Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

‘Yes, sir. We have the paperwork. We’ll handle it from here.’

They led her away, struggling. She disappeared into their van, which sped down the gravel drive.

Bond turned back to Bheka Jordaan. But she was walking briskly to her car. Without looking back she climbed in, started the engine and drove away.

He walked up to Kwalene Nkosi and handed over Dunne’s Beretta. ‘And there’s a rifle up there, Warrant Officer. You’ll want to get it down.’ He pointed out the general area where Dunne had been sniping.

‘Yes indeed – my family and I hike here many weekends. I know the Apostles well. I’ll collect it.’

Bond’s eyes were on Jordaan’s car, the tail lights receding. ‘She left rather quickly. She wasn’t upset about the rendition, was she? Our embassy contacted your government. A magistrate in Bloemfontein approved the plan.’

‘No, no,’ the officer said. ‘Tonight Captain Jordaan has to take her ugogo to her sister’s house. She is never late, not when it involves her grandmother.’

Nkosi was watching closely as Bond stared after Jordaan’s car. He laughed. ‘That woman is something, is she not?’

‘She is indeed. Well, goodnight, Warrant Officer. You must get in touch if you’re ever in London.’

‘I will do that, Commander Bond. I am not, I think, such a great actor, after all. But I do love my theatre. Perhaps we could go to the West End and attend a play.’

‘Perhaps we could.’

A traditional handshake followed, Bond pressing firmly, keeping the three-part rhythm smooth and, most important, making sure that he did not release his grip too soon.

James Bond was sitting outside, in a corner of the terrace restaurant at the Table Mountain Hotel.

Calor gas heaters glowed overhead, sending down a cascade of warmth. The scent of propane was curiously appealing in the cool night air.

He held a heavy crystal glass containing Baker’s bourbon, on ice. The spirit had the same DNA as the Basil Hayden’s but was of higher proof; accordingly he swirled it to allow the cubes to mellow the impact, though he wasn’t sure he wanted much mellowing, not after this evening.

Finally he took a long sip and glanced at the tables nearby, all of them occupied by couples. Hands caressed hands, knees pressed against knees, while secrets and promises were whispered on wine-scented breath. Veils of silky hair swirled as women tilted their heads to hear their companions’ soft words.

Bond thought of Franschhoek and Felicity Willing.

What would Saturday’s agenda have been? Was she planning to tell Gene Theron, ruthless mercenary, about her career as a hunger broker and recruit him to join her?

And, if she had been the woman he had at first believed, the saviour of Africa, would he have confessed to her that he was an operational agent for the British government?

But speculation irritated James Bond – it was a waste of time – and he was relieved when his mobile buzzed.

‘Bill.’

‘So here’s the overall position, James,’ Tanner said. ‘The troops in the countries surrounding eastern Sudan have stood down. Khartoum issued a statement that the West has once again “interfered with the democratic process of a sovereign nation, in an attempt to spread feudalism throughout the region”.’

‘Feudalism?’ Bond asked, chuckling.

‘I suspect the writer meant to say “imperialism” but got muddled. Don’t see why Khartoum can’t just use Google to find a decent press agent like everyone else.’

‘And the Chinese? They’ve been deprived of quite a lot of discount petrol.’

‘They’re hardly in a position to complain since they were partly responsible for what would have been a very unpleasant war. But the regional government in the Eastern Alliance are over the moon. Their governor let slip to the PM that they’re voting to separate from Khartoum next year and hold democratic elections. They want long-term economic connections with us and America.’

‘And they have a lot of oil.’

Tanner said, ‘Gushers, James, positive gushers. Now, nearly all the food that Felicity Willing was doling out is on its way back to Cape Town. The World Food Programme is going to oversee distribution. It’s a good outfit. They’ll send it to places that need it.’ He then said, ‘Sorry to hear about Lamb.’

‘Walked into the line of fire to save us. He ought to get a posthumous commendation for it.’

‘I’ll give Vauxhall Cross a bell and let them know. Now, sorry, James, but I need you back by Monday. Something’s heating up in Malaysia. There’s a Tokyo connection.’

‘Odd combination.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I’ll be in at nine.’

‘Ten’ll do. You’ve had a rather busy week.’

They rang off and Bond had enough time for one sip of whiskey before the phone vibrated once more. He peered at the screen.

On the third buzz he hit answer.

‘Philly.’

‘James, I’ve been reading the signals. My God – are you all right?’

‘Yes. A bit of a rough day but it looks like we got everything sorted.’

‘You are the master of the understatement. So Gehenna and Incident Twenty were entirely different? I wouldn’t have thought it. How did you suss it all out?’

‘Correlation of analysis and, of course, you need to think three-dimensionally,’ Bond said gravely.

A pause. Then Philly Maidenstone asked, ‘You’re winding me up, aren’t you, James?’

‘I suppose I am.’

A faint trickle of laughter. ‘Now, I’m sure you’re knackered and need to get some rest but I found one more piece of the Steel Cartridge puzzle. If you’re interested.’

Relax, he told himself.

But he couldn’t. Had his father been a traitor or not?

‘I’ve got the identity of the KGB mole inside Six, the one who was murdered.’

‘I see.’ He inhaled slowly. ‘Who was he?’

‘Hold on a second… where is it now? I did have it.’

Agony. He struggled to stay calm.

Then she said, ‘Ah, here we go. His cover name was Robert Witherspoon. Recruited by a KGB handler when he was at Cambridge. He was shoved in front of a tube train at Piccadilly Circus by a KGB active-measures agent in 1988.’

Bond closed his eyes. Andrew Bond had not been at Cambridge. And he and his wife had died in 1990, on a mountain in France. His father had been no traitor. Neither had he been a spy.

Philly continued, ‘But I also found that another MI6 freelance operator was killed as part of Steel Cartridge, not a double – considered quite a superstar agent, apparently, working counter-intelligence, tracking down moles in Six and the CIA.’

Bond swirled this around in his mind, like the whiskey in his glass. He said, ‘Do you know anything about his death?’

‘Pretty hush-hush. But I do know it occurred around 1990, somewhere in France or Italy. It was disguised as an accident, too, and a steel cartridge was left at the scene as a warning to other agents.’

A wry smile crossed Bond’s lips. So maybe his father had been a spy after all – though not a traitor. At least, not to his country. But, Bond reflected, had he been a traitor to his family and to his son? Hadn’t Andrew been foolhardy in taking young James along when he was meeting enemy agents he was trying to trick?

‘But one thing, James. You said “his death”.’

‘How’s that?’

‘The Six counter-intelligence op who was killed in ’90 – you said “his”. A signal in the archives suggested the agent was a woman.’

My God, Bond thought. No… His mother a spy? Monique Delacroix Bond? Impossible. But she was a freelance photojournalist, which was a frequently used nonofficial cover for agents. And she was by far the more adventurous of his parents; it was she who had encouraged her husband to take up rock climbing and skiing. Bond also recalled her polite but firm refusal to let young James accompany her on photographic assignments.