Part 41 (2/2)

No, his thoughts dealt with a more primal theme.

His mother, a spy . . .

Suddenly a voice intruded on his turbulent musings. 'I'm late. I'm sorry.'

James Bond turned to Bheka Jordaan, sitting down across from him. 'She's well, Ugogo?'

'Oh, yes, but at my sister's she made us all watch a 'Sgudi 'Snaysi rerun.'

Bond lifted an eyebrow.

'A Zulu-language sitcom from some years ago.'

It was warm under the terrace's heater and Jordaan slipped off her navy-blue jacket. Her red s.h.i.+rt had short sleeves and he could see that she had not used make-up on her arm. The scar inflicted by her former co-workers was quite prominent. He wondered why she was not concealing it tonight.

Jordaan regarded him carefully. 'I was surprised you accepted my invitation to dinner. I am paying, by the way.'

'That's not necessary.'

Frowning, she said, 'I didn't a.s.sume it was.'

Bond said, 'Thank you, then.'

'I wasn't sure I'd ask you. I actually debated for some time. I'm not a person who debates much. I usually decide rather quickly, as I think I've told you.' She paused and looked away. 'I'm sorry your date in the wine country didn't work out.'

'Well, all things considered, I'd rather be here with you than in Franschhoek.'

'I should think so. I'm a difficult woman but not a ma.s.s murderer.' She added ominously, 'But you should not flirt with me . . . Ah, don't deny it! I remember very well your look in the airport the day you arrived.'

'I flirt a lot less than you think I do. Psychologists have a term for that. It's called projecting. You project your feelings on to me.'

'That remark in itself is flirtatious!'

Bond laughed and gestured the sommelier forward. He displayed the bottle of the South African sparkling wine Bond had ordered to be brought when his companion arrived. The man opened it.

Bond tasted it and nodded approval. Then he said to Jordaan, 'You'll like this. A Graham Beck Cuvee Clive. Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. The 2003 vintage. It's from Robertson, the Western Cape.'

Jordaan gave one of her rare laughs. 'Here I've been lecturing you about South Africa, but it seems you know a few things yourself.'

'This wine's as good as anything you'll get in Reims.'

'Where is that?'

'France where champagne is made. East of Paris. A beautiful place. You'd enjoy it.'

'I'm sure it's lovely but apparently there's no need to go there if our wine is as good as theirs.'

Her logic was una.s.sailable. They tilted their gla.s.ses towards each other. 'Khotso,' she said. 'Peace.'

'Khotso.'

They sipped and sat for some moments in silence. He was surprisingly comfortable in the company of this 'difficult woman'.

She set her gla.s.s down. 'May I ask?'

'Please,' Bond responded.

'When Gregory Lamb and I were in the caravan at the Sixth Apostle, recording your conversation with Felicity Willing, you said to her that you'd hoped it might work out between you two. Was that true?'

'Yes.'

'Then I'm sorry. I've had some bad luck too when it comes to relations.h.i.+ps. I know what it's like when the heart turns against you. But we're resilient creatures.'

'We are indeed. Against all odds.'

Her eyes slipped away and she stared at the harbour for a time.

Bond said, 'It was my bullet that killed him, you know Niall Dunne, I mean.'

Startled, she began, 'How did you know I was . . .?' Her voice faded.

'Was that the first time you'd shot someone?'

'Yes, it was. But how can you be sure it was your bullet?'

'I'd decided at that range to make my target vector a head shot. Dunne had one wound in his forehead and one in the torso. The head shot was mine. It was fatal. The lower wound, yours, was superficial.'

'You're sure it was your shot in his head?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'In that shooting scenario I wouldn't've missed,' Bond said simply.

Jordaan was silent for a moment. Then she said, 'I suppose I'll have to believe you. Anyone who uses the phrases ”target vector” and ”shooting scenario” surely would know where his bullets went.'

Earlier, Bond thought, she might have said this with derision a reference to his violent nature and flagrant disregard for the rule of law but now she was simply making an observation.

They sat back and chatted for a time, about her family and his life in London, his travels.

Night was cloaking the city now, a kind autumn evening of the sort that graces this part of the southern hemisphere, and the vista sparkled with fixed lights on land and floating lights on vessels. Stars, too, except in the black voids nearby where the king and prince of Cape Town's rock formations blocked out the sky: Table Mountain and Lion's Head.

The plaintive baritone call of a horn reached up to them from the harbour.

Bond wondered if its source was one of the s.h.i.+ps delivering food.

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