Solo

you some time.’
    ‘May I ask where you’re going, Mr Bond?’
    ‘I’m going to do some shopping – some gifts for friends in London.’
    ‘Yeah? Have a nice day.’
     
    That evening, Bond laid out everything he needed on the bed. Weapons: the Frankel and Kleist, fully loaded and with spare rounds of ammunition; his Beretta with two extra clips; the mugger’s switchblade with its diamond inlay; a small aerosol canister of OC – oleoresin capsicum pepper spray (concentrate of chilli pepper with the brand name Savage Heat) – and, finally, a sock filled with $10-worth of nickels and dimes, knotted tight to form a cosh. As for his clothing, Bond had bought a black leather blouson jacket with big patch pockets, a black polo-neck jersey, a black knitted three-hole balaclava and a length of nylon rope. He was going to wear his dark charcoal trousers from his suit tucked into his socks with a pair of black sneakers with thick rubber soles.
    He smiled grimly to himself. A one-man commando on a one-man commando raid.
    He had a final telephone call to make then he would check out of the hotel and head for the airport. He sat down on his bed and took out Turnbull McHarg’s business card.
     
    It was dark when Bond drove his Mustang up to the Fairview’s entry-way and the bellhop placed his luggage in the boot. Bond tipped him and glanced around to see if anyone was paying particular attention to his departure. No sign of Massinette but, Bond reasoned, if he were Brig Leiter running this show he’d have a tail on Bond. Routine. Insurance.
    Bond drove out to Dulles airport. He couldn’t tell if he was being followed. There was a lot of traffic heading out of town. Not far from the airport he pulled into a gas station and filled the tank, watching to see if cars stopped or slowed. He spotted nothing so climbed back into his car and swung out on to the highway back into town, steadily increasing his speed. At the last minute he turned off at an intersection, changed direction and headed back to the airport again. He began to relax. He sped past the turn for Dulles and veered off into the quiet streets of Ashburn and drove around for ten minutes or so, stopping and starting, doubling back suddenly and unpredictably. No one was following him; he could safely choose his own route back out to Rowanoak Hall.
     
    Bond parked the car down a track not far from the house and changed into his dark clothes. He looked at his watch; ten past eleven. By now Brig and Felix Leiter would know full well that he wasn’t on the plane for London. Bond had vanished – one rogue male agent gone solo yet again. It was a calculated risk, this solitary assault on the AfricaKIN Inc. headquarters, and he asked himself if Felix might second-guess what he was planning. He doubted it. Only a fool would attempt such a thing. He wondered if they would try to capture Breed – but again he thought they would hold off. Blessing had said that she thought Hulbert Linck was the key target; the CIA wouldn’t want to do anything that would scare him away. All in all, Bond reckoned he had this one night to himself. Whatever happened, there would be no second chance for him – his vengeance had to take place in the next few hours before the CIA tracked him down and pulled him in.
    He wound the nylon rope around his body and assembled the Frankel and Kleist. Then he filled the pockets of his jacket with his assorted weaponry. He hoped there weren’t dogs – he had seen no sign of them – but he had his OC spray just in case. He had once halted a snarling, slavering Dobermann with a blast of pepper spray – it was infallible.
    He drove to the furthest point of the Rowanoak estate and parked the Mustang against the brick perimeter wall. He climbed on to the car roof and shinned over the wall, carefully dropping the rifle (safety catch secured) on to the grass on the other side before he lowered himself down. He pulled on his balaclava and moved off through the wooded park towards the distant lights of the house.
    As he drew near the Hall he saw a man standing on the back lawn of the house smoking a cigarette. He appeared to have a walkie-talkie in his hand as he paced about, keeping notional guard. The back lawn was illuminated by a powerful arc light high on the fake battlements. The front sweep of gravel was equally brightly lit – no one could approach the house without stepping into this wide glaring disc of light.
    Bond moved easily through the