Carte Blanche Part 29

'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 gla.s.s.

'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 p.r.o.nouncing 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 Ma.s.sacre. She was among those protesting against the dompas the "dumb pa.s.s", it was called. Under apartheid people were legally cla.s.sified as white, black, coloured or Indian.'

Bond recalled Gregory Lamb's comments.

'Blacks had to carry a pa.s.sbook 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.

51.

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 a.s.sailant 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 a.s.sailant 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 c.r.a.p . . .

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 b.a.l.l.s 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 pract.i.tioners 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 ch.o.r.eography, Bond now dodged the man's a.s.sault.

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 ma.s.sive 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 a.s.sessed the a.s.sailant'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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.signment. You never abandon your partner.'

Rathko's brother had been the younger of the BIA agents with Bond on Sunday night near Novi Sad.

My brother, he smokes all time he is out on operations. Looks more normal than not smoking in Serbia . . .

Bond knew now how the man had found him in Dubai. To secure the BIA's co-operation in Serbia, the ODG and Six had given the senior security people in Belgrade Bond's real name and mission. After his brother had died, Rathko and his comrades at the JSO would have put together a full-scale operation to find Bond, using contacts through NATO and Six. They'd learnt Bond was bound for Dubai. Of course, Bond now realised, it had been Rathko, not Osborne-Smith, who'd been making those subtle inquiries at MI6 about Bond's plans earlier in the week. Among Rathko's papers he now found authorisation for a flight by military jet from Belgrade to Dubai. Which explained how he'd beaten Bond to the emirate. A local mercenary, the doc.u.ments revealed, had put an untraceable car the black Toyota at the JSO agent's disposal.

And the purpose?

Probably not arrest and rendition. Rathko had most likely been planning to video Bond confessing or apologising or perhaps to record his torture and death.

'You call yourself Nicholas or Nick?' Bond asked, crouching.

'Yebie se,' was the only response.

'Listen to me. I'm sorry your brother lost his life. But he had no business being in the BIA. He was careless and he wouldn't follow orders. He was the reason we lost the target.'

'He was young.'

'That's no excuse. It wouldn't be an excuse for me and it wasn't an excuse for you when you were with Arkan's Tigers.'

'He was only a boy.' Tears glistened in the man's eyes, whether from the pain of the broken wrist or the sorrow he felt for his dead brother, Bond couldn't tell.

Bond looked down the alleyway and saw Bheka Jordaan and some SAPS officers sprinting towards him. He bent down, picked up the man's knife and sliced through the trip wire.