Carte Blanche

give us—or you, if I’m no longer in the game—five or six hours to interrogate them and find out what Incident Twenty’s all about.”
    “A raid?” Jordaan was frowning. “I can’t do that.”
    “Why not?”
    “I’ve told you. Unless I have reasonable belief that a crime is occurring at Green Way or a magistrate’s order, there’s nothing I can do.”
    Damn the woman. “This isn’t about preserving his rights for a fair trial. This is about saving thousands of people—possibly many South Africans.”
    “I can do nothing without a warrant and there’s no evidence to present to the court to get one. No justification to act.”
    “If I don’t turn up by four, you can assume he’s killed me.”
    “Obviously I hope that doesn’t happen, Commander, but your absence doesn’t equal cause.”
    “I’ve told you he’s willing to dig up the graves of massacre victims and turn them into building materials. What more do you want?”
    “Evidence of a crime somewhere in the plant.” Her jaw was set and her eyes black granite. It was clear she wouldn’t yield.
    Bond said sharply, “Then let’s hope to God I can find the answer. For the sake of several thousand innocent people.” He nodded to Nkosi and Lamb and, ignoring Jordaan, left the office. He strode downstairs to his car, dropped into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.
    “James, wait!” Turning, he saw Bheka Jordaan walking toward him. “Please, wait.”
    Bond thought about speeding away but instead he rolled the window down.
    “Yesterday,” she said, bending down, close to him, “the Serbian?”
    “Yes?”
    “I spoke to him. He told me what you’d said—that you were going to get him to a doctor.”
    Bond nodded.
    After a breath, the policewoman added, “I was making assumptions. I . . . sometimes I do that. I judge first. I try not to but it’s hard for me to stop. I wanted to apologize.”
    “Accepted,” he said.
    “About a raid at Green Way, though? You must understand. Under apartheid the old police, the SAP and their Criminal Investigation Department, did terrible things. Now everyone watches us, the new police, to make sure we don’t do the same. An illegal raid, arbitrary arrests and interrogations . . . that’s what the old regime did. We cannot do the same. We must be better than the people who came before us.” Her face taut with determination, she said, “I’ll fight side by side with you if the law permits but without cause, without a warrant, there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”
    Much of the training of 00 Section agents in the Group was psychological and part of that arduous instruction was to instill within them the belief that they were different, that they were allowed to—no, required to—operate outside the law. A Level 1 project order, authorizing assassination, had to be, to James Bond, just another aspect of his job, no different from taking pictures of secret installations or planting misinformation in the press.
    As M had put it, Bond had to have carte blanche to do whatever was required to fulfill his mission.
    We protect the Realm . . . by any means necessary.
    That attitude was part of Bond’s fabric—indeed, he couldn’t do his job without it—and he had to remind himself continually that Bheka Jordaan and the other hardworking law enforcers of the world were 100 percent right in respecting the rules. It was he who was the outlier.
    He said, not unkindly, “I do understand, Captain. And whatever happens, it’s been quite an experience working with you.”
    Her response was a smile, faint and fleeting but, Bond judged, honest—the first time that such an expression had warmed her beautiful face in his presence.

Chapter 54
    Bond skidded the Subaru into the car park outside the fortress of Green Way International and braked to a stop.
    Several limousines were lined up close to the gate.
    REDUCE, REUSE, RECYCLE
    A few people were milling about. Bond recognized the German businessman, Hans Eberhard, in a beige suit and white shoes. He was talking to Niall Dunne, who stood still as a Japanese fighting fish. The breeze ruffled his blond fringe. Eberhard was finishing a cigarette. Perhaps Hydt didn’t allow anyone to smoke inside the plant, which seemed ironic; the outside air was bleached with haze and vapors from the power plant and the methane that was being burned.
    Bond waved to Dunne, who acknowledged him with a blank nod and continued his conversation with the