Carte Blanche

Felicity Willing.
    “What?” the lioness cried. “No!”
    He said to the soldiers, “I’m authorizing you to execute an ODG Level Two project order dated Sunday last.”
    “Yes, sir. We have the paperwork. We’ll handle it from here.”
    They led her away, struggling. She disappeared into their van, which sped down the gravel drive.
    Bond turned back to Bheka Jordaan. But she was walking briskly to her car. Without looking back she climbed in, started the engine and drove away.
    He walked up to Kwalene Nkosi and handed over Dunne’s Beretta. “And there’s a rifle up there, Warrant Officer. You’ll want to get it down.” He pointed out the general area where Dunne had been sniping.
    “Yes indeed—my family and I hike here many weekends. I know the Apostles well. I’ll collect it.”
    Bond’s eyes were on Jordaan’s car, the taillights receding. “She left rather quickly. She wasn’t upset about the rendition, was she? Our embassy contacted your government. A magistrate in Bloemfontein approved the plan.”
    “No, no,” the officer said. “Tonight Captain Jordaan has to take her ugogo to her sister’s house. She is never late, not when it involves her grandmother.”
    Nkosi was watching closely as Bond stared after Jordaan’s car. He laughed. “That woman is something, is she not?”
    “She is indeed. Well, good night, Warrant Officer. You must get in touch if you’re ever in London.”
    “I will do that, Commander Bond. I am not, I think, such a great actor, after all. But I do love my theater. Perhaps we could go to the West End and attend a play.”
    “Perhaps we could.”
    A traditional handshake followed, Bond pressing firmly, keeping the three-part rhythm smooth and, most important, making sure that he did not release his grip too soon.

Chapter 72
    James Bond was sitting outside, in a corner of the terrace restaurant at the Table Mountain Hotel.
    Calor gas heaters glowed overhead, sending down a cascade of warmth. The scent of propane was curiously appealing in the cool night air.
    He held a heavy crystal glass containing Baker’s bourbon, on ice. The spirit had the same DNA as the Basil Hayden’s but was of higher proof; accordingly he swirled it to allow the cubes to mellow the impact, though he wasn’t sure he wanted much mellowing, not after this evening.
    Finally he took a long sip and glanced at the tables nearby, all of them occupied by couples. Hands caressed hands, knees pressed against knees, while secrets and promises were whispered on wine-scented breath. Veils of silky hair swirled as women tilted their heads to hear their companions’ soft words.
    Bond thought of Franschhoek and Felicity Willing.
    What would Saturday’s agenda have been? Was she planning to tell Gene Theron, ruthless mercenary, about her career as a hunger broker and recruit him to join her?
    And, if she had been the woman he had at first believed, the savior of Africa, would he have confessed to her that he was an operational agent for the British government?
    But speculation irritated James Bond—it was a waste of time—and he was relieved when his mobile buzzed.
    “Bill.”
    “So here’s the overall position, James,” Tanner said. “The troops in the countries surrounding eastern Sudan have stood down. Khartoum issued a statement that the West has once again ‘interfered with the democratic process of a sovereign nation, in an attempt to spread feudalism throughout the region.’”
    “‘Feudalism’?” Bond asked, chuckling.
    “I suspect the writer meant to say ‘imperialism’ but got muddled. Don’t see why Khartoum can’t just use Google to find a decent press agent like everyone else.”
    “And the Chinese? They’ve been deprived of quite a lot of discount petrol.”
    “They’re hardly in a position to complain since they were partly responsible for what would have been a very unpleasant war. But the regional government in the Eastern Alliance is over the moon. Their governor let slip to the PM that they’re voting to separate from Khartoum next year and hold democratic elections. They want long-term economic connections with us and America.”
    “And they have a lot of oil.”
    Tanner said, “Gushers, James, positive gushers. Now, nearly all the food that Felicity Willing was doling out is on its way back to Cape Town. The World Food Program is going to oversee distribution. It’s a good outfit. They’ll send it to places that need it.” He then said, “Sorry to