Bond lowered his arms, his brain in some kind of manic overdrive. ‘One of us’ . . . ? One question at a time, he told himself.
‘I’d like to see your ID,’ he asked. ‘If I may.’
The blond man took out his wallet and showed Bond his plastic card.
‘I’m Agent Brigham Leiter,’ he said. ‘And this is Agent Luke Massinette.’
Bond smiled. ‘So you’re the famous Brig,’ he said. ‘How’s Uncle Felix?’
‘He’s well, sir. In fact I know he wants to talk to you urgently.’
‘How did you know my name? How did you know I was here?’
Brigham Leiter holstered his gun, as did his partner.
‘The lady you were aiming at is called Aleesha Belem. She told us you were in DC – she saw you in a restaurant, by chance, and gave us your name. We traced the hire of a Ford Mustang to one James Bond at Dulles airport then we lost your trail. Luckily we have this whole plaza staked out. We took your photograph. Aleesha identified it. My uncle confirmed it. James Bond, British agent. We found where you’d parked your Mustang. Followed you to these offices. Followed you back to your hotel. It wasn’t hard to make the connection to a Mr Bryce Fitzjohn.’
Bond couldn’t blame himself for sloppy procedure – it was no lapse on his part, just bad luck. How was he to know that Blessing – Aleesha was a CIA agent? He thought further.
‘So this Aleesha Belem is working for you. Since when?’
‘Over two years now, I believe.’
‘She shot me in the chest. In Africa a few weeks ago. Tried to kill me.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Brig Leiter said. ‘She’s sound – one of our most reliable people.’
‘What’s she doing in AfricaKIN?’
‘I’m not authorised to disclose that information,’ Leiter said.
‘I think I’d better talk to your uncle,’ Bond said. ‘Is he back in the CIA or is he still with Pinkerton’s?’
‘He “consults” for us from time to time. He’s still with Pinkerton’s, though.’
Bond thought fondly of Felix Leiter – one of his oldest friends and colleagues. They had endured many a tough assignment together over the years. Felix had been badly injured on one of them, back in Florida in the early 1950s, had even lost an arm and part of a leg. Bond glanced at Felix’s nephew, Brig. Felix had often talked about him, a ‘chip off the old block’. Bond thought he saw something of Felix in the set of Brig’s jaw, the thick blond hair, the grey, candid eyes. He wasn’t so keen on the other guy, though. Massinette stood back, surly, watchful.
Still, Bond’s head was loud with unanswered questions. If Blessing had been in the CIA for two years how had she managed to . . . ? He stopped himself. There would be time enough to settle these issues later.
‘I can hook you up with my uncle,’ Brig said. ‘He’s in Miami.’
Bond broke up and packed away the Frankel and followed Brig and Massinette out of the Alcazar and along the street to the temperance hotel, the Ranchester. They rode the elevator to the fifth floor and Bond walked in on a major CIA surveillance team in a room at the front overlooking the whole of Milford Plaza. There were telescopes, cameras with long lenses mounted on tripods, screens displaying covert CCTV links into the lobby of 1075 and the entrance to the AfricaKIN office itself. Everyone who came in and out of that building could be logged and conceivably identified. Bond wondered if ‘Turnbull McHarg’ had been spotted – somehow he doubted it.
He was put on the phone to Felix Leiter in Miami.
‘Felix, it’s James.’
‘Welcome to DC, my son. What’re you up to? You nearly fouled everything up. Why didn’t Transworld Consortium tell us you were on a job?’
‘Because I’m not.’
‘Uh-oh . . .’ Pause. ‘Don’t tell me – you’ve gone solo.’
‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t inform anyone that I’m here.’
There was more silence as Felix took this in.
‘James, do you know what you’re doing?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Well from now on we take over, right? Go back to London before anyone finds out. Difficult to keep a lid on this.’
Bond looked around the room at all the hardware, the agents, the money being spent on this job and thought of his own puny individual investment in his act of vengeance.
‘Felix, will you tell me what’s going on here?’
‘No.’
‘Come on, Felix, it’s me – James.’
‘Let’s just say we’re investigating AfricaKIN Inc. We don’t believe all their PR schtick.’
‘I might just buy that,’ Bond said, ‘but you already had an agent in Zanzarim weeks ago. How come she was able to intercept me? How come she tried to kill me?’
‘It’s a long story, James. Go back to London. I’ll tell you all about it as soon as possible.’
They exchanged a few more ribald pleasantries and Bond handed the phone to Brig. He watched as Felix obviously gave him a few explicit instructions. Bond had no confidence in what little Felix had told him: something else was at stake here and his own intervention had been a minor bit of grit in a well-oiled CIA machine.
Brig Leiter put the phone down and turned to Bond.
‘We can take you back to your hotel, Mr Bond. The Fairview, right?’
‘Yes,’ Bond said, a little surge of relief and excitement seizing him. They clearly didn’t know about the Blackstone Park Motor Lodge. Maybe he was still one step ahead.
He drove the Mustang back to the hotel, followed by Brig and Massinette in their Buick Skylark. Brig came with him into the lobby and saw him pick up his key.
‘Mr Bond,’ he said, apologetically, ‘believe me, this isn’t easy for me. Uncle Felix talks about you all the time. It’s a real pleasure to meet you – I just wish I hadn’t had to pull a gun on you to say hello.’
‘Not a problem at all, Brig,’ Bond said with a wide smile. ‘I’m out of your hair – now I know the truth about Blessing – about Aleesha. I’ll head for home, don’t you worry. All’s well that ends well.’
‘Great. Thank you, sir.’ They shook hands and Brig returned to his Buick. Massinette was leaning against it, smoking. They climbed in and drove off.
Bond went into the lobby bar to gather his thoughts and ordered a vodka martini, explaining to the barman the best way to achieve the effect of vermouth without diluting the vodka too much. Ice in the shaker, add a slurp of vermouth, pour out the vermouth, add the vodka, shake well, strain into a chilled glass, add a slice of lemon peel, no pith.
Bond took his drink to a dark corner and lit a cigarette, thinking hard. He had assumed that time was his ally, but now time was his enemy. Any more interference with the CIA operation and Felix would call London and they’d ship him off back home with no compunction. Bond reckoned he had forty-eight hours, at the outside.