Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

As they’d approached, they’d seen another van at the front, a white face glancing out.

‘Dunne,’ Nkosi had said.

He and Bond had veered away and parked behind the shanty. They’d pushed through the back door and the family had panicked, but Nkosi had told them, in their own language, that the men had come to save them. They had to get out immediately. Stephan Dlamini was not at home yet, but soon would be.

A few minutes later he’d come through the door with his young son, and Bond, knowing the attack was imminent, had had no choice but to draw his gun and force them out of the back door. Nkosi had just finished explaining Bond’s purpose and the danger, when the grenades went off, followed by the petrol bomb.

Now they were on the N1, cruising west. Dlamini gripped Bond’s hand and shook it. Then he leant forward to the front passenger seat and hugged him. Tears stood in his eyes. His wife huddled in the back with her children, studying Bond suspiciously as the agent told him who’d been behind the attack.

Finally, after hearing the story, Dlamini asked in dismay, ‘Mr Hydt? But how can that be? He is best boss. He treat all of us good. Very good. I am not understanding this.’

Bond explained. It seemed that Dlamini had learnt something about illegal activities Hydt and Dunne were engaged in.

His eyes flashed. ‘I know what you are speaking of.’ His head bobbed up and down. He told Bond that he was a maintenance man at the Green Way plant north of town. That morning he’d found the door to the company’s Research and Development office left open for deliveries. The two employees inside were at the back of the room. Dlamini had seen an overflowing bin inside. The rubbish there was supposed to be handled by somebody else but he decided to empty it anyway. ‘I just was trying to do good job. That’s all.’ He shook his head. ‘I go inside and start to empty this bin when one of the workers sees me and starts screaming at me. What did I see? What was I looking at? I said, “Nothing.” He ordered me out.’

‘And did you see anything that might’ve upset them?’

‘I don’t think so. On the computer beside the bin there was a message, an email, I think. I saw “Serbia” in English. But I paid no more attention.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No, sir.’

Serbia…

So, some of the secrets to Gehenna lay beyond the door to Research and Development.

Bond said to Nkosi, ‘We have to get the family away. If I give them money, is there a hotel where they can stay until the weekend?’

‘I can find some rooms for them.’

Bond gave them fifteen hundred rand. The man blinked as he stared at the sum. Nkosi explained to Dlamini that he would have to stay in hiding for a short while.

‘And have him call other family members and close friends. He should tell them that he and his family are all right but that they have to play dead for a few days. Can you plant a story in the media about their deaths?’

‘I think so.’ The warrant officer was hesitating. ‘But I’m wondering if…’ His voice faded.

‘We’ll keep this between ourselves. Captain Jordaan does not need to know.’

‘Without doubt, that is best.’

As the glorious vista of Cape Town rose before them, Bond glanced at his watch. It was time for the second assignment of the night – one that would require him to enlist a very different set of tradecraft skills from dodging grenades and firebombs, though he suspected that this job would be no less challenging.

Bond wasn’t impressed by the Lodge Club.

Perhaps back in the day, when it was the enclave of hunters in jodhpurs and jackets embellished with loops to hold ammunition for their big-five game rifles, it had been more posh but the atmosphere now was that of a function room hosting simultaneous wedding receptions. Bond wasn’t even sure if the Cape buffalo head, staring down at him angrily from near the front door, was real or had been manufactured in China.

He gave the name Gene Theron to one of the attractive young women at the door. She happened to be blonde and voluptuous and wearing a tight-fitting crimson dress with a lazy neckline. The other hostess was of Zulu or Xhosa ancestry but equally built and clad. Bond suspected that whoever ran the fundraising organisation knew how to tactically appeal to what was, of whatever race, predominantly a male donor pool. He added, ‘Guest of Mr Hydt.’

‘Ah, yes,’ the golden-haired woman said and let him into the low-lit room where fifty or so people milled about. Still wine, champagne and soft drinks were on offer and Bond went for the sparkling.

Bond had followed Hydt’s suggestions on dress and the Durban mercenary was in light grey trousers, a black sports jacket and a light blue shirt, no tie.

Holding his champagne flute, Bond looked around the plush hall. The group behind the event was the International Organisation Against Hunger, based in Cape Town. Pictures on easels showed workers handing out large sacks to happy recipients, women mostly, Hercules planes being unloaded and boats laden with sacks of rice or wheat. There were no pictures of starving emaciated children. A tasteful compromise all around. You wanted donors to feel slightly, but not too, uneasy. Bond guessed that the world of altruism had to be as carefully navigated as Whitehall politics.

From speakers in the ceiling, the harmonies of Ladysmith Black Mambazo and the inspirational songs of the Cape Town singer Verity provided an appealing soundtrack to the evening.

The event was a silent auction – tables were filled with all sorts of items donated by supporters of the group: a football signed by players from Bafana Bafana, the South African national football team, a whale-watching cruise, a weekend getaway in Stellenbosch, a Zulu sculpture, a pair of diamond earrings and much more. The guests would circulate and write their bids for each item on a sheet of paper; the one who’d put down the highest amount when the auction closed would win the article. Severan Hydt had donated a dinner for four, worth eight thousand rand – about seven hundred pounds, Bond calculated – at a first-class restaurant.

The wine flowed generously and waiters circulated with silver trays of elaborate canapés.

Ten minutes after Bond had arrived, Severan Hydt appeared with his female companion on his arm. Niall Dunne was nowhere to be seen. He nodded to Hydt, who was in a nicely cut navy-blue suit, probably American, if he read the sloping shoulders right. The woman – her name, he recalled, was Jessica Barnes – was in a simple black dress and heavily bejewelled, all diamonds and platinum. Her stockings were pure white. Not a hint of colour was to be found on her; she didn’t even wear a touch of lipstick. His earlier impression held: how gaunt she was, despite her attractive figure and face. Her austerity aged her considerably, giving her a ghostly look. Bond was curious; every other woman here of Jessica’s age had clearly spent hours dolling herself up.

‘Ah, Theron,’ Hydt boomed and marched forward, detaching himself from Jessica, who followed. As Bond shook his hand, the woman regarded him with a noncommittal smile. He turned to her. Tradecraft requires constant, often exhausting effort. You must maintain an expression of faint curiosity when meeting a person you’re familiar with only through surveillance. Lives have been lost because of a simple slip: ‘Ah, good to see you again,’ when in fact you’ve never met face to face.

Bond kept his eyes neutral as Hydt introduced her. ‘This is Jessica.’ He turned to her. ‘Gene Theron. We’re doing business together.’

The woman nodded and, though she held his eye, took his hand tentatively. It was a sign of insecurity, Bond concluded. Another indication of this was her handbag, which she kept over her shoulder and pinned tight between arm and ribcage.