Carte Blanche

better than expected. She’s ninety-seven.”
    Bond was surprised. “I would have thought she was in her seventies.”
    As if afraid of the silence that might engender the need for conversation, Jordaan strode to a battered CD player and loaded a disc. A woman’s low voice, buoyed by hip-hop rhythms, burst from the speakers. Bond saw the CD cover: Thandiswa Mazwai.
    “Sit down,” Jordaan said, gesturing at the table.
    “No, it’s all right.”
    “What do you mean, no, it’s all right?”
    “You don’t have to feed me.”
    Jordaan said shortly, “If Ugogo learns I haven’t offered you any beer or bobotie, she won’t be happy.” She produced a clay pot with a rattan lid and poured some frothy pinkish liquid into a glass.
    “So that’s Zulu beer?”
    “Yes.”
    “Homemade?”
    “Zulu beer is always homemade. It takes three days to brew and you drink it while it’s still fermenting.”
    Bond sipped. It was sour yet sweet and seemed low in alcohol.
    Jordaan then served him a plate of bobotie and spooned on some reddish sauce. It was a bit like shepherd’s pie, with egg instead of potato on top, but better than any pie Bond had ever had in England. The thick sauce was well flavored and indeed spicy.
    “You’re not joining me?” Bond nodded toward an empty chair. Jordaan was standing, leaning against the sink, arms folded across her voluptuous chest.
    “I’m through eating,” she said, the words clipped. She remained where she was.
    Friend or foe . . .
    He finished the food. “I must say, you’re quite talented—a clever policewoman who also makes marvelous beer and”—a nod at the cooking pot—“ bobotie . If I’m pronouncing that right.”
    He received no response. Did he insult her with every remark he made?
    Bond tamped down his irritation and found himself regarding the many photographs of the family on the walls and mantelpiece. “Your grandmother must have seen a great deal of history in the making.”
    Glancing affectionately at the bedroom door, she said, “Ugogo is South Africa. Her uncle was wounded at the battle of Kambula, fighting the British—a few months after the battle I told you about, Isandlwana. She was born just a few years after the Union of South Africa was formed from the Cape and Natal provinces. She was relocated under apartheid’s Group Areas Act in the fifties. And she was wounded in a protest in nineteen sixty.”
    “What happened?”
    “The Sharpeville Massacre. She was among those protesting against the dompas —the ‘dumb pass,’ it was called. Under apartheid people were legally classified as white, black, colored or Indian.”
    Bond recalled Gregory Lamb’s comments.
    “Blacks had to carry a passbook signed by their employer allowing them to be in a white area. It was humiliating, it was horrible. There was a peaceful protest but the police fired on the demonstrators. Nearly seventy people were killed. Ugogo was shot. Her leg. That’s why she limps.”
    Jordaan hesitated and at last poured herself some beer, then sipped. “Ugogo gave me my name. That is, she told my parents what they would call me and they did. One usually does what Ugogo says.”
    “‘Bheka,’” Bond said.
    “In Zulu it means ‘one who watches over people.’”
    “A protector. So you were destined to become a policewoman.” Bond was quite enjoying the music.
    “Ugogo is the old South Africa. I’m the new. A mix of Zulu and Afrikaner. They call us a rainbow country, yes, but look at a rainbow and you still see different colors, all separate. We need to become like me, blended together. It will be a long time before that happens. But it will.” She glanced coolly at Bond. “Then we’ll be able to dislike people for who they really are. Not for the color of their skin.”
    Bond returned her gaze evenly and said, “Thank you for the food and the beer. I should be going.”
    She walked with him to the door. He stepped outside.
    Which was when he caught his first clear glimpse of the man who’d pursued him from Dubai. The man in the blue jacket and the gold earring, the man who had killed Yusuf Nasad and had very nearly killed Felix Leiter.
    He was standing across the road, in the shadows of an old building covered with Arabic scrolls and mosaics.
    “What is it?” Jordaan asked.
    “A hostile.”
    The man had a mobile but wasn’t making a call; he was taking a picture of Bond with Jordaan—proof that Bond was working with the police.
    Bond snapped, “Get