Carte Blanche

your weapon. Don’t turn round or you’ll be shot.”
    Dunne’s shoulders slumped. He remained staring out at the Twelve Apostles ridge. He gave a brief laugh. “Logic told me you’d climb to the sniper’s nest. I was so certain.”
    The spy replied, “And logic told me you’d bluff and come here. I just climbed high enough to leave my jacket in case you looked.”
    Dunne glanced over his shoulder. The SAPS officer was standing beside the spy. Both were armed. Dunne could see the man’s cold eyes. The South African officer was just as determined. Through the doorway, in the lobby, Dunne could also see Felicity Willing, his boss, his love, straining to look into the kitchen. Felicity called, “What’s going on in there? Somebody answer me!”
    My draftsman . . .
    The British agent said harshly, “I won’t tell you again. In five seconds I’ll shoot into your arms.”
    There was no blueprint for this. And for once the inarguable logic of engineering and the science of mechanics failed Niall Dunne. He was suddenly amused, thinking that this would be perhaps the first wholly irrational decision he’d ever made. But did that mean it wouldn’t succeed?
    Faith, he’d been told, sometimes worked.
    He leaped sideways on his long legs, dropping into a crouch, spinning about and aiming toward the woman officer first, his pistol rising.
    Shattering the stillness, several guns sang, voices similar but differently pitched, in harmonies low and high.

Chapter 71
    The ambulances and SAPS cars were arriving. A Recces special-forces helicopter was hovering over the vessel containing the mercenaries who’d come to collect Dunne and Felicity. Glaring spotlights pointed downward, as did the barrels of two 20-mm cannons. One short burst over the bow was enough to force the occupants to surrender.
    An unmarked police car screeched up amid a cloud of dust, directly in front of the hotel. Kwalene Nkosi leaped out and nodded to Bond. Other officers joined them. Bond recognized some from the raid earlier today at the Green Way plant.
    Bheka Jordaan assisted Felicity Willing to her feet. She asked, “Is Dunne dead?”
    He was. Bond and Jordaan had fired simultaneously before the muzzle of his Beretta could rise to the threat position. He’d died a moment later, blue eyes as flat in death as they had been in life, though his last glance had been toward the room where Felicity sat, not at the pair who had shot him.
    “Yes,” Jordaan said. “I’m sorry.” She spoke this with some sympathy, apparently having assumed a personal as well as professional connection between the two.
    “ You’re sorry,” Felicity responded cynically. “What good is he to me dead?”
    Bond understood that she wasn’t mourning the loss of a partner but of a bargaining chip.
    Felicity Willful . . .
    “Listen to me. You have no idea what you’re up against,” she muttered to Jordaan. “I’m the queen of food aid. I’m the one saving the starving babies. You may as well give up your badge right now if you try to arrest me. And if that doesn’t impress you, remember my partners. You’ve cost some very dangerous people millions and millions of dollars today. Here’s my offer. I’ll close down my operation here. I’ll move elsewhere. You’ll be safe. I guarantee it.
    “If you don’t agree, you won’t live out the month. Neither will your family. And don’t think you’re going to throw me into a secret prison somewhere. If there’s even a hint that the SAPS treated a suspect illegally, the press and the courts’ll crucify you.”
    “You’re not going to be arrested,” Bond told her.
    “Good.”
    “The story everybody will hear is that you’re fleeing the country after embezzling five million dollars from the IOAH treasury. Your partners aren’t going to be interested in revenge on Captain Jordaan or anybody else. They’ll be interested in finding you . . . and their money.”
    In reality, she’d be whisked off to a black site for extensive “discussions.”
    “You can’t do that!” she raged, her green eyes fiery.
    At that moment a black van pulled up. Two uniformed men got out and walked up to Bond. He recognized on their sleeves the chevron of the British Special Boat Service, depicting a sword over a motto Bond had always liked: “By Strength and Guile.”
    This was the rendition team Bill Tanner had arranged.
    One saluted. “Commander.”
    The civilian Bond nodded. “Here’s the package.” A glance at