Bond lifted an eyebrow.
‘A Zulu-language sitcom from some years ago.’
It was warm under the terrace’s heater and Jordaan slipped off her navy-blue jacket. Her red shirt had short sleeves and he could see that she had not used make-up on her arm. The scar inflicted by her former co-workers was quite prominent. He wondered why she was not concealing it tonight.
Jordaan regarded him carefully. ‘I was surprised you accepted my invitation to dinner. I am paying, by the way.’
‘That’s not necessary.’
Frowning, she said, ‘I didn’t assume it was.’
Bond said, ‘Thank you, then.’
‘I wasn’t sure I’d ask you. I actually debated for some time. I’m not a person who debates much. I usually decide rather quickly, as I think I’ve told you.’ She paused and looked away. ‘I’m sorry your date in the wine country didn’t work out.’
‘Well, all things considered, I’d rather be here with you than in Franschhoek.’
‘I should think so. I’m a difficult woman but not a mass murderer.’ She added ominously, ‘But you should not flirt with me… Ah, don’t deny it! I remember very well your look in the airport the day you arrived.’
‘I flirt a lot less than you think I do. Psychologists have a term for that. It’s called projecting. You project your feelings on to me.’
‘That remark in itself is flirtatious!’
Bond laughed and gestured the sommelier forward. He displayed the bottle of the South African sparkling wine Bond had ordered to be brought when his companion arrived. The man opened it.
Bond tasted it and nodded approval. Then he said to Jordaan, ‘You’ll like this. A Graham Beck Cuvee Clive. Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. The 2003 vintage. It’s from Robertson, the Western Cape.’
Jordaan gave one of her rare laughs. ‘Here I’ve been lecturing you about South Africa, but it seems you know a few things yourself.’
‘This wine’s as good as anything you’ll get in Reims.’
‘Where is that?’
‘France – where champagne is made. East of Paris. A beautiful place. You’d enjoy it.’
‘I’m sure it’s lovely but apparently there’s no need to go there if our wine is as good as theirs.’
Her logic was unassailable. They tilted their glasses towards each other. ‘
‘
They sipped and sat for some moments in silence. He was surprisingly comfortable in the company of this ‘difficult woman’.
She set her glass down. ‘May I ask?’
‘Please,’ Bond responded.
‘When Gregory Lamb and I were in the caravan at the Sixth Apostle, recording your conversation with Felicity Willing, you said to her that you’d hoped it might work out between you two. Was that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’m sorry. I’ve had some bad luck too when it comes to relationships. I know what it’s like when the heart turns against you. But we’re resilient creatures.’
‘We are indeed. Against all odds.’
Her eyes slipped away and she stared at the harbour for a time.
Bond said, ‘It was my bullet that killed him, you know – Niall Dunne, I mean.’
Startled, she began, ‘How did you know I was…?’ Her voice faded.
‘Was that the first time you’d shot someone?’
‘Yes, it was. But how can you be sure it was your bullet?’
‘I’d decided at that range to make my target vector a head shot. Dunne had one wound in his forehead and one in the torso. The head shot was mine. It was fatal. The lower wound, yours, was superficial.’
‘You’re sure it was your shot in his head?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘In that shooting scenario I wouldn’t’ve missed,’ Bond said simply.
Jordaan was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘I suppose I’ll have to believe you. Anyone who uses the phrases “target vector” and “shooting scenario” surely would know where his bullets went.’
Earlier, Bond thought, she might have said this with derision – a reference to his violent nature and flagrant disregard for the rule of law – but now she was simply making an observation.
They sat back and chatted for a time, about her family and his life in London, his travels.
Night was cloaking the city now, a kind autumn evening of the sort that graces this part of the southern hemisphere, and the vista sparkled with fixed lights on land and floating lights on vessels. Stars, too, except in the black voids nearby – where the king and prince of Cape Town’s rock formations blocked out the sky: Table Mountain and Lion’s Head.
The plaintive baritone call of a horn reached up to them from the harbour.
Bond wondered if its source was one of the ships delivering food.
Or perhaps it was from a tour boat bringing people back from the prison museum on nearby Robben Island where people like Nelson Mandela, Kgalema Motlanthe and Jacob Zuma – all of whom had become presidents of South Africa – had been locked away for so many hard years during apartheid.
Or maybe the horn was from a cruise ship preparing to depart for other ports of call, summoning tired passengers, carrying bags of clingfilm-wrapped biltong, pinotage wine and ANC black, green and yellow tea towels, along with their tourist impressions of this complicated country.
Bond gestured to the waiter, who proffered menus. As the policewoman took one, her wounded arm brushed his elbow briefly. And they shared a smile, which was slightly less brief.
Yet despite the personal truth-and-reconciliation occurring between them at the moment, Bond knew that, when dinner concluded, he would put her into a taxi to take her to Bo-Kaap, and return to his room to pack for his flight to London tomorrow morning.
He knew this, as Kwalene Nkosi would say, without doubt.
Oh, the idea of a woman who was perfectly attuned to him, with whom he could share all secrets – could share his life – appealed to James Bond and had proved comforting and sustaining in the past. But in the end, he now realised, such a woman, indeed
And, if he correctly recalled the poem Philly Maidenstone had so elegantly quoted, travelling fast meant travelling forever alone.
GLOSSARY
AIVD: Algemene Inlichtingen- en Veiligheidsdienst. The Netherlands security service, focusing on intelligence gathering and combating internal, non-military threats.
