Solo

nose in the Zanzarim trough.’
    Bond looked at the shiny new vehicles, looked back at the perspiring white men in the bar of the Grand Central Hotel.
    ‘You’ve got to understand, James,’ Felix said, ‘the civil war here fouled everything up. Oil had been discovered, sure. But you can’t develop oilfields if a war is raging on top of them. It was a disaster for the oil companies. And when the war didn’t end in a few weeks and began to drag on and on – one year, two years – and it looked like there was going to be this interminable stalemate—’
    Bond interrupted. ‘And certain Western governments agreed that if there was some way of stopping the war it would be in everybody’s interests.’ Bond frowned: not quite everybody’s – but he saw how a congruence of different ambitions had merged unknowingly, unwittingly. Britain, the USA, the international oil companies, Hulbert Linck’s vicious opportunism, the greed of a younger brother . . .
    ‘Here we are in the heart of the Zanza River Delta,’ Felix said. ‘We’re standing on a gigantic ocean of oil, untapped, barely explored. We don’t know how vast these reserves may be. It could be bigger than the Ghawar field in Saudi. These fellows’ – he gestured at the bar – ‘will figure it out any day now. But it’s not just any old oil. It’s “light crude”. The best oil in the world, so much easier to refine. The world wants it and the world is going to get it.’
    Bond smiled cynically. ‘And someone like Hulbert Linck couldn’t be allowed to stand in the way. Enter Agent Massinette.’
    ‘I don’t like to admit it,’ Felix said. ‘But I can see why it was in everyone’s interests if Hulbert Linck was dead – killed by an agent in a shoot-out, for example, during a raid.’
    They wandered back to their seats. Felix had a sour expression on his face – a man who had just come face to face with an unpleasant truth about the business he was in, Bond thought. They sat down and Bond added a fresh splash of gin to their glasses. Felix dropped in more ice cubes.
    Bond looked at him. ‘You say “everyone’s interests”, Felix, but what you mean is the West.’
    ‘Of course. Figure it out. We don’t want to get our oil from the Gulf, if we can help it,’ Felix said. ‘It’s the proverbial powder keg. Islam, Palestine, Israel, Shia and Sunni – it’s a goat-fuck. Zanzarim alone could provide up to forty per cent of all US and UK oil needs, I’ve heard it said. Forty per cent – and not a camel in sight. It changes everything.’ He lit a cigarette and spread his arms. ‘This is the new Gulf, James. Right here in West Africa. It suits us fine.’ He stood up. ‘I’ve got to make a quick phone call. I saw a payphone in reception. Don’t finish that gin, I’ll be right back.’
    He wandered off and Bond sat back in his chair thinking. Sometimes, he reasoned, the stakes – the rewards – can become so high that illegitimacy, malfeasance, even murder seem entirely reasonable, not to say logical, courses of action. All this oil was waiting under the ground in the Zanza River Delta – and one man, Hulbert Linck, knew too much, could cause potential problems, could stand in the way of the new order being established. Wouldn’t it just be so much easier if he wasn’t there any more? That he didn’t have to be factored into any plans? Someone very high up in government circles, someone very important, would make a decision. Don’t we have ‘people’ who can sort these kind of things out for us? Yes, sir. I believe Luke Massinette is the ideal man for the job. And he’s available. Fine – so make sure he’s an integral part of the search for Hulbert Linck and tell him exactly what to do once we’ve found him. Don’t mess up.
    Bond lit a cigarette. ‘Dirty tricks’ were as old as history. As old as diplomacy. As old as spying. All the same, he had to admit, sometimes the sheer candid ruthlessness of absolute power did shake you up somewhat. He understood why Felix had worn that expression on his face for a second or two.
    Felix returned. ‘You can telephone the USA from Port Dunbar. That’s what I call progress.’
    ‘Realpolitik is not just a German concept,’ Bond said. ‘Everything can be made to happen.’ He smiled. Felix nodded. They both knew the global subtext now, the underlying story.
    ‘What’re you going to do with Adeka?’ Bond asked, changing the subject.
    ‘I think he likes it in