Solo

long live the king.
    Bond saw Kobus Breed talking with a group of his fellow mercenaries. He wandered over and called his name and Breed turned to greet him.
    ‘Hail the conquering hero,’ he said, not smiling.
    Bond ignored this and asked him how he and his fellows had taken the news of Adeka’s death.
    ‘Well, it was a bit of a kick in the crotch,’ Breed said with a shrug. ‘But, you know, Denga’s as smart as a whip. Learned everything at Adeka’s knee. And, hey,’ he grinned, ‘we’ve got an air force now. The Malmös are ready for their first mission. Everyone’s in good heart – and of course we still have our secret weapon.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘Tony Msour.’
    ‘Who is?’
    ‘Our juju man. Our fetish priest. Makes our boys immortal.’
    ‘Oh, yes, of course.’
    Bond walked back to the Press Centre from the cemetery, thinking hard, composing in his mind a telex message to M at Transworld Consortium. He could let M know that Adeka had died – though surely that news had broken by now – and point out that Adeka hadn’t in fact been the vital key to Dahum’s survival as everyone in London had supposed. What more could he do? he wondered. Perhaps he should book a $100-seat on the next Constellation out.
    Bond duly sent his telex and received a swift and brief reply from Agence Presse Libre. ‘Suggest you stay in Port Dunbar until hostilities cease. Have you any idea when that might be?’
    Bond detected M’s hand in the message’s ironic terseness. He could read the subtext: his mission was not over, that much was clear.
     
    Two days later the foreign press corps was invited to reassemble to witness the first attack by the Dahumian air force on a key Zanzarim army position – a substantial bridge over one of the many tributaries of the Zanza River. Bond happily allowed Breadalbane to travel with him in Sunday’s Peugeot. They set off well before dawn and after a two-hour drive along bumpy minor roads they arrived, as the sun was rising, in a village called Lamu-Penu, a half-mile from the targeted bridge. There were no villagers in evidence, just 300 well-armed Dahumian soldiers drawn up in a long column, waiting for the fetish priest. Hulbert Linck was there in a Land Rover equipped with a radio that gave him contact with the Janjaville strip. The fetish priest arrived and proceeded to ‘immortalise’ the troops, spraying liquid from his magic gourd through his bared teeth at them, and flicking at them with his horsehair whisk. Bond looked over at Letham, who was trying to suppress his hilarity, his shoulders rocking, small snorts coming from his nose and throat.
    Then Linck called in the Malmös and ten minutes later they flew low over the village, waggling their wings in salute to great cheers and exultation from the massed troops waiting to follow them in. Seconds later came the sound of their machine guns as they strafed the bridge defences and, with whoops and yells, led by Breed and his men, the soldiers jogged off to do battle.
    It was all over in fifteen minutes and the journalists were duly called up to the bridge to bear witness. Clearly Zanza Force’s aptitude for swift and sudden retreat had prevailed again, Bond thought. He paced around, thoughtfully, looking at the marginal damage – some burst sandbags, discarded equipment, the odd bloodstain on the tarmac – and ran into an exhilarated Hulbert Linck.
    ‘Look what we can do, Bond, with three little aeroplanes. Wait until the ship arrives.’
    ‘What ship?’
    ‘We’re going to run the blockade at Port Dunbar,’ Linck said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll keep you informed.’
    Bond went in search of Breed to see if he could shed more light on this mysterious ship and its cargo. He found him stringing up three Zanzari corpses – the only fatalities of the air strike – busying around them with his ropes and his fish hooks, hauling the bodies up by their jaws into the trees above the road that approached the bridge and the river.
    ‘Linck told me about the ship,’ Bond said.
    ‘Did he?’ Breed said, impressed. ‘It’s meant to be a deadly secret. He must think you’re one of us – now you’ve won your medal.’
    ‘So, what’s with this ship?’
    ‘Big cargo vessel. Got some serious stuff on board. Going to change everything.’ He cuffed away a tear and turned to his men in the trees. ‘Take ’em up a bit higher, boys. Up! Up! Heave-ho! We want everyone to have a