Carte Blanche

and found the sound impossible to replicate.
    When his contact, Captain Jordaan, did not immediately appear he went into a café, dropped onto a stool at the counter and ordered a double espresso. He drank it down, paid and stepped outside, eyeing a beautiful businesswoman. She was in her midthirties, he guessed, with exotically high cheekbones. Her thick, wavy black hair contained a few strands of premature gray, which added to her sensuality. Her dark red suit, over a black shirt, was cut close and revealed a figure that was full yet tautly athletic.
    I believe I shall enjoy South Africa , he thought, and smiled as he let her pass in front of him on her way to the exit. Like most attractive women in transitory worlds like airports, she ignored him.
    He stood for several moments in the center of Arrivals, then decided that perhaps Jordaan was waiting for him to approach. He texted Tanner to ask for a photograph. But just after he hit send he spotted the police officer: A large, bearded redhead in a light brown suit—a bear of a man—glanced at Bond once, with a hint of reaction, but he turned away rather quickly and went to a kiosk to buy cigarettes.
    Tradecraft is all about subtext: cover identities masking who you really are, dull conversations filled with code words to convey shocking facts, innocent objects used for concealment or as weapons.
    Jordaan’s sudden diversion to buy cigarettes was a message. He hadn’t approached Bond because hostiles were present.
    Glancing behind him, he saw no immediate sign of a threat. But instinctively he followed well-established procedures. When an agent waves you off, you circle casually out of the immediate area as inconspicuously as possible and contact a third-party intermediary who coordinates a new rendezvous in a safer location. Bill Tanner would be the cutout.
    Bond started to move toward an exit.
    Too late.
    As he saw Jordaan slipping into the Gents, pocketing cigarettes he would probably never smoke, he heard an ominous voice close to his ear: “Do not turn around.” The English was coated with a smooth layer of a native accent. He sensed that the man was lean and tall. From the corner of his eye, Bond was aware of at least one partner, shorter but stockier. This man moved in quickly and relieved him of his laptop bag and the suitcase containing his useless Walther.
    The first assailant said, “Walk straight out of the hall—now.”
    There was nothing for it but to comply. He turned and went where the man had told him, down a deserted corridor.
    Bond assessed the situation. From the echo of the footsteps he knew the tall man’s partner was far enough away that his initial move could only neutralize one of them instantly. The shorter man would have to shed Bond’s suitcase and laptop bag, which would give Bond a few seconds to get to him but he would still have a chance to draw his weapon. The man could be taken down but not before shots were fired.
    No, Bond reflected, too many innocents. It was best to wait until they were outside.
    “Through the door on your left. I said you are not to look back.”
    They walked out into stark sunlight. Here it was autumn, the temperature crisp, the sky a stunning azure. As they approached the curb in a deserted construction site, a battered black Range Rover sped forward and squealed to a stop.
    More hostiles but no one as yet was getting out of the vehicle.
    Purpose . . . response.
    Their purpose was to kidnap him. His response would be the textbook protocol in an attempted rendition: disorient and then attack. Casually working his Rolex over his fingers to act as a knuckle-duster, he turned abruptly to confront the pair with a disdainful smile. They were young, deadly serious men, their skin contrasting sharply with the brilliant white of their starched shirts. They wore suits—one brown, the other navy—and narrow dark ties. They were probably armed but overconfidence, perhaps, had led them to keep their weapons holstered.
    As the Range Rover door swung open behind him, Bond stepped aside so that he couldn’t be attacked from behind and judged angles. He decided to break the jaw of the tallest first and use his body as a shield as he pushed forward toward the shorter man. He looked calmly into the man’s eyes and laughed. “I think I’ll report you to the tourist bureau. I’ve heard a lot about the friendliness of South Africans. I was expecting rather more in the way of hospitality.”
    Just before he