The next morning Bond parked his Mustang in an underground garage near the Federal Warehouse and walked the three blocks to the Alcazar, attaché case in one hand, a canvas grip in his other, containing the binoculars, the mattress, three packs of cigarettes and a vacuum flask filled with a weak solution of bourbon and iced water. He could always pop out for a sandwich or a dreaded burger or hot dog if he grew hungry, he reasoned.
Secure in his room, the main door locked, he pulled the little circular chain that turned the blind sideways on to the windows. He set up his folding stool and unrolled his mattress. He sat down and picked up the binoculars. He had an ideal oblique line of sight on to the plaza and anyone entering or leaving number 1075. The binoculars allowed him an initial identification and the sniper-scope provided a genuine close-up with the aid of the zoom-magnification device. However, with the zoom at maximum the hand-shake distortion was sizeable. He needed a tripod, Bond thought – or, even better, the rifle it was designed for.
He assembled the Frankel and fitted the scope. By resting the barrel on the windowsill he achieved perfect stability. Peering through the sight with the distance calibration and the cross-haired reticle in operation made him feel like an assassin. Just as well the gun wasn’t loaded, Bond thought: if he saw Kobus Breed crossing the plaza the temptation might prove too hard to resist.
After a couple of hours’ watching, Bond began to feel himself stiffening up. He took off his jacket and did some un-strenuous exercises just to keep the blood flowing. He was feeling stronger every day but didn’t want to put any undue strain on his healing tissues. He smoked a cigarette, had a swig of his bourbon and water and sat down again.
Through his binoculars he saw a glossy town car pull up in the indented drop-off spot at the edge of the plaza. A black man in a dark suit stepped out and leaned forward to have a quick word with the driver. Adeka, Bond wondered? He picked up his rifle and zoomed in with the scope.
No – even more interesting, and someone else he’d met before: Colonel Denga, lately commander-in-chief of the Dahumian armed forces. There was the handsome face with the matinee-idol moustache. Bond watched him stroll across the plaza to 1075. He was dapper – the suit jacket was cut long and was waisted and the trousers fashionably flared. Just visiting, or was he now something to do with AfricaKIN Inc?
Bond lunched on a ham and cheese sandwich in a diner, had a badly made dry martini in a bar and, curiosity getting the better of him, once again went into the lobby of 1075 and stood by the elevators wondering whether to chance a visit to the office itself. But if Denga was there, he’d be recognised, and – just so he could gain a sense of the lie of the land – he thought it might be more effective to disguise himself somehow, initially. There are disguises and disguises, Bond knew. He could grow a beard and shave his head and no one would think he was James Bond. But the short-term, provisional disguise had its own particular methodology. The key aim was to focus attention on one or two elements of the disguise so that they obscured the other, more familiar ones. Time for some more shopping, Bond thought.
The next morning, Bond strode across Milford Plaza towards number 1075. He was wearing a red and green tartan jacket, heavy black spectacles with clear lenses and a cream pork-pie hat. He rode up in the elevator to the second floor and pushed through the wide, double plate glass doors into the lobby of AfricaKIN Inc.
Everything about the ambience of the long lobby said ‘money’. Bond’s gaze took in the thick-pile charcoal carpet, the lush plants growing in stainless-steel cubes. At one end there was a seating area composed of curved leather sofas and teak coffee tables. On the linen walls were a couple of large inoffensive abstract paintings. The receptionist – a middle-aged white woman – sat at a mahogany desk with three telephones on it. Behind her on a smoked-glass panel ‘AfricaKIN Inc.’ was spelt out in large three-dimensional sans-serif aluminium letters. Beyond that Bond could see a wide corridor with offices off it on both sides. It didn’t look like a charity, to his eyes, it looked like a successful corporation.
‘Welcome to AfricaKIN, sir,’ the receptionist said with a smile. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I’d like to make an appointment to see Gabriel Adeka,’ Bond said in a marked Scottish brogue. This is where the provisional disguise should work: if the woman were ever asked to remember him all she could say would be ‘Scotsman, spectacles, small hat.’ He would guarantee that she’d find it very hard to be any more precise.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but that won’t be possible. Mr Adeka is extremely busy – on government business.’
‘I know him,’ Bond said. ‘We met in London. I want to make a sizeable donation.’ He handed over his card. The receptionist looked at it and handed it back.
‘If you care to take a seat, Mr McHarg, I’ll see what I can do.’ She jotted his name down on a pad. And picked up one of her telephones. Bond wandered off to the seating area and helped himself to some water from the cooler standing there. He saw that there was another corridor, signed with an arrow that said ‘Restrooms’. Conceivably there might be a service entrance at the end. Never enter a room without assessing the various ways available to exit it, he reminded himself – Bond had never forgotten his early instructions in procedure. He sat down – he was quite enjoying this – taking care to position himself so that he was screened by a large weeping fig.
He waited. Ten minutes, twenty minutes. Other people joined him until summoned into the office suites for appointments or meetings. Forty minutes passed – the place was busy. Bond sat on, a National Geographic magazine open on his knee, his eyes restless – watching, checking, noting. He headed for the restrooms. He was right – there was a door at the end of the corridor that said ‘No entry’. He opened it and saw a flight of concrete stairs and a yellow bucket with a mop in it. Bond relieved himself, checked his disguise and returned to his seat.
After he’d been there an hour he began to grow a little worried. Either he could meet Adeka – or he couldn’t. He thought of approaching the receptionist again but decided not to – one glimpse of him was all she should have. Then it occurred to him that he was being kept here deliberately, figuring that as long as he was corralled in the lobby anyone could find him. He put the magazine down. Something was now wrong – he was going to abort. He’d been a bit too audacious thinking he’d gain access to Adeka this easily—
Kobus Breed pushed through the glass doors and went straight to the receptionist.
Bond stood up immediately, turned his back and walked unconcernedly down the corridor to the restrooms. He was through the service door in a second and clattered down the stairs. He found himself in a storeroom full of cleaning equipment and rubbish bins. He threw his hat and his glasses into a bin, took off his jacket, turned it inside out and folded it over his arm. He opened another door and emerged at the rear of the elevator banks. Looking straight ahead he made his way through the people waiting for the elevators, strolled easily across the marble lobby with its spinning mobile and walked out into the weak sunshine that was bathing Milford Plaza.
He could still feel the heart-thud of alarm and adrenalin. Breed in Washington DC? Breed summoned to confront this unknown visitor to Gabriel Adeka . . . He had been wearing a dark business suit and a red tie – very smart. Bond remembered that was how he had complimented him in the control tower at Janjaville. Perhaps that suit he’d been wearing that night was the first indication of his new life as an executive of a global charitable foundation.
Bond began to relax, glancing back as he left the plaza – no one was after him and he had learned a lot from his visit. His request to meet Adeka had brought Kobus Breed from wherever he was residing to investigate. AfricaKIN Inc. had nothing to do with the modest grubby shop in Bayswater. Something much bigger was taking place. Something bigger and very wrong.