Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

Bond recalled Gregory Lamb’s comments.

‘Blacks had to carry a passbook signed by their employer allowing them to be in a white area. It was humiliating, it was horrible. There was a peaceful protest but the police fired on the demonstrators. Nearly seventy people were killed. Ugogo was shot. Her leg. That’s why she limps.’

Jordaan hesitated and at last poured herself some beer, then sipped. ‘Ugogo gave me my name. That is, she told my parents what they would call me and they did. One usually does what Ugogo says.’

‘“Bheka”,’ Bond said.

‘In Zulu it means “one who watches over people”.’

‘A protector. So you were destined to become a policewoman.’ Bond was quite enjoying the music.

‘Ugogo is the old South Africa. I’m the new. A mix of Zulu and Afrikaner. They call us a rainbow country, yes, but look at a rainbow and you still see different colours, all separate. We need to become like me, blended together. It will be a long time before that happens. But it will.’ She glanced coolly at Bond. ‘Then we’ll be able to dislike people for who they really are. Not for the colour of their skin.’

Bond returned her gaze evenly and said, ‘Thank you for the food and the beer. I should be going.’

She walked with him to the door. He stepped outside.

Which was when he caught his first clear glimpse of the man who’d pursued him from Dubai. The man in the blue jacket and the gold earring, the man who had killed Yusuf Nasad and had very nearly killed Felix Leiter.

He was standing across the road, in the shadows of an old building covered with Arabic scrolls and mosaics.

‘What is it?’ Jordaan asked.

‘A hostile.’

The man had a mobile but wasn’t making a call; he was taking a picture of Bond with Jordaan – proof that Bond was working with the police.

Bond snapped, ‘Get your weapon and stay inside with your grandmother.’

He sprinted hard across the street as the man fled up a narrow alley leading towards Signal Hill, through the deepening dusk.

The man had a ten-yard lead, but Bond began closing the distance as they pounded up the alley. Angry cats and scrawny dogs fled, a child with round Malaysian features stepped out of a door into Bond’s path and was instantly jerked back by a parental hand.

He was nearly fifteen feet from the assailant when operational instinct kicked in. Bond realised that the man might have prepared a trap to aid his escape. He glanced down. Yes! The attacker had strung a piece of wire across the alley, a foot off the ground, nearly invisible in the darkness. The man himself had known where it was – a shard of broken crockery marked the spot – and had stepped over it smoothly. Bond wasn’t able to stop in time but he could prepare himself for the fall.

He twisted his shoulder forward and when his own momentum swept his legs out from under him, he half somersaulted on to the ground. He landed hard and lay dazed for a moment, cursing himself for letting the man get away.

Except that he wasn’t escaping.

The wire hadn’t been intended to hinder pursuit but to render Bond vulnerable.

In an instant the man was on him, exuding the stench of beer, stale cigarette smoke and unwashed flesh, and ripping Bond’s Walther from the holster. Bond launched himself upwards, gripping the man’s right arm in a lock and twisting his wrist until the weapon fell to the ground. The attacker kicked the gun, which flew far from Bond’s reach. Gasping, Bond kept hold of the man’s right arm and dodged vicious blows from his other fist.

He glanced back, wondering if Bheka Jordaan had ignored his advice and come after him, armed with her own weapon. The empty alley gaped at him.

Now his assailant eased back to deliver a forehead blow. But, as Bond twisted to avoid it, the man rolled away, in a virtual backward somersault, like a gymnast. It was a brilliant feint. Bond recalled Felix Leiter’s words.

Man, the SOB knows some martial arts crap…

Then Bond was on his feet, facing the man, who stood in a fighter’s stance, a knife in his hand, blade protruding downwards, sharp edge facing out. His left hand, open and palm down, floated distractingly, ready to grab Bond’s clothing and pull him in to be stabbed to death.

On the balls of his feet, Bond circled.

Ever since his days at Fettes in Edinburgh, he had practised various types of close combat, but the ODG taught its agents a rare style of unarmed fighting, borrowed from a former (or not so former) enemy – the Russians. An ancient martial art of the Cossacks, systema had been updated by the Spetsnaz, the special forces branch of GRU military intelligence .

Systema practitioners rarely use their fists. Open palms, elbows and knees are the main weapons. The goal, though, is to strike as infrequently as possible. Rather, you tire out your adversary, then catch him in a come-on or take-down hold on the shoulder, wrist, arm or ankle. The best systema fighters never come into contact with their opponent at all… until the final moment, when the exhausted attacker is largely defenceless. Then the victor takes him to the ground and drops a knee into his chest or throat.

Instinctively falling into systema choreography, Bond now dodged the man’s assault.

Evade, evade, evade… Use his energy against him.

Bond was largely successful but twice the knife blade swept inches from his face.

The man moved in fast, swinging his massive hands, testing Bond, who stepped aside, sizing up his opponent’s strengths (he was very muscular and experienced in hand-to-hand combat and was psychologically prepared to kill) and his weaknesses (alcohol and smoking seemed to be taking their toll).

The man grew frustrated at Bond’s defence. Now he gripped the knife for thrusting and began to move in, almost desperate. He was grinning demonically, sweating despite the chill in the air.

Presenting a vulnerable target, his lower back, Bond stepped towards his Walther. But the move was a feint. And even before the man lunged, Bond reared back, pushed the knife blade away with his forearm and delivered a fierce open-palm slap to the man’s left ear. He cupped his hand as he made contact and felt the pressure that would damage if not burst the attacker’s ear drum. The man howled in pain, infuriated, and lunged carelessly. Bond easily lifted the knife arm away and up, then stepped in, gripping the wrist in both hands, a solid compliance hold, and bent backwards until the knife fell to the ground. He assessed the assailant’s strength and his mad determination. He made a decision… and he twisted further until the wrist cracked.

The man cried out and sank to his knees, then dropped into a sitting position, face pale. His head lolled to the side and Bond kicked the knife away. He frisked the man carefully and took a small automatic pistol from his pocket, along with a roll of duct tape. A pistol? Why didn’t he just shoot me? Bond wondered.

He slipped the gun into his pocket and collected his Walther. He grabbed the man’s phone – to whom had he texted the photo of him and Jordaan? If it had been to Dunne alone, could Bond find and incapacitate the Irishman before he reported to Hydt?

He scrolled through the call and text logs. Thank God, he had sent nothing. He’d simply been videoing Bond.

What was the point of that?

Then he had his answer.

‘ Jebi ti! ’ his attacker spat.

The Balkan obscenity explained everything.

Bond went through the man’s papers and confirmed he was with the JSO, the Serbian paramilitary group. His name was Nicholas Rathko.

He was moaning now, cradling his arm. ‘You let my brother die! You abandoned him! He was your partner on that assignment. You never abandon your partner.’