by William Boyd
‘Mr Bond – I am Brigadier Solomon Adeka. I wanted to thank you personally for what you achieved at the Kololo Causeway.’
Bond stared, astonished, taking in every detail. Adeka was obviously gravely, terminally ill – that fact apparent from his drawn face and his dead eyes. Some kind of aggressive cancer, Bond supposed. Adeka reached out a quivering hand, all bones, and Bond shook it briefly. There was no grip at all.
Adeka signalled to Colonel Denga – who had slipped into the room behind Bond – and the colonel stepped forward, reached into his pocket and drew out a slim leather case.
‘You’ll probably laugh,’ Adeka said, ‘but I wanted you to have some symbolic evidence of our gratitude. The Republic of Dahum salutes you.’
Bond took the case from Denga and opened it. Inside, on a bed of moulded black velvet, was an eight-pointed gold star hanging from a red, white and black silk ribbon.
‘The Gold Star of Dahum – our highest military honour.’
Bond was both surprised and oddly touched. ‘Well . . . I’m very grateful,’ he said slowly. ‘Very flattered. But I don’t feel I’m really—’
But then Adeka began to cough, drily, and Bond saw how his frail body was wracked with the effort as it quivered and shook beneath the blankets.
‘We should go,’ Denga said, quietly.
‘Goodbye, Brigadier,’ Bond said, not wanting his farewell to sound final but knowing he would never see the man again – and knowing also that his mission was now effectively over. He turned and left the room.
He sat in silence as Sunday drove him back to Port Dunbar. He felt a human sadness, he had to admit, that Adeka’s life was ending so early, and at the same time a gnawing sense of unease that he had been sent here precisely to achieve that object – to make him ‘a less efficient soldier’. No need for that now.
‘Is everything OK, sir?’ Sunday said, cautiously, aware of his sombre mood.
‘Yes,’ Bond said. ‘I’ve just been given a medal.’
‘Congratulations,’ Sunday said, cheering up. ‘Do you want to go to Janjaville? There are five flights tonight. Two already come and go.’
‘No thanks,’ Bond said. ‘Take me back to the Press Centre. It’s been quite a day – I need another drink.’
Bond went straight to the bar and bought a bottle of whisky. He intended to sleep well and soundly tonight and he knew whisky to be an excellent soporific. There was no sign of his colleagues but he didn’t mind drinking alone. He sat down and poured himself a generous three fingers of Scotch. Then the door to the bar opened and Geoffrey Letham walked in.
16
A VERY RICH MAN
All five members of the foreign press corps in Port Dunbar were invited to Brigadier Solomon Adeka’s state funeral, three days later. The journalists stood in a loose, uneasy group at the rear of the dusty, weed-strewn cemetery that adjoined Port Dunbar’s modest cathedral – St Jude’s – as a guard of honour carried Adeka’s coffin to the graveside. Through a crackling PA system Colonel Denga gave a short but passionate eulogy, outlining Adeka’s virtues as a man, a patriot and a soldier, describing him as the ‘first hero of Dahum’ and saying emphatically that the struggle for freedom would continue – this brought cheers and applause from the large crowd that had gathered beyond the cemetery walls – and that the people of Dahum should draw their inspiration, their courage, their endurance from the memory of this great man.
A firing party raised their rifles and delivered a ragged six-shot volley into the hazy blue sky as the coffin was lowered.
Bond looked on in an ambivalent state of mind and then became aware that Geoffrey Letham was sidling over in his direction. They had greeted each other curtly the other night, not shaking hands, and Bond had swiftly taken himself off to his room with his bottle of whisky. He had managed to avoid him subsequently, having Sunday fill his days with endless rounds of official sightseeing. However, there was no escaping him now, as Letham appeared at his shoulder, mopping his florid face with a damp ultramarine handkerchief.
‘I say, Bond,’ he whispered in his ear, ‘Breadalbane tells me you met Adeka just before he died. What was all that about?’
‘Nothing important.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Under the weather.’
‘Most amusing. Why did he want to meet you? I was told he refused to speak to the press. I’d come to Dahum expressly to interview him. The Mail was going to pay him serious money.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Bond said.
‘All very curious, I must say.’ Letham gave an unpleasant smile. ‘In fact, you’re a very curious man, Bond. For a journalist of your age and alleged experience, no one seems to have heard of you. You and I must have a little chat about it one day.’
‘I don’t speak to the press, Letham, hadn’t you heard?’
Bond wandered away, wondering if Letham was issuing some kind of covert threat. He had arrived on a Super Constellation flight, having left Sinsikrou after his encounter with Bond and travelled to Abidjan in Ivory Coast. There, he’d paid Hulbert Linck to be flown in, posing as a friend and supporter of ‘plucky little Dahum’. Initially Bond was more irritated than perturbed by Letham’s surprising presence – he could deal with dross like Letham effortlessly – but what was disturbing him now was that nothing in Dahum had changed with the death of Adeka. It had been announced in a black-bordered edition of the Daily Graphic – Dahum’s sole newspaper – but the expected collapse of morale in the army and population had not taken place. The junta had simply announced that Colonel Denga was the new commander-in-chief of the Dahumian armed forces. The king was dead – long live the king.
Bond saw Kobus Breed talking with a group of his fellow mercenaries. He wandered over and called his name and Breed turned to greet him.
‘Hail the conquering hero,’ he said, not smiling.
Bond ignored this and asked him how he and his fellows had taken the news of Adeka’s death.
‘Well, it was a bit of a kick in the crotch,’ Breed said with a shrug. ‘But, you know, Denga’s as smart as a whip. Learned everything at Adeka’s knee. And, hey,’ he grinned, ‘we’ve got an air force now. The Malmös are ready for their first mission. Everyone’s in good heart – and of course we still have our secret weapon.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Tony Msour.’
‘Who is?’
‘Our juju man. Our fetish priest. Makes our boys immortal.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’
Bond walked back to the Press Centre from the cemetery, thinking hard, composing in his mind a telex message to M at Transworld Consortium. He could let M know that Adeka had died – though surely that news had broken by now – and point out that Adeka hadn’t in fact been the vital key to Dahum’s survival as everyone in London had supposed. What more could he do? he wondered. Perhaps he should book a $100-seat on the next Constellation out.
Bond duly sent his telex and received a swift and brief reply from Agence Presse Libre. ‘Suggest you stay in Port Dunbar until hostilities cease. Have you any idea when that might be?’
Bond detected M’s hand in the message’s ironic terseness. He could read the subtext: his mission was not over, that much was clear.
Two days later the foreign press corps was invited to reassemble to witness the first attack by the Dahumian air force on a key Zanzarim army position – a substantial bridge over one of the many tributaries of the Zanza River. Bond happily allowed Breadalbane to travel with him in Sunday’s Peugeot. They set off well before dawn and after a two-hour drive along bumpy minor roads they arrived, as the sun was rising, in a village called Lamu-Penu, a half-mile from the targeted bridge. There were no villagers in evidence, just 300 well-armed Dahumian soldiers drawn up in a long column, waiting for the fetish priest. Hulbert Linck was there in a Land Rover equipped with a radio that gave him contact with the Janjaville strip. The fetish priest arrived and proceeded to ‘immortalise’ the troops, spraying liquid from his
magic gourd through his bared teeth at them, and flicking at them with his horsehair whisk. Bond looked over at Letham, who was trying to suppress his hilarity, his shoulders rocking, small snorts coming from his nose and throat.
Then Linck called in the Malmös and ten minutes later they flew low over the village, waggling their wings in salute to great cheers and exultation from the massed troops waiting to follow them in. Seconds later came the sound of their machine guns as they strafed the bridge defences and, with whoops and yells, led by Breed and his men, the soldiers jogged off to do battle.
It was all over in fifteen minutes and the journalists were duly called up to the bridge to bear witness. Clearly Zanza Force’s aptitude for swift and sudden retreat had prevailed again, Bond thought. He paced around, thoughtfully, looking at the marginal damage – some burst sandbags, discarded equipment, the odd bloodstain on the tarmac – and ran into an exhilarated Hulbert Linck.
‘Look what we can do, Bond, with three little aeroplanes. Wait until the ship arrives.’
‘What ship?’
‘We’re going to run the blockade at Port Dunbar,’ Linck said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll keep you informed.’
Bond went in search of Breed to see if he could shed more light on this mysterious ship and its cargo. He found him stringing up three Zanzari corpses – the only fatalities of the air strike – busying around them with his ropes and his fish hooks, hauling the bodies up by their jaws into the trees above the road that approached the bridge and the river.
‘Linck told me about the ship,’ Bond said.
‘Did he?’ Breed said, impressed. ‘It’s meant to be a deadly secret. He must think you’re one of us – now you’ve won your medal.’
‘So, what’s with this ship?’
‘Big cargo vessel. Got some serious stuff on board. Going to change everything.’ He cuffed away a tear and turned to his men in the trees. ‘Take ’em up a bit higher, boys. Up! Up! Heave-ho! We want everyone to have a good view.’
On the drive back to Port Dunbar, Bond began to feel a debilitating sense of impotence. What was he meant to do in this situation, for God’s sake? Hulbert Linck was a one-man arms industry coming to the rescue of embattled Dahum – and what was this ‘serious stuff’ Breed mentioned? Bond wondered if there was any way he could immobilise Linck, somehow take him out of the equation . . . But how to get to him? And then there was still the Dahum army, fighting on efficiently under Colonel Denga—
The sound of a car horn being tooted angrily behind them interrupted his thoughts and Sunday pulled in promptly.
A glossy black Citroën DS swept by, curtains drawn in its rear windows.
‘Who the hell’s that?’ Breadalbane asked.
‘That’s Tony Msour,’ Sunday said. ‘Very rich man.’
Bond remembered where he’d heard the name before: Kobus Breed’s juju man. Bond watched the Citroën roar down the road, its hydropneumatic suspension coping effortlessly with the potholes. Nice cars. The nudging intimations of an idea were beginning to nag at him.
17
THE $50 PEUGEOT
Bond said he needed a private word with Sunday so Breadalbane left them in the car and slouched into the Press Centre alone.
‘Have I made mistake?’ Sunday asked, full of apprehension.
‘No, no – I just want to ask you a few questions.’ Bond smiled, keen to reassure him. ‘For example: how much would you sell this car for – in US dollars?’
Sunday thought for a moment. ‘Twenty dollar – but for you, Mr Bond, I say fifteen.’
‘All right – but I’ll give you fifty for it,’ Bond said, enjoying the look of joyful astonishment registering on Sunday’s face. ‘But I also need you to get me a few other things. I want a hat – like the one Mr Breed wears – and a belt, a webbing belt. Oh yes, and two litres of drinking water and a small sharp knife.’
‘I get them for you, sar.’
Bond counted out $50 and handed the notes over.
‘Bring the car tonight, at six-thirty. I won’t need it until then.’ Bond raised a warning finger. ‘Don’t tell anybody, Sunday. This is our little secret.’
At lunch in the Press Centre Bond pocketed a bottle of ketchup and, in the lavatory later, emptied it and washed it out thoroughly. Back in his room he unzipped his pigskin toilet bag and prepared his solution of talcum powder dissolved in aftershave. He screwed the lid on tightly and shook the bottle until the liquid was clear. He took the lid off again and sniffed – completely odourless.
At six Bond went down to the bar and ordered a whisky and soda while he waited for Sunday to arrive. Dupree and Haas were in a corner playing chess but there was no sign of Breadalbane. Bond drained his drink and was on the point of going outside to wait for Sunday when Letham came into the room and, seeing Bond, made straight for him.
‘Can I have a word, Bond?’
‘I’m afraid I’m busy.’
‘You said you worked in Australia before this job. Reuters.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Funny – none of my Reuters friends in Oz can remember you.’
‘I was a bit of a loner – got to go.’
Letham touched his elbow, looked like he was going to grab his arm and then thought better of it.
‘Sydney or Melbourne?’
‘It’s really none of your business, Letham, but the answer is both.’
Bond left, annoyed with himself for being goaded by Letham into answering. He shouldn’t have told him anything.
Sunday was parked outside the front door, sitting on the bonnet of the Peugeot. He handed Bond the car keys.
‘Not yet – I need you to drive me somewhere, Sunday. Did you get everything?’
He had and, in the car, Bond tucked his trousers into his desert boots, buckled the webbing belt round his combat jacket and put on the soft, peaked kepi that was the headgear of choice for most of the mercenaries.
‘How do I look?’ he asked Sunday.
‘Like soldier, sar.’
‘Excellent. Do you know where Tony Msour lives?’
‘Everybody know. Big, big house on the road to Janjaville.’
‘Right. Take me there.’
It was completely dark by the time they reached Tony Msour’s house, a large concrete villa with a balcony circling the first floor, set behind high breezeblock walls with a sliding metal gate. Bond could see the black Citroën DS squat on its haunches outside the front door. Sunday parked by the gate and Bond said he would take over from here. Sunday gave him the keys and set off walking jauntily on the road back to Port Dunbar.
There was an intercom on the gate and Bond pressed the button.
‘Yes?’ a crackling voice said after Bond had rung a second time. ‘Who there?’
‘Kobus Breed,’ Bond said. ‘It’s very urgent.’
The buzzer sounded and Bond slid the gate back and stepped into the compound. A light above the front door came on and a couple of chained dogs barked angrily at him. The door opened and Tony Msour stood there in a string vest and a pair of loose mauve cotton trousers. He was smoking a small stumpy cigar. It was strange seeing him in his civilian persona, Bond thought, minus the white face and the green circles round his eyes. In fact he was a handsome man with fine features and very dark skin – more Nilotic or Nubian than Fakassa. He had two little vertical tribal scars under his eyes. Bond gave a loose salute.
‘Where be Breed?’ Msour said, a little suspiciously.
‘He sent me. They’re trying to recapture the bridge at Lamu-Penu.’
‘Jesos Chrise.’
‘Exactly. Breed’s rushing men up. He needs you – fast.’
Msour thought for a second. ‘It will be one hundred dollars.’
‘Of course. Breed said the money wasn’t a problem. There’s real trouble up there.’
Msour dashed back into the house and emerged minutes later with a shirt on and a large kitbag – containing his beads, skirt, gourd and whisk,
Bond supposed – and followed Bond out to the Peugeot. Msour chucked his kitbag in the back and climbed into the car beside Bond.
‘I don’t like to doing this at night, you know. That is why I go charge you extra, extra.’
‘I quite understand,’ Bond said and started the engine, roaring off down the road towards Port Dunbar at high speed. After five minutes they passed through a large plantation of oil palms and Bond slowed, keeping his eyes open for the turning he’d spotted earlier on the way out. He turned off the road on to a dirt track that led into the plantation, the one headlight of Sunday’s Peugeot illuminating the serried trunks of the palm trees.
‘Where you dey go?’ Msour asked.
‘Short cut. We’re in a hurry,’ Bond said and then turned off the track and drove into the plantation itself, bumping along the avenue of palm trees.
‘You done go craze, man!’ Msour shouted.
‘Shit. Wrong turning,’ Bond said. ‘Sorry.’ He stopped the car, put the gear lever into reverse and then punched Msour full in the face, knocking his head back so heavily against the windowpane that it smashed with a tinkle of glass. Msour cried in pain and Bond reached across him, opened the door and kicked him out of the car. Bond leaped out and ran round to find Msour on his hands and knees, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what had happened to him. Bond stood above him and brought the edge of his hand down full force on to the exposed nape of his neck with a karate chop. Msour was flattened, face in the dirt, poleaxed, out cold.
Bond opened the boot and dragged Msour’s limp body over, tipping him into the space. Msour made no sound as Bond rolled him on to his back and forced his mouth open. He unscrewed the cap on his ketchup bottle and filled Msour’s gaping mouth with some of the solution. He sat him up and heard the fluid go down with a reflex gurgle then repeated the process. He should be comatose for at least forty-eight hours, according to Quentin Dale of Q Branch. Then Bond added the kitbag and the two litres of water Sunday had provided in a plastic container and slammed the boot shut, locking it. He took the clasp knife Sunday had brought out of his pocket and punctured all four tyres. The Peugeot settled with a hissing wheeze of escaping air. Then with a rock he smashed the windscreen and the remaining windows. Finally he kicked dents in the bodywork and threw handfuls of dirt and leaves over the car.