Carte Blanche

expression of faint curiosity when meeting a person you’re familiar with only through surveillance. Lives have been lost because of a simple slip: “Ah, good to see you again,” when in fact you’ve never met face to face.
    Bond kept his eyes neutral as Hydt introduced her. “This is Jessica.” He turned to her. “Gene Theron. We’re doing business together.”
    The woman nodded and, though she held his eye, took his hand tentatively. It was a sign of insecurity, Bond concluded. Another indication of this was her handbag, which she kept over her shoulder and pinned tight beneath arm and rib cage.
    Small talk ensued, Bond reciting snippets from Jordaan’s lessons about the country, taking care to be accurate, assuming that Jessica might report their conversation to Hydt. In a low voice he offered that the South African government should busy itself with more important things than renaming Pretoria Tshwane. He was glad the trade union situation was calming. Yes, he enjoyed life on the east coast. The beaches near his home in Durban were particularly nice, especially now that the shark nets were up, though he’d never had any problems with the Great Whites, which occasionally took bites out of people. They talked then about wildlife. Jessica had visited the famed Kruger game reserve again recently and had seen two adolescent elephants tear up trees and bushes. It had reminded her of the gangs in Somerville, Massachusetts, just north of Boston—teenagers vandalizing public parks. Oh, yes, he’d thought her accent was American.
    “Have you ever been there, Mr. Theron?”
    “Call me Gene, please,” Bond said, scrolling mentally through the biography written by Bheka Jordaan and I Branch. “No,” he said. “But I hope to someday.”
    Bond looked at Hydt. His body language had shifted; he was giving out signs of impatience. A glance at Jessica suggested he wished her to leave them. Bond thought of the abuse Bheka Jordaan had endured at the hands of her coworkers. This was different only in degree. A moment later the woman excused herself to “powder her nose,” an expression Bond had not heard in years. He thought it ironic that she used the term, considering that she probably wouldn’t be doing so.
    When they were alone, Hydt said to him, “I’ve thought more about your proposal and I’d like to move forward.”
    “Good.” They took refills of champagne from an attractive young Afrikaner woman. Bond said, “ Dankie, ” and reminded himself not to overdo his act.
    He and Hydt retired to a corner of the room, the older man waving to and shaking hands with people on the way. When the men were alone, beneath the mounted head of a gazelle or antelope, Hydt peppered Bond with questions about the number of graves, the acreage, the countries they were in and how close the authorities were to discovering some of the killing fields. As Bond ad-libbed the answers, he couldn’t help but be impressed with the man’s thoroughness. It seemed he’d spent all afternoon thinking about the project. He was careful to remember what he told Hydt and made a mental note to write it down later so that he would be consistent in the future.
    After fifteen minutes Bond said, “Now, there are things I would like to know. First, your operation here. I’d like to see it.”
    “I think you should.”
    When he didn’t suggest a time, Bond said, “How about tomorrow?”
    “That might be difficult, with my big project on Friday.”
    Bond nodded. “Some of my clients are eager to move forward. You are my first choice but if there’ll be delays I’ll have to—”
    “No, no. Please. Tomorrow will be fine.”
    Bond began to probe more but just then the lights dimmed and a woman ascended the raised platform near where Hydt and Bond were standing. “Good evening,” she called out, her low voice glazed with a South African accent. “Welcome, everyone. Thank you for coming to our event.”
    She was the managing director of the organization and Bond was amused by her name: Felicity Willing.
    She wasn’t, to Bond’s eye, cover-girl beautiful, as was Philly Maidenstone. However, her face was intense, striking. Expertly made up, it exuded a feline quality. Her eyes were a deep green, like late-summer leaves caught in the sun, and her hair dark blonde, pulled back severely and pinned up, accentuating the determined angles of her nose and chin. She wore a close-fitting navy-blue cocktail dress that was cut low at the front