Part 40 (1/2)

She'd described him thus several years ago. His face had warmed with pleasure when he'd heard the words and now he carried them in his memory, like a lock of her hair, just as he carried the memory of their first job together, when she was a City investment banker and had hired him to inspect some works installations her client was lending money to complete. Dunne had rejected the shoddy job, saving her and the client millions. She'd taken him to dinner and he'd had too much wine and prattled on about how morality had no place in combat or business or, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, in anything. The beautiful woman had agreed. My G.o.d, he'd thought, here's somebody who doesn't care that my feet go in different directions, that I'm built out of spare parts, that I can't tell a joke or turn on the charm to save my life.

Felicity was his perfect match at detachment. Her pa.s.sion for making money was identical to his for creating efficient machines.

They'd ended up in her luxurious flat in Knightsbridge and made love. It had been, without question, the best night of his life.

They had begun to work together more frequently, making the transition into jobs that were, well, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit more profitable and a lot less legitimate than taking a percentage of a revolving credit construction loan.

The jobs had become bolder, darker and more lucrative, but the other thing between them well, that had changed . . . as he'd supposed all along it would. She didn't, she finally confessed, think of him in that way. The night they were together, yes, it had been wonderful and she was sorely tempted, but she was worried that it would ruin their astonis.h.i.+ng intellectual no, spiritual connection. Besides, she'd been hurt before, very badly. She was a bird with a broken wing that hadn't yet mended. Could they simply remain partners and friends, oh, please? You can be my draughtsman . . .

The story rang a bit hollow but he had chosen to believe her, as one will do when a lover spins a tale less painful than the truth.

But their business soared with success an embezzlement here, some extortion there and Dunne bided his time, because he believed that Felicity would come round. He made it seem that he, too, was over the romance. He managed to keep his obsession for her buried, as hidden and as explosive as a VS-50 land mine.

Now, though, everything had changed. They were soon to be together.

Niall Dunne believed this in his soul.

Because he was going to win her love by saving her. Against all the odds, he'd save her. He'd spirit her away to safety on Madagascar, where he'd created an enclave for them to live very comfortably.

As he approached the inn, Dunne was recalling that James had caught out Hydt with his comment about Isandlwana the Zulu ma.s.sacre in the 1800s. Now he was thinking of the second battle that day in January, the one at Rorke's Drift. There, a force of four thousand Zulus had attacked a small outpost and hospital manned by about 130 British soldiers. As impossible as it seemed, the British had successfully defended it, suffering minimal casualties.

What was significant about the battle to Niall Dunne, though, was the commander of the British troops, Lieutenant John Chard. He was with the Corps of Royal Engineers a sapper, like Dunne. Chard had come up with a blueprint for the defence against overwhelming odds and executed it brilliantly. He'd earned the Victoria Cross. Niall Dunne was now about to win a decoration of his own the heart of Felicity Willing.

Moving slowly through the autumn evening, he now arrived at the inn, staying well out of sight of the rock face and the British spy.

He considered his plan. He knew the fat agent was dead or dying. He remembered what he'd seen of the breakfast or dining room through the rifle scope before the man, irritatingly, had turned off the lights. The only other officer in the inn seemed to be the SAPS woman. He could easily take her he would fling something through the window to distract her, then kill her and get Felicity out.

The two of them would sprint to the beach for the extraction, then speed to the helicopter that would take them to freedom in Madagascar.

Together . . .

He stepped silently to a window of the Sixth Apostle Inn. Looking in carefully, Dunne saw the British agent he'd shot, lying on the floor. His eyes were open, glazed in death.

Felicity sat on the floor nearby, her hands cuffed behind her, breathing hard.

Dunne was shaken by the sight of his love being so ill-treated. More anger. This time it did not go away. Then he heard the policewoman, in the kitchen, make a call on her radio and ask about back-up. 'Well, how long is it going to be?' she snapped.

Probably some time, Dunne reflected. His a.s.sociates had overturned a large lorry and set it on fire. Victoria Road was completely blocked.

Dunne slipped round the back of the hotel into the car park, overgrown and filled with weeds and rubbish, and went to the kitchen door. His gun before him, he eased it open without a sound. He heard the clatter of the radio, a transmission about a fire engine.

Good, he thought. The SAPS officer was concentrating on the radio call. He'd take her from behind.

He stepped further inside and moved down a narrow corridor to the kitchen. He could- But the kitchen was empty. On a counter sat the radio, the staticky voice rambling on and on. He realised that these were just random transmissions from SAPS's central emergency dispatch, about fires, robberies, noise complaints.

The radio was set to scan mode, not communications.

Why had she done that?

This couldn't be a trap to lure him inside. James wouldn't possibly know that he'd left the sniper's nest and was here. He stepped to the window and gazed up at the rock face, where he could see the man climbing slowly.

His heart stuttered. No . . . The vague form was exactly where it had been ten minutes ago. And Dunne realised that what he'd glanced at earlier on the rock face might not have been the spy at all, but perhaps his jacket, draped over a rock and moving in the breeze.

No, no . . .

Then a man's voice said, in a smooth British accent, 'Drop 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 draughtsman . . .

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?

Pure faith sometimes worked, he'd been told.

He leapt 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.

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 downwards, as did the barrels of two 20mm cannon. 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 leapt out and nodded to Bond. Other officers joined them. Bond recognised some from the raid earlier today at the Green Way plant.

Bheka Jordaan a.s.sisted 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 towards 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 a.s.sumed 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 Wilful . . .

'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.