Carte Blanche

arranged,” Bond said.
    “Good.” Hydt smiled like a schoolboy. He rubbed the back of his hand on his beard.
    Bond heard the door behind him open. “Ah, here is my associate, Niall Dunne . . . Niall, this is Gene Theron. From Durban.”
    Now for it. Was he about to be shot? Bond rose, turned and went up to the Irishman, looking straight into his eyes and offering the stiff smile of one businessman meeting another for the first time. As they shook hands, Dunne stared at him, a knife slash from the chill blue eyes.
    There was, however, no suspicion in the gaze; Bond was confident he had not been recognized.
    Closing the door behind him, the Irishman shot a quizzical glance at his boss, who handed him the EJT Services business card. The men sat down. “Mr. Theron has a proposition,” Hydt said enthusiastically. He ran through the plan in general terms.
    Bond could see that Dunne, too, was intrigued. “Yes,” he said. “This could be good. Some logistics to consider, of course.”
    Hydt continued, “Mr. Theron’s going to arrange for us to see pictures of the locations. Give us a better idea of what would be involved.”
    Dunne shot him a troubled glance—the Irishman wasn’t suspicious but seemed put off by this. He reminded Hydt, “We have to be at the plant by fifteen thirty. That meeting?” He turned his eyes on Bond again. “Your office is just round the corner.” He’d memorized the address at a glance, Bond noted. “Why don’t you get them now? Those photos?”
    “Well . . . I suppose I could,” Bond said, stalling.
    Dunne eyed him levelly. “Good.” As he opened the door for Bond, his jacket swung open, revealing the Beretta pistol on his belt, probably the one he’d used to murder the men in Serbia.
    Was it a message? A warning?
    Bond pretended not to see it. He nodded to both men. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
    But Gene Theron had been gone only five when Dunne said, “Let’s go.”
    “Where to?” Hydt frowned.
    “To Theron’s office. Now.”
    Hydt noted that the gangly man had one of those expressions on his face, challenging, petulant.
    That bizarre jealousy again. What went on in Dunne’s soul?
    “Why, don’t you trust him?”
    “It’s not a bad idea, mind,” Dunne said offhandedly. “We’ve been talking about disposal of bodies. But it doesn’t matter for Friday. It just seems a bit dodgy to me that he shows up out of the blue. Makes me nervous.”
    As if such an emotion would ever register with the icy sapper.
    Hydt relented. He needed somebody to keep his feet on the ground and it was true that he’d been seduced by Theron’s proposition. “You’re right, of course.”
    They picked up their jackets and left the office. Dunne directed them up the street, to the address printed on the man’s business card.
    The Irishman was right but Severan Hydt prayed that Theron was legitimate. The bodies, the acres of bones. He wanted to see them so badly, to breathe in the air surrounding them. And he wanted the pictures too.
    They came to the office building where Theron’s Cape Town branch was located. It was typical of the city’s business district, functional metal and stone. This particular structure seemed half deserted. There was no guard in the lobby, which was curious. The men took the lift to the fourth floor and found the office door, number 403.
    “There’s no company name,” Hydt observed. “Just the number. That’s odd.”
    “This doesn’t look right,” Dunne said. He listened. “I don’t hear anything.”
    “Try it.”
    He did so. “Locked.”
    Hydt was fiercely disappointed, wondering if he’d given anything away to Theron, anything incriminating. He didn’t think so.
    Dunne said, “We should get some of our security people together. When Theron comes back, if he does, we’ll take him down to the basement. I’ll find out what he’s about.”
    They were about to leave when Hydt, desperate to believe Theron was legitimate, said, “Knock—see if anybody’s in there.”
    Dunne hesitated, then drew aside his jacket, exposing the Beretta’s grip. The man’s large knuckles rapped on the wooden door.
    Nothing.
    They turned to the lift.
    Just then the door swung open.
    Gene Theron blinked in surprise. “Hydt . . . Dunne. What are you doing here?”

Chapter 36
    The Afrikaner hesitated for a moment then bluntly gestured the two men inside. They entered. There had been no sign outside but here on the wall was a modest plaque: