Hydt was riveted. He was tapping his nails on the desk. He forced himself to stop.
‘So. Here is my idea: I am thinking of offering a service to, well, those government agencies to remove the human remains.’ His face brightened. ‘This will allow more building of factories, hospitals, roads, farms, schools, and it will help the poor, the unfortunate.’
‘Yes,’ Hydt said. ‘Rebury the bodies somewhere else.’
Theron laid his hands on the desk. The gold initial ring glittered in a shaft of sunlight. ‘That’s one possibility. But it would be very expensive. And the problem might arise later at the new location.’
‘True. But are there other alternatives?’ Hydt asked.
‘Your speciality.’
‘Which is?’
In a whisper Theron said, ‘Perhaps… recycling.’
Hydt saw the scenario clearly. Gene Theron, a mercenary and obviously a very successful one, had supplied troops and weapons to various armies and warlords throughout Africa, men who’d secretly massacred hundreds or thousands of people and hidden the bodies in mass graves. Now they were growing worried that legitimate governments, peacekeeping forces, the press or human-rights groups would discover the corpses.
Theron had made money by providing the means of destruction. Now he wanted to make money by removing the evidence of their use.
‘It seemed to me an interesting solution,’ Theron continued. ‘But I wouldn’t know how to go about it. Your… interests in Cambodia and your recycling business here told me that perhaps this is something you had thought of, too. Or would be willing to consider.’ His cold eyes regarded Hydt. ‘I was thinking maybe concrete or plaster. Or fertiliser?’
Turning the bodies into products that ensured they couldn’t be recognised as human remains! Hydt could hardly contain himself. Utterly brilliant. Why, there must be hundreds of opportunities like this throughout the world – Somalia, the former Yugoslavia, Latin America… and there were killing fields aplenty in Africa. Thousands. His chest pounded.
‘So, that’s my idea. A fifty-fifty partnership. I provide the refuse and you recycle it.’ Theron seemed to find this rather amusing.
‘I think we may be able to do business.’ Hydt offered his hand to the Afrikaner.
35
The worst risk of James Bond assuming the NOC – nonofficial cover – of Gene Theron was that Niall Dunne had perhaps got a look at him in Serbia or the Fens, or had been given his description in Dubai – if the blue-jacketed man who’d been tailing him was in fact working for Hydt.
In which case when Bond walked brazenly into the Green Way office in Cape Town and sought to hire Hydt to dispose of bodies hidden in secret graves throughout Africa, Dunne would either kill him on the spot or spirit him to their own personal killing field, where the job would be done with cold efficiency.
But now, having shaken hands with an intrigued Severan Hydt, Bond believed his cover was holding. So far. Hydt had been suspicious at first, of course, but he had been willing to give Theron the benefit of the doubt. Why? Because Bond had tempted him with a dangle, a lure he couldn’t resist: death and decay.
That morning, at SAPS headquarters, Bond had contacted Philly Maidenstone and Osborne-Smith – his new ally – and they had data-mined Hydt’s and Green Way’s credit cards. They’d learnt that he’d not only travelled to the Killing Fields in Cambodia but to Krakow, Poland, where he’d taken several tours of Auschwitz. Among his purchases at the time were double-A batteries and a second flash chip for a camera.
Man’s got a whole new idea about porn…
Bond decided that to work his way into Hydt’s life he would offer a chance to satisfy that lust: access to secret killing fields throughout Africa and a proposal to recycle human remains.
For the past three hours Bond had struggled, under the tutelage of Bheka Jordaan, to become an Afrikaner mercenary from Durban. Gene Theron would have a slightly unusual background: he’d had Huguenot rather than Dutch forebears and his parents favoured English and French in the household of his youth, which explained why he didn’t speak much Afrikaans. A British education in Kenya would cover his accent. She had, however, made Bond learn something of the dialect; if Leonardo DiCaprio and Matt Damon had mastered the subtle intonation for recent films – and they were American, for heaven’s sake – he could do so too.
While she’d coached him on facts that a South African mercenary might know, Sergeant Mbalula had gone to the evidence locker and found an incarcerated drug dealer’s gaudy Breitling watch, to replace Bond’s tasteful Rolex, and gold bracelet for the successful mercenary to wear. He’d then sped to a jeweller in the Gardens Shopping Centre in Mill Street, where he’d bought a gold signet ring and had it engraved with the initials EJT.
Meanwhile, Warrant Officer Kwalene Nkosi had worked feverishly with the ODG’s I Branch in London to create the fictional Gene Theron, uploading to the Internet biographical information about the hard-boiled mercenary, with Photoshopped pictures and details about his fictional company.
A series of lectures on cover identities at Fort Monckton could be summarised in the instructor’s introductory sentence: ‘If you don’t have a web presence, you’re not real.’
Nkosi had also printed business cards for EJT Services Ltd, and MI6 in Pretoria pulled in some favours to get the company registered in record time, the documents backdated. Jordaan was not happy about this – it was, to her, a breach of the sacred rule of law – but since she and SAPS were not involved, she let it go. I Branch also created a fake criminal investigation in Cambodia about Theron’s questionable behaviour in Myanmar, which mentioned shady activities in other countries too.
The fauxAfrikaner was over the first hurdle. The second – and most dangerous – was close. Hydt was on the phone summoning Niall Dunne to meet ‘a businessman from Durban’.
After he’d hung up, Hydt said casually, ‘One question. Would you happen to have pictures of the fields? The graves?’
‘That can be arranged,’ Bond said.
‘Good.’ Hydt smiled like a schoolboy. He rubbed the back of his hand on his beard.
Bond heard the door behind him open. ‘Ah, here is my associate, Niall Dunne… Niall, this is Gene Theron. From Durban.’
Now for it. Was he about to be shot? Bond rose, turned and went up to the Irishman, looking straight into his eyes and offering the stiff smile of one businessman meeting another for the first time. As they shook hands, Dunne stared at him, a knife slash from the chill blue eyes.
There was, however, no suspicion in the gaze. Bond was confident he had not been recognised.
Closing the door behind him, the Irishman shot a quizzical glance at his boss, who handed him the EJT Services business card. The men sat down. ‘Mr Theron has a proposition,’ Hydt said enthusiastically. He ran through the plan in general terms.
Bond could see that Dunne, too, was intrigued. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This could be good. Some logistics to consider, of course.’
Hydt continued, ‘Mr Theron’s going to arrange for us to see pictures of the locations. Give us a better idea of what would be involved.’
Dunne shot him a troubled glance – the Irishman wasn’t suspicious, but seemed put off by this. He reminded Hydt, ‘We have to be at the plant by fifteen thirty. That meeting?’ He turned his eyes on Bond again. ‘Your office is just round the corner.’ He’d memorised the address at a glance, Bond noted. ‘Why don’t you get them now? Those pictures?’
‘Well… I suppose I could,’ Bond said, stalling.
Dunne eyed him levelly. ‘Good.’ As he opened the door for Bond, his jacket swung open, revealing the Beretta pistol on his belt, probably the one he’d used to murder the men in Serbia.
Was it a message? A warning?
Bond pretended not to see it. He nodded to both men. ‘I’ll be back in thirty minutes.’
But Gene Theron had been gone only five when Dunne said, ‘Let’s go.’
‘Where to?’ Hydt frowned.
Hydt noted that the gangly man had one of thoseexpressions on his face, challenging, petulant.
That bizarre jealousy again. What went on in Dunne’s soul?
‘Why, don’t you trust him?’
‘It’s not a bad idea, mind,’ Dunne said off-handedly. ‘We’ve been talking about disposal of the bodies. But it doesn’t matter for Friday. It just seems a bit dodgy to me that he shows up out of the blue. Makes me nervous.’
As if such an emotion would ever register with the icy sapper.
Hydt relented. He needed somebody to keep his feet on the ground and it was true that he’d been seduced by Theron’s proposition. ‘You’re right, of course.’
They picked up their jackets and left the office. Dunne directed them up the street, to the address printed on the man’s business card.
The Irishman was right, but Severan Hydt prayed that Theron was legitimate. The bodies, the acres of bones. He wanted to see them so badly, to breathe in the air surrounding them. And he wanted the pictures too.
They came to the office building where Theron’s Cape Town branch was located. It was typical of the city’s business district, functional metal and stone. This particular structure seemed half deserted. There was no guard in the lobby, which was curious. The men took the lift to the fourth floor and found the office door, number 403.
‘There’s no company name,’ Hydt observed. ‘Just the number. That’s odd.’
‘This doesn’t look right,’ Dunne said. He listened. ‘I don’t hear anything.’
‘Try it.’
He did so. ‘Locked.’
Hydt was fiercely disappointed, wondering if he’d given anything away to Theron, anything incriminating. He didn’t think so.
Dunne said, ‘We should get some of our security people together. When Theron comes back, if he does, we’ll take him down to the basement. I’ll find out what he’s about.’
They were about to leave when Hydt, desperate to believe Theron was legitimate, said, ‘Knock – see if anybody’s in there.’
Dunne hesitated, then drew aside his jacket, exposing the Beretta’s grip. The man’s large knuckles rapped on the wooden door.
Nothing.
They turned to the lift.
Just then the door swung open.
Gene Theron blinked in surprise. ‘Hydt… Dunne. What are you doing here?’
36
The Afrikaner hesitated for a moment then bluntly gestured the two men inside. They entered. There had been no sign outside but here on the wall was a modest plaque: EJT Services Ltd, Durban, Cape Town, Kinshasa.
The office was small and staffed with only three employees, their desks covered with files and the paperwork that is the mainstay of such entrepreneurial dens throughout the world, however noble or dark their products or services.
Dunne said, ‘We thought we’d save you the trouble.’
‘Did you now?’ Theron responded.
Hydt knew that the mercenary understood that they had made their surprise visit because they didn’t trust him completely. On the other hand, Theron was in a line of work where trust was as dangerous as unstable explosives, so his displeasure was minimal. After all, Theron must have done much the same, checking out Hydt’s credentials with the Cambodians and elsewhere before coming to him with his proposal. That was how business worked.
Scuffed walls and windows offering a bleak view of a courtyard reminded Hydt that even illegal activity such as Theron plied was not necessarily as lucrative as the movies and news portrayed it. The biggest office, at the back, was Theron’s but even that was modest.
One employee, a tall young African, was scrolling through an online catalogue of automatic weapons. Some were flagged with bold stars, indicating a 10 per cent discount. Another employee was typing urgently on a computer keyboard, using only his index fingers. Both men were in white shirts and narrow ties.
A secretary sat at a desk outside Theron’s office. Hydt saw she was attractive but she was young and therefore of no interest to him.
Theron glanced at her. ‘My secretary was just printing out some of the files we were talking about.’ A moment later pictures of mass graves began easing from the colour printer.
Yes, these are good, Hydt thought, staring down at them. Very good indeed. The first images had been taken not long after the killings. Men, women and children had been gunned down or hacked to death. Some had suffered earlier amputations – hands or arms above the elbow – a popular technique used by warlords and dictators in Africa to punish and control the people. About forty or so lay in a ditch. The setting was sub-Saharan but it was impossible to say exactly where. Sierra Leone, Liberia, Ivory Coast, Central African Republic. There were so many possibilities on this troubled continent.
Other pictures followed, showing different stages of decay. Hydt lingered on those particularly.
‘LRA?’ Dunne asked, looking them over clinically.
It was the tall, skinny employee who answered. ‘Mr Theron does not work with the Lord’s Resistance Army.’
The rebel group, operating out of Uganda, the Central African Republic and parts of Congo and Sudan, had as its philosophy, if you could call it that, religious and mystical extremism – a violent Christian militia of sorts. It had committed untallied atrocities and was known, among other things, for employing child soldiers.
‘There’s plenty of other work,’ Theron said.
Hydt was amused by his sense of morality.
Another half-dozen pictures rolled from the printer. The last few showed a large field from which protruded bones and partial bodies with desiccated skin.
Hydt showed the pictures to Dunne. ‘What do you think?’ He turned to Theron. ‘Niall is an engineer.’
The Irishman studied them for a few minutes. ‘The graves look shallow. It’s easy to get the bodies out. The trick is to cover up the fact that they were there in the first place. Depending on how long they’ve been in the ground, once we remove them there’d be measurable differences in the soil temperature. That lasts for many months. It’s detectable with the right equipment.’
‘Months?’ Theron asked, frowning. ‘I had no idea.’ He glanced at Dunne, then said to Hydt, ‘He’s good.’
‘I call him the man who thinks of everything.’
Dunne said thoughtfully, ‘Fast-growing vegetation could work. And there are some sprays that will eliminate DNA residue too. There’s a lot to consider but nothing seems impossible.’
The technical issues fell away and Hydt focused again on the images. ‘May I keep these?’
‘Of course. Do you want digital copies too? They’d be sharper.’
Hydt gave him a smile. ‘Thank you.’
Theron put them on a flash drive and handed it to Hydt, who looked at his watch. ‘I’d like to discuss this further. Are you free later?’
‘I can be.’
But Dunne was frowning. ‘You’re at the meeting this afternoon and there’s the fundraiser tonight.’
Hydt scowled. ‘One of the charities I donate to is having an event. I have to be present. But… if you’re free why don’t you meet me there?’
‘Do I have to give money?’ Theron asked.
Hydt couldn’t tell if he was joking. ‘Not necessarily. You’ll have to listen to a few speeches and drink some wine.’
‘All right. Where is it?’
Hydt looked at Dunne, who said, ‘At the Lodge Club. Nineteen hundred hours.’
Hydt added, ‘You should wear a jacket but don’t bother with a tie.’
‘See you then.’ Theron shook their hands.
They left his offices and made their way outside.
‘He’s legitimate,’ Hydt said, half to himself.
They were en route to the Green Way office when Dunne took a phone call. After a few minutes he rang off and said, ‘That was about Stephan Dlamini.’
‘Who?’
‘The worker we need to eliminate in the
maintenance department. He’s the one who might’ve seen the emails about Friday.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘Our people found his shanty in Primrose Gardens, east of town.’
‘How are you going to handle it?’
‘It seems that his teenage daughter complained about a local drug dealer. He threatened to kill her. We’ll set it up to make it seem that he’s behind Dlamini’s death. He’s firebombed people before.’
‘So Dlamini has a family.’
‘A wife and five children,’ Dunne explained. ‘We’ll have to kill them too. He could have told his wife what he saw. And if he’s in a shanty town, the family will live in only one or two rooms, so anybody could have heard. We’ll use grenades before the firebomb. I think suppertime is best – everybody will be in one room together.’ Dunne shot a glance toward the tall man. ‘They’ll die fast.’
Hydt replied, ‘I wasn’t worried about them suffering.’
‘I wasn’t either. I just meant that it’ll be a pretty easy way to kill them all quickly. Convenient, you know.’
After the men had left, Warrant Officer Kwalene Nkosi rose from the desk where he’d been scrolling through price lists for automatic weapons and nodded at the screen. ‘It is truly amazing what you can buy online, isn’t it, Commander Bond?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘If we buy nine machine guns, we can get one for free,’ he joked to Sergeant Mbalula, the relentless two-finger typist.
‘Thanks for that fast thinking about the LRA, Warrant Officer,’ Bond said. He hadn’t recognised the abbreviation for the Lord’s Resistance Army – a group that any mercenary in Africa would have been familiar with. The operation might have ended there and then in disaster.
Bond’s ‘secretary’, Bheka Jordaan, peered out of the window. ‘They’re heading away. I don’t see any other security people.’
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