Solo

the side with his steel toecaps, knocking him flying, making him scream again. Ribs broken or fractured, he assumed. They would remember him and this night for the next couple of months – every time they coughed or laughed or reached for something.
    Bond leaned over them both and swore at them picturesquely, then he added, ‘Way past your bedtime, kiddies, run along home.’
    He strolled off towards the Fairview, closing the switchblade. It was quite a nice knife, he thought, with a dull ebony handle inlaid with a nacreous pattern of diamonds. He slipped it in his pocket, beginning to feel a little guilty at the unreasonable force of his retaliation. He realised he had vented some of his pent-up rage from Janjaville on these three unfortunates. This was the first ‘action’ he had seen since he had left the war zone. His blood had come up spontaneously and he had administered swift and efficient retribution. They weren’t to know whom they were trying to rob, nor what dark, embittered grudges their potential victim was harbouring: still, he thought, maybe he might have saved them from a life of crime. But he knew he’d taken out his anger on those street punks and punished them for the sins of others. Just their bad luck . . . Tough. He eased his right shoulder as he approached the hotel – no pain – and he massaged the muscle of his wounded thigh. Everything seemed fine after his physical exertions – he was healing fast.
     
    He spent a fruitless morning the next day in his office in the Alcazar building, scrutinising Milford Plaza but recognising no familiar faces. He started to wonder if there was a rear entrance for more private comings and goings but he had observed that most people arriving by car were dropped off in the indented parking area off the busy street, so he assumed that was the norm.
    Then, just before noon, he saw her. Blessing Ogilvy-Grant came out of the main door of 1075 and began to walk across the plaza. Bond zoomed in with the sniper-scope. She looked different – she was wearing a belted beige trouser suit with wide flared trousers but her hair had changed and was now styled in a short bushy Afro, natural and unoiled – very much the young radical, he thought. She stopped at a hot-dog stand to buy a soda and Bond took his opportunity, racing out of his suite of rooms and down the stairs.
    When he emerged from the Alcazar on to the plaza he thought he’d lost her but then he caught sight of her heading up the street towards The Mall. She crossed it on 7th Street and he followed her, being very careful, always staying fifty yards or so behind, sometimes crossing the street and doing a parallel follow, looking back to check that she wasn’t being covered in any way, before ducking back behind her again.
    He felt the contrasting emotions seethe within him. His heart had lurched spontaneously when her face had grown large in the sniper-scope, as he remembered her beauty and the tenderness she’d shown him. Without thinking, he’d approved of this new look she’d created – very American, very cutting-edge. Then he recalled how casually and coldly she had shot him, taking Kobus’s gun and levelling it at his chest without a tremor or any sign of regret. The lover’s fond assessment gave way to a bitter, reasoned anger – she had played him exceptionally well, from the moment they had met. She was a highly trained operative, prepared to put her body on the line should it prove necessary, and give herself to her adversary – and also to shoot to kill. He slowed, making sure he kept his distance, assuming that she would routinely verify that she was being followed or not. Bond’s expertise had to be at least as good as hers, if not better.
    A point worth repeating regularly, Bond told himself, as he watched her turn into a restaurant on E Street called the Baltimore Crab. Bond hovered outside, across the street, watching other lunchers arrive and wondering whom she might be meeting. Perhaps it was just a friend and not sinister business. Even double agents were allowed a personal life from time to time, he told himself.
    Bond lit a cigarette and weighed up his options. He had located AfricaKIN. His surveillance was in place and functioning. Nobody knew he was in the US. But there was no point in just watching – some kind of catalyst was needed, and one of his own making; not like Kobus Breed arriving unannounced at the AfricaKIN offices.
Il faut pisser sur les fourmis
,