Solo

  6

  SYRIAN BURGUNDY-TYPE

  Bond had ordered malfouf – stuffed cabbage rolls – followed by shish tawook – a simple chicken kebab with salty pickles. The food was good. Bond had spent three weeks on a tedious job in Beirut in 1960 and in his endless spare time had developed a taste for Lebanese cuisine. The wine list, however, was a joke, given that he had drunk excellent Lebanese wines in Beirut – all that was on offer here was Blue Nun Riesling and a red described as ‘Syrian Burgundy-type’ – so Bond played safe and ordered the local beer, Green Star. It was something of a first for him to drink beer with dinner, but the lager was light and very cold and complemented the strong flavours of the garlic and the pickles. Blessing had a cold lentil soup and a dried-mint omelette.

  ‘You’re not a vegetarian, are you?’ Bond asked, suspiciously.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Just not very hungry. Would it matter if I was?’

  ‘It might,’ Bond said, with a smile. ‘I’ve never met a vegetarian I liked, curiously. You might have been the exception, of course.’

  ‘Ha-ha,’ she remarked, drily. ‘By their food shall ye judge them.’

  ‘You’d be surprised, it’s not a bad touchstone,’ Bond said, and called for another Green Star. ‘Or so I’ve found in my experience.’

  Since he had left her office she had had her hair redone. The plaited rows had gone and it was now oiled flat back against her head almost as if it was painted on. She had a shiny transparent gloss on her lips and was wearing a black silk Nehru jacket over wide flared white cotton trousers, and had some sort of crudely beaten pewter disc hanging round her neck on a leather thong. She looked very futuristic, Bond thought, with her perfect caramel skin, the colour of milky coffee, as if she were an extra from a science-fiction film.

  The restaurant was in downtown Sinsikrou, near to the law courts and the barracks. It had a deliberately modest facade with a flickering neon sign that bluntly read ‘El Kebab – Best Lebanon’, but the first-floor dining room was air-conditioned and there were white linen cloths on the tables and waiters in velvet waistcoats and tasselled tarbooshes. Bond had spotted several high-ranking soldiers and also some of the journalists who’d been at the briefing earlier that day. El Kebab was obviously the only place in town.

  They chatted idly as they ate, keeping off the subject of their business with each other – the tables were close and it would be easy to overhear or eavesdrop. Blessing told him more about the civil war and its origins from her perspective. Being half-Lowele, she explained, she thought that the Fakassa junta that had provoked and engineered secession were crazy. What did they think the rest of the country was going to do? Sit on their collective hands? Allow themselves to become impoverished? At least the British government had acted quickly, she said. If they hadn’t come down on the side of Zanzarim immediately and refused point-blank to recognise the new republic, perhaps Dahum’s de facto existence might have become a foregone conclusion. Alacrity was not normally a virtue of Her Majesty’s governments, Bond thought – there would be more at stake here than preserving the rule of international law.

  ‘Do you want a pudding?’ Bond asked, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘I’d rather have a proper drink somewhere,’ she said.

  ‘Excellent idea, Ogilvy-Grant. Let’s go back to the Excelsior.’

  Blessing drove them to the hotel, Bond looking out of the window at the garish cinema of the night-time city that was Sinsikrou. Blaring high-life music seemed to come from almost every house, and multicoloured neon tubes appeared to be the illumination of choice. Dogs, goats and hens searched the storm drains for titbits; naked children stood in doorways staring at the passing cars, entranced; off-duty soldiers swaggered through the roadside crowds, Kalashnikovs and SLR rifles slung over their shoulders. And every time they stopped at a traffic light or when the gridlock of cars slowed them to walking pace, street-hawkers would appear at their windows trying to sell them combs and biros, dusters and cheap watches.

  The bar at the Excelsior was surprisingly busy.

  ‘It’s a very popular place,’ Blessing said, spotting an unoccupied table at the back of the room. ‘Especially since the war began.’ They sat down and Bond ordered himself a large whisky and soda and a gin and tonic for Blessing.

  The air conditioning was on and working and the chill was welcome after the humid, loud night outside. Not that it was any quieter in here, Bond thought, looking round the room. A lot of white men, some in assorted uniforms, not many Zanzaris.

  ‘Who are they?’ Bond asked Blessing, indicating the men in uniform.

  ‘The pilots – they fly the MiGs. East Germans, Poles, a few Egyptians. They’re on a thousand dollars a day – cash. Very popular with the ladies.’

  Bond had noticed the prostitutes. They sat at the bar or sauntered suggestively among the crowded tables. Beautiful black women with bouffant wigs – modelled on American pop stars, Bond thought, as one of them caught his eye and beckoned him over with a flap of her glossy taloned fingers.

  The chatter of conversation was loud and already raucous – everyone drinking heavily. The air smelt of booze, sweat and cheap perfume – redolent of sex and danger. There was a kind of frontier recklessness about the atmosphere, Bond thought, and recognised its allure. These pilots had been out dropping bombs and napalm on Dahum. The temptations offered in the bar at the Excelsior would be hard to resist.

  He looked at the men. Ex-Eastern bloc air-force pilots, all on the older side – retired, superannuated, cashiered – earning good money as mercenaries fighting in a nasty little African war . . . $1,000 a day – after three months you could quit, take a couple of years off, build a house back home, buy a smart foreign car.

  He ordered another round of drinks from a touring waiter, leaned closer to Blessing and lowered his voice.

  ‘I reckon we can safely talk in this din,’ he said. ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘I did a quick recce last week when I knew you were coming,’ she said. ‘The only way into Dahum is by road, or, rather, by road and water. The main highway’s impossible – jammed with non-stop military traffic.’ She sipped at her drink. ‘I think you have to be driven as far south into the delta as possible. Then a local fisherman – I’ve made contact with one man – will take you through the swamps and the creeks by boat.’

  ‘Is that realistic?’ Bond wondered.

  ‘There’s no front line as such,’ she said. ‘And there’s constant smuggling of food and supplies into the heartland. It’s a labyrinth, a huge network of waterways and streams and creeks. That’s one reason why the war’s gone on so long.’

  ‘Who’ll drive me south? Christmas?’

  She looked at him and smiled. ‘I thought I would,’ she said. ‘I speak Lowele. You’d need a translator, anyway. It’ll all look very plausible if we’re stopped and questioned.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Bond said, feeling oddly relieved. ‘How long will it take to reach the delta?’

  ‘We’ll have to travel on back roads – meander south. I reckon two or three days’ driving. Two nights.’

  Bond turned the ice cubes in his whisky with a finger, enjoying the sensation of being in Blessing’s capable hands as she outlined the plan further. They would stay in local rest-houses, then contact would be made with the fisherman, who would be well paid on Bond’s safe delivery into Dahum. Blessing would head back to Sinsikrou and wait until she heard from him.

  ‘Or not,’ Bond said. ‘I may not come back this way.’

  ‘Of course. As operational necessities dictate.’

  ‘When should we head off?’

  ‘Whenever you want,’ she said. ‘It’s your decision.’

  ‘Let’s not wait around,’ Bond said. ‘How about tomorrow?’

  ‘No problem. I’ll have everything ready first thing in the morning. Come over to the office and we’ll hit the road. One thing,’ she added. ‘I would travel light. Just one small bag or a rucksack or something. You may hav
e to hike a bit once you get into Dahum.’

  Bond had been thinking about that, feeling the heart-thump of excitement that gripped him whenever a mission was imminent and all the cosy securities of everyday life were about to be cast aside. He took out his cigarette case – empty. Blessing saw this and reached into her handbag for her pack of Tuskers.

  ‘You’ll have to go local,’ she said, offering the pack. Bond took a cigarette.

  ‘You’re Bond, aren’t you?’ a slurred male English voice said.

  Bond turned. A drunk white man swayed there gently. He was wearing a crumpled pale blue drill suit with darker blue sweat patches forming at the armpits. His jowly face was flushed and sweating. Bond recognised him from the press briefing at the barracks: a fellow journalist – one who’d asked a question.

  ‘That’s right,’ Bond said, flatly. He wanted this encounter to end. Now.

  ‘Geoffrey Letham, Daily Mail,’ the man said. ‘You’re with APL, aren’t you? Saw you were a new boy today so I checked the accreditation list.’ He leaned forward and Bond smelled the sour reek of beer. ‘D’you know old Thierry? Thierry Duhamel?’

  ‘I’m working out of London,’ Bond said, improvising. ‘Not Paris.’

  ‘No, Thierry’s in Geneva. Head office. Everybody at APL knows Thierry. He’s a bloody legend.’

  ‘I’ve only just started. I’ve been in Australia the last couple of years. Reuters,’ he added, hoping this would shut the man up. Blessing leaned forward with her lighter and clicked it on, as if to signal that the conversation was over. Bond turned away from Letham and bent his head to light his cigarette. He sat back and exhaled. But Letham was still there, staring at Blessing as though in a trance of lust.

  ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ he said, with a caricature leer, and then turned to Bond. ‘Pretty little thing. After you with her, old chap.’

  Bond saw the offence register on Blessing’s face and felt a hot surge of anger flow through him.

  ‘Send her round to room 203 when you’re done with her,’ Letham said, out of the side of his mouth. ‘They can go all night, these Zanzari bints.’

  Before Blessing could say anything Bond stood up.

  ‘Actually, could I have a discreet word, outside?’ Bond said, laying his cigarette in the ashtray and, taking Letham’s arm by the elbow, steered him firmly through the crowded bar. ‘Man to man, you know,’ Bond said, confidentially, in his ear.

  ‘Got you, old fellow,’ Letham said. ‘Forewarned is forearmed in the young-lady department.’

  They stepped out of a side door into the warm darkness of the night, loud with crickets. Bond looked around and saw the back entrance to the bar – dustbins and stacked empty crates – and led Letham towards them.

  ‘She’s not expensive, is she?’ Letham said. ‘I refuse to pay these Zanzari hookers more than ten US.’

  Bond turned and punched Letham as hard as he could in the stomach. He went down with a thump on his arse, mouth open like a landed fish, gaping. Then he vomited copiously into his lap and fell back against the wall making breathy whimpering noises.

  ‘Mind your manners,’ Bond said, though Letham wasn’t listening. ‘Don’t speak to respectable young women like that again.’

  Bond strode round to the front of the hotel and into the lobby, where he found a porter.

  ‘There’s a drunk Englishman been sick – at the back behind the bar,’ Bond said, indicating. ‘I think you should chuck a couple of buckets of water over him.’ He slipped a note into the porter’s hand.

  The porter smiled, eagerly. ‘We shall do it, sar,’ he said and hurried off.

  Bond returned to the noisy bar and joined Blessing at their table, ordering another whisky on the way.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘He won’t bother us further – he’s not feeling very well.’

  ‘My knight in shining armour,’ Blessing said. ‘Did you administer retribution?’

  ‘Powerful retribution,’ Bond said, draining his whisky. ‘I despise those types – pond life. They need to be taught a sharp lesson from time to time. Shall we go? Busy day tomorrow.’

  Bond silently walked Blessing to her car. He felt the tremors of adrenalin slowly leave him and smiled, imagining Letham being gleefully doused by buckets of water. A cooler breeze had got up and a fat yellow moon had risen above the poolside apartment blocks.

  Bond gestured at the moon, wanting to break the silence between them.

  ‘Doesn’t quite seem the same,’ he said, ‘now that we’ve been up there. Lost something of its allure.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ she said. ‘It seems to belong to us more, now – not some distant symbol.’

  ‘La lune ne garde aucune rancune,’ Bond said.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Blessing said.

  ‘Can’t remember. Something I learned at school as a boy.’

  ‘You’ve a very good accent,’ she said.

  ‘I spent a lot of my childhood in Switzerland.’

  ‘Classified information, Commander Bond.’

  They had reached her car.

  ‘You didn’t need to do that, you know,’ Blessing said, opening her car door and turning to him. ‘Creeps like that don’t bother me. I know how to deal with them.’ She shrugged. ‘But thank you all the same. I appreciate it.’

  ‘I’m sure you do know how to deal with them – but he was getting on my nerves.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘Goodnight, James,’ she said and slipped into the driving seat.

  ‘See you tomorrow at the office,’ Bond said, closing the door for her. ‘Nine o’clock.’

  7

  ON THE ROAD

  After his breakfast – a pint of freshly squeezed orange juice, scrambled eggs, bacon and fried plantain – Bond wandered out to the front portico of the hotel and, after some requisite haggling, bought a bag. It was a grip of black leather with the Zanzarim flag – a banded quincolour of red, white, yellow, black and green – appliquéd to the side. It was unlined and smelled strongly of recently cured leather. The handles were long enough to be slipped over his shoulder if required.

  Back in his room, Bond packed with some thought, deciding to wear an olive-green safari jacket over khaki trousers with suede desert boots on his feet. Into the Zanzarim grip went three dark blue short-sleeved Aertex shirts, three pairs of underpants and socks, a rolled up panama hat in a cardboard tube, his anti-malaria pills and his pigskin toilet bag. It was odd and a little unsettling not to have a gun on him: he felt strangely undressed, almost wilfully vulnerable. He decided to leave all his other clothes in his suitcase – and he’d deposit that in Blessing’s office for her to ship home at some stage. He who travels lightest, travels furthest, Bond supposed, and that included weaponry. Into a war zone with a can of talcum powder and some aftershave. He walked down to reception with his suitcase and his new grip, ready to check out and settle his bill. Having done that he had an idea and went into the bar and bought a bottle of Johnnie Walker whisky. For medicinal use – you never knew when it might be needed.

  Christmas dropped Bond off at the OG offices where he found Blessing standing on the roof of a cream-coloured Austin 1100 with a pot of black paint in her hand. She was painting the word ‘PRESS’ on the roof in two-foot-high letters and Bond saw, as he circled the car, that the passenger side of the windscreen and the rear window had been similarly inscribed in letters of white sticky tape.

  ‘Couldn’t we get a better car?’ Bond asked, thinking that this was the sort of vehicle a mother might use to pick up her kids from school or collect the groceries.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Blessing said, stepping down. ‘We don’t want anything showy – we don’t want to attract too much attention. We’ll just trundle off and no one will notice us.’

  Bond helped her load two jerrycans of petrol, two spare tyres and a fifty-litre plastic container of water into the boot. They said goodbye to Christmas, who was going to man the office phone in their absence, and without mor
e ado they climbed into the 1100 and set off, Blessing at the wheel for the first leg of the journey.

  She handed Bond a map of Zanzarim with their meandering route south picked out. Bond saw that they would be moving haphazardly from village to provincial town to village again, always a good distance from the main transnational highway. When they set out and had quit the outskirts of Sinsikrou they immediately turned off into the countryside. Bond stared out of the window at the dusty bush, the unfaltering savannah scrub with its occasional trees. However, as they drove on, the vegetation grew steadily thicker until the view from the window was obscured by forest. The roads they travelled on were all tarmac but badly eroded with dangerous, deep potholes. They passed through hamlets and villages of mud huts roofed with grass thatch or rusty corrugated iron, each village with its little cluster of rickety roadside stalls selling bananas, peppers, cassava and various fruits. Seeing Bond’s white face at the window of the car as it flashed by provoked shouts and cries of excitement or derision from the villagers – or perhaps they were just pleas to stop and buy something. Bond couldn’t tell. He felt the real Africa engulf him, realising that Sinsikrou had nothing to do with the Zanzarim that they were now motoring through. On the roads the only other traffic they encountered was ancient lorries and buses, the occasional cyclist and mule-drawn cart.

  They made good progress and at lunchtime they stopped in a more sizeable town, Oguado, and found a roadside bar where they could enjoy a cold drink. Bond ordered a Green Star and Blessing a Fanta and they ate some kind of peppery, doughy cake known as dago-dago, so Blessing told him. It didn’t look much, Bond thought, like a beige doughnut with no hole, but it was surprisingly spicy and tasty.

  He took over the driving and they headed on through constant scrubby forest, then, at one stage, they passed through a vast plantation of cocoa trees that took them half an hour to traverse. It was hot and the sky hazed over to a milky white. They saw no military vehicles and encountered no roadblocks. Bond remarked on this: you’d hardly believe this was a country in the grip of a two-year civil war, he said, that just a couple of hundred miles to the south half a million people were starving to death.