Carte Blanche

some green, some brown with autumn tint. Sporadic stands of trees broke the monotony.
    The May sky was overcast and the air was humid but dust rose from the road, churned up by the Green Way lorries carting their refuse in the direction Bond was going. In addition to the typical dust carts, there were much larger ones, painted with the Green Way name and distinctive green leaf—or dagger—logo. Signs on the sides indicated that they came from company operations throughout South Africa. Bond was surprised to see that one lorry was from a branch in Pretoria, the administrative capital of the country, many miles away—why would Hydt go to the expense of bringing rubbish to Cape Town when he could open a recycling depot where it was needed?
    Bond changed down and blew past a series of the lorries at speed. He was enjoying this sprightly vehicle very much. He’d have to tell Philly Maidenstone about it.
    A large road sign, stark in black and white, flashed past.
    GEVAAR!!!
    DANGER!!!
    PRIVAAT-EIENDOM
    PRIVATE PROPERTY
    He’d been off the N7 for several miles when the road divided, with the lorries going to the right. Bond steered down the left fork, with an arrowed sign:
    HOOFKANTOOR
    MAIN OFFICE
    Motoring fast through a dense grove of trees—they were tall but looked recently planted—he came to a rise and shot over it, ignoring the posted limit of forty kph, and braked hard as Green Way International loomed. The rapid stop wasn’t because of obstruction or a sharp curve but the unnerving sight that greeted him.
    An endless expanse of the waste facility filled his view and disappeared into a smoky, dusty haze in the distance. The orange fires of some burn-off operation could be seen from at least a mile away.
    Hell indeed.
    In front of him, beyond a crowded car park, was the headquarters building. It was eerie, too, in its own way. Though not large, the structure was stark and bleakly imposing. The unpainted concrete bunker, one story high, had only a few windows, small ones—sealed, it seemed. The entire grounds were enclosed by two ten-foot metal fences, both topped with wicked razor wire, which glinted even in the muted light. The barriers were thirty feet apart, reminding Bond of a similar perimeter: the shoot-to-kill zone surrounding the North Korean prison from which he’d successfully rescued a local MI6 asset last year.
    Bond scowled at the fences. One of his plans was ruined. He knew from what Felicity had told him that there’d be metal detectors and scanners and, most likely, an imposing security fence. But he’d assumed a single barrier. He’d planned to slip some of the equipment Hirani had provided—a weatherproof miniature communications device and weapon—through the fence into grass or bushes on the other side for him to retrieve once he had entered. That wasn’t going to work with two fences and a great distance between them.
    As he drove forward again, he saw that the entrance was barred by a thick steel gate, on top of which was a sign.
    REDUCE, REUSE, RECYCLE
    The Green Way anthem chilled Bond. Not the words themselves but the configuration: a crescent of stark black metal letters. It reminded him of the sign over the entrance to the Nazi death camp Auschwitz, the horrifically ironic assurance that work would set the prisoners free: ARBEIT MACHT FREI .
    Bond parked. He climbed out, keeping his Walther and mobile with him so that he could find out how effective the security really was. He also had in his pocket the asthma inhaler Hirani had provided; he had hidden under the front seat the other items Lamb had delivered that morning—the weapon and com device.
    He approached the first guardhouse at the outer fence. A large man in uniform greeted him with a reserved nod. Bond gave his cover name. The man made a call and a moment later an equally large, equally stern fellow in a dark business suit came up and said, “Mr. Theron, this way, please.”
    Bond followed him through the no man’s land between the two fences. They entered a room where three armed guards sat about, watching a football match. They stood up immediately.
    The security man turned to Bond. “Now, Mr. Theron, we have very strict rules here. Mr. Hydt and his associates do most of the research and development work for his companies on these premises. We must guard our trade secrets carefully. We don’t allow any mobiles or radios of any kind in with you. No cameras or pagers either. You’ll have to hand them