me. Now, “Theron”. The name’s Huguenot, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘We forget Afrikaners are not always Dutch.’
Theron lifted an eyebrow as if he’d heard such comments since he was a child and was tired of them.
Hydt’s phone trilled. He looked at the screen. It was Niall Dunne. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said to Theron, who nodded. Then: ‘Yes?’ Hydt asked, pressing the phone close to his ear.
‘Theron’s legit. South African passport. Lives in Durban and has a security company with headquarters there, with branches here and in Kinshasa. Father’s Afrikaner, mother’s British. Grew up mostly in Kenya.’
Dunne continued, ‘He’s been suspected of supplying troops and arms to conflict regions in Africa, South East Asia and Pakistan. No active investigations. The Cambodians detained him in a human trafficking and mercenary investigation because of what he’d been up to in Shan, Myanmar, but let him go. Nothing in Interpol. And he’s pretty successful, from what I can tell.’
Hydt had deduced that himself; the man’s Breitling was worth around five thousand pounds.
‘I just texted a picture to you,’ Dunne added.
It appeared on Hydt’s screen and showed the man in front of him. Dunne went on, ‘But… whatever he’s proposing, are you sure you want to think about it now?’
Hydt thought he sounded jealous – perhaps that the mercenary might have a project that would deflect attention from Dunne’s plans for Gehenna. He said, ‘Those sales figures are better than I thought. Thank you.’ He disconnected. Then he asked Theron, ‘How did you hear about me?’
Although they were alone Theron lowered his voice as he turned hard, knowing eyes on Hydt: ‘Cambodia. I was doing some work there. Some people told me of you.’
Ah. Hydt understood now and the realisation gave him a thrill. Last year on business in the Far East he’d stopped to visit several gravesites of the infamous Killing Fields, where the Khmer Rouge had slaughtered millions of Cambodians in the 1970s. At the memorial at Choeung Ek, where nearly nine thousand bodies had been buried in mass graves, Hydt had spoken to several veterans about the slaughter and taken hundreds of pictures for his collection. One of the locals must have mentioned his name to Theron.
‘You had business there, you say?’ Hydt asked, thinking of what Dunne had learnt.
‘Nearby,’ Theron replied with a suitable brush of evasion.
Hydt was intensely curious but, a businessman first and foremost, he tried not to appear too enthusiastic. ‘And what do Isandlwana and Cambodia have to do with me?’
‘They are places where there was a great loss of life. Many bodies were interred where they fell in battle.’
Choeung Ek was genocide, not a battle, but Hydt did not correct him.
‘They’ve become sacred areas. And that’s good, I suppose. Except…’ The Afrikaner paused. ‘I’ll tell you about a problem I have become aware of and about a solution that has occurred to me. Then you can tell me if that solution is possible and if you have an interest in helping me achieve it.’
‘Go on.’
Theron said, ‘I have many connections to governments and companies in various parts of Africa.’ He paused. ‘Darfur, Congo, Central African Republic, Mozambique, Zimbabwe, a few others.’
Conflict regions, Hydt observed.
‘And these groups are concerned about the consequences that arise after, say, a terrible natural disaster – like drought or famine or storms – or, frankly, anywhere that a major loss of life has occurred and bodies have been buried. As in Cambodia or Isandlwana.’
Hydt said innocently, ‘Such cases have serious health implications. Water supply contamination, disease.’
‘No,’ Theron said bluntly. ‘I mean something else. Superstition.’
‘Superstition?’
‘Say, for instance, because of a lack of money or resources, bodies have been left in mass graves. A shame, but it happens.’
‘Indeed it does.’
‘Now, if a government or a charity wishes to build something for the good of the people – a hospital, a housing development or a road in that area – they would be reluctant to do so. The land is perfectly good, there is money to build and workers who wish to be employed but many people would fear ghosts or spirits and be afraid to go to that hospital or move into those houses. It’s absurd to me, and to you too, I’m sure. But that’s how many people feel.’ Theron shrugged. ‘How sad for the citizens of those areas if their health and safety were to suffer because of such foolish ideas.’
Hydt was riveted. He was tapping his nails on the desk. He forced himself to stop.
‘So. Here is my idea: I am thinking of offering a service to, well, those government agencies to remove the human remains.’ His face brightened. ‘This will allow more building of factories, hospitals, roads, farms, schools, and it will help the poor, the unfortunate.’
‘Yes,’ Hydt said. ‘Rebury the bodies somewhere else.’
Theron laid his hands on the desk. The gold initial ring glittered in a shaft of sunlight. ‘That’s one possibility. But it would be very expensive. And the problem might arise later at the new location.’
‘True. But are there other alternatives?’ Hydt asked.
‘Your speciality.’
‘Which is?’
In a whisper Theron said, ‘Perhaps… recycling.’
Hydt saw the scenario clearly. Gene Theron, a mercenary and obviously a very successful one, had supplied troops and weapons to various armies and warlords throughout Africa, men who’d secretly massacred hundreds or thousands of people and hidden the bodies in mass graves. Now they were growing worried that legitimate governments, peacekeeping forces, the press or human-rights groups would discover the corpses.
Theron had made money by providing the means of destruction. Now he wanted to make money by removing the evidence of their use.
‘It seemed to me an interesting solution,’ Theron continued. ‘But I wouldn’t know how to go about it. Your… interests in Cambodia and your recycling business here told me that perhaps this is something you had thought of, too. Or would be willing to consider.’ His cold eyes regarded Hydt. ‘I was thinking maybe concrete or plaster. Or fertiliser?’
Turning the bodies into products that ensured they couldn’t be recognised as human remains! Hydt could hardly contain himself. Utterly brilliant. Why, there must be hundreds of opportunities like this throughout the world – Somalia, the former Yugoslavia, Latin America… and there were killing fields aplenty in Africa. Thousands. His chest pounded.
‘So, that’s my idea. A fifty-fifty partnership. I provide the refuse and you recycle it.’ Theron seemed to find this rather amusing.
‘I think we may be able to do business.’ Hydt offered his hand to the Afrikaner.
35
The worst risk of James Bond assuming the NOC – nonofficial cover – of Gene Theron was that Niall Dunne had perhaps got a look at him in Serbia or the Fens, or had been given his description in Dubai – if the blue-jacketed man who’d been tailing him was in fact working for Hydt.
In which case when Bond walked brazenly into the Green Way office in Cape Town and sought to hire Hydt to dispose of bodies hidden in secret graves throughout Africa, Dunne would either kill him on the spot or spirit him to their own personal killing field, where the job would be done with cold efficiency.
