Carte Blanche

bill.”
    “When does the fighting start?”
    “In about an hour and a half. As soon as the food planes are in the air and the ships are in international waters, the invasion of eastern Sudan begins.” Felicity looked at her demure Baume & Mercier watch. She supposed Gregory Lamb would arrive soon. “Now, I need to broker something else: your cooperation.”
    He laughed coldly.
    “If you don’t, your friend Bheka Jordaan will die. Simple as that. I have many friends throughout Africa who are quite skilled at killing and happy to put those talents to work.”
    She was pleased to see how this troubled him. Felicity Willing always enjoyed finding people’s weaknesses.
    “What do you want?” he asked.
    “You send a message to your superiors that you’ve confirmed Gregory Lamb is behind an attempted cruise-ship bombing. You’ve managed to stop the plot and you’ll be meeting with him soon.”
    “You know I can’t do that.”
    “We’re negotiating for the life of your friend. Come on, James, be a proper hero. You’re going to die anyway.”
    He turned his eyes to her and repeated, “I really thought it might work out between us.”
    A shiver ran down Felicity Willing’s spine.
    But then Bond’s eyes grew stony and he snapped, “Okay, that’s enough. We have to move fast.”
    She frowned. What was he talking about?
    He added, “Try to use nonlethal force on her . . . if you can.”
    “Oh, Christ, no,” Felicity whispered.
    A tidal wave of light—the overheads—came on and, as she started to turn toward the sound of running feet, the Walther was ripped out of her hand. She was slammed onto her belly by two people, one of whom knelt hard in the small of her back and secured her hands expertly behind her with handcuffs.
    Felicity heard a crisp voice, a woman’s: “In accordance with Section Thirty-five of the Constitution of South Africa, nineteen ninety-six, you have the right to remain silent and to be advised that any statements made to your arresting officers can be used as evidence in trial against you.”

Chapter 68
    “No!” Felicity Willing gasped, her face a mask of disbelief. Then the word was repeated in rage, nearly a scream.
    James Bond looked down at the petite woman sitting on the floor in about the same place that he had been a moment before. She shouted, “You knew! You son of a bitch, you knew! You never suspected Lamb at all!”
    “I lied, didn’t I?” he said coldly, throwing the words back at her.
    Bheka Jordaan was also gazing down at her, unemotionally, assessing her prisoner.
    Bond was rubbing his wrists, from which the cuffs had been removed. Gregory Lamb was nearby, on his mobile.
    Lamb and Jordaan had arrived before Bond to plant microphones and monitor the conversation, in case Felicity took the bait. They’d hidden in the workers’ caravan; Bond’s flash of the torch earlier had verified they were invisible and alerted them that he was going inside. He hadn’t wanted to use radio transmissions.
    Jordaan’s phone rang and she answered it. She listened, jotting information in her notebook, then said, “My people have raided Ms. Willing’s office. We’ve got the landing locations of all the planes and the routes of the ships delivering the food.”
    Gregory Lamb looked over her notes and relayed the information into his phone. While the man did not instill confidence as an intelligence agent, apparently he indeed had his contacts on the continent and he was using them now.
    “You can’t do this!” Felicity wailed. “You don’t understand!”
    Bond and Jordaan ignored her and stared at Lamb. Finally he disconnected. “There’s an American carrier off the coast. They’ve launched fighters to intercept the food planes. And RAF and South African attack helicopters are on their way to turn the ships.”
    Bond thanked the big, sweating man for his efforts. He’d never suspected Lamb, whose odd behavior stemmed from the fact that he was essentially a coward. He’d admitted that he’d disappeared during the action at the Green Way plant to avoid getting shot, though stopped short of confessing that he’d fired a bullet across his own sleeve. But Bond had thought him the perfect bait to lay before his suspect, Felicity Willing.
    Bheka Jordaan took a call too. “Backup’s going to be a little delayed—bad accident on Victoria Road. But Kwalene says they should be here in twenty or thirty minutes.”
    Bond looked down at Felicity. Even now, sitting on