Solo

lunched on a ham and cheese sandwich in a diner, had a badly made dry martini in a bar and, curiosity getting the better of him, once again went into the lobby of 1075 and stood by the elevators wondering whether to chance a visit to the office itself. But if Denga was there, he’d be recognised, and – just so he could gain a sense of the lie of the land – he thought it might be more effective to disguise himself somehow, initially. There are disguises and disguises, Bond knew. He could grow a beard and shave his head and no one would think he was James Bond. But the short-term, provisional disguise had its own particular methodology. The key aim was to focus attention on one or two elements of the disguise so that they obscured the other, more familiar ones. Time for some more shopping, Bond thought.
     
    The next morning, Bond strode across Milford Plaza towards number 1075. He was wearing a red and green tartan jacket, heavy black spectacles with clear lenses and a cream pork-pie hat. He rode up in the elevator to the second floor and pushed through the wide, double plate glass doors into the lobby of AfricaKIN Inc.
    Everything about the ambience of the long lobby said ‘money’. Bond’s gaze took in the thick-pile charcoal carpet, the lush plants growing in stainless-steel cubes. At one end there was a seating area composed of curved leather sofas and teak coffee tables. On the linen walls were a couple of large inoffensive abstract paintings. The receptionist – a middle-aged white woman – sat at a mahogany desk with three telephones on it. Behind her on a smoked-glass panel ‘AfricaKIN Inc.’ was spelt out in large three-dimensional sans-serif aluminium letters. Beyond that Bond could see a wide corridor with offices off it on both sides. It didn’t look like a charity, to his eyes, it looked like a successful corporation.
    ‘Welcome to AfricaKIN, sir,’ the receptionist said with a smile. ‘How may I help you?’
    ‘I’d like to make an appointment to see Gabriel Adeka,’ Bond said in a marked Scottish brogue. This is where the provisional disguise should work: if the woman were ever asked to remember him all she could say would be ‘Scotsman, spectacles, small hat.’ He would guarantee that she’d find it very hard to be any more precise.
    ‘I’m sorry, sir, but that won’t be possible. Mr Adeka is extremely busy – on government business.’
    ‘I know him,’ Bond said. ‘We met in London. I want to make a sizeable donation.’ He handed over his card. The receptionist looked at it and handed it back.
    ‘If you care to take a seat, Mr McHarg, I’ll see what I can do.’ She jotted his name down on a pad. And picked up one of her telephones. Bond wandered off to the seating area and helped himself to some water from the cooler standing there. He saw that there was another corridor, signed with an arrow that said ‘Restrooms’. Conceivably there might be a service entrance at the end. Never enter a room without assessing the various ways available to exit it, he reminded himself – Bond had never forgotten his early instructions in procedure. He sat down – he was quite enjoying this – taking care to position himself so that he was screened by a large weeping fig.
    He waited. Ten minutes, twenty minutes. Other people joined him until summoned into the office suites for appointments or meetings. Forty minutes passed – the place was busy. Bond sat on, a
National Geographic
magazine open on his knee, his eyes restless – watching, checking, noting. He headed for the restrooms. He was right – there was a door at the end of the corridor that said ‘No entry’. He opened it and saw a flight of concrete stairs and a yellow bucket with a mop in it. Bond relieved himself, checked his disguise and returned to his seat.
    After he’d been there an hour he began to grow a little worried. Either he could meet Adeka – or he couldn’t. He thought of approaching the receptionist again but decided not to – one glimpse of him was all she should have. Then it occurred to him that he was being kept here deliberately, figuring that as long as he was corralled in the lobby anyone could find him. He put the magazine down. Something was now wrong – he was going to abort. He’d been a bit too audacious thinking he’d gain access to Adeka this easily—
    Kobus Breed pushed through the glass doors and went straight to the receptionist.
    Bond stood up immediately, turned his back and