Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

Yes, the car he’d procured for the agent’s use was a small Japanese import. It wasn’t, however, a staid family saloon but a metallic blue Subaru Impreza WRX, the STI model, which boasted a turbocharged 305-horsepower engine, six gears and a high spoiler. The jaunty little vehicle would be far more at home on rally courses than in some Asda car park and, settling into the driver’s seat, Bond couldn’t restrain himself. He laid twin streaks of rubber as he sped up Buitenkant Street, heading for the motorway.

For the next half-hour he made his way north of Cape Town proper, guided by sat-nav, and finally skidded the taut little Subaru off the N7 and proceeded east along an increasingly deserted road, past a vast bottomless quarry and then into a grubby landscape of low hills, some green, some brown with autumn tint. Sporadic stands of trees broke the monotony.

The May sky was overcast and the air was humid but dust rose from the road, churned up by the Green Way lorries carting their refuse in the direction Bond was going. In addition to the typical dustcarts, there were much larger ones, painted with the Green Way name and distinctive green leaf – or dagger – logo. Signs on the sides indicated that they came from company operations throughout South Africa. Bond was surprised to see one lorry was from a branch in Pretoria, the administrative capital of the country, many miles away – why would Hydt go to the expense of bringing rubbish to Cape Town when he could open a recycling depot where it was needed?

Bond changed down and blew past a series of the lorries at speed. He was enjoying this sprightly vehicle very much. He’d have to tell Philly Maidenstone about it.

A large road sign, stark in black and white, flashed past.

Gevaar!!!

Danger!!!

Privaat Eiendom

Private Property

He’d been off the N7 for several miles when the road divided, with the lorries going to the right. Bond steered down the left fork, with an arrowed sign:

Hoofkantoor

Main Office

Motoring fast through a dense grove of trees – they were tall but looked recently planted – he came to a rise and shot over it, ignoring the posted limit of forty k.p.h., and braked hard as Green Way International loomed. The rapid stop wasn’t because of obstruction or a sharp curve but the unnerving sight that greeted him.

An endless expanse of the waste facility filled his view and disappeared into a smoky, dusty haze in the distance. The orange fires of some burn-off operation could been seen from at least a mile away.

Hell indeed.

In front of him, beyond a crowded car park, was the headquarters building. It was eerie, too, in its own way. Though not large, the structure was stark and bleakly imposing. The unpainted concrete bunker, one storey high, had only a few windows, small ones – sealed, it seemed. The entire grounds were enclosed by two ten-foot metal fences, both topped with wicked razor wire, which glinted even in the muted light. The barriers were thirty feet apart, reminding Bond of a similar perimeter: the shoot-to-kill zone surrounding the North Korean prison from which he’d successfully rescued a local MI6 asset last year.

Bond scowled at the fences. One of his plans was ruined. He knew from what Felicity had told him that there’d be metal detectors and scanners and, most likely, an imposing security fence. But he’d assumed a single barrier. He’d planned to slip some of the equipment Hirani had provided – a weatherproof miniature communications device and weapon – through the fence into grass or bushes on the other side for him to retrieve once he had entered. That wasn’t going to work with two fences and a great distance between them.

As he drove forward again, he saw that the entrance was barred by a thick steel gate, on top of which was a sign.

R EDUCE, R EUSE, R ECYCLE

The Green Way anthem chilled Bond. Not the words themselves but the configuration: a crescent of stark black metal letters. It reminded him of the sign over the entrance to the Nazi death camp Auschwitz, the horrifically ironic assurance that work would set the prisoners free: Arbeit Macht Frei.

Bond parked. He climbed out, keeping his Walther and mobile with him so that he could find out how effective the security really was. He also had in his pocket the asthma inhaler Hirani had provided; he had hidden under the front seat the other items Lamb had delivered that morning: the weapon and com device.

He approached the first guardhouse at the outer fence. A large man in uniform greeted him with a reserved nod. Bond gave his cover name. The man made a call and a moment later an equally large, equally stern fellow in a dark business suit came up and said, ‘Mr Theron, this way, please.’

Bond followed him through the no man’s land between the two fences. They entered a room where three armed guards sat about, watching a football match. They stood up immediately.

The security man turned to Bond. ‘Now, Mr Theron, we have very strict rules here. Mr Hydt and his associates do most of the research and development work for his companies on these premises. We must guard our trade secrets carefully. We don’t allow any mobiles or radios of any kind in with you. No cameras or pagers either. You’ll have to hand them in.’

Bond was looking at a large rack, like the cubbyholes for keys behind the front desk in old-fashioned hotels. There were hundreds and most of them had phones in them. The guard noticed. ‘The rule applies to all our employees too.’

Bond recalled that René Mathis had told him the same thing about Hydt’s London operation – that there was virtually no SIGINT going into or coming out of the company. ‘Well, you have landlines I can use, I assume. I’ll have to check my messages.’

‘There are some, but all the lines go through a central switchboard in the security department. A guard could make the call for you but you wouldn’t have any privacy. Most visitors wait until after they leave. The same is true for email and Internet access. If you wish to keep anything metal on you, we’ll have to X-ray it.’

‘I should tell you I’m armed.’

‘Yes.’ As if many people coming to visit Green Way were. ‘Of course-’

‘I’ll have to hand in my weapon too?’

‘That’s right.’

Bond silently thanked Felicity Willing for filling him in on Hydt’s security. Otherwise he would have been caught with one of Q Branch’s standard-issue video or still surveillance cameras in a pen or jacket button, which would have shattered his credibility… and probably led to a full-on fight.

Playing the tough mercenary, he scoffed at the inconvenience, but handed over his gun and phone, programmed to reveal only information about his Gene Theron cover identity, should anyone try to crack it. Then he stripped off his belt and watch, placed them and his keys in a tray for the X-ray.

He strode through quickly and was reunited with his possessions – after the guard had checked that the watch, keys and belt held no cameras, weapons or recording devices.

‘Wait here, please, sir,’ the security man said. Bond sat where indicated.

The inhaler was still in his pocket. If they had frisked him, found and dismantled the device, they would have discovered it was in fact a sensitive camera, constructed without a single metal part. One of Sanu Hirani’s contacts in Cape Town had managed to find or assemble the device that morning. The shutter was carbon fibre, as were the springs operating it.

The image-storage medium was quite interesting – unique nowadays: old-fashioned microfilm, the sort spies had used during the Cold War. The camera had a fixed-focus lens and Bond could snap a picture by pressing the base, then twisting it to advance the film. It could take thirty pictures. In this digital age, the cobwebbed past occasionally offered an advantage.