Carte Blanche

Guzzi and a left-hand-drive Mustang from America.”
    “You notice things, Warrant Officer.”
    “I try to. That Ford—it was a very nice set of wheels. Some day I will own a Jaguar. It is my goal.”
    Then a loud voice was calling a greeting from the corridor. “Hallo, hallo!”
    Bond wasn’t surprised it belonged to Gregory Lamb. The MI6 agent strode into the office, waving broadly to everyone. It was obvious that Bheka Jordaan didn’t care for him, as Lamb had admitted yesterday, though he and Nkosi seemed to get on well. They had a brief conversation about a recent football match.
    Casting a cautious glance at Jordaan, the big, ruddy man turned to Bond. “Came through for you, my friend. Got a signal from Vauxhall Cross to help you out.”
    Lamb was the cutout whom Bond had reluctantly mentioned to Hirani earlier that morning. He couldn’t think of anybody else to use on such short notice and at least the man had been vetted.
    “Leaped into the fray, even missed breakfast, my friend, I’ll have you know. Talked to that chap in your office’s Q Branch. Is he always so bloody cheerful that early in the morning?”
    “Actually, he is,” said Bond.
    “Got talking to him. I’m having some navigation problems on my ship charters. Pirates’ve been jamming signals. Whatever happened to the eye patches and peg legs, hmm? Well, this Hirani says there are devices that will jam the jammers. He wouldn’t ship me any, though. Any chance you could put in a word?”
    “You know our outfit doesn’t officially exist, Lamb.”
    “We’re all part of the same team,” he said huffily. “I’ve got a huge charter coming up in a day or so. Massive.”
    Helping Lamb’s lucrative cover career was the last thing on Bond’s mind at the moment. He asked sternly, “And your assignment today?”
    “Ah, yes.” Lamb handed Bond the black satchel he was carrying as if it contained the crown jewels. “Must say, in all modesty, the morning’s been a smashing success. Positively brilliant. I’ve been running hither and yon. Had to tip rather heavily. You’ll reimburse me, of course?”
    “I’m sure it’ll get sorted.” Bond opened the satchel and regarded the contents. He examined one item closely. It was a small plastic tube labeled Re-Leef. For Congestion Problems Caused by Asthma.
    Hirani was a genius.
    “An inhaler. You have lung problems?” Nkosi asked. “My brother too. He is a gold miner.”
    “Not really.” Bond pocketed it, along with the other items Lamb had delivered.
    Nkosi took a call. When he hung up he said, “I have a nice car for you, Commander. Subaru. All-wheel drive.”
    A Subaru, thought Bond, skeptical. A suburban estate wagon. But Nkosi was beaming so he said graciously, “Thank you, Warrant Officer. I’ll look forward to driving it.”
    “The petrol mileage is very good,” Nkosi said enthusiastically.
    “I’m sure it is.” He started out of the door.
    Gregory Lamb stopped him. “Bond,” he said softly. “Sometimes I’m not sure the powers that be in London take me all that seriously. I was exaggerating a bit yesterday—about the Cape, I mean. Fact is, the worst that happens down here is a warlord coming in from Congo to take the waters. Or a Hamas chap in transit at the airport. Just want to thank you for including me, my friend. I—”
    Bond interrupted, “You’re welcome, Lamb, but how’s this: Let’s just assume I’m your friend. Then you won’t have to keep repeating it. How’s that?”
    “Fair enough, my . . . fair enough.” A grin spread over the fat face.
    Then Bond was out the door, thinking: Next stop, hell.

Chapter 45
    James Bond enjoyed Kwalene Nkosi’s little joke.
    Yes, the car he’d procured for the agent’s use was a small Japanese import. It wasn’t, however, a staid family saloon but a metallic blue Subaru Impreza WRX, the STI model, which boasted a turbocharged 305-horsepower engine, six gears and a high spoiler. The jaunty little vehicle would be far more at home on rally courses than in some Asda car park and, settling into the driver’s seat, Bond couldn’t restrain himself. He laid twin streaks of rubber as he sped up Buitenkant Street, heading for the motorway.
    For the next half hour he made his way north of Cape Town proper, guided by sat-nav, and finally skidded the taut little Subaru off the N7 and proceeded east along an increasingly deserted road, past a vast bottomless quarry and then into a grubby landscape of low hills,