Part 25 (2/2)

He pointed east to the rear of the plant. 'Everything that's not recyclable goes there, to the working face of the landfill, where it's buried in layers of plastic lining to keep bacteria and pollution from leaching into the ground. You can spot it by looking for the birds.'

Bond followed his gaze towards the swooping gulls.

'We call the landfill ”Disappearance Row”.'

Hydt led Bond to the doorway of a long building. Unlike the other work sheds here, this one had imposing doors, which were sealed. Bond peered through the windows. Workers were disa.s.sembling computers, hard drives, TVs, radios, pagers, mobile phones and printers. There were bins overflowing with batteries, light bulbs, computer hard drives, printed circuit boards, wires and chips. The staff were wearing more protective clothing than any other employees respirators, heavy gloves and goggles or full face masks.

'Our e-waste department. We call this area ”Silicon Row”. E-waste accounts for more than ten per cent of the deadly substances on earth. Heavy metals, lithium from batteries. Take computers and mobiles. They have a life expectancy of two or three years at most, so people just throw them out. Have you ever read the warning booklet that comes with your laptop or phone, ”Dispose of properly”?'

'Not really.'

'Of course not. No one does. But pound for pound computers and phones are the most deadly waste on earth. In China, they just bury or burn them. They're killing their population by doing that. I'm starting a new operation to address this situation separating the components of computers at my clients' companies and then disposing of them properly.' He smiled. 'In a few years that will be my most lucrative operation.'

Bond recalled the device he'd seen demonstrated at al-Fulan's, the one near to the compactor that had taken Yusuf Nasad's life.

Hydt pointed, with a long, yellow fingernail. 'And at the back of this building there is the Dangerous-materials Recovery department. One of our biggest money-making services. We handle everything from paint to motor oil to a.r.s.enic to polonium.'

'Polonium?' Bond gave a cool laugh. This was the radioactive material that had been used to kill the Russian spy Alexander Litvinenko, an expatriate in London, a few years ago. It was one of the most toxic substances on earth. 'It's just thrown out? That has to be illegal.'

'Ah, but that's the thing about discard, Theron. People throw away an innocent-looking anti-static machine . . . that just happens to contain polonium. But n.o.body knows that.'

He led Bond past a car park where several lorries stood, each about twenty feet long. On the side was the company name and logo, along with the words Secure Doc.u.ment Destruction Services.

Hydt followed Bond's gaze and said, 'Another of our specialities. We lease shredders to companies and government offices, but smaller outfits would rather hire us to do it for them. Did you know that when the Iranian students took over the American emba.s.sy in the 1970s, they were able to rea.s.semble cla.s.sified CIA doc.u.ments that had been shredded? They learnt the ident.i.ties of most of the covert agents there. Local weavers did the work.'

Everyone in the intelligence community knew this but Bond feigned surprise.

'At Green Way we perform DIN industrial-standard level-six shredding. Basically our machines turn the doc.u.ments to dust. Even the most secret government installations hire us.'

He then led Bond to the largest building on the plant, three storeys high and two hundred yards long. A continuous string of lorries rolled in through one door and came out through another. 'The main recycling facility. We call this area ”Resurrection Row”.'

They stepped inside. Three huge devices were being fed an endless stream of paper, cardboard, plastic bottles, polystyrene, sc.r.a.p metal, wood and hundreds of other items. 'The sorters,' Hydt shouted. The noise was deafening. At the far end the separated materials were being packed into lorries for onward s.h.i.+pment tins, gla.s.s, plastic, paper and other materials.

'Recycling's a curious business,' Hydt yelled. 'Only a few products metals and gla.s.s mostly can be recycled indefinitely. Everything else breaks down after a while and has to be burnt or go to landfill. Aluminium's the only consistently profitable recyclable. Most products are far cheaper, cleaner and easier to make from raw materials than recycled ones. The extra lorries for transporting recycling materials and the recycling process itself add to fossil fuel pollution. And remanufacturing uses more power than the initial production, which is a drain on resources.'

He laughed. 'But it's politically correct to recycle . . . so people come to me.'

Bond followed his tour guide outside and noticed Niall Dunne approaching on his long legs, his gait clumsy and feet turned outward. The fringe of blond hair hung down above his blue eyes, which were as still as pebbles. Putting aside the memory of Dunne's cruel treatment of the men in Serbia and his murder of al-Fulan's a.s.sistant in Dubai, Bond smiled amiably and shook his wide hand.

'Theron.' Dunne nodded, his own visage not particularly welcoming. He looked at Hydt. 'We should go.' He seemed impatient.

Hydt motioned for Bond to get into a nearby Range Rover. He did so, sitting in the front pa.s.senger seat. He was aware of a sense of antic.i.p.ation in the two men, as if some plan had been made and was now about to unfurl. His sixth sense told him something had perhaps gone awry. Had they discovered his ident.i.ty? Had he given something away?

As the other men climbed in, with the unsmiling Dunne taking the driver's seat, Bond reflected that if ever there was a place to dispose of a body clandestinely, this was it.

Disappearance Row . . .

46.

The Range Rover bounded east along a wide dirt road, pa.s.sing squat lorries with ma.s.sive ribbed wheels, carrying bales or containers of refuse. It pa.s.sed a wide chasm, at least eighty feet deep.

Bond looked down. The lorries were dropping their loads, and bulldozers were compacting them against the face of the landfill site. The bottom of the pit was lined with thick dark sheets. Hydt had been right about the seagulls. They were everywhere, thousands of them. The sheer number, the screams, the frenzy were unsettling and Bond felt a s.h.i.+ver trickle up his spine.

As they drove on, Hydt pointed to the flames Bond had seen earlier. Here, much closer, they were giant spheres of fire he could feel their heat. 'The landfill produces methane,' he said. 'We drill down and extract it to power the generators, though there's usually too much gas and we have to burn some off. If we didn't, the entire landfill site could blow up. That happened in America not too long ago. Hundreds of people were injured.'

After fifteen minutes, they pa.s.sed through a dense row of trees and a gate. Bond barked an involuntary laugh. The wasteland of the rubbish tips had vanished. Surrounding them now was an astonis.h.i.+ngly beautiful scene: trees, flowers, rock formations, paths, ponds, forest. The meticulously landscaped grounds extended for several miles.

'We call it Elysian Fields. Paradise . . . after our time in h.e.l.l. And yet it's a landfill too. Underneath us there is nearly a hundred feet of discard. We've reclaimed the land. In a year or so I'll open it to the public. My gift to South Africans. Decay resurrected into beauty.'

Bond was not an aficionado of botany his customary reaction to the Chelsea Flower Show was irritation at the traffic problems it caused around his home but he had to admit that these gardens were impressive. He found himself squinting at some tree roots.

Hydt noticed. 'Do they seem a little odd?'

They were metal tubes, painted to look like roots.

'Those pipes transport the methane generated under here to be burnt off or to the power plants.'

He supposed this detail had been thought up by Hydt's star engineer.

They drove on into a grove of trees and parked. A blue crane, the South African national bird, stood regally in a pond nearby, perfectly balanced on one leg.

'Come on, Theron. Let's talk business.'

Why here? Bond wondered, as he followed Hydt down a path, along which small signs identified the plants. Again he wondered if the men had plans for him and he looked, futilely, for possible weapons and escape routes.

Hydt stopped and looked back. Bond did too and felt a jolt of alarm. Dunne was approaching, carrying a rifle.

Bond outwardly remained calm. ('You wear your cover to the grave,' the lecturers at Fort Monckton would tell their students.) 'You shoot long guns?' Dunne displayed the hunting rifle, with its black plastic or carbon-fibre stock, brushed steel receiver and barrel.

'I do, yes.' Bond had been captain of the shooting team at Fettes and had won compet.i.tions in both small and full bore. He'd won the Queen's Medal for Shooting Excellence when in the Royal Naval Reserve the only shooting medal that can be worn in uniform. He glanced down at what Dunne held. 'Winchester .270.'

'Good gun, wouldn't you agree?'

'It is. I prefer that calibre to the .30-06. Flatter trajectory.'

Hydt asked, 'Do you shoot game, Theron?'

'Never had much opportunity.'

Hydt laughed. 'I don't hunt either . . . except for one species.' The smile faded. 'Niall and I have been discussing you.'

'Have you now?' Bond asked, his tone blase.

'We've decided you might be a valuable addition to certain other projects we're working on. But we need a show of faith.'

<script>