Bond swiftly made his dressing then his filet mignon – à point – arrived with a bowl of salad. He had ordered filet mignon because he didn’t want a steak that overlapped his plate. It was nicely chargrilled on the outside, pink but not blue on the inside. Bond dressed the salad, seasoned his steak and took his first mouthful of claret. As he ate and drank he allowed himself to enjoy the fantasy that life was good and the world was on its proper course – this being the purpose of eating and drinking well, surely? He ended his meal with half of an avocado into which he poured what remained of his dressing. He drank a calvados, smoked a cigarette and called for the check. His culinary hunger assuaged, a new one replaced it. He was hungry for Blessing, for her slim active body. Hungry for her to give him more precise instructions about what she wanted him to do to her.
Bond sauntered into the lobby of the Blackstone Park, said hello to Delmont, who was working that night, and went up to his room. He waited until ten o’clock and strolled back down to the lobby, exiting through the rear doors into the parking lot. The lights in Blessing’s suite were on. He felt a hot pulse of anticipation at seeing her.
He knocked on her door. There was no answer. He knocked again and said ‘Blessing – it’s James.’ Still no answer. He repeated himself more loudly. Nothing. He went back to the night porter at the rear entrance and called her room. The telephone rang and rang – no reply. Odd. The night porter had just come on duty and couldn’t enlighten him. Maybe Blessing had come in and had to leave in a hurry, forgetting to switch the lights out . . .
Bond went through to the main lobby and sought out Delmont.
‘Hey, Mr Fitzjohn, what can I do for you?’
Bond drew him discreetly aside and lowered his voice.
‘Delmont, would you do me a favour? Has my wife come back? You know – the lady in suite 5K in the annexe . . .’
‘Give me two seconds.’
Delmont scurried off to reception and swiftly returned.
‘She’s in her room, Mr F,’ he said. ‘Arrived about an hour and a half ago. She hasn’t left or her key would be there.’
‘Of course – thanks, Delmont.’ Bond smiled reassuringly but he was worried. He walked casually back to the rear entrance and up the stairs to the second-floor suites. He glanced around but the corridor was empty. He unscrewed the heel from his loafer and worked the blade in between the lock and the door frame. He lunged at it with his shoulder and it gave. Bond pushed the door open.
The lights were on. Blessing’s handbag was tossed on the sofa. Thus far, so unremarkable. Had she taken a sleeping pill and was fast asleep in her bedroom?
‘Blessing? It’s me . . .’ Bond said, then repeated himself, louder.
Silence.
Maybe his initial assumption was right – she’d rushed out, called away, urgently. But why leave her handbag . . . ?
Bond felt a premonitory nausea – something was making him reluctant to go into the bedroom. He took a few steps then halted.
A thin dark sticky crescent of blood had seeped under the door to the bedroom.
Bond reached for the handle, turned it and tried to push the door open. It was unusually heavy. Bond gave an unconscious, spontaneous moan because he knew what had happened to Blessing and he knew who had done it.
He stood there in an awful balance of inertia, unable to decide whether to turn away and leave or to confront his darkest suspicions. He felt sick at heart – he knew what he had to do.
He leaned his weight against the door and shoved and pushed it open.
One glance was enough. Blessing was dead – naked, hanging by her jawbone from the hook on the back of the door, blood still dripping from her opened throat.
Bond heaved the door to and sank to his knees.
Kobus Breed.
Bond felt the tears smart in his eyes as he hung his head and thought desperately about Blessing and what she must have endured, a conflagration of outrage making him tremble, igniting his seething anger. Then he stood up, his head clearing. He inhaled deeply – the shock was draining from him to be replaced by a new granite-hard resolve. There was nothing so invigorating as clear and absolute purpose. There was only one objective now. James Bond would kill Kobus Breed.
10
ONE-MAN COMMANDO
Bond called Brig Leiter from the Fairview. It was after midnight.
‘Red alert, Brig,’ Bond said, his voice heavy. ‘Bad news – your agent has been erased. I’m very sorry.’
‘What? Jesus, no. Aleesha? Where is she? In her house?’
‘No, in a motel. It’s very nasty. Blackstone Park Motor Lodge, suite 5K.’
Silence. Bond could almost hear Brig’s brain working.
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw her.’
‘What was she doing in a motel? And how come you were in her room?’
‘She moved. I think she felt safer in a motel.’
‘Who killed her?’
‘Kobus Breed.’
‘My God . . .’ there was another pause, then, ‘You didn’t answer my second question, Mr Bond.’
‘I went to her room to ask her something.’
‘How did you know she was staying there?’
‘I followed her.’
‘OK . . . Felix is coming up tonight from Miami.’
‘I’m going to miss him,’ Bond said. ‘I go back to London tonight.’ Now Bond paused to let the lie sink in.
‘Brig, I don’t know what procedures you follow in these circumstances,’ Bond said, ‘but I think you should get a team round to that motel now and seal the room. I put a “Do not disturb” sign on the door. Lock it down. I wouldn’t call the police for twenty-four hours, also. Wait till Felix gets here. He can coordinate with them. You don’t want Breed to make a run for it.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ Brig said. ‘What time’s your plane?’
‘Nine o’clock this evening.’ Let them think for as long as possible that he was going home, he reasoned. They had more important tasks on their hands than worrying about James Bond.
They said goodbye and Bond hung up. He undressed and stood under the pounding shower as if the water would wash away all his bad feelings, his memories of Blessing and her miserable death. Then he tried to sleep but his mind grew busy with the plan that he was forming. He needed to equip himself better if he was going to attack the Rowanoak estate single-handed. He turned his pillow over and rested his cheek on the cooler underside. Why had Breed killed Blessing? There could only be one answer. Breed had followed her to the motel and had seen Blessing with him – Blessing back in contact with James Bond . . . That would have been enough to confer a death sentence on her. Bond recalled that sixth-sense shiver he’d experienced in the parking lot when he left her suite in the annexe – had Kobus Breed been out there watching in the darkness? And Bond knew that the manner of Blessing’s death had been a warning directed at him. Breed knew that he could read the signs; Breed was saying to him, I know you’re out there – you’re next, Bond.
He thought on. Breed hadn’t done anything immediately because he wanted to wait until after the flight had arrived and was happy to let Blessing continue with her AfricaKIN duties. So: there must have been something on that flight that came in to Seminole Field that was especially important. Twelve sick children? There had to be something more.
Bond ordered breakfast in his room but only smoked a cigarette and drank a cup of coffee, leaving his eggs untouched. He wasn’t hungry. As he left the Fairview he saw Agent Massinette approaching. Bond greeted him amiably enough but Massinette’s face remained impassive.
‘Brig told me to tell you – we’re all locked down at the Blackstone Park. The room’s sealed.’
‘Good. It should buy you some time.’
‘May I ask where you’re going, Mr Bond?’
‘I’m going to do some shopping – some gifts for friends in London.’
‘Yeah? Have a nice day.’
That evening, Bond laid out e
verything he needed on the bed. Weapons: the Frankel and Kleist, fully loaded and with spare rounds of ammunition; his Beretta with two extra clips; the mugger’s switchblade with its diamond inlay; a small aerosol canister of OC – oleoresin capsicum pepper spray (concentrate of chilli pepper with the brand name Savage Heat) – and, finally, a sock filled with $10-worth of nickels and dimes, knotted tight to form a cosh. As for his clothing, Bond had bought a black leather blouson jacket with big patch pockets, a black polo-neck jersey, a black knitted three-hole balaclava and a length of nylon rope. He was going to wear his dark charcoal trousers from his suit tucked into his socks with a pair of black sneakers with thick rubber soles.
He smiled grimly to himself. A one-man commando on a one-man commando raid.
He had a final telephone call to make then he would check out of the hotel and head for the airport. He sat down on his bed and took out Turnbull McHarg’s business card.
It was dark when Bond drove his Mustang up to the Fairview’s entry-way and the bellhop placed his luggage in the boot. Bond tipped him and glanced around to see if anyone was paying particular attention to his departure. No sign of Massinette but, Bond reasoned, if he were Brig Leiter running this show he’d have a tail on Bond. Routine. Insurance.
Bond drove out to Dulles airport. He couldn’t tell if he was being followed. There was a lot of traffic heading out of town. Not far from the airport he pulled into a gas station and filled the tank, watching to see if cars stopped or slowed. He spotted nothing so climbed back into his car and swung out on to the highway back into town, steadily increasing his speed. At the last minute he turned off at an intersection, changed direction and headed back to the airport again. He began to relax. He sped past the turn for Dulles and veered off into the quiet streets of Ashburn and drove around for ten minutes or so, stopping and starting, doubling back suddenly and unpredictably. No one was following him; he could safely choose his own route back out to Rowanoak Hall.
Bond parked the car down a track not far from the house and changed into his dark clothes. He looked at his watch; ten past eleven. By now Brig and Felix Leiter would know full well that he wasn’t on the plane for London. Bond had vanished – one rogue male agent gone solo yet again. It was a calculated risk, this solitary assault on the AfricaKIN Inc. headquarters, and he asked himself if Felix might second-guess what he was planning. He doubted it. Only a fool would attempt such a thing. He wondered if they would try to capture Breed – but again he thought they would hold off. Blessing had said that she thought Hulbert Linck was the key target; the CIA wouldn’t want to do anything that would scare him away. All in all, Bond reckoned he had this one night to himself. Whatever happened, there would be no second chance for him – his vengeance had to take place in the next few hours before the CIA tracked him down and pulled him in.
He wound the nylon rope around his body and assembled the Frankel and Kleist. Then he filled the pockets of his jacket with his assorted weaponry. He hoped there weren’t dogs – he had seen no sign of them – but he had his OC spray just in case. He had once halted a snarling, slavering Dobermann with a blast of pepper spray – it was infallible.
He drove to the furthest point of the Rowanoak estate and parked the Mustang against the brick perimeter wall. He climbed on to the car roof and shinned over the wall, carefully dropping the rifle (safety catch secured) on to the grass on the other side before he lowered himself down. He pulled on his balaclava and moved off through the wooded park towards the distant lights of the house.
As he drew near the Hall he saw a man standing on the back lawn of the house smoking a cigarette. He appeared to have a walkie-talkie in his hand as he paced about, keeping notional guard. The back lawn was illuminated by a powerful arc light high on the fake battlements. The front sweep of gravel was equally brightly lit – no one could approach the house without stepping into this wide glaring disc of light.
Bond moved easily through the trees and bushes of the park so that he could afford himself a good view of the main facade. Here two big lamps threw a pool of light that extended down the drive to the gatehouses. Bond found his ideal position behind a small sycamore and set the Frankel on a low branch to give him a steady firing platform. Bond clicked the switch on the scope to set it to its night-vision mode. Eugene Goodforth had been right – the dimmed red glow of the reticle did not interfere with the vision beyond. Bond’s eye settled to the lens of the sniper-scope and he cleared his aim and waited. Five minutes to midnight. He hoped his diversion would be punctual.
In fact it was ten minutes late, but no matter. At ten past midnight Bond saw the headlights of Turnbull McHarg’s car pull up at the lodge gates and heard him toot his horn loudly and peremptorily, as Bond had instructed him. When Bond had telephoned him earlier he’d invited Turnbull to a ‘surprise’ birthday party that wealthy friends were throwing for him at a big mansion house out of town, Rowanoak Hall. He’d given Turnbull precise directions and instructions. Should be fun. Lots of caviar and champagne. And girls. McHarg had been delighted. I’ll be there, James. Look forward to seeing you – lots to catch up on. Thanks a million.
Bond knew they’d never let McHarg past the gates but that was all he wanted. A disturbance – something wrong – and his name pointedly mentioned. He could hear McHarg’s voice raised, loudly remonstrating with the intransigent lodge-keeper, demanding entry to the party, insisting he’d been specially invited by the birthday boy himself, James Bond.
Bond drew the Frankel snug against his cheek and settled the cross hairs of the reticle on the first arc light. The sound of the big bulb popping almost drowned the gunshot. He shifted aim and took the second light out. In the sudden darkness Bond heard McHarg’s profane exclamation of shock and astonishment, then he raced off into the darkness towards the rear of the house.
Secure in a position facing the back of the house, he quickly shot out the rear arc. Only the lights of the house now glowed and he could hear the consternation inside – shouts, doors slamming. Bond slipped the scope off the mountings on the barrel of the Frankel and slid the rifle under a bush – its job was done. He retreated into the darkness of the park, taking the Beretta out of his pocket and cocking it. As he left he saw three men race out of the rear door, guns and powerful torches in hand, running across the lawn, spreading out until they were swallowed up by the wilderness of the park, only the intermittent beams of their torches giving their positions away. Bond tracked them as best he could with the scope. Three guards, Bond thought, and no dogs – thank God. He stood with his back to a tree scanning the pulsing night around him, waiting for a guard to come close – once he had one, he’d have the others. Always wait for them to come to you, he told himself, don’t go searching for your prey. He slowed his breathing as much as he could, standing absolutely still, gun poised, waiting.
It was the crackle of a walkie-talkie that alerted him, rather than a torch beam. Then he saw the torch, playing among the trees. He heard the man’s voice.
‘Dawie – can’t see a thing, man. You sure he’s in the park? Over.’
There was the inaudible static of a reply.
Dawie, Bond thought: interesting. Some of Kobus’s RLI buddies from Dahum.
The man drew closer but he never heard Bond, who, as he passed, brought down the heel of his Beretta on the back of his head. He dropped at once, inert. Bond quickly lashed his hands behind his back and then tied his wrists to his ankles, using the switchblade to cut lengths of nylon rope. He ripped up a clod of earth and stuffed the man’s gaping mouth with turf. Then he fired his gun once into the air. He picked up the walkie-talkie, shouted ‘Dawie!’ fired again and switched it off.
Bond could hear somebody blundering through the bushes then saw a swaying torch beam sweeping through the trees. The man – it must have been Dawie – was shouting harshly into his walkie-talkie trying to summon the third guard to join them.
‘Henrick – over here, man,’ he shouted. ‘We’re by the west gate.’
Bond aimed slightly above the torch beam and fired twice. He heard a scream and saw the torch spin to the ground. Dawie started bellowing.
‘I’m down! I’m down! He’s over here!’
Bond crept forward as Dawie continued his shouted instructions, guiding Henrick towards him. Then he saw Henrick’s jerky torch beam as he ran through the trees.
Bond took his time, making sure he advanced in total silence. Dawie was moaning in pain and Henrick was crouched over his writhing body, looking for the wound. Bond took his nickel-and-dime cosh out of his pocket and slugged Henrick full on the crown of his head. He went down like a cow hit by a humane killer. He was so still Bond wondered if he’d delivered some kind of fatal blow. He held his fingers to his throat. There was a pulse – a thready one.
‘I’m dying. Help me,’ Dawie said. Bond turned Dawie’s fallen torch on him and saw that he’d been hit low and to the side of his abdomen – not fatal, though he was already pallid from blood loss. Bond said nothing, grabbing his collar and dragging him – groaning – to a tree, where he bound his arms behind it. He checked Henrick again – still breathing but out cold. He roped his wrists together and turned him on his side so that he wouldn’t drown if he vomited. He fired both their guns into the air a few times then slung them away into the darkness. He wanted whoever was still in the house to think the guards were engaged in a firefight in the furthest reaches of the park. When it all went quiet they would begin to worry – maybe panic: they had no idea how many potential assailants were out there.
He took one last look at Dawie and picked up his walkie-talkie.
‘I got him!’ Bond yelled into the microphone. Then switched it off.