Carte Blanche Part 40

She'd described him thus several years ago. His face had warmed with pleasure when he'd heard the words and now he carried them in his memory, like a lock of her hair, just as he carried the memory of their first job together, when she was a City investment banker and had hired him to inspect some works installations her client was lending money to complete. Dunne had rejected the shoddy job, saving her and the client millions. She'd taken him to dinner and he'd had too much wine and prattled on about how morality had no place in combat or business or, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, in anything. The beautiful woman had agreed. My G.o.d, he'd thought, here's somebody who doesn't care that my feet go in different directions, that I'm built out of spare parts, that I can't tell a joke or turn on the charm to save my life.

Felicity was his perfect match at detachment. Her pa.s.sion for making money was identical to his for creating efficient machines.

They'd ended up in her luxurious flat in Knightsbridge and made love. It had been, without question, the best night of his life.

They had begun to work together more frequently, making the transition into jobs that were, well, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit more profitable and a lot less legitimate than taking a percentage of a revolving credit construction loan.

The jobs had become bolder, darker and more lucrative, but the other thing between them well, that had changed . . . as he'd supposed all along it would. She didn't, she finally confessed, think of him in that way. The night they were together, yes, it had been wonderful and she was sorely tempted, but she was worried that it would ruin their astonishing intellectual no, spiritual connection. Besides, she'd been hurt before, very badly. She was a bird with a broken wing that hadn't yet mended. Could they simply remain partners and friends, oh, please? You can be my draughtsman . . .

The story rang a bit hollow but he had chosen to believe her, as one will do when a lover spins a tale less painful than the truth.

But their business soared with success an embezzlement here, some extortion there and Dunne bided his time, because he believed that Felicity would come round. He made it seem that he, too, was over the romance. He managed to keep his obsession for her buried, as hidden and as explosive as a VS-50 land mine.

Now, though, everything had changed. They were soon to be together.

Niall Dunne believed this in his soul.

Because he was going to win her love by saving her. Against all the odds, he'd save her. He'd spirit her away to safety on Madagascar, where he'd created an enclave for them to live very comfortably.

As he approached the inn, Dunne was recalling that James had caught out Hydt with his comment about Isandlwana the Zulu ma.s.sacre in the 1800s. Now he was thinking of the second battle that day in January, the one at Rorke's Drift. There, a force of four thousand Zulus had attacked a small outpost and hospital manned by about 130 British soldiers. As impossible as it seemed, the British had successfully defended it, suffering minimal casualties.

What was significant about the battle to Niall Dunne, though, was the commander of the British troops, Lieutenant John Chard. He was with the Corps of Royal Engineers a sapper, like Dunne. Chard had come up with a blueprint for the defence against overwhelming odds and executed it brilliantly. He'd earned the Victoria Cross. Niall Dunne was now about to win a decoration of his own the heart of Felicity Willing.

Moving slowly through the autumn evening, he now arrived at the inn, staying well out of sight of the rock face and the British spy.

He considered his plan. He knew the fat agent was dead or dying. He remembered what he'd seen of the breakfast or dining room through the rifle scope before the man, irritatingly, had turned off the lights. The only other officer in the inn seemed to be the SAPS woman. He could easily take her he would fling something through the window to distract her, then kill her and get Felicity out.

The two of them would sprint to the beach for the extraction, then speed to the helicopter that would take them to freedom in Madagascar.

Together . . .

He stepped silently to a window of the Sixth Apostle Inn. Looking in carefully, Dunne saw the British agent he'd shot, lying on the floor. His eyes were open, glazed in death.

Felicity sat on the floor nearby, her hands cuffed behind her, breathing hard.

Dunne was shaken by the sight of his love being so ill-treated. More anger. This time it did not go away. Then he heard the policewoman, in the kitchen, make a call on her radio and ask about back-up. 'Well, how long is it going to be?' she snapped.

Probably some time, Dunne reflected. His a.s.sociates had overturned a large lorry and set it on fire. Victoria Road was completely blocked.

Dunne slipped round the back of the hotel into the car park, overgrown and filled with weeds and rubbish, and went to the kitchen door. His gun before him, he eased it open without a sound. He heard the clatter of the radio, a transmission about a fire engine.

Good, he thought. The SAPS officer was concentrating on the radio call. He'd take her from behind.

He stepped further inside and moved down a narrow corridor to the kitchen. He could- But the kitchen was empty. On a counter sat the radio, the staticky voice rambling on and on. He realised that these were just random transmissions from SAPS's central emergency dispatch, about fires, robberies, noise complaints.

The radio was set to scan mode, not communications.

Why had she done that?

This couldn't be a trap to lure him inside. James wouldn't possibly know that he'd left the sniper's nest and was here. He stepped to the window and gazed up at the rock face, where he could see the man climbing slowly.

His heart stuttered. No . . . The vague form was exactly where it had been ten minutes ago. And Dunne realised that what he'd glanced at earlier on the rock face might not have been the spy at all, but perhaps his jacket, draped over a rock and moving in the breeze.

No, no . . .

Then a man's voice said, in a smooth British accent, 'Drop your weapon. Don't turn round or you'll be shot.'

Dunne's shoulders slumped. He remained staring out at the Twelve Apostles ridge. He gave a brief laugh. 'Logic told me you'd climb to the sniper's nest. I was so certain.'

The spy replied, 'And logic told me you'd bluff and come here. I just climbed high enough to leave my jacket in case you looked.'

Dunne glanced over his shoulder. The SAPS officer was standing beside the spy. Both were armed. Dunne could see the man's cold eyes. The South African officer was just as determined. Through the doorway, in the lobby, Dunne could also see Felicity Willing, his boss, his love, straining to look into the kitchen. Felicity called, 'What's going on in there? Somebody answer me!'

My draughtsman . . .

The British agent said harshly, 'I won't tell you again. In five seconds I'll shoot into your arms.'

There was no blueprint for this. And for once the inarguable logic of engineering and the science of mechanics failed Niall Dunne. He was suddenly amused, thinking that this would be perhaps the first wholly irrational decision he'd ever made. But did that mean it wouldn't succeed?

Pure faith sometimes worked, he'd been told.

He leapt sideways on his long legs, dropping into a crouch, spinning about and aiming toward the woman officer first, his pistol rising.

Shattering the stillness, several guns sang, voices similar but differently pitched, in harmonies low and high.

71.

The ambulances and SAPS cars were arriving. A Recces special-forces helicopter was hovering over the vessel containing the mercenaries who'd come to collect Dunne and Felicity. Glaring spotlights pointed downwards, as did the barrels of two 20mm cannon. One short burst over the bow was enough to force the occupants to surrender.

An unmarked police car screeched up amid a cloud of dust, directly in front of the hotel. Kwalene Nkosi leapt out and nodded to Bond. Other officers joined them. Bond recognised some from the raid earlier today at the Green Way plant.

Bheka Jordaan a.s.sisted Felicity Willing to her feet. She asked, 'Is Dunne dead?'

He was. Bond and Jordaan had fired simultaneously before the muzzle of his Beretta could rise to the threat position. He'd died a moment later, blue eyes as flat in death as they had been in life, though his last glance had been towards the room where Felicity sat, not at the pair who had shot him.

'Yes,' Jordaan said. 'I'm sorry.' She spoke this with some sympathy, apparently having a.s.sumed a personal as well as professional connection between the two.

'You're sorry,' Felicity responded cynically. 'What good is he to me dead?'

Bond understood that she wasn't mourning the loss of a partner but of a bargaining chip.

Felicity Wilful . . .

'Listen to me. You have no idea what you're up against,' she muttered to Jordaan. 'I'm the Queen of Food Aid. I'm the one saving the starving babies. You may as well give up your badge right now if you try to arrest me. And if that doesn't impress you, remember my partners. You've cost some very dangerous people millions and millions of dollars today. Here's my offer. I'll close down my operation here. I'll move elsewhere. You'll be safe. I guarantee it.

'If you don't agree, you won't live out the month. Neither will your family. And don't think you're going to throw me into a secret prison somewhere. If there's even a hint that the SAPS treated a suspect illegally, the press and the courts'll crucify you.'

'You're not going to be arrested,' Bond told her.

'Good.'

'The story everybody will hear is that you're fleeing the country after embezzling five million dollars from the IOAH treasury. Your partners aren't going to be interested in revenge on Captain Jordaan or anybody else. They'll be interested in finding you . . . and their money.'

In reality, she'd be whisked off to a black site for extensive 'discussions'.

'You can't do that!' she raged, her green eyes fiery.

At that moment a black van pulled up. Two uniformed men got out and walked up to Bond. He recognised on their sleeves the chevron of the British Special Boat Service, depicting a sword over a motto Bond had always liked: 'By Strength and Guile'.

This was the rendition team Bill Tanner had arranged.

One saluted. 'Commander.'

The civilian Bond nodded. 'Here's the package.' A glance at Felicity Willing.

'What?' the lioness cried. 'No!'

He said to the soldiers, 'I'm authorising you to execute an ODG Level Two project order dated Sunday last.'

'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 emba.s.sy 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.

72.

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 gla.s.s 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 Sat.u.r.day'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.'