Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [96]
‘Ah, Theron,’ Hydt boomed and marched forward, detaching himself from Jessica, who followed. As Bond shook his hand, the woman regarded him with a noncommittal smile. He turned to her. Tradecraft requires constant, often exhausting effort. You must maintain an expression of faint curiosity when meeting a person you’re familiar with only through surveillance. Lives have been lost because of a simple slip: ‘Ah, good to see you again,’ when in fact you’ve never met face to face.
Bond kept his eyes neutral as Hydt introduced her. ‘This is Jessica.’ He turned to her. ‘Gene Theron. We’re doing business together.’
The woman nodded and, though she held his eye, took his hand tentatively. It was a sign of insecurity, Bond concluded. Another indication of this was her handbag, which she kept over her shoulder and pinned tight between arm and ribcage.
Small-talk ensued, Bond reciting snippets from Jordaan’s lessons about the country, taking care to be accurate, assuming that Jessica might report their conversation to Hydt. In a low voice he offered that the South African government should busy itself with more important things than renaming Pretoria Tshwane. He was glad the trade union situation was calming. Yes, he enjoyed life on the east coast. The beaches near his home in Durban were particularly nice, especially now that the shark nets were up, though he’d never had any problems with the Great Whites, which occasionally took bites out of people. They talked then about wildlife. Jessica had visited the famed Kruger game reserve again recently and seen two adolescent elephants tear up trees and bushes. It had reminded her of the gangs in Somerville, Massachusetts, just north of Boston – teenagers vandalising public parks. Oh, yes, he’d thought her accent was American.
‘Have you ever been there, Mr Theron?’
‘Call me, Gene, please,’ Bond said, scrolling mentally through the biography written by Bheka Jordaan and I Branch. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I hope to some day.’
Bond looked at Hydt. His body language had shifted; he was giving out signs of impatience. A glance at Jessica suggested he wished her to leave them. Bond thought of the abuse Bheka Jordaan had endured at the hands of her co-workers. This was different only in degree. A moment later the woman excused herself to ‘powder her nose’, an expression Bond had not heard in years. He thought it ironic that she used the term, considering that she probably wouldn’t be doing so.
When they were alone, Hydt said to him, ‘I’ve thought more about your proposal and I’d like to move forward.’
‘Good.’ They took refills of champagne from an attractive young Afrikaner woman. Bond said, ‘Dankie,’ and reminded himself not to overdo his act.
He and Hydt retired to a corner of the room, the older man waving to and shaking hands with people on the way. When the men were alone, beneath the mounted head of a gazelle or antelope, Hydt peppered Bond with questions about the number of graves, the acreage, the countries they were in, and how close the authorities were to discovering some of the killing fields. As Bond ad-libbed the answers, he couldn’t help but be impressed with the man’s thoroughness. It seemed he’d spent all afternoon thinking about the project. He was careful to remember what he told Hydt and made a mental note to write it down later so that he would be consistent in