Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [103]
And he wanted to see her again.
But first things first. He got out of bed and pulled on a towelling dressing-gown. He hesitated for a moment then told himself: has to be done.
He went to his laptop in the suite’s living area. The device had been modified by Q Branch to incorporate a motion-activated, low-light camera. Bond booted up the machine and looked over the replay. It had been pointed only at the front door and the chair, where Bond had tossed his jacket and trousers, containing his wallet, passport and mobile. At around five thirty a.m., according to the time stamp, Felicity, dressed, had walked past his clothing, showing no interest in his phone, pockets or the laptop. She paused and looked back towards the bed. With a smile? He believed so but couldn’t be sure. She put something on the table by the door and let herself out.
He stood up and strode to the table. Her business card lay next to a lamp. She had penned a mobile number underneath her organisation’s main phone line. He slipped the card into his wallet.
He cleaned his teeth, showered and shaved, then dressed in blue jeans and a loose black Lacoste shirt, chosen to conceal his Walther. Laughing to himself, he donned the gaudy bracelet and watch and slipped on his finger the initial ring, EJT.
Checking his texts and emails, he found one from Percy Osborne-Smith. The man was staying true to his reformed ways and gave a succinct update on the investigation in Britain, though little headway had been made. He concluded:
Our friends in Whitehall are positively obsessed with Afghanistan. I say, all the better for us, James. Looking forward to sharing a George Cross with you, when we see Hydt in shackles.
While he had breakfast in his room, he considered his impending trip to Hydt’s Green Way plant, thinking back to last night, to all he’d seen and heard, especially about the super-tight security. When he finished, he called Q Branch and got through to Sanu Hirani. He could hear children’s voices in the background and supposed he had been patched through to the branch director’s mobile at home. Hirani had six children. They all played cricket, and his eldest daughter was a star batswoman.
Bond told him of his communications and weapons needs. Hirani had some ideas but was uncertain that he could come up quickly with a solution. ‘What’s your time frame, James?’
‘Two hours.’
There followed a thoughtful exhalation from down the line seven thousand miles away. Then: ‘I’ll need a cut-out in Cape Town. Somebody with knowledge of the area and top clearance. Oh, and a solid NOC. Do you know anybody who fits the bill?’
‘I’m afraid I do.’
At ten thirty a.m. Bond, in a grey windcheater, made his way to the central police station and was escorted to the Crime Combating and Investigation Division office.
‘Morning, Commander,’ Kwalene Nkosi said, smiling.
‘Warrant Officer.’ Bond nodded. Their eyes met conspiratorially.
‘You see the news this morning?’ Nkosi asked, tapping the Cape Times. ‘Tragic story. A family was killed in a firebombing in Primrose Gardens township last night.’ He frowned rather obviously.
‘How terrible,’ Bond said, reflecting that, despite his West End ambitions, Nkosi was not a very good actor.
‘Without doubt.’
He glanced into Bheka Jordaan’s office and she waved him inside. ‘Morning,’ he said, spotting a pair of well-worn trainers in the corner of the office. He hadn’t noticed them yesterday. ‘You run much?’
‘Now and then. It’s important to stay in shape for my job.’
When he was in London, Bond spent at least an hour a day exercising and running, using the ODG’s gym and jogging along the paths in Regent’s Park. ‘I enjoy it too. Maybe if time permits you could show me some running trails. There must be some beautiful ones in town.’
‘I’m sure the hotel will have a map,’ she said dismissively. ‘Was your meeting at the Lodge Club successful?’
Bond gave her a rundown of what had