Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [153]
Bond said wryly, ‘How often does a man do that?’
She smiled briefly. ‘That means . . . you’re not Gene? And you’re not from Durban?’
‘No. I live in London.’ And discarding the faint Afrikaans accent, he extended his hand. ‘My name’s James. It’s good to meet you, Miss Willing. Are you going to throw me out?’
She hesitated only briefly, then flung her arms around him, laughing. She sat back. ‘But you said you needed my help.’
‘I wouldn’t involve you if there was any other way but I’ve run out of time. Thousands of lives are at stake.’
‘My God! What can I do?’
‘Do you know anything about Gregory Lamb?’
‘Lamb?’ Felicity’s sharp eyebrows drew together. ‘He comes over as a rather high roller so I’ve approached him for donations several times. He always said he’d give us something but he never did. He’s rather a queer man. A boor.’ She laughed. ‘B-O-O-R. Not Afrikaner.’
‘I have to tell you he’s a bit more than that.’
‘We heard rumours that he was in the pay of somebody. Though I can’t imagine anybody taking him seriously as a spy.’
‘I think that’s an act. He plays the fool to put people at ease around him so they don’t suspect he’s up to some pretty rough business. Now, you’ve been down at the docks for the past few days, right?’
‘Yes, quite a bit.’
‘Did you hear anything about a big ship charter that Lamb’s putting together tonight?’
‘I did, but I don’t know any details.’
Bond was silent for a moment. Then: ‘Have you ever heard anyone refer to Lamb as Noah?’
Felicity thought about it. ‘I can’t say for certain but . . . wait, yes, I think so. A nickname somebody once used for him. Because of the shipping business. But what did you mean when you said, “Thousands of lives are at stake”?’
‘I’m not sure exactly what he has in mind. My guess is he’s going to use the cargo ship to sink a cruise liner, a British one.’
‘My God, no! But why on earth would he do that?’
‘With Lamb, it has to be money. Hired by Islamists, warlords or pirates. I’ll know more soon. We’ve tapped his phone. He’s meeting somebody in an hour or so at a deserted hotel south of town, the Sixth Apostle Inn. I’ll be there to find out what he’s up to.’
Felicity said, ‘But . . . James, why do you have to go? Why not call the police and have him arrested?’
Bond hesitated. ‘I can’t really use the police for this.’
‘Because of your job,’ she asked evenly, ‘as a “security analyst”?’
He paused. ‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ Felicity Willing nodded. Then she leant forward fast and kissed him full on the lips. ‘In answer to your question, whatever you do, James, whatever you’re going to do, it won’t affect our plans for Franschhoek one bit. Or our plans for anything else, as far as I’m concerned.’
66
In May the sun sets in Cape Town around half past five. As Bond sped south on Victoria Road the scenery grew surreal, bathed in a glorious sunset. Then dusk descended, streaked by slashes of purple cloud over the turbulent Atlantic.
He’d left Table Mountain behind, Lion’s Head too, and was now motoring parallel to the solemn craggy rock formations of the Twelve Apostles mountain chain to his left, dotted with grasses, fynbos and splashes of protea. Defiant cluster pines sprouted in incongruous places.
Half an hour after leaving Felicity Willing’s office, he spotted the turning to the Sixth Apostle Inn, to the left, east. Two signs marked the drive: the name of the place in peeling, faded paint, and below that, brighter and newer, a warning about construction in progress, prohibiting trespass.
Bond skidded the Subaru into the entrance, doused the lights and proceeded slowly along a lengthy winding drive, gravel grinding under the tyres. It led directly towards the imposing face of the Apostle ridge, which rose a hundred or more feet behind the building.
Before him was the inn, shabby and desperately in need of the promised reconstruction, though he supposed it had once been the place for a holiday or to romance your mistress