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, ‘
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 the future.
After fifteen minutes Bond said, ‘Now, there are things I would like to know. First, your operation here. I’d like to see it.’
‘I think you should.’
When he didn’t suggest a time, Bond said, ‘How about tomorrow?’
‘That might be difficult, with my big project on Friday.’
Bond nodded. ‘Some of my clients are eager to move forward. You are my first choice but if there’ll be delays I’ll have to…’
‘No, no. Please. Tomorrow will be fine.’
Bond began to probe more but just then the lights dimmed and a woman ascended the raised platform near where Hydt and Bond were standing. ‘Good evening,’ she called out, her low voice glazed with a South African accent. ‘Welcome, everyone. Thank you for coming to our event.’
She was the managing director of the organisation and Bond was amused by her name: Felicity Willing.
She wasn’t, to Bond’s eye, cover-girl beautiful, as was Philly Maidenstone. However, her face was intense, striking. Expertly made up, it exuded a feline quality. Her eyes were a deep green, like late summer leaves caught in the sun, and her hair dark blonde, pulled back severely and pinned up, accentuating the determined angles of her nose and chin. She wore a close-fitting navy-blue cocktail dress that was cut low at the front and lower still at the back. Her silver shoes sported thin straps and precarious heels. Faintly pink pearls shone at her throat and she wore one ring, also a pearl, on her right index finger. Her nails were short and uncoloured.
She scanned the audience with a penetrating, almost challenging gaze and said, ‘I must warn you all…’ Tension swelled. ‘At university I was known as Felicity
As the laughter died down, Felicity began to talk about the problems of hunger. ‘Africa must import twenty-five per cent of its food… While the population has soared, crop yields today are no higher than they were in 1980… In places like the Central African Republic, nearly a third of all households are food insecure… In Africa iodine deficiency is the number-one cause of brain damage, vitamin A deficiency is the number-one cause of blindness… Nearly three hundred million people in Africa do not have enough to eat – that number equals the entire population of the United States…’
Africa, of course, was not alone in the need for food aid, she continued, and her organisation was attacking the plague on all fronts. Thanks to the generosity of donors, including many here, the group had recently expanded its charter from being a purely South African charity to an international one, opening offices in Jakarta, Port-au-Prince and Mumbai, with others planned.
And, she added, the biggest shipment of maize, sorghum, milk powder and other high- nutrient staples ever to arrive in Africa was soon to be delivered in Cape Town for distribution across the continent.
Felicity acknowledged the applause. Then her smile vanished and she gazed at the crowd with piercing eyes once more, speaking in a low, even menacing, voice about the need to make poorer countries independent of Western ‘agropolies’. She railed against the prevailing approach of America and Europe to end hunger: foreign-owned megafarms forcing their way into third-world nations and squeezing out the local farmers – the people who knew how to get the best yield from the land. Those enterprises were using Africa and other nations as laboratories to test untried methods and products, like synthetic fertilisers and genetically engineered seeds.
‘The vast majority of international agribusiness cares only about profit, not about relieving the suffering of the people. And this is simply not acceptable.’
Finally, having delivered her assault, Felicity smiled and singled out the donors, Hydt among them. He responded to the applause with a wave. He was smiling too, but his whisper to Bond told a different story: ‘If you want adulation, just give away money. The more desperate they are, the more they love you.’ He clearly didn’t want to be here.
Felicity stepped off the platform to circulate as the guests continued their silent bidding.
Bond said to Hydt, ‘I don’t know if you have plans but I was thinking we could go for some dinner. On me?’
‘I’m sorry, Theron, but I have to meet an associate who’s just arrived in town for that project I mentioned.’
Gehenna… Bond certainly wanted to meet whoever this man was. ‘I’d be happy to take everyone out, your associate too.’
‘Tonight’s no good, I’m afraid,’ Hydt said absently, pulling his iPhone out and scrolling through messages or missed calls. He glanced up and spotted Jessica standing by herself awkwardly in front of a table on which items were being offered for auction. When she looked at him he beckoned her over impatiently.
Bond tried to think of some other way to conjure an invitation but decided to back off before Hydt became suspicious. Seduction in tradecraft is like seduction in love; it works best if you make the object of your desire come to you. Nothing ruins your efforts faster than desperate pursuit.
‘Tomorrow then,’ Bond said, seemingly distracted and glancing at his own phone.
‘Yes – good.’ Hydt looked up. ‘Felicity!’
With a smile, the charity’s managing director detached herself from a fat, balding man in a dusty dinner jacket. He’d been gripping her hand for far longer than courtesy dictated. She joined Hydt, Jessica and Bond.
‘Severan. Jessica.’ They brushed cheeks.
‘And an associate, Gene Theron. He’s from Durban, in town for a few days.’
