Read Solo for Free Online Page B

Ogilvy-Grant the picture would be clearer, surely. He had a few days before his plane left, in any event, so it might be a good idea to do some extra homework himself.
    ‘Good luck,’ Dale said, flashing him his boyish smile. He didn’t offer Bond his hand to shake.

·2·
     

HOMEWORK
     
    Bond strolled down the street in Bayswater for the second time and joined the back of a long queue at a bus stop and took in his surroundings at leisure. Across the street was a small shabby parade of shops – an ironmonger, a newsagent, a grocery store and a seemingly empty premises with a hand-painted sign above the grimy plate glass window that said ‘AfricaKIN’. Sellotaped to the glass was a poster of a starving child with rheumy eyes and a distended belly holding out a claw-like begging hand. The caption was: ‘Genocide in Dahum. Please give generously.’
    Bond crossed the road and rang the bell.
    He heard a clatter of footsteps descending some stairs and sensed a presence behind the door scrutinising him through the peephole.
    ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ an educated English voice said.
    ‘My name’s James Bond. I’m a journalist,’ Bond explained, adding, ‘I’m going to Zanzarim on Friday.’
    The door was opened after a key had turned in a lock and two bolts were drawn. A slim African man stood there, in his forties, smart in a pinstriped suit with his head completely shaven and a neat goatee beard. His gaze was watchful and unwelcoming.
    Bond showed his Agence Presse Libre card. The man smiled and visibly relaxed.
    ‘I’m looking for Gabriel Adeka,’ Bond said.
    ‘You’ve found him. Come on in.’
    Bond knew from his further researches that Gabriel Adeka was Brigadier Solomon Adeka’s older brother. A successful barrister, educated at Rugby School and Merton College, Oxford, he had given up his lucrative legal career to found AfricaKIN, a charity dedicated to alleviating the suffering in Dahum. Bond saw, as he entered, that the linoleum-covered ground floor contained a fifth-hand photocopier and, to one side on a decorator’s trestle table, a light box and a typewriter. It must be quite a contrast to his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, Bond thought, as he followed Adeka up the creaking carpetless stairs to his small office on the floor above.
    Adeka’s office was papered with his various distressing posters and was occupied by a table and chair surrounded by yellowing piles of flyers, news-sheets and booklets about AfricaKIN and the plight of Dahum. He shifted some cardboard boxes and found a stool behind them, placing it in front of his desk for Bond to sit on.
    ‘May I offer you a cup of tea?’ Adeka said, gesturing towards an electric kettle and some mugs on a tray on the floor.
    ‘No, thank you . . . I don’t drink tea,’ Bond added in explanation.
    ‘And you call yourself an Englishman?’ Adeka smiled.
    ‘Actually, I’m not English,’ Bond said, then changed the subject. ‘You seem to be very much on your own here. One-man band.’
    ‘I’ve a ready supply of volunteers when the need arises,’ Adeka said, with a weary smile. ‘But most of my funds have gone. I gave up my practice two years ago and as we all know, money – alas – doesn’t grow on trees. Also, we find ourselves very harassed by the state. Inexplicable electricity failures, visits by aggressive bailiffs claiming we haven’t paid our bills, break-ins, vandalism. All this costs me. AfricaKIN isn’t welcome – Her Majesty’s Government has made that very clear.’
    ‘Maybe you should move to Paris,’ Bond said.
    ‘I’ve thought about it, believe me. Without our French friends . . .’ He stopped. ‘I wouldn’t be talking to you, Mr Bond, if you didn’t work for a French press agency.’
    ‘I’m very grateful.’
    ‘So, what takes you to our benighted country?’
    ‘I’m flying in to Sinsikrou, yes – but then I plan to make my way south, to Dahum. I want to interview your brother – which is why