Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [95]
‘Anything else?’
‘No, sir.’
Serbia . . .
So, some of the secrets to Gehenna lay beyond the door to Research and Development.
Bond said to Nkosi, ‘We have to get the family away. If I give them money, is there a hotel where they can stay until the weekend?’
‘I can find some rooms for them.’
Bond gave them fifteen hundred rand. The man blinked as he stared at the sum. Nkosi explained to Dlamini that he would have to stay in hiding for a short while.
‘And have him call other family members and close friends. He should tell them that he and his family are all right but that they have to play dead for a few days. Can you plant a story in the media about their deaths?’
‘I think so.’ The warrant officer was hesitating. ‘But I’m wondering if . . .’ His voice faded.
‘We’ll keep this between ourselves. Captain Jordaan does not need to know.’
‘Without doubt, that is best.’
As the glorious vista of Cape Town rose before them, Bond glanced at his watch. It was time for the second assignment of the night – one that would require him to enlist a very different set of tradecraft skills from dodging grenades and firebombs, though he suspected that this job would be no less challenging.
42
Bond wasn’t impressed by the Lodge Club.
Perhaps back in the day, when it was the enclave of hunters in jodhpurs and jackets embellished with loops to hold ammunition for their big-five game rifles, it had been more posh but the atmosphere now was that of a function room hosting simultaneous wedding receptions. Bond wasn’t even sure if the Cape buffalo head, staring down at him angrily from near the front door, was real or had been manufactured in China.
He gave the name Gene Theron to one of the attractive young women at the door. She happened to be blonde and voluptuous and wearing a tight-fitting crimson dress with a lazy neckline. The other hostess was of Zulu or Xhosa ancestry but equally built and clad. Bond suspected that whoever ran the fundraising organisation knew how to tactically appeal to what was, of whatever race, predominantly a male donor pool. He added, ‘Guest of Mr Hydt.’
‘Ah, yes,’ the golden-haired woman said and let him into the low-lit room where fifty or so people milled about. Still wine, champagne and soft drinks were on offer and Bond went for the sparkling.
Bond had followed Hydt’s suggestions on dress and the Durban mercenary was in light grey trousers, a black sports jacket and a light blue shirt, no tie.
Holding his champagne flute, Bond looked around the plush hall. The group behind the event was the International Organisation Against Hunger, based in Cape Town. Pictures on easels showed workers handing out large sacks to happy recipients, women mostly, Hercules planes being unloaded and boats laden with sacks of rice or wheat. There were no pictures of starving emaciated children. A tasteful compromise all around. You wanted donors to feel slightly, but not too, uneasy. Bond guessed that the world of altruism had to be as carefully navigated as Whitehall politics.
From speakers in the ceiling, the harmonies of Ladysmith Black Mambazo and the inspirational songs of the Cape Town singer Verity provided an appealing soundtrack to the evening.
The event was a silent auction – tables were filled with all sorts of items donated by supporters of the group: a football signed by players from Bafana Bafana, the South African national football team, a whale-watching cruise, a weekend getaway in Stellenbosch, a Zulu sculpture, a pair of diamond earrings and much more. The guests would circulate and write their bids for each item on a sheet of paper; the one who’d put down the highest amount when the auction closed would win the article. Severan Hydt had donated a dinner for four, worth eight thousand rand – about seven hundred pounds, Bond calculated – at a first-class restaurant.
The wine flowed generously and waiters circulated with silver trays of elaborate canapés.
Ten minutes after Bond had arrived,