But now, having shaken hands with an intrigued Severan Hydt, Bond believed his cover was holding. So far. Hydt had been suspicious at first, of course, but he had been willing to give Theron the benefit of the doubt. Why? Because Bond had tempted him with a dangle, a lure he couldn’t resist: death and decay.
That morning, at SAPS headquarters, Bond had contacted Philly Maidenstone and Osborne-Smith – his new ally – and they had data-mined Hydt’s and Green Way’s credit cards. They’d learnt that he’d not only travelled to the Killing Fields in Cambodia but to Krakow, Poland, where he’d taken several tours of Auschwitz. Among his purchases at the time were double-A batteries and a second flash chip for a camera.
Bond decided that to work his way into Hydt’s life he would offer a chance to satisfy that lust: access to secret killing fields throughout Africa and a proposal to recycle human remains.
For the past three hours Bond had struggled, under the tutelage of Bheka Jordaan, to become an Afrikaner mercenary from Durban. Gene Theron would have a slightly unusual background: he’d had Huguenot rather than Dutch forebears and his parents favoured English and French in the household of his youth, which explained why he didn’t speak much Afrikaans. A British education in Kenya would cover his accent. She had, however, made Bond learn something of the dialect; if Leonardo DiCaprio and Matt Damon had mastered the subtle intonation for recent films – and they were American, for heaven’s sake – he could do so too.
While she’d coached him on facts that a South African mercenary might know, Sergeant Mbalula had gone to the evidence locker and found an incarcerated drug dealer’s gaudy Breitling watch, to replace Bond’s tasteful Rolex, and gold bracelet for the successful mercenary to wear. He’d then sped to a jeweller in the Gardens Shopping Centre in Mill Street, where he’d bought a gold signet ring and had it engraved with the initials
Meanwhile, Warrant Officer Kwalene Nkosi had worked feverishly with the ODG’s I Branch in London to create the fictional Gene Theron, uploading to the Internet biographical information about the hard- boiled mercenary, with Photoshopped pictures and details about his fictional company.
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
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
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
They came to the office building where Theron’s Cape Town branch was located. It was typical of the city’s business district, functional metal and stone. This particular structure seemed half deserted. There was no guard in the lobby, which was curious. The men took the lift to the fourth floor and found the office door, number 403.
‘There’s no company name,’ Hydt observed. ‘Just the number. That’s odd.’
‘This doesn’t look right,’ Dunne said. He listened. ‘I don’t hear anything.’
‘Try it.’
He did so. ‘Locked.’
Hydt was fiercely disappointed, wondering if he’d given anything away to Theron, anything incriminating. He didn’t think so.
Dunne said, ‘We should get some of our security people together. When Theron comes back, if he does, we’ll take him down to the basement. I’ll find out what he’s about.’
They were about to leave when Hydt, desperate to believe Theron was legitimate, said, ‘Knock – see if anybody’s in there.’
Dunne hesitated, then drew aside his jacket, exposing the Beretta’s grip. The man’s large knuckles rapped on the wooden door.
Nothing.
They turned to the lift.
Just then the door swung open.
Gene Theron blinked in surprise. ‘Hydt… Dunne. What are you doing here?’
