Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [73]
Tradecraft is all about subtext: cover identities masking who you really are, dull conversations filled with code words to convey shocking facts, innocent objects used for concealment or as weapons.
Jordaan’s sudden diversion to buy cigarettes was a message. He hadn’t approached Bond because hostiles were present.
Glancing behind him, he saw no immediate sign of a threat. Instinctively he followed prescribed procedure. When an agent waves you off, you circle casually out of the immediate area as inconspicuously as possible and contact a third-party intermediary who co-ordinates a new rendezvous in a safer location. Bill Tanner would be the cut-out.
Bond started to move towards an exit.
Too late.
As he saw Jordaan slipping into the Gents, pocketing cigarettes he would probably never smoke, he heard an ominous voice close to his ear, ‘Do not turn around.’ The English was coated with a smooth layer of a native accent. He sensed that the man was lean and tall. From the corner of his eye, Bond was aware of at least one partner, shorter but stockier. This man moved in quickly and relieved him of his laptop bag and the suitcase containing his useless Walther.
The first assailant said, ‘Walk straight out of the hall – now.’
There was nothing for it but to comply. He turned and went where the man had told him, down a deserted corridor.
Bond assessed the situation. From the echo of the footsteps Bond knew the tall man’s partner was far enough away that his initial move could only neutralise one of them instantly. The shorter man would have to shed Bond’s suitcase and laptop bag, which would give Bond a few seconds to get to him but he would still have a chance to draw his weapon. The man could be taken down but not before shots were fired.
No, Bond reflected, too many innocents. It was best to wait until they were outside.
‘Through the door on your left. I said you are not to look back.’
They walked out into stark sunlight. Here it was autumn, the temperature crisp, the sky a stunning azure. As they approached the kerb in a deserted construction site, a battered black Range Rover sped forward and squealed to a stop.
More hostiles, but no one as yet was getting out of the vehicle.
Purpose . . . response.
Their purpose was to kidnap him. His response would be textbook protocol in an attempted rendition: disorient and then attack. Casually working his Rolex over his fingers to act as a knuckleduster, he turned abruptly to confront the pair with a disdainful smile. They were young, deadly serious men, their skin contrasting sharply with the brilliant white of their starched shirts. They wore suits – one brown, the other navy – and narrow dark ties. They were probably armed, but overconfidence, perhaps, had led them to keep their weapons holstered.
As the Range Rover door swung open behind him, Bond stepped aside so that he couldn’t be attacked from behind and judged angles. He decided to break the jaw of the tallest first and use his body as a shield as he pushed forward towards the shorter man. He looked calmly into the man’s eyes and laughed. ‘I think I’ll report you to the tourist bureau. I’ve heard a lot about the friendliness of South Africans. I was expecting rather more in the way of hospitality.’
Just before he lunged, he heard from behind him, inside the vehicle, a woman’s flinty voice: ‘And we would have offered some if you hadn’t made yourself so obvious a target by enjoying a leisurely coffee in plain view with a hostile loose in the airport.’
Bond relaxed his fist and turned. He looked into the vehicle and tried unsuccessfully to mask his surprise. The beautiful woman he’d seen just moments ago in Arrivals was sitting in the back seat.
‘I’m Captain Bheka Jordaan, SAPS, Crime Combating and Investigation Division.’
‘Ah.’ Bond looked at her full lips, untouched by cosmetics, and her dark eyes. She wasn’t smiling.
His mobile buzzed. The screen showed he had a message from Bill Tanner, along with,