Carte Blanche Part 41

'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 G.o.d 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 a.n.a.lysis 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 ident.i.ty 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 gla.s.s. 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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.signments.

A mother, of course, would never endanger her child, whatever tradecraft recommended.

Bond didn't know the recruitment requirements back then but presumably the fact that she was Swiss-born would not have been an obstacle to her working as a contract op.

There was more research to do, of course, to confirm the suspicion. And, if it was true, he would find out who had ordered the killing and who had carried it out. But that was for Bond alone to pursue. He said, 'Thanks, Philly. I think that's all I need. You've been a star. You deserve an OBE.'

'A Selfridges gift voucher will do . . . I'll stock up when they have Bollywood week in the food hall.'

Ah, another instance of their similar interests. 'In that case, better yet, I'll take you to a curry house I know in Brick Lane. The best in London. They're not fully licensed but we can bring a bottle of one of those Bordeaux you were talking about. A week on Sat.u.r.day, how's that?'

She paused, consulting her diary, Bond guessed. 'Yes, James, that'll be great.'

He imagined her again: the abundant red hair, the sparkling golden-green eyes, the rustling as she crossed her legs.

Then she added, 'And you'll have to bring a date.'

The whiskey stopped halfway to his lips. 'Of course,' Bond said automatically.

'You and yours, Tim and me. It'll be such great fun.'

'Tim. Your fiance.'

'You might've heard we went through a bad patch. But he turned down a chance of a big job overseas to stay in London.'

'Good man. Came to his senses.'

'It's hardly his fault for considering it. I'm not easy to live with. But we decided to see if we could make it work. We have history together. Oh, do let's try for Sat.u.r.day. You and Tim can talk cars and motorbikes. He knows quite a lot about them. More than I do, even.'

She was talking quickly too quickly. Ophelia Maidenstone was savvy, in addition to being clever, of course, and she was fully aware of what had happened between them at the restaurant last Monday. She'd sensed the very real connection they'd had and would be thinking even now that something might have developed . . . had the past not intruded.

The past, Bond reflected wryly: Severan Hydt's pa.s.sion.

And his nemesis.

He said sincerely, 'I'm very glad for you, Philly.'

'Thank you, James,' she said, a dash of emotion in her voice.

'But listen, I won't have you spending your life wheeling babies around Clapham in a pram. You're the best liaison officer we've ever had and I'm insisting on using you on every a.s.signment I possibly can.'

'I'll be there for you, James. Whenever and wherever you want me.'

Under the circ.u.mstances, probably not the best choice of words, he reflected, smiling to himself. 'I have to go, Philly. I'll ring you next week for the post-mortem on Incident Twenty.'

They disconnected.

Bond ordered another drink. When it arrived, he drank half as he looked out over the harbour, though he was not seeing much of its spectacular beauty. And his distraction had nothing well, little to do with Ophelia Maidenstone's repaired engagement.

No, his thoughts dealt with a more primal theme.

His mother, a spy . . .

Suddenly a voice intruded on his turbulent musings. 'I'm late. I'm sorry.'

James Bond turned to Bheka Jordaan, sitting down across from him. 'She's well, Ugogo?'

'Oh, yes, but at my sister's she made us all watch a 'Sgudi 'Snaysi rerun.'

Bond lifted an eyebrow.

'A Zulu-language sitcom from some years ago.'

It was warm under the terrace's heater and Jordaan slipped off her navy-blue jacket. Her red shirt had short sleeves and he could see that she had not used make-up on her arm. The scar inflicted by her former co-workers was quite prominent. He wondered why she was not concealing it tonight.

Jordaan regarded him carefully. 'I was surprised you accepted my invitation to dinner. I am paying, by the way.'

'That's not necessary.'

Frowning, she said, 'I didn't a.s.sume it was.'

Bond said, 'Thank you, then.'

'I wasn't sure I'd ask you. I actually debated for some time. I'm not a person who debates much. I usually decide rather quickly, as I think I've told you.' She paused and looked away. 'I'm sorry your date in the wine country didn't work out.'

'Well, all things considered, I'd rather be here with you than in Franschhoek.'

'I should think so. I'm a difficult woman but not a ma.s.s murderer.' She added ominously, 'But you should not flirt with me . . . Ah, don't deny it! I remember very well your look in the airport the day you arrived.'

'I flirt a lot less than you think I do. Psychologists have a term for that. It's called projecting. You project your feelings on to me.'

'That remark in itself is flirtatious!'

Bond laughed and gestured the sommelier forward. He displayed the bottle of the South African sparkling wine Bond had ordered to be brought when his companion arrived. The man opened it.

Bond tasted it and nodded approval. Then he said to Jordaan, 'You'll like this. A Graham Beck Cuvee Clive. Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. The 2003 vintage. It's from Robertson, the Western Cape.'

Jordaan gave one of her rare laughs. 'Here I've been lecturing you about South Africa, but it seems you know a few things yourself.'

'This wine's as good as anything you'll get in Reims.'

'Where is that?'

'France where champagne is made. East of Paris. A beautiful place. You'd enjoy it.'

'I'm sure it's lovely but apparently there's no need to go there if our wine is as good as theirs.'

Her logic was una.s.sailable. They tilted their gla.s.ses towards each other. 'Khotso,' she said. 'Peace.'

'Khotso.'

They sipped and sat for some moments in silence. He was surprisingly comfortable in the company of this 'difficult woman'.

She set her gla.s.s down. 'May I ask?'

'Please,' Bond responded.

'When Gregory Lamb and I were in the caravan at the Sixth Apostle, recording your conversation with Felicity Willing, you said to her that you'd hoped it might work out between you two. Was that true?'

'Yes.'

'Then I'm sorry. I've had some bad luck too when it comes to relationships. I know what it's like when the heart turns against you. But we're resilient creatures.'

'We are indeed. Against all odds.'

Her eyes slipped away and she stared at the harbour for a time.

Bond said, 'It was my bullet that killed him, you know Niall Dunne, I mean.'

Startled, she began, 'How did you know I was . . .?' Her voice faded.

'Was that the first time you'd shot someone?'

'Yes, it was. But how can you be sure it was your bullet?'

'I'd decided at that range to make my target vector a head shot. Dunne had one wound in his forehead and one in the torso. The head shot was mine. It was fatal. The lower wound, yours, was superficial.'

'You're sure it was your shot in his head?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'In that shooting scenario I wouldn't've missed,' Bond said simply.

Jordaan was silent for a moment. Then she said, 'I suppose I'll have to believe you. Anyone who uses the phrases "target vector" and "shooting scenario" surely would know where his bullets went.'

Earlier, Bond thought, she might have said this with derision a reference to his violent nature and flagrant disregard for the rule of law but now she was simply making an observation.

They sat back and chatted for a time, about her family and his life in London, his travels.

Night was cloaking the city now, a kind autumn evening of the sort that graces this part of the southern hemisphere, and the vista sparkled with fixed lights on land and floating lights on vessels. Stars, too, except in the black voids nearby where the king and prince of Cape Town's rock formations blocked out the sky: Table Mountain and Lion's Head.

The plaintive baritone call of a horn reached up to them from the harbour.

Bond wondered if its source was one of the ships delivering food.