Carte Blanche

by Jeffery Deaver

  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 assisted 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 assumed 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 thatdoesn’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 embassy contacted your government. A magistrate in Bloemfontein approved the plan.’

  ‘No, no,’ the officer said. ‘Tonight Captain Jordaan has to take her ugogoto 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 glass 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 Saturday’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 hehad 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.’
>
  ‘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 God – are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. A bit of a rough day but it looks like we got everything sorted.’

  ‘You arethe 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 analysis 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 identity 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 didhave 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 anotherMI6 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 glass. 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 hadbeen 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 God, Bond thought. No… His mothera spy? Monique Delacroix Bond? Impossible. But she wasa 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 assignments.

  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 Saturday, 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 fiancé.’

  ‘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 Saturday. 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 passion.

  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 assignment I possibly can.’

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

  Under the circumstances, 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 ’Snaysirerun.’

  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 assume 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 mass 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 Cuvée 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 unassailable. They tilted their glasses 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 glass 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.’