Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [162]
He stepped further inside and moved down a narrow corridor to the kitchen. He could—
But the kitchen was empty. On a counter sat the radio, the staticky voice rambling on and on. He realised that these were just random transmissions from SAPS’s central emergency dispatch, about fires, robberies, noise complaints.
The radio was set to scan mode, not communications.
Why had she done that?
This couldn’t be a trap to lure him inside. James wouldn’t possibly know that he’d left the sniper’s nest and was here. He stepped to the window and gazed up at the rock face, where he could see the man climbing slowly.
His heart stuttered. No . . . The vague form was exactly where it had been ten minutes ago. And Dunne realised that what he’d glanced at earlier on the rock face might not have been the spy at all, but perhaps his jacket, draped over a rock and moving in the breeze.
No, no . . .
Then a man’s voice said, in a smooth British accent, ‘Drop your weapon. Don’t turn round or you’ll be shot.’
Dunne’s shoulders slumped. He remained staring out at the Twelve Apostles ridge. He gave a brief laugh. ‘Logic told me you’d climb to the sniper’s nest. I was so certain.’
The spy replied, ‘And logic told me you’d bluff and come here. I just climbed high enough to leave my jacket in case you looked.’
Dunne glanced over his shoulder. The SAPS officer was standing beside the spy. Both were armed. Dunne could see the man’s cold eyes. The South African officer was just as determined. Through the doorway, in the lobby, Dunne could also see Felicity Willing, his boss, his love, straining to look into the kitchen. Felicity called, ‘What’s going on in there? Somebody answer me!’
My draughtsman . . .
The British agent said harshly, ‘I won’t tell you again. In five seconds I’ll shoot into your arms.’
There was no blueprint for this. And for once the inarguable logic of engineering and the science of mechanics failed Niall Dunne. He was suddenly amused, thinking that this would be perhaps the first wholly irrational decision he’d ever made. But did that mean it wouldn’t succeed?
Pure faith sometimes worked, he’d been told.
He leapt sideways on his long legs, dropping into a crouch, spinning about and aiming toward the woman officer first, his pistol rising.
Shattering the stillness, several guns sang, voices similar but differently pitched, in harmonies low and high.
71
The ambulances and SAPS cars were arriving. A Recces special-forces helicopter was hovering over the vessel containing the mercenaries who’d come to collect Dunne and Felicity. Glaring spotlights pointed downwards, as did the barrels of two 20mm cannon. One short burst over the bow was enough to force the occupants to surrender.
An unmarked police car screeched up amid a cloud of dust, directly in front of the hotel. Kwalene Nkosi leapt out and nodded to Bond. Other officers joined them. Bond recognised some from the raid earlier today at the Green Way plant.
Bheka Jordaan assisted Felicity Willing to her feet. She asked, ‘Is Dunne dead?’
He was. Bond and Jordaan had fired simultaneously before the muzzle of his Beretta could rise to the threat position. He’d died a moment later, blue eyes as flat in death as they had been in life, though his last glance had been towards the room where Felicity sat, not at the pair who had shot him.
‘Yes,’ Jordaan said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She spoke this with some sympathy, apparently having assumed a personal as well as professional connection between the two.
‘You’re sorry,’ Felicity responded cynically. ‘What good is he to me dead?’
Bond understood that she wasn’t mourning the loss of a partner but of a bargaining chip.
Felicity Wilful . . .
‘Listen to me. You have no idea what you’re up against,’ she muttered to Jordaan. ‘I’m the Queen of Food Aid. I’m the one saving the starving babies. You may as well give up your badge right now if you try to arrest me. And if that doesn’t impress you, remember my partners. You’ve cost some very