Carte Blanche

office and Resurrection Row. They were near the spot where Bond would have been killed . . . if not for Bheka Jordaan’s dramatic arrival to arrest the “poachers.”
    Sergeant Mbalula handed Bond his Walther, extra clips and mobile phone from the Subaru.
    “Thank you, Sergeant.”
    SAPS officers and South African Special Forces roamed through the facility, looking for more suspects and collecting evidence. In the distance, fire crews were struggling—and it was a struggle—to put out the methane fires, as the western edge of Elysian Fields became just another outpost of hell.
    Apparently the corrupt politicians in Pretoria, the ones in Hydt’s pocket, had not been so very high up, after all. Senior officials stepped in quickly and ordered their arrest and full backup for Jordaan’s operation in Cape Town. Additional officers were sent to seize Green Way’s offices in all South African cities.
    Medics scurried about here too, attending to the wounded, which included only Hydt’s security staff.
    Hydt’s three partners were in custody, Huang, Eberhard and Mathebula. It was not clear yet what their crimes were but that would be established soon. At the very least they had all smuggled firearms into the country, justifying their arrest.
    Four of the surviving guards were in custody and most of the hundred or so Green Way employees who’d been milling about in the car park had been detained, pending questioning.
    Dunne had escaped. Special-forces officers had found evidence of a motorcycle, which had apparently been hidden under a tarp covered with straw. Of course, the Irishman would have kept his lifeboat ready.
    Severan Hydt persisted, “I’m innocent! You’re persecuting me because I’m British. And white. You’re prejudiced.”
    Jordaan could not ignore this. “Prejudiced? I’ve arrested six black men, four whites and an Asian. If that’s not a rainbow, I don’t know what is.”
    The reality of the disaster kept coming home to him. His eyes swiveled away from the fires and began taking in the rest of the grounds. He was probably looking for Dunne. He would be lost without his engineer.
    He glanced at Bond, then said to Jordaan, his voice laced with desperation, “What sort of arrangement could we work out? I’m very wealthy.”
    “That’s fortunate,” she said. “Your legal bills will be quite high.”
    “I’m not trying to bribe you.”
    “I should hope not. That’s a very serious offense.” She then said matter-of-factly, “I want to know where Niall Dunne has gone. If you tell me, I’ll let the prosecution know that you helped me find him.”
    “I can give you the address of his flat here—”
    “I’ve already sent officers there. Tell me some other places he might go to.”
    “Yes . . . I’m sure I can think of something.”
    Bond noticed Gregory Lamb approaching from a deserted part of the grounds, carrying his large pistol as if he’d never fired a weapon. Bond left Jordaan and Hydt standing together between rows of pallets containing empty oil drums and joined Lamb near a battered skip.
    “Ah, Bond,” the Six agent said, breathing heavily and sweating despite the chilly autumn air. His face was streaked with dirt and there was a tear in the sleeve of his jacket.
    “You catch one?” Bond nodded at the slash, caused, it seemed, by a bullet.
    “Didn’t do any damage, thankfully. Except to my favorite gabardine.”
    He was lucky. An inch to the left and the slug would have shattered his upper arm. The assailant had been close; powder burns surrounded the rent.
    “What happened to the guys you went after?” Bond asked. “I never saw them.”
    “Got away, sorry to say. They split up. I knew they were trying to circle back on me but I went after one of them anyway. That’s how I got my Lord Nelson here.” He touched his sleeve. “But dammit, they knew the lie of the land and I didn’t. I got a piece of one of them, though.”
    “Do you want to follow the blood trail?”
    He blinked. “Oh. I did. But it vanished.”
    Bond lost interest in the adventurer’s excursion into the bush and moved aside to call London. He was just punching in the number when, a few yards away, he heard a series of loud cracks he recognized instantly as powerful bullets finding a target, followed by the booms of a distant rifle’s report.
    Bond spun round, his hand going for his Walther as he scanned the grounds. But he saw no sign of the shooter—only his victim: Bheka Jordaan,