with a paperclip, let alone a mobile phone. You have to check everything at the door. Like in those old American westerns – you leave your guns outside when you go into the bar.’
‘He awarded that contract to somebody else. I do other jobs.’ This intelligence worried Bond; he’d intended to get into the Green Way building with far more than a paperclip and a mobile phone, despite Bheka Jordaan’s disdain for illegal surveillance. He’d have to consider the implications.
The meal wound down and they finished the wine. They were the last patrons in the restaurant. Bond called for the bill and settled it. ‘The second of my donations,’ he said.
They returned to the entrance, where he collected her black cashmere coat and draped it over her shoulders. They started down the pavement, the narrow heels of her shoes tapping on the concrete. Again she surveyed the streets. Then, relaxing, she took his arm and held it tightly. He was keenly aware of her perfume and of the occasional pressure of her breast against his arm.
They approached his hotel, Bond fishing the van key from his pocket. Felicity slowed. The night sky was clear above them, encrusted with a plenitude of stars.
‘A very nice evening,’ Felicity said. ‘And thank you for your help in delivering the leftovers. You’re even fitter than I thought.’
Bond found himself asking, ‘Another glass of wine?’
The green eyes were looking up and into his own. ‘Would
‘Yes,’ he said firmly.
In ten minutes they were in his room in the Table Mountain Hotel sitting on the sofa, which they had turned and slid close to the window. Glasses of a Stellenbosch pinotage were in their hands.
They looked out over the flickering lights in the bay, muted yellow and white, like benign insects hovering in anticipation.
Felicity turned to him, perhaps to say something, perhaps not, and he bent forward and pressed his lips gently to hers. Then he eased back a little, gauging her reaction, and moved forward and kissed her again, harder, losing himself in the contact, the taste, the heat. Her breath on his cheek, Felicity’s arms snaked around his shoulders as her mouth held his. Then she kissed his neck and teasingly bit the base where it met his firm shoulder. Her tongue slid along a scar that arced down to his upper arm.
Bond’s fingers slipped up her neck into her hair and pulled her closer. He was lost in the pungent musk of her perfume.
A parallel to this moment is skiing: when you pause on the ridge atop a beautiful but perilous downhill run. You have a choice to go or not. You can always snap free the bindings and walk down the mountain. But in fact, for Bond, there never was such a choice; once on the edge, it was impossible not to give in to the seduction of gravity and speed. The only true choice left is how to control the accelerating descent.
The same now, here.
Bond whisked her dress off, the insubstantial blue cloth spilling leisurely to the floor. Felicity then eased back, pulling him with her, until they were lying on the couch, she beneath him. She began tugging at his lower lip with her teeth. He cupped her neck again and pulled her face to his, while her hands rested on the small of his back, kneading hard. Felicity shuddered and inhaled sharply and he understood that, for whatever reason, she liked touching him there. He knew too that she wanted his hands to curl firmly behind her waist. Such is the way lovers communicate, and he would remember that place, the delicate bones of her spine.
For his part, Bond found rapture throughout her body, all its aspects: her hungry lips, her strong, flawless thighs, breasts encased in taut black silk, her delicate neck and throat, from which a whispered moan issued, the dense hair framing her face, the softer strands elsewhere.
They kissed endlessly and then she broke away and locked onto his fierce eyes with her own, whose lids, dusted with faint green luminescence, halfway lowered. Mutual surrender, mutual victory.
Bond lifted her easily. Their lips met once more, briefly, and he carried her to the bed.
Thursday – DISAPPEARANCE ROW
44
He awoke with a start from a nightmare he could not remember. Curiously James Bond’s first thought was of Philly Maidenstone. He felt – absurdly – that he’d been unfaithful, yet his most intimate contact with her had been a brief brush of cheeks that had lasted half a second.
He rolled over. The other side of the bed was empty. He looked at the clock. It was half past seven. He could smell Felicity’s perfume on the sheets and pillows.
The previous evening had begun as an exercise in learning about his enemy and his enemy’s purpose but had become something more. He had felt a strong empathy with Felicity Willing, a tough woman who’d conquered the City and was now turning her resources to a nobler battle. He reflected that, in their own ways, they were both knights errant.
And he wanted to see her again.
But first things first. He got out of bed and pulled on a towelling dressing-gown. He hesitated for a moment then told himself: has to be done.
He went to his laptop in the suite’s living area. The device had been modified by Q Branch to incorporate a motion-activated, low-light camera. Bond booted up the machine and looked over the replay. It had been pointed only at the front door and the chair, where Bond had tossed his jacket and trousers, containing his wallet, passport and mobile. At around five thirty a.m., according to the time stamp, Felicity, dressed, had walked past his clothing, showing no interest in his phone, pockets or the laptop. She paused and looked back towards the bed. With a smile? He believed so but couldn’t be sure. She put something on the table by the door and let herself out.
He stood up and strode to the table. Her business card lay next to a lamp. She had penned a mobile number underneath her organisation’s main phone line. He slipped the card into his wallet.
He cleaned his teeth, showered and shaved, then dressed in blue jeans and a loose black Lacoste shirt, chosen to conceal his Walther. Laughing to himself, he donned the gaudy bracelet and watch and slipped on his finger the initial ring,
Checking his texts and emails, he found one from Percy Osborne-Smith. The man was staying true to his reformed ways and gave a succinct update on the investigation in Britain, though little headway had been made. He concluded:
Our friends in Whitehall are positively obsessed with Afghanistan. I say, all the better for us, James. Looking forward to sharing a George Cross with you, when we see Hydt in shackles.
While he had breakfast in his room, he considered his impending trip to Hydt’s Green Way plant, thinking back to last night, to all he’d seen and heard, especially about the super-tight security. When he finished, he called Q Branch and got through to Sanu Hirani. He could hear children’s voices in the background and supposed he had been patched through to the branch director’s mobile at home. Hirani had six children. They all played cricket, and his eldest daughter was a star batswoman.
Bond told him of his communications and weapons needs. Hirani had some ideas but was uncertain that he could come up quickly with a solution. ‘What’s your time frame, James?’
‘Two hours.’
There followed a thoughtful exhalation from down the line seven thousand miles away. Then: ‘I’ll need a cut-out in Cape Town. Somebody with knowledge of the area and top clearance. Oh, and a solid NOC. Do you know anybody who fits the bill?’
