Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [105]
‘Actually he is,’ said Bond.
‘Got talking to him. I’m having some navigation problems on my ship charters. Pirates’ve been jamming signals. Whatever happened to the eye patches and peg legs, hmm? Well, this Hirani says there are devices that will jam the jammers. He wouldn’t ship me any, though. Any chance you could put in a word?’
‘You know our outfit doesn’t officially exist, Lamb.’
‘We’re all part of the same team,’ he said huffily. ‘I’ve got a huge charter coming up in a day or so. Massive.’
Helping Lamb’s lucrative cover career was the last thing on Bond’s mind at the moment. He asked sternly, ‘And your assignment today?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Lamb handed Bond the black satchel he was carrying as if it contained the Crown Jewels. ‘Must say in all modesty the morning’s been a smashing success. Positively brilliant. I’ve been running hither and yon. Had to tip rather heavily. You’ll reimburse me, of course?’
‘I’m sure it’ll get sorted.’ Bond opened the satchel and regarded the contents. He examined one item closely. It was a small plastic tube labelled, ‘Re-Leef. For Congestion Problems Caused by Asthma’.
Hirani was a genius.
‘An inhaler. You have lung problems?’ Nkosi asked. ‘My brother too. He is a gold miner.’
‘Not really.’ Bond pocketed it, along with the other items Lamb had delivered.
Nkosi took a call. When he hung up he said, ‘I have a nice car for you, Commander. Subaru. All-wheel drive.’
A Subaru, thought Bond, sceptical. A suburban estate wagon. But Nkosi was beaming so he said graciously, ‘Thank you, Warrant Officer. I’ll look forward to driving it.’
‘The petrol mileage is very good,’ Nkosi said enthusiastically.
‘I’m sure it is.’ He started out of the door.
Gregory Lamb stopped him. ‘Bond,’ he said softly. ‘Sometimes I’m not sure the powers that be in London take me all that seriously. I was exaggerating a bit yesterday – about the Cape, I mean. Fact is, the worst that happens down here is a warlord coming in from Congo to take the waters. Or a Hamas chap in transit at the airport. Just want to thank you for including me, my friend. I—’
Bond interrupted, ‘You’re welcome, Lamb. But how’s this: let’s just assume I’m your friend. Then you won’t have to keep repeating it. How’s that?’
‘Fair enough, my . . . fair enough.’ A grin spread over the fat face.
Then Bond was out the door, thinking: next stop, hell.
45
James Bond enjoyed Kwalene Nkosi’s little joke.
Yes, the car he’d procured for the agent’s use was a small Japanese import. It wasn’t, however, a staid family saloon but a metallic blue Subaru Impreza WRX, the STI model, which boasted a turbocharged 305-horsepower engine, six gears and a high spoiler. The jaunty little vehicle would be far more at home on rally courses than in some Asda car park and, settling into the driver’s seat, Bond couldn’t restrain himself. He laid twin streaks of rubber as he sped up Buitenkant Street, heading for the motorway.
For the next half-hour he made his way north of Cape Town proper, guided by sat-nav, and finally skidded the taut little Subaru off the N7 and proceeded east along an increasingly deserted road, past a vast bottomless quarry and then into a grubby landscape of low hills, some green, some brown with autumn tint. Sporadic stands of trees broke the monotony.
The May sky was overcast and the air was humid but dust rose from the road, churned up by the Green Way lorries carting their refuse in the direction Bond was going. In addition to the typical dustcarts, there were much larger ones, painted with the Green Way name and distinctive green leaf – or dagger – logo. Signs on the sides indicated that they came from company operations throughout South Africa. Bond was surprised to see one lorry was from a branch in Pretoria, the administrative capital of the country, many miles away – why would Hydt go to the expense of bringing rubbish to Cape Town when he could open a recycling depot where it was needed?
Bond changed down