘What do you think?’ He turned to Theron. ‘Niall is an engineer.’

The Irishman studied them for a few minutes. ‘The graves look shallow. It’s easy to get the bodies out. The trick is to cover up the fact that they were there in the first place. Depending on how long they’ve been in the ground, once we remove them there’d be measurable differences in the soil temperature. That lasts for many months. It’s detectable with the right equipment.’

‘Months?’ Theron asked, frowning. ‘I had no idea.’ He glanced at Dunne, then said to Hydt, ‘He’s good.’