Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [117]
Bond wondered if that meant what he suspected it might.
Sat-nav instructed him to leave the highway. He drove carefully along a congested road. The minibus taxis were everywhere. Tow trucks waited at intersections, apparently to be the first at the site of an accident. People sold drinks by the roadside; impromptu businesses operated from the backs of lorries and vans. Several were doing a booming trade selling batteries and performing alternator repairs. Why did that malady plague South African vehicles in particular?
Now that he had broken yet more ice, Bond asked casually about the meeting tomorrow, but she said she knew nothing about it and he believed her. Frustratingly to Bond, it seemed that Hydt kept her in the dark about Gehenna and any other illegal activities he, Dunne or the company were involved in.
They were five minutes from their destination, the sat-nav reported, when Bond said, ‘I have to be honest. It’s odd.’
‘What is?’
‘Just how he surrounds himself with it all.’
‘All of what?’ Jessica asked, her eyes on him closely.
‘Decay, destruction.’
‘Well, it’s his business.’
‘I don’t mean his work with Green Way. That I understand. I’m speaking of his personal interest with the old, the used . . . the discarded.’
Jessica said nothing for a moment. She pointed ahead to a large wooden private residence, surrounded by an imposing stone fence. ‘That’s it, the house. That’s—’
Her voice choked and she began to cry.
Bond pulled to the kerb. ‘Jessica, what’s the matter?’
‘I . . .’ Her breathing was coming fast.
‘Are you all right?’ He reached down and pulled the adjustment lever, moving the seat back, so he could turn to face her.
‘It’s nothing, oh, nothing. How embarrassing is this?’
Bond took her handbag and dug around inside for a tissue. He found one and handed it to her.
‘Thank you.’ She tried to speak, then surrendered to her sobs. When she had calmed, she tilted the rear-view mirror towards herself. ‘He doesn’t let me wear make-up – so at least my mascara hasn’t run and turned me into a clown.’
‘Doesn’t let you . . . What do you mean?’
The confession died on her lips. ‘Nothing,’ Jessica whispered.
‘Was it something I said? I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I was just making conversation.’
‘No, no, it’s nothing you’ve done, Gene.’
‘Tell me what’s wrong.’ His eyes locked with hers.
She debated a moment. ‘I wasn’t being honest with you. I put on a good show but it’s all a façade. We don’t have a connection. We never have. He wants me . . .’ She raised her hand. ‘Oh, you don’t want to hear this.’
Bond touched her arm. ‘Please, I’m responsible in some way. I was just blundering along. I feel the fool. Tell me.’
‘Yes, he loves the old . . . the used, the discarded. Me.’
‘My God, no. I didn’t mean—’
‘I know you didn’t. But that is what Severan wants me for – because I’m part of the downward spiral too. I’m his laboratory for fading, for ageing, for decay.
‘That’s all I mean to him. He hardly talks to me, ever. I’ve got almost no idea what goes on in that mind of his and he has no interest in finding out who I am. He gives me credit cards, takes me nice places, provides for me. In return he . . . well, he watches me age. I’ll catch him staring at me, a new wrinkle here, an age-spot there. That’s why I can’t wear make-up. He leaves the lights on when . . . you know what I mean. Do you know how humiliating that is for me? He knows it too. Because humiliation is another form of decay.’
She laughed bitterly, dabbing her eyes with the tissue. ‘And the irony, Gene? The goddamn irony? When I was young I lived for beauty pageants. Nobody cared about who I was inside, the judges, my fellow contestants . . . even my mother. Now I’m old and Severan doesn’t care about who I am inside either. There are times when I hate being with him. But what can I do? I’m powerless.’
Bond applied a bit more pressure to her arm. ‘That’s not true. You’re not powerless at all. Being older is strength. It’s experience, judgement, discernment,