Carte Blanche

they have to play dead for a few days. Can you plant a story in the media about their deaths?”
    “I think so.” The warrant officer was hesitating. “But I’m wondering if . . .” His voice faded.
    “We’ll keep this between ourselves. Captain Jordaan does not need to know.”
    “Without doubt,” the man whispered, “that is best.”
    As the glorious vista of Cape Town rose before them, Bond glanced at his watch. It was time for the second assignment of the night—one that would require him to enlist a very different set of tradecraft skills from dodging grenades and firebombs, though he suspected that this job would be no less challenging.

Chapter 42
    Bond wasn’t impressed by the Lodge Club.
    Perhaps back in the day, when it was the enclave of hunters in jodhpurs and jackets embellished with loops to hold ammunition for their big-five game rifles, it had been more posh, but the atmosphere now was that of a suburban banquet hall hosting simultaneous marriage fetes. Bond wasn’t even sure if the Cape buffalo head, staring down at him with a studious glare from near the front door, was real or had been manufactured in China.
    He gave the name Gene Theron to one of the attractive young women at the door. She happened to be blonde and voluptuous and wearing a tight-fitting crimson dress with a lazy neckline. The other hostess was of Zulu or Xhosa ancestry but equally built and clad. Bond suspected that whoever ran the fund-raising organization knew how to tactically appeal to what was, of whatever race, predominantly a male donor pool. He added, “Guest of Mr. Hydt.”
    “Ah, yes,” the golden-haired woman said and let him into the low-lit room where fifty or so people milled about. Still wine, champagne and soft drinks were on offer and Bond went for the sparkling.
    Bond had followed Hydt’s suggestions on dress and the Durban mercenary was in light gray trousers, a black sports jacket and a light blue shirt, no tie.
    Holding his champagne flute, Bond looked around the plush hall. The group behind the event was the International Organization Against Hunger, based in Cape Town. Pictures on easels showed workers handing out large sacks to happy recipients—women, mostly—Hercules planes being unloaded and boats laden with sacks of rice or wheat. There were no pictures of starving emaciated children. A tasteful compromise all around. You wanted donors to feel slightly, but not too, uneasy. Bond guessed that the world of altruism had to be as carefully navigated as that of Whitehall politics.
    From speakers in the ceiling, the harmonies of Ladysmith Black Mambazo and the inspirational songs of the Cape Town singer Verity provided an appealing sound track to the evening.
    The event was a silent auction—tables were filled with all sorts of items donated by supporters of the group: a football signed by players from Bafana Bafana, the South African national football team, a whale-watching cruise, a weekend getaway in Stellenbosch, a Zulu sculpture, a pair of diamond earrings and much more. The guests would circulate and write their bids for each item on a sheet of paper; the one who’d put down the highest amount when the auction closed would win the article. Severan Hydt had donated a dinner for four, worth eight thousand rand—about seven hundred pounds, Bond calculated—at a first-class restaurant.
    The wine flowed generously and waiters circulated with silver trays of elaborate canapés.
    Ten minutes after Bond had arrived, Severan Hydt appeared with his female companion on his arm. Niall Dunne was nowhere to be seen. He nodded to Hydt, who was in a nicely cut navy blue suit, probably American, if he read the sloping shoulders right. The woman—her name, he recalled, was Jessica Barnes—was in a simple black dress and heavily bejeweled, all diamonds and platinum. Her stockings were pure white. Not a hint of color was to be found on her; she didn’t even wear a touch of lipstick. His earlier impression held: how gaunt she was, despite her attractive figure and face. Her austerity aged her considerably, giving her a ghostly look. Bond was curious; every other woman here of Jessica’s age had clearly spent hours dolling herself up.
    “Ah, Theron,” Hydt boomed and marched forward, detaching himself from Jessica, who followed. As Bond shook his hand, the woman regarded him with a noncommittal smile. He turned to her. Tradecraft requires constant, often exhausting effort. You must maintain an