Solo

most grateful if you’d send me your articles.’
    He extended his hand and Bond shook it, firmly, not thinking about the reality that lay behind his journey to Zanzarim.
    ‘I’ll give your salutations to your brother,’ Bond said.
    ‘Save your breath,’ Adeka said evenly, with no bitterness. ‘Solomon looks on me as the worst kind of traitor – he thinks I’ve betrayed my people.’
    They made their farewells and Bond stepped out of the small shop on to the street and heard the bolts on the door slide shut behind him.
    Bond wandered up the street, thinking, heading for the Bayswater Road. He glanced around him, remembering Adeka’s words about continual harassment, wondering if the AfricaKIN office was under surveillance and, if it were, whether his visit would have been noted and logged. Something was making him uneasy, a prickling between his shoulder blades, an uncomfortableness. He always responded to these instinctive promptings – whenever he’d ignored them he had usually regretted it – so, looking for an opportunity to check his back, he turned into a convenient cinema and bought a ticket for the show but, instead of going into the auditorium, lingered in the foyer, to see who might be following him in. After five minutes he began to relax. No one else arriving at the kiosk to buy a ticket could have been any threat at all.
    An usherette approached him asking if she could be of any help, reminding him that the film was due to start in ‘four and a half minutes’. Bond reassured her he was aware of that fact and moved outside beneath the cinema’s awning, glancing up and down the street. Nothing. Then his eye was caught by the poster.
The Curse of Dracula’s Daughter
starring Astrid Ostergard. Bond smiled. There was Astrid/Bryce, naked in a bed, a tattered blood-boltered sheet just about covering her impossibly ripe body, a dark looming shadow of some vengeful monster cast over her. It wasn’t a bad likeness, Bond reflected, remembering the glimpses he’d been afforded a few days ago. So this was where he’d seen her name before – B-movie horror-shockers. At least that much was clear now. Yet here was Bryce Fitzjohn/Astrid Ostergard again. Was there any significance in this curious recurrence? Anything he’d missed . . . ? Stepping into a random cinema foyer couldn’t be construed as anything malign or manipulated – this was a harmless coincidence pure and simple. He had another look at the poster and smiled to himself, thinking he really had to make contact with her again once this whole Zanzarim business was over, and turned on to the street and strode confidently on towards the Bayswater Road, looking for a passing taxi he could hail.

·3·
     

WELCOME TO ZANZARIM
     
    The BOAC VC10 levelled into its cruising altitude and the ‘fasten seat belts’ sign was extinguished. Bond ordered a double brandy and soda from the stewardess and as he sipped his drink thought about what lay ahead of him and what unforeseen perils he might have to face. It was always like this as he departed on a mission – and while the unknown generated a certain alarm and pre-emptive caution, Bond also recognised the frisson of excitement that ran through him. This was what he had been trained and honed to do, he re-emphasised to himself; sometimes he wondered if it was what he was born to do. He glanced over his shoulder, checking the cabin – the plane was only half full and Bond had two empty seats beside him. Not many people going to Zanzarim these days, he reflected, even though this flight was routed on to Banjul and Accra. Bond ordered another drink, running over the events of the last few days in his mind. He couldn’t remember M sending him on such a vague assignment before: to find a way of infiltrating himself into Dahum and, one way or another, to ‘immobilise’ the brigadier . . . Perhaps, as far as M thought, his instructions were perfectly explicit, however concise. But, from Bond’s point of view there was a lot of room being left for his initiative. Conceivably Ogilvy-Grant would be able to put some flesh on these bare bones.
    The plane flew south into the darkening evening sky. Bond switched on his reading light and took out his book – Graham Greene’s
The Heart of the Matter
. Bond had been to West Africa only once before, years ago – to shoot down a helicopter, as it happened – but he had not lingered; it had been an in-and-out visit. Greene had served in Sierra