Nkosi took a call. When he hung up he said, ‘I have a nice car for you, Commander. Subaru. All-wheel drive.’
A Subaru, thought Bond, sceptical. A suburban estate wagon. But Nkosi was beaming so he said graciously, ‘Thank you, Warrant Officer. I’ll look forward to driving it.’
‘The petrol mileage is very good,’ Nkosi said enthusiastically.
‘I’m sure it is.’ He started out of the door.
Gregory Lamb stopped him. ‘Bond,’ he said softly. ‘Sometimes I’m not sure the powers that be in London take me all that seriously. I was exaggerating a bit yesterday – about the Cape, I mean. Fact is, the worst that happens down here is a warlord coming in from Congo to take the waters. Or a Hamas chap in transit at the airport. Just want to thank you for including me, my friend. I-’
Bond interrupted, ‘You’re welcome, Lamb. But how’s this: let’s just assume I’m your friend. Then you won’t have to keep repeating it. How’s that?’
‘Fair enough, my… fair enough.’ A grin spread over the fat face.
Then Bond was out the door, thinking: next stop, hell.
45
James Bond enjoyed Kwalene Nkosi’s little joke.
Yes, the car he’d procured for the agent’s use was a small Japanese import. It wasn’t, however, a staid family saloon but a metallic blue Subaru Impreza WRX, the STI model, which boasted a turbocharged 305-horsepower engine, six gears and a high spoiler. The jaunty little vehicle would be far more at home on rally courses than in some Asda car park and, settling into the driver’s seat, Bond couldn’t restrain himself. He laid twin streaks of rubber as he sped up Buitenkant Street, heading for the motorway.
For the next half-hour he made his way north of Cape Town proper, guided by sat-nav, and finally skidded the taut little Subaru off the N7 and proceeded east along an increasingly deserted road, past a vast bottomless quarry and then into a grubby landscape of low hills, some green, some brown with autumn tint. Sporadic stands of trees broke the monotony.
The May sky was overcast and the air was humid but dust rose from the road, churned up by the Green Way lorries carting their refuse in the direction Bond was going. In addition to the typical dustcarts, there were much larger ones, painted with the Green Way name and distinctive green leaf – or dagger – logo. Signs on the sides indicated that they came from company operations throughout South Africa. Bond was surprised to see one lorry was from a branch in Pretoria, the administrative capital of the country, many miles away – why would Hydt go to the expense of bringing rubbish to Cape Town when he could open a recycling depot where it was needed?
Bond changed down and blew past a series of the lorries at speed. He was enjoying this sprightly vehicle very much. He’d have to tell Philly Maidenstone about it.
A large road sign, stark in black and white, flashed past.
He’d been off the N7 for several miles when the road divided, with the lorries going to the right. Bond steered down the left fork, with an arrowed sign:
Motoring fast through a dense grove of trees – they were tall but looked recently planted – he came to a rise and shot over it, ignoring the posted limit of forty k.p.h., and braked hard as Green Way International loomed. The rapid stop wasn’t because of obstruction or a sharp curve but the unnerving sight that greeted him.
An endless expanse of the waste facility filled his view and disappeared into a smoky, dusty haze in the distance. The orange fires of some burn-off operation could been seen from at least a mile away.
Hell indeed.
In front of him, beyond a crowded car park, was the headquarters building. It was eerie, too, in its own way. Though not large, the structure was stark and bleakly imposing. The unpainted concrete bunker, one storey high, had only a few windows, small ones – sealed, it seemed. The entire grounds were enclosed by two ten-foot metal fences, both topped with wicked razor wire, which glinted even in the muted light. The barriers were thirty feet apart, reminding Bond of a similar perimeter: the shoot-to-kill zone surrounding the North Korean prison from which he’d successfully rescued a local MI6 asset last year.
Bond scowled at the fences. One of his plans was ruined. He knew from what Felicity had told him that there’d be metal detectors and scanners and, most likely, an imposing security fence. But he’d assumed a single barrier. He’d planned to slip some of the equipment Hirani had provided – a weatherproof miniature communications device and weapon – through the fence into grass or bushes on the other side for him to retrieve once he had entered. That wasn’t going to work with two fences and a great distance between them.
As he drove forward again, he saw that the entrance was barred by a thick steel gate, on top of which was a sign.
R EDUCE, R EUSE, R ECYCLE
The Green Way anthem chilled Bond. Not the words themselves but the configuration: a crescent of stark black metal letters. It reminded him of the sign over the entrance to the Nazi death camp Auschwitz, the horrifically ironic assurance that work would set the prisoners free: Arbeit Macht Frei.
Bond parked. He climbed out, keeping his Walther and mobile with him so that he could find out how effective the security really was. He also had in his pocket the asthma inhaler Hirani had provided; he had hidden under the front seat the other items Lamb had delivered that morning: the weapon and com device.
He approached the first guardhouse at the outer fence. A large man in uniform greeted him with a reserved nod. Bond gave his cover name. The man made a call and a moment later an equally large, equally stern fellow in a dark business suit came up and said, ‘Mr Theron, this way, please.’
Bond followed him through the no man’s land between the two fences. They entered a room where three armed guards sat about, watching a football match. They stood up immediately.
The security man turned to Bond. ‘Now, Mr Theron, we have very strict rules here. Mr Hydt and his associates do most of the research and development work for his companies on these premises. We must guard our trade secrets carefully. We don’t allow any mobiles or radios of any kind in with you. No cameras or pagers either. You’ll have to hand them in.’
Bond was looking at a large rack, like the cubbyholes for keys behind the front desk in old-fashioned hotels. There were hundreds and most of them had phones in them. The guard noticed. ‘The rule applies to all our employees too.’
Bond recalled that Rene Mathis had told him the same thing about Hydt’s London operation – that there was virtually no SIGINT going into or coming out of the company. ‘Well, you have landlines I can use, I assume. I’ll have to check my messages.’
‘There are some, but all the lines go through a central switchboard in the security department. A guard could make the call for you but you wouldn’t have any privacy. Most visitors wait until after they leave. The same is true for email and Internet access. If you wish to keep anything metal on you, we’ll have to
