Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [69]
‘Station Z’s got a covert operator on the Cape. Gregory Lamb. Let me check his status.’ Bond heard typing. ‘He’s up in Eritrea at the moment – that sabre-rattling on the Sudanese border’s got worse. But, James, we don’t want to get Lamb involved if we can avoid it. He doesn’t have an entirely irreproachable record. He went native, like some character out of a Graham Greene novel. I think Six have been meaning to hand him a redundancy package but haven’t got round to it. I’ll find somebody local for you. I’d recommend SAPS, the police service, rather than National Intelligence – NIA’s been in the news lately and not in a good way. I’ll make some calls and let you know.’
‘Thanks, Bill. Can you patch me to Q?’
‘Will do. Good luck.’
A thoughtful voice was soon on the line: ‘Q Branch. Hirani.’
‘It’s 007, Sanu. I’m in Dubai. I need something fast.’
After Bond had explained, Hirani seemed disappointed at the simplicity of the assignment. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘Intercontinental, Festival City.’
Bond heard typing.
‘All right. Thirty minutes. Just remember: flowers.’
They rang off, as Leiter arrived, sat down and ordered a Jim Beam, neat. ‘That means no ice, no water, no fruit salad, no nothing. But it does mean a double. And I could live with a triple.’
Bond ordered another martini. When the waiter left he asked, ‘How’s the head?’
‘It’s nothing,’ Leiter murmured. He didn’t seem badly injured and Bond knew that his subdued mood was due to the loss of Nasad. ‘You find out anything about Hydt?’
‘They’re leaving tonight. A couple of hours. Going to Cape Town.’
‘What’s down there?’
‘No idea. That’s what I have to find out.’
And find out within three days, Bond reminded himself, if he wanted to save those thousands of people.
They fell silent as the waiter brought their drinks. Both agents scanned the large room as they sipped. There was no sign of the dark-haired man with the earring, or of watchers paying too much attention – or not enough – to the men in the corner.
Neither man raised a toast to the memory of the asset who’d just died. As tempted as you were, you never did that.
‘Nasad?’ Bond asked. ‘His body?’ The thought of an ally going to such an ignominious grave was hard.
Leiter’s lips tightened. ‘If Hydt and the Irishman were involved and I called in a team, they’d know we were on to them. I’m not risking our cover at this point. Yusuf knew what he was getting into.’
Bond nodded. It was the right way to handle it, though that didn’t make the decision any easier.
Leiter inhaled the fumes of his whiskey, then drank again. ‘You know, in this business, it’s choices like that that’re the hard ones – not pulling out your six-shooter and playing Butch Cassidy. That, you just do without thinking.’
Bond’s mobile buzzed. T Branch had booked him an overnight flight on Air Emirates to Cape Town. It left in three hours. Bond was pleased with the choice of carrier. The airline had studiously avoided becoming just another mass market operation and treated its passengers to what he guessed was the quality service that typified the golden age of air travel fifty or sixty years ago. He told Leiter of his departure arrangements. He added, ‘Let’s get some food.’
The American waved over a waiter and asked for a mezze platter. ‘And then bring us a grilled hammour. Bone it, if y’all’d be so kind.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bond ordered a bottle of a good premier cru Chablis, which arrived a moment later. They sipped from the chilled glasses silently until the first course arrived: kofta, olives, hummus, cheese, aubergine, nuts and the best flatbread Bond had ever had. Both men began to eat. After the waiter had cleared away the remnants, he brought the main course. The simple white fish lay steaming on a bed of green lentils. It was very good, delicate yet with a faint meatiness. Bond had eaten only a few mouthfuls when his phone hummed again. Caller ID showed only the code for a British government number. Thinking Philly might be ringing from a