Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [85]
‘Well, yes.’ Though Bond had not been to one voluntarily in years.
The young man said, ‘I’m sure I will be quite successful. I’m partial to Shakespeare. David Mamet is quite good too. Without doubt.’
Bond supposed that, working for a boss like Bheka Jordaan, Nkosi did not get much of a chance to exercise his sense of humour.
37
The hotel was near Table Bay in the fashionable Green Point area of Cape Town. It was an older building, six storeys, in classic Cape style, and could not quite disguise its colonial roots – though it didn’t try very hard; you could see them clearly in the meticulous landscaping presently being tended by a number of diligent workers, the delicate but firm reminder on placards about the dining-room dress code, the spotless white uniforms of the demure, ever-present staff, the rattan furniture on the sweeping veranda overlooking the bay.
Another clue was the enquiry as to whether Mr Theron would like a personal butler for his stay. He politely declined.
The Table Mountain Hotel – referred to everywhere as ‘TM’ in scrolling letters, from the marble floor to embossed napkins – was just the place where a well-heeled Afrikaner businessman from Durban would stay, whether a legitimate computer salesman or a mercenary with ten thousand bodies to hide.
After checking in, Bond started towards the lift, but something outside caught his eye. He popped into the gift shop for shaving foam he didn’t need. Then he circled back to Reception to help himself to some complimentary fruit juice from a large glass tank surrounded by an arrangement of purple jacaranda and red and white roses.
He wasn’t certain but someone might have been conducting surveillance. When he’d turned abruptly to get the juice, a shadow had vanished equally abruptly.
With many opportunities come many operatives . . .
Bond waited for a moment but the apparition didn’t reappear.
Of course, operational life sows the seeds of paranoia and sometimes a passer-by is just a passer-by, a curious gaze signifies nothing more than a curious mind. Besides, you can’t protect yourself from every risk in this business; if somebody wants you dead badly enough, they’ll get their wish. Mentally Bond shrugged off the tail and took the lift to the first floor, where the rooms were accessed from an open balcony that overlooked the lobby. He stepped inside, closed and chained the door.
He tossed the suitcase on to one of the beds, strode to the window and closed the curtains. He slipped everything that identified him as James Bond into a large carbon-fibre envelope with an electronic lock on the flap and sealed it. With his shoulder he tipped a chest of drawers and pushed the pouch underneath. It might be found and stolen, of course, but any attempt to open it without his thumbprint on the lock would send an encrypted message to the ODG’s C Branch, and Bill Tanner would send a Crash Dive text to alert him that his cover had been compromised.
He rang room service and ordered a club sandwich and a Gilroy’s dark ale. Then he showered. By the time he’d dressed in a pair of battleship grey trousers and a black polo shirt, the food was at the door. He ran a comb through his damp hair, checked the peephole and let the waiter in.
The tray was placed on the small table, the bill signed as E. J. Theron – in Bond’s own handwriting; that was one thing you never tried to fake, however deep your cover. The waiter pocketed his tip with overt gratitude. When Bond stepped back to the door to see the young man out and refix the chain, he automatically scanned the balcony and the lobby below.
He squinted, gazing down, then shut the door fast.
Damn.
Glancing with regret at the sandwich – and even more regretfully at the beer – he stepped into his shoes and flung open his suitcase. He screwed the Gemtech silencer on to the muzzle of his Walther and, although he’d done so recently at SAPS headquarters, eased the slide of the pistol back a few millimetres to verify that a round was in the chamber.
The gun went into the folds of today’s edition of the