Solo

spectacles back on his nose again. ‘Should give you plenty of time to make your escape.’
    He took an envelope from his file and handed it over.
    ‘This contains all the information you need. And your plane ticket to Zanzarim. BOAC on Friday evening. One way.’
    ‘So I’m not coming back,’ Bond said, drily.
    ‘Our station head in Sinsikrou will arrange your journey home. It’s not clear how long you’ll be in the country, anyway – or even if you’ll be leaving from it.’
    ‘I suppose not. Who’s our station head?’
    ‘Ah . . .’ he looked at his file. ‘One E. B. Ogilvy-Grant. It’s been very recently set up. A business card with the address and phone number is in the envelope and confirmation of your reservation at the Excelsior Gateway Hotel. It’s near the airport. Ogilvy-Grant will make contact with you after you’ve landed.’
    Bond took the business card from the envelope. It read: ‘E. B. Ogilvy-Grant MA (Cantab). Palm Oil Export and Agricultural Services.’ There was a telephone number in the corner.
    ‘Anything else, Commander?’
    Bond zipped up the toilet bag.
    ‘What about communications? Connecting with base, here?’
    ‘Ogilvy-Grant will take care of all that.’
    Bond stood up, slowly. Something was bothering him. It all seemed a bit vague, a bit wing-and-a-prayer, a bit improvised. But maybe this was what a mission to a civil-war-torn West African country involved. Once he was actually in Zanzarim and had met Ogilvy-Grant the picture would be clearer, surely. He had a few days before his plane left, in any event, so it might be a good idea to do some extra homework himself.
    ‘Good luck,’ Dale said, flashing him his boyish smile. He didn’t offer Bond his hand to shake.

·2·
     

HOMEWORK
     
    Bond strolled down the street in Bayswater for the second time and joined the back of a long queue at a bus stop and took in his surroundings at leisure. Across the street was a small shabby parade of shops – an ironmonger, a newsagent, a grocery store and a seemingly empty premises with a hand-painted sign above the grimy plate glass window that said ‘AfricaKIN’. Sellotaped to the glass was a poster of a starving child with rheumy eyes and a distended belly holding out a claw-like begging hand. The caption was: ‘Genocide in Dahum. Please give generously.’
    Bond crossed the road and rang the bell.
    He heard a clatter of footsteps descending some stairs and sensed a presence behind the door scrutinising him through the peephole.
    ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ an educated English voice said.
    ‘My name’s James Bond. I’m a journalist,’ Bond explained, adding, ‘I’m going to Zanzarim on Friday.’
    The door was opened after a key had turned in a lock and two bolts were drawn. A slim African man stood there, in his forties, smart in a pinstriped suit with his head completely shaven and a neat goatee beard. His gaze was watchful and unwelcoming.
    Bond showed his Agence Presse Libre card. The man smiled and visibly relaxed.
    ‘I’m looking for Gabriel Adeka,’ Bond said.
    ‘You’ve found him. Come on in.’
    Bond knew from his further researches that Gabriel Adeka was Brigadier Solomon Adeka’s older brother. A successful barrister, educated at Rugby School and Merton College, Oxford, he had given up his lucrative legal career to found AfricaKIN, a charity dedicated to alleviating the suffering in Dahum. Bond saw, as he entered, that the linoleum-covered ground floor contained a fifth-hand photocopier and, to one side on a decorator’s trestle table, a light box and a typewriter. It must be quite a contrast to his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, Bond thought, as he followed Adeka up the creaking carpetless stairs to his small office on the floor above.
    Adeka’s office was papered with his various distressing posters and was occupied by a table and chair surrounded by yellowing piles of flyers, news-sheets and booklets about AfricaKIN and the plight of Dahum. He shifted some cardboard boxes and found a stool behind them, placing it in front of his desk for Bond to sit on.
    ‘May I offer you a cup of tea?’ Adeka said, gesturing towards an electric kettle and some mugs on a tray on the floor.
    ‘No, thank you . . . I don’t drink tea,’ Bond added in explanation.
    ‘And you call yourself an Englishman?’ Adeka smiled.
    ‘Actually, I’m not English,’ Bond said, then changed the subject. ‘You seem to be very much on your own here.