Carte Blanche

Captain.”
    “I’ll brief a patrolman on the situation and he will replace you.” She turned back to Bond. “Do you think Dunne will return?”
    “No, but it’s possible. Hydt’s the boss but he gets distracted. Dunne is more focused and suspicious. To my mind, that makes him more dangerous.”
    “Commander.” Nkosi opened a battered briefcase. “This came for you at Headquarters.” He produced a thick envelope. Bond ripped it open. Inside he found ten thousand rand in used banknotes, a fake South African passport, credit cards and a debit card, all in the name of Eugene J. Theron. I Branch had worked its magic once more.
    There was also a note: Reservation for open stay at Table Mountain Hotel, waterfront room.
    Bond pocketed everything. “Now, the Lodge Club, where I’m meeting Hydt tonight. What’s it like?”
    “Too expensive for me,” Nkosi said.
    “It’s a restaurant and venue for events,” Jordaan told him. “I’ve never been either. It used to be a private hunting club. White men only. Then after the elections in ’ninety-four, when the ANC came to power, the owners chose to dissolve the club and sell the building rather than open up membership. The board wasn’t concerned about admitting black or colored men but they didn’t want women. I’m sure you have no clubs like that at home, James, do you?”
    He didn’t admit that there were indeed such establishments in the UK. “At my favorite club in London, you’ll see pure democracy at work. Anyone at all is free to join . . . and lose money at the gaming tables. Just like I do. With some frequency, I might add.”
    Nkosi laughed.
    “If you’re ever in London, I’d be delighted to show it to you,” he added to Jordaan.
    She seemed to view this as yet more shameless flirting because she icily ignored him.
    “I will drive you to your hotel.” The tall police officer’s face wore a serious look. “I think I shall quit the SAPS and see if you can get me a job in England, Commander.”
    To work for the ODG or MI6, you had to be a British citizen and the child of at least one citizen or someone with substantial ties to the UK. There was also a residency requirement.
    “After my great undercover work”—Nkosi’s arm swept around the room—“I now know I am quite the actor. I will come to London and work in the West End. That’s where the famous theaters are—correct?”
    “Well, yes.” Though Bond had not been to one voluntarily in years.
    The young man said, “I’m sure I will be quite successful. I’m partial to Shakespeare. David Mamet is quite good too. Without doubt.”
    Bond supposed that, working for a boss like Bheka Jordaan, Nkosi did not get much of a chance to exercise his sense of humor.

Chapter 37
    The hotel was near Table Bay in the fashionable Green Point area of Cape Town. It was an older building, six stories, in classic Cape style, and could not quite disguise its colonial roots—though it didn’t try very hard; you could see them clearly in the meticulous landscaping presently being tended by a number of diligent workers, the delicate but firm reminder on placards about the dining-room dress code, the spotless white uniforms of the demure, ever-present staff, the rattan furniture on the sweeping veranda overlooking the bay.
    Another clue was the enquiry as to whether Mr. Theron would like a personal butler for his stay. He politely declined.
    The Table Mountain Hotel—referred to everywhere as “TM” in scrolling letters, from the marble floor to embossed napkins—was just the place where a well-heeled Afrikaner businessman from Durban would stay, whether he was a legitimate computer salesman or a mercenary with ten thousand bodies to dispose of.
    After checking in, Bond started toward the lift but something outside caught his eye. He popped into the gift shop for shaving foam he didn’t need. Then he circled back to Reception to help himself to some complimentary fruit juice from a large glass tank surrounded by an arrangement of purple jacaranda and red and white roses.
    He wasn’t certain but someone might have been conducting surveillance. When he’d turned abruptly to get the juice, a shadow had vanished equally abruptly.
    With many opportunities come many operatives . . .
    Bond waited for a moment but the apparition didn’t reappear.
    Of course, operational life sows the seeds of paranoia and sometimes a passerby is just a passerby, a curious gaze signifies nothing more than a