Solo

countries. Still avid for the cause, they unequivocally supported Dahum’s right to secede from Zanzarim. Bond was pleased to note how secure his APL cover was and he began to think that perhaps this mission was not as haphazardly planned as he had once thought. Perhaps this mission was achievable, in spite of everything – all he had to do was find a way of getting close to Brigadier Adeka. Perhaps his new ‘friend’ Kobus Breed was the man to help him out there.

·11·
     

SUNDAY
     
    Bond had an uneasy sleep, despite all the whisky he’d consumed with his new colleagues. His dream-life was full of the clamour of the firefight in the forest and Blessing’s terrible panic, all merging with images of the dead children in the hut in Lokani, stirring, rising, pointing their bony fingers at him in reproach.
    At first light he went and had a cold shower and forced himself to do half an hour of callisthenics – star-jumps, press-ups, running on the spot – to clear his mind and make him feel alert. He strolled down to the bar – now functioning as a dining room – and ate the breakfast that was provided: orange juice, an overcooked omelette and watery coffee. He had lit his first cigarette of the day when a young man came into the room and walked over to him, smiling broadly.
    ‘Mr Bond, good morning, sir, I am Sunday. I am your assistant.’
    I am your minder, Bond thought. Dupree and Haas had told him about the Ministry of Interior minders that they were provided with. Not for Breadalbane, of course, to his shame and chagrin. These minders also provided transport and accompanied you everywhere.
    Sunday was in his early twenties, short and muscle-bound with a cheerful, easy manner and a near-constant smile. His car was a large but bashed-about cerise Peugeot 404. One headlight was missing and there was a neat row of bullet holes punched along the left-hand side.
    ‘The MiGs do this,’ Sunday explained. Then laughed. ‘But they miss me.’
    First stop on their agenda was at the Ministry of the Interior – housed in a former community centre with a chequerboard tile facade, and a lobby filled with empty pinboards. He had a meeting with the Minister of the Interior herself, a handsome, serious-looking woman called Abigail Kross, who had been Zanzarim’s first woman judge after independence. Her brother was Minister of Defence in the Dahumian government and, during their conversation, Bond gained a clear impression of the absolute strength of Fakassa tribal loyalties – loyalties and bonds that seemed far stronger than anything equivalent in Western Europe.
    Abigail Kross smiled at him.
    ‘I’m counting on you, Mr Bond, to make sure your French readers fully understand our terrible situation here,’ she said. ‘If the French government could recognise Dahum then everything would change. I know they’ve been close to this decision – perhaps one more gentle push . . .’
    Bond was diplomatic. ‘I promise you I’ll report what I see – but I have to say I’m very impressed so far.’
    ‘You’ll see more today,’ she said. ‘Our schools, our civil defence, our militia training.’ She looked at him shrewdly. ‘This is not about stealing oil, Mr Bond, this is a new country trying to shape its own destiny.’
    And so Sunday dutifully took him to a school, to the central hospital, to the barracks and a fire station, to underground bunkers and experimental agricultural enterprises. Bond saw workshops where local blacksmiths reconstituted crashed and wrecked cars into hospital beds and office furniture. More intriguingly he saw there was a burgeoning defence industry fabricating their own hand grenades and anti-personnel mines from the most humdrum materials. By the end of the day’s touring around, Bond was exhausted. He had deliberately taken notes – acting the journalist – but something about the desperation inherent in all these activities had depressed him. This was a country – barely a country – clinging on to its existence with its fingernails, desperate to survive through its talent for improvisation and inspired gimmickry. But Bond had seen the forces massing against them and knew how doomed and forlorn their efforts were. A hand grenade forged from bits of an old sewing machine and a lawnmower wasn’t going to stop a Centurion tank or a canister of napalm dropped from a low-flying MiG.
    ‘Take me back to base, Sunday,’ Bond requested after half an hour of watching smartly