Solo

considered.
    A crew member came in from the Constellation and all the mercenaries were invited to board. Bond heard the engines spark and fire up, generating their throaty rumble. The four journalists joined the back of the queue.
    Haas looked round, his face was sweaty. ‘They seem to be getting closer,’ he said.
    ‘Did you see Breadalbane before you left?’ Bond asked. ‘I lent him some cash – thought he might have changed his mind and decided to join us.’
    ‘I told him,’ Dupree said. ‘I said that with all the mercenaries gone he’ll be the only white man in Port Dunbar. Not a good idea, I said. A most uncomfortable situation. I thought he’d be here.’
    Bond was about to reply when three soldiers pushed their way in, all carrying AK-47s, swathed in bandoliers of bullets and somehow looking more capable and alarming than the demoralised men manning the defences. They wore the soft, peaked kepis that the mercenaries favoured. Everyone went quiet.
    ‘Who is James Bond?’ one of the soldiers called out.
    Bond stepped forward. There was no hiding place here.
    ‘I am,’ he said.
    ‘Come with us. The rest of you please to board the plane.’
    Bond picked up his grip, feeling his mouth dry, suddenly. What was this – had Msour been found and somehow identified him? He followed the three soldiers out of the Quonset hut, glancing back over his shoulders to see the others striding energetically across the grass towards the Constellation, its four engines now turning in a shimmering blur in the airport lights.
    ‘What’s going on?’ Bond asked, feigning minor irritation – he was feeling concern mount in him. ‘I need to be on that plane.’
    ‘Someone wants to talk with you,’ the soldier said.
    Perhaps it was Linck, Bond thought, though his worries didn’t subside. The last DC3 was still there, its propeller blades now beginning to revolve slowly as the generator fired up the engines, the exhausts coughing out smoke. Perhaps Linck wanted them to fly out together. But Bond recognised the symptoms – he was trying to put a benign gloss on serious alarm. It never worked – something was wrong here.
    Bond was being led towards the concrete blockhouse of the control tower, he saw. A door in the side was opened and he was ordered in. He found himself in a windowless cement cell with a neon tube in the ceiling casting an unkind glaring light.
    ‘Excuse me. What’s happening?’ he asked, still managing to preserve his tone of mild irritation. ‘Can you tell me? Who am I meant to meet?’
    One soldier left, to fetch the person who wanted to talk to him, Bond supposed. The other two stood by the closed door, hands resting on the AK-47s slung across their fronts.
    Bond paced slowly to and fro, affecting unconcern, but his mind was hyperactive. Something must have gone very wrong – but what? No clever strategy suggested itself.
    Two minutes went by, then five. The only thing that reassured Bond was that the idling motors of the Constellation hadn’t changed pitch. It must still be in position, waiting for the final passengers to arrive before taking off.
    Then Kobus Breed came through the door. He was wearing a light blue seersucker suit and a yellow tie. Bond almost laughed – he looked so different. Bond noticed that he held one hand behind his back.
    ‘Kobus, hello,’ he said. ‘You look very smart. What’s going on?’ Breed’s thick neck didn’t suit a collar and tie, Bond thought. It looked like a bad disguise.
    Breed wasn’t smiling any more. ‘What’s going on is that you’re a devious bastard, Bond.’
    ‘No more devious than you are,’ Bond said. ‘We all have our strategies for survival. Look at you.’ He gestured at Breed’s new clothes. ‘Very man-about-town, all of a sudden.’
    ‘Yah. But your strategy’s just been discovered. What did you do with Tony Msour?’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    Breed let the hand that was behind his back swing into view. He was holding one of his big fish hooks.
    ‘I don’t have time to piss around with you, Bond. This hook’s got your name on it. I’m going to let you swing from the control tower – a special welcome for Zanza Force. But, before I kill you I just want you to know that I know what you did and I know who you are. Your fellow journalist, Letham, was most helpful. Seems nobody in the entire world of journalism has ever heard of you.’
    ‘Letham is scum. I wouldn’t believe anything he