Carte Blanche

steady.
    Bond stopped. He turned.
    “Throw your mobile away, James.”
    He was staring at her sharp green eyes, focused on him like a predator’s. In her hand was his own weapon, the Walther PPS.
    He slapped his holster, from which she’d slipped the gun as he’d whisked her inside.
    “The phone,” she repeated. “Don’t touch the screen. Just hold it by the side and toss it into the corner of the room.”
    He did as she instructed.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
    And James Bond believed that, in some very tiny part of her heart, she was.

Chapter 67
    “What’s that?” James asked, gesturing at her blouse.
    It was blood, of course. Real blood. Hers. Felicity still felt the sting in the back of her hand where she’d pricked a vein with a safety pin. It had bled sufficiently to stain her shirt and make a credible appearance of a bullet wound.
    She didn’t answer him. But the agent’s eyes noted her bruised hand and revealed that he’d deduced what she’d done. “There was no cop on the dock.”
    “I lied, didn’t I? Sit down. On the floor.”
    When he had done so, Felicity had worked the slide of the Walther, which ejected one round, but made sure one was in the chamber, ready to fire. “I know you’re trained to disarm people. I’ve killed before and it has no effect on me. It’s not essential that you stay alive, so I’m happy to shoot you now if you make any move.”
    Her voice, though, almost caught on “happy.” What the hell is the matter with you? she asked herself angrily. “Put them on.” She tossed handcuffs toward him.
    He caught them. Good reflexes, she noted. She stepped back three feet or so.
    Felicity smelled the pleasant scent from where he’d gripped her a moment ago. It would be soap or shampoo from the hotel. He was not an aftershave sort of man.
    The anger again. Damn him!
    “The cuffs,” she repeated.
    A hesitation, then he ratcheted them on to his wrists. “So? Explain.”
    “Tighter.”
    He squeezed the mechanism. She was satisfied.
    “Who exactly do you work for?” she asked.
    “An outfit in London. We’ll have to leave it at that. So, you’re working with Lamb?”
    She gave a laugh. “With that fat sweaty fool? No. Whatever he’s coming here for, it has nothing to do with my project tonight. It’s probably some ridiculous business venture he has in mind. Maybe buying this place. I was lying when I told you I’d heard him referred to as Noah.”
    “Then what are you doing here?”
    “I’m here because I’m sure you’ve briefed your bosses in London that Lamb’s your main suspect.”
    A flicker in his eyes confirmed this.
    “What Captain Jordaan and her moderately competent officers will find in the morning here is a fight to the death. You and the traitor who was going to bomb a cruise liner, Gregory Lamb, and anybody he was meeting here. You found them and there was a gunfight. Everybody died. There’ll be loose ends but, on the whole, the matter will go away. Or at least go away from me.”
    “Leaving you free to do whatever it is you’re doing. But I don’t understand. Who the hell is Noah?”
    “It’s not a who, James, it’s a what. N-O-A-H.”
    Confusion in his handsome face. Then understanding dawned. “My God . . . your group is the International Organization Against Hunger. IOAH. At the fund-raiser you said you’d recently expanded to make it international in scope. Which meant that it used to be National Organization Against Hunger. NOAH.”
    She nodded.
    Frowning, he mused, “In the text we intercepted last weekend, ‘noah’ was typed all lowercase. Everything else in the message was too. I just assumed it was a name.”
    “We were careless there. It hasn’t been NOAH for a while but that was the original name and we still refer to it like that.”
    “We? Who sent that message?”
    “Niall Dunne. He’s my associate, not Hydt’s. He’s just on loan to Green Way.”
    “Yours?”
    “Been working together for a few years now.”
    “And how did you get with Hydt?”
    “Niall and I work with a lot of warlords and dictators in sub-Saharan Africa. Nine, ten months ago Niall heard about Hydt’s plan, this Gehenna, through some of them. It was pretty far-fetched but there was a good chance of a decent return on investment. I gave Dunne ten million to put into the pot. He told Hydt it was from an anonymous businessman. A condition for the money was that Dunne himself worked with Hydt to oversee how it