Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [81]
A series of lectures on cover identities at Fort Monckton could be summarised in the instructor’s introductory sentence: ‘If you don’t have a web presence, you’re not real.’
Nkosi had also printed business cards for EJT Services Ltd, and MI6 in Pretoria pulled in some favours to get the company registered in record time, the documents backdated. Jordaan was not happy about this – it was, to her, a breach of the sacred rule of law – but since she and SAPS were not involved, she let it go. I Branch also created a fake criminal investigation in Cambodia about Theron’s questionable behaviour in Myanmar, which mentioned shady activities in other countries too.
The faux Afrikaner was over the first hurdle. The second – and most dangerous – was close. Hydt was on the phone summoning Niall Dunne to meet ‘a businessman from Durban’.
After he’d hung up, Hydt said casually, ‘One question. Would you happen to have pictures of the fields? The graves?’
‘That can be arranged,’ Bond said.
‘Good.’ Hydt smiled like a schoolboy. He rubbed the back of his hand on his beard.
Bond heard the door behind him open. ‘Ah, here is my associate, Niall Dunne . . . Niall, this is Gene Theron. From Durban.’
Now for it. Was he about to be shot? Bond rose, turned and went up to the Irishman, looking straight into his eyes and offering the stiff smile of one businessman meeting another for the first time. As they shook hands, Dunne stared at him, a knife slash from the chill blue eyes.
There was, however, no suspicion in the gaze. Bond was confident he had not been recognised.
Closing the door behind him, the Irishman shot a quizzical glance at his boss, who handed him the EJT Services business card. The men sat down. ‘Mr Theron has a proposition,’ Hydt said enthusiastically. He ran through the plan in general terms.
Bond could see that Dunne, too, was intrigued. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This could be good. Some logistics to consider, of course.’
Hydt continued, ‘Mr Theron’s going to arrange for us to see pictures of the locations. Give us a better idea of what would be involved.’
Dunne shot him a troubled glance – the Irishman wasn’t suspicious, but seemed put off by this. He reminded Hydt, ‘We have to be at the plant by fifteen thirty. That meeting?’ He turned his eyes on Bond again. ‘Your office is just round the corner.’ He’d memorised the address at a glance, Bond noted. ‘Why don’t you get them now? Those pictures?’
‘Well . . . I suppose I could,’ Bond said, stalling.
Dunne eyed him levelly. ‘Good.’ As he opened the door for Bond, his jacket swung open, revealing the Beretta pistol on his belt, probably the one he’d used to murder the men in Serbia.
Was it a message? A warning?
Bond pretended not to see it. He nodded to both men. ‘I’ll be back in thirty minutes.’
But Gene Theron had been gone only five when Dunne said, ‘Let’s go.’
‘Where to?’ Hydt frowned.
‘To Theron’s office. Now.’
Hydt noted that the gangly man had one of those expressions on his face, challenging, petulant.
That bizarre jealousy again. What went on in Dunne’s soul?
‘Why, don’t you trust him?’
‘It’s not a bad idea, mind,’ Dunne said off-handedly. ‘We’ve been talking about disposal of the bodies. But it doesn’t matter for Friday. It just seems a bit dodgy to me that he shows up out of the blue. Makes me nervous.’
As if such an emotion would ever register with the icy sapper.
Hydt relented. He needed somebody to keep his feet on the ground and it was true that he’d been seduced by Theron’s proposition. ‘You’re right, of course.’
They picked up their jackets and left the office. Dunne directed them up the street, to the address printed on the man’s business card.
The Irishman was right, but Severan Hydt prayed that Theron was legitimate. The bodies, the acres of bones. He wanted to see them so badly, to breathe in the air surrounding them. And he wanted the pictures