Carte Blanche

surreal, bathed in a glorious sunset. Then dusk descended, streaked by slashes of purple cloud over the turbulent Atlantic.
    He’d left Table Mountain behind, Lion’s Head too, and was now motoring parallel to the solemn craggy rock formations of the Twelve Apostles mountain chain to his left, dotted with grasses, fynbos and splashes of protea. Defiant cluster pines sprouted in incongruous places.
    Half an hour after leaving Felicity Willing’s office, he spotted the turning to the Sixth Apostle Inn, to the left, east. Two signs marked the drive: the name of the place in peeling, faded paint, and below that, brighter and newer, a warning about construction in progress, prohibiting trespass.
    Bond skidded the Subaru into the entrance, doused the lights and proceeded slowly along a lengthy winding drive, gravel grinding under the tires. It led directly toward the imposing face of the Apostle ridge, which rose a hundred or more feet behind the building.
    Before him was the inn, shabby and desperately in need of the promised reconstruction, though he supposed it had once been the place for a holiday or to romance your mistress from London or Hong Kong. The rambling one-story structure was set amid extensive gardens, now overgrown and gone to seed.
    Bond drove round to the back and into the weed-filled car park. He hid the Subaru in a stand of brush and tall grass, climbed out and looked toward the darkened caravan used by the construction crews. He swept his torch over it. There were no signs of occupation. Then, drawing his Walther, he made his way silently to the inn.
    The front door was unlocked and he walked inside, smelling mold, new concrete and paint. At the end of the lobby, the front desk had no counter. To the right he found sitting rooms and a library, to the left a large breakfast room and lounge, with French windows facing north, offering a view of the gardens and above them the Twelve Apostles, still faintly visible in the dusk. Inside this room the construction workers had left their drill presses, table saws and various other tools, all chained and padlocked. Behind that area there was a passage to the kitchen. Bond noticed switches for both work and overhead lights but he kept the place dark.
    Tiny animal feet skittered beneath the floorboards and in the walls.
    Bond sat down in a corner of the breakfast room, on a workman’s tool kit. There was nothing to do but wait until the enemy appeared.
    Bond thought of Lieutenant Colonel Bill Tanner, who had said to him not long after he joined ODG, “Listen, 007, most of your job is going to involve waiting. I hope you’re a patient man.”
    He wasn’t. But if his mission called for waiting, he waited.
    Sooner than he had expected, a fragment of light hit the wall and he rose to look out of one of the front windows. A car bounded toward the inn, then stopped in the undergrowth near the front door.
    Someone emerged from the vehicle. Bond’s eyes narrowed. It was Felicity Willing. She was clutching her belly.
    Holstering his gun, Bond pushed through the front door and ran toward her. “Felicity!”
    She struggled forward but fell to the gravel. “James, help me! I’m . . . Help me! I’m hurt.”
    As he approached he saw a red stain on the front of her shirt. Her fingers, too, were bloodied. He dropped to his knees and cradled her. “What happened?”
    “I went to . . . I went to check on a shipment at the docks. There was a man there,” she gasped. “He pulled out a gun and shot me! He didn’t say anything—just shot me and ran. I made it back into the car and drove here. You have to help me!”
    “The police? Why didn’t you—”
    “He was a policeman, James.”
    “ What? ”
    “I saw a badge on his belt.”
    Bond lifted her and carried her into the breakfast room, laying her gently on some dust sheets that were stacked against the wall. “I’ll find a bandage,” he murmured. Then he said angrily, “This is my fault. I should have worked it out! You ’re the target of Incident Twenty. Lamb’s not after a cruise liner; it’s the food ships. He was hired by one of those agribusiness companies in America and Europe you were telling me about, to kill you and destroy the food. He must’ve paid someone in the police to help him.”
    “Don’t let me die!”
    “You’ll be fine. I’ll get some bandages and call Bheka. We can trust her.”
    He started toward the kitchen.
    “No,” Felicity said. Her voice was eerily calm and