Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

‘Tanner here, sir.’

The dustmen vanished from M’s thoughts. He plucked the cheroot from between his teeth and said evenly, ‘Bill, I need to talk to you about 007.’

Guided by sat-nav, Bond made his way through central Cape Town, past businesses and residences. He found himself in an area of small, brightly coloured houses, blue, pink, red and yellow, tucked under Signal Hill. The narrow streets were largely cobbled. It reminded him of villages in the Caribbean, with the difference that here careful Arabic designs patterned many homes. He passed a quiet mosque.

It was six thirty on this cool Thursday evening and he was en route to Bheka Jordaan’s house.

Friend or foe…

He wound the car through the uneven streets and parked nearby. She met him at the door and greeted him with an unsmiling nod. She had shed her work clothing and wore blue jeans and a close-fitting dark red cardigan. Her shiny black hair hung loose and he was taken by the rich aura of lilac scent from a recent shampooing. ‘This is an interesting area,’ he said. ‘Nice.’

‘It’s called Bo-Kaap. It used to be very poor, mostly Muslim, immigrants from Malaysia. I moved here with… well, with someone years ago. It was poorer then. Now the place is becoming very chic. There used to be only bicycles parked outside. Now it’s Toyotas but soon it’ll be Mercedes. I don’t like that. I’d rather it was as it used to be. But it’s my home. Besides, my sisters and I take turns to have Ugogo living with us, and they’re close so it’s convenient.’

‘Ugogo?’ Bond asked.

‘It means “grandmother”. Our mother’s mother. My parents live in Pietermaritzburg, in KwaZulu-Natal, some way east of here.’

Bond recalled the antique map in her office.

‘So we look after Ugogo. That’s the Zulu way.’

She didn’t invite him in, so, on the porch, Bond gave her an account of his trip to Green Way. ‘I need the film in this developed.’ He handed her the inhaler. ‘It’s eight-millimetre, ISO is twelve hundred. Can you sort it?’

‘Me? Not your MI6 associate?’ she asked acerbically.

Bond felt no need to defend Gregory Lamb. ‘I trust him but he raided my minibar of two hundred rands’ worth of drink. I’d like somebody with a clear head to handle it. Developing film can be tricky.’

‘I’ll take care of it.’

‘Now, Hydt has some associates coming into town tonight. There’s a meeting at the Green Way plant tomorrow morning.’ He thought back to what Dunne had said. ‘They’re arriving at about seven. Can you find out their names?’

‘Do you know the airlines?’

‘No, but Dunne’s meeting them.’

‘We’ll put a stake-out in place. Kwalene is good at that. He jokes, but he’s very good.’

He certainly is. Discreet, too, Bond reflected.

A woman’s voice called from inside.

Jordaan turned her head. ‘ Ize balulekile.’

Some more Zulu words were exchanged.

Jordaan’s face was still. ‘Will you come in? So Ugogo can see you’re not someone in a gang. I’ve told her it’s no one. But she worries.’

No one?

Bond followed her into the small flat, which was tidy and nicely furnished. Prints, hangings and photos decorated the walls.

The elderly woman who’d spoken to Jordaan was sitting at a large dining table set with two places. The meal had largely concluded. She was very frail. Bond recognised her as the woman in many of the pictures in Jordaan’s office. She wore a loose orange and brown frock and slippers. Her grey hair was short. She started to rise.

‘No, please,’ Bond said.

She stood anyway and, hunched, shuffled forward to shake his hand with a firm, dry grip.

‘You are the Englishman Bheka spoke of. You don’t look so bad to me.’

Jordaan glared at her.

The older woman introduced herself: ‘I’m Mbali.’

‘James.’

‘I am going to rest. Bheka, give him some food. He’s too thin.’

‘No, I must be going.’

‘You are hungry. I saw how you looked at the bobotie . It tastes even better than it looks.’

Bond smiled. He had been looking at the pot on the stove.

‘My granddaughter is a very good cook. You will like it. And you will have some Zulu beer. Have you ever had any?’

‘I’ve had Birkenhead and Gilroy’s.’

‘No, Zulu beer is the best.’ Mbali shot a look at her granddaughter. ‘Give him some beer and he will have some food too. Bring him a plate of bobotie . And sambal sauce.’ She looked critically at Bond. ‘You like spice?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Good.’

Exasperated, Jordaan said, ‘Ugogo, he said he has to be going.’

‘He said that because of you. Give him some beer and some food. Look how thin he is!’

‘Honestly, Ugogo.’

‘That’s my granddaughter. A mind of her own.’

The old woman picked up a ceramic crock of beer and walked into a bedroom. The door closed.

‘Is she well?’ Bond asked.

‘Cancer.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘She’s doing better than expected. She’s ninety-seven.’

Bond was surprised. ‘I would have thought she was in her seventies.’

As if afraid of the silence that might engender the need for conversation, Jordaan strode to a battered CD player and loaded a disc. A woman’s low voice, buoyed by hip-hop rhythms, burst from the speakers. Bond saw the CD cover: Thandiswa Mazwai.

‘Sit down,’ Jordaan said, gesturing at the table.

‘No, it’s all right.’

‘What do you mean, no, it’s all right?’

‘You don’t have to feed me.’

Jordaan said shortly, ‘If Ugogo learns I haven’t offered you any beer or bobotie , she won’t be happy.’ She produced a clay pot with a rattan lid and poured some frothy pinkish liquid into a glass.

‘So that’s Zulu beer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Homemade?’

‘Zulu beer is always homemade. It takes three days to brew and you drink it while it’s still fermenting.’

Bond sipped. It was sour yet sweet and seemed low in alcohol.

Jordaan then served him a plate of bobotie and spooned on some reddish sauce. It was a bit like shepherd’s pie, with egg instead of potato on top, but better than any pie Bond had ever had in England. The thick sauce was well flavoured and indeed spicy.

‘You’re not joining me?’ Bond nodded towards an empty chair. Jordaan was standing, leaning against the sink, arms folded across her voluptuous chest.

‘I’ve finished eating,’ she said, the words clipped. She remained where she was.

Friend or foe…

He finished the food. ‘I must say you’re quite talented – a clever policewoman who also makes marvellous beer and,’ a nod at the cooking pot, ‘ bobotie . If I’m pronouncing that right.’

He received no response. Did he insult her with every remark he made?

Bond tamped down his irritation and found himself regarding the many photographs of the family on the walls and mantelpiece. ‘Your grandmother must have seen a great deal of history in the making.’

Glancing affectionately at the bedroom door, she said, ‘Ugogo is South Africa. Her uncle was wounded at the battle of Kambula, fighting the British – a few months after the battle I told you about, Isandlwana. She was born just a few years after the Union of South Africa was formed from the Cape and Natal provinces. She was relocated under apartheid’s Group Areas Act in the fifties. And she was wounded in a protest in 1960.’

‘What happened?’

‘The Sharpeville Massacre. She was among those protesting against the dompas - the “dumb pass”, it was called. Under apartheid people were legally classified as white, black, coloured or Indian.’