Carte Blanche Part 6

Then Bond paused, going into that other place, where he went before any tactical operation: dead calm, eyes focused and taking in every detail branches that might betray with a snap, bushes that could hide the muzzle of a sniper rifle, evidence of wires, sensors and cameras that might report his presence to an enemy.

And preparing to take a life, quickly and efficiently, if he had to. That was part of the other world too.

And he was all the more cautious because of the many questions this a.s.signment had raised.

Fit your response to your enemy's purpose.

But what was Noah's purpose?

Indeed, who the h.e.l.l was he?

Bond moved through the trees, then cut across the corner of a field dotted with an early growth of sugarbeet. He diverted around a fragrant bog and moved carefully through a tangle of brambles, making his way towards the hospital. Finally he came to the barbed-wire perimeter, posted with warning signs. Eastern Demolition and Sc.r.a.p was doing the work, they announced. He'd never heard of the company but thought he might have seen their lorries there was something familiar about the distinctive green-and-yellow colouring.

He scanned the overgrown field in front of the building, the parade grounds behind. He saw n.o.body, then began to clip his way through the fence with wire cutters, thinking how clever it would be to use the building for secret meetings relevant to Incident Twenty; the place would soon be torn down, which would destroy any evidence of its use.

No workers were nearby but the presence of the black car suggested someone might be inside. He looked for a back door or other un.o.btrusive entrance. Five minutes later he found one: a depression in the earth, ten feet deep, caused by the collapse of what must have been an underground supply tunnel. He climbed down into the bowl and shone his torch inside. It seemed to lead into the bas.e.m.e.nt of the hospital, about fifty yards away.

He started forward, noting the ancient cracked brick walls and ceiling just as two bricks dislodged themselves and crashed to the floor. On the ground there were small-gauge rail tracks, rusting and in places covered with mud.

Halfway along the grim pa.s.sage, pebbles and a stream of damp earth pelted his head. He glanced up and saw that, six feet above, the tunnel ceiling was scored like a cracked eggsh.e.l.l. It looked as if a handclap would bring the whole thing down on him.

Not a great place to be buried alive, Bond reflected.

Then he added wryly to himself, And just where exactly would be?

'Brilliant job,' Severan Hydt told Niall Dunne.

They were alone in Hydt's site caravan, parked a hundred yards from the dark, brooding British Army hospital outside March. Since the Gehenna team had been under pressure to finish the job by tomorrow, Hydt and Dunne had halted demolition this morning and made sure that the crew stayed away most of Hydt's employees knew nothing of Gehenna and he had to be very careful when the two operations overlapped.

'I was satisfied,' Dunne said flatly in the tone with which he responded to nearly everything, be it praise, criticism or dispa.s.sionate observation.

The team had left with the device half an hour ago, having a.s.sembled it with the materials Dunne had provided. It would be hidden in a safe-house nearby until Friday.

Hydt had spent some time walking around the last building to be razed: the hospital, erected more than eighty years ago.

Demolition made Green Way a huge amount of money. The company profited from people paying to tear down what they no longer wanted, and by extracting from the rubble what other people did want: wooden and steel beams, wire, aluminium and copper pipes beautiful copper, a rag-and-bone man's dream. But Hydt's interest in demolition, of course, went beyond the financial. He now studied the ancient building in a state of tense rapture, as a hunter stares at an unsuspecting animal moments before he fires the fatal shot.

He couldn't help but think of the hospital's former occupants too the dead and dying.

Hydt had snapped dozens of pictures of the grand old lady as he'd strolled through the rotting halls, the mouldy rooms particularly the mortuary and autopsy areas collecting images of decay and decline. His photographic archives included shots of old buildings as well as bodies. He had quite a number, some rather artistic, of places like Northumberland Terrace, Palmers Green on the North Circular Road, the now-vanished Pura oil works on Bow Creek in Canning Town and the Gothic Royal a.r.s.enal and Royal Laboratory in Woolwich. His photos of Lovell's Wharf in Greenwich, a testament to what aggressive neglect could achieve, never failed to move him.

On his mobile, Niall Dunne was giving instructions to the driver of the lorry that had just left, explaining how best to hide the device. They were quite precise details, in accord with his nature and that of the horrific weapon.

Although the Irishman made him uneasy, Hydt was grateful their paths had intersected. He could not have proceeded as quickly, or as safely, on Gehenna without him. Hydt had come to refer to him as 'the man who thinks of everything' and indeed he was. So, Severan Hydt was happy to put up with the eerie silences, the cold stares, the awkward arrangement of robotic steel that was Niall Dunne. The two men made an efficient partnership, if an ironic one: an engineer whose nature was to build, a rag-and-bone man whose pa.s.sion was destruction.

What a curious package we humans are. Predictable only in death. Faithful only then too, Hydt reflected and then discarded that thought.

Just after Dunne disconnected, there was a knock on the door. It opened. Eric Janssen, a Green Way security man, who'd driven them up to March, stood in the doorway, his face troubled.

'Mr Hydt, Mr Dunne, someone's gone into the building.'

'What?' Hydt barked, turning his huge equine head the man's way.

'He went in through the tunnel.'

Dunne rattled off a number of questions. Was he alone? Had there been any transmissions that Janssen had monitored? Was his car nearby? Had there been any unusual traffic in the area? Was the man armed?

The answers suggested that he was operating by himself and wasn't with Scotland Yard or the Security Service.

'Did you get a picture or a good look at him?' Dunne asked.

'No, sir.'

Hydt clicked two long nails together. 'The man with the Serbs? From last night?' he asked Dunne. 'The private operator?'

'Not impossible, but I don't know how he could have traced us here.' Dunne gazed out of the caravan's dirt-spattered window as if he wasn't seeing the building. Hydt knew the Irishman was drafting a blueprint in his mind. Or perhaps examining one he'd already prepared in case of such a contingency. For a long moment he was motionless. Finally, drawing his gun, Dunne stepped out of the caravan, gesturing to Janssen to follow.

13.

The smells of mould, rot, chemicals, oil and petrol were overwhelming. Bond struggled not to cough and blinked tears from his stinging eyes. Could he detect smoke too?

The hospital's bas.e.m.e.nt here was windowless. Only faint illumination filtered in from where he'd entered the tunnel. Bond splayed light from his torch around him. He was beside a railway turntable, designed to rotate small locomotives after they'd carted in supplies or patients.

His Walther in hand, Bond searched the area, listening for voices, footsteps, the click of a weapon chambering bullets or going off safety. But the place was deserted.

He'd entered through the tunnel at the south end. As he moved farther north and away from the turntable, he came to a sign that prompted a brief laugh: Mortuary.

It consisted of three large windowless rooms that had clearly been occupied recently; the floors were dust-free and new cheap work benches were arranged throughout. One of these rooms seemed to be the source of the smoke. Bond saw electricity cables secured to the wall and floor with duct tape, presumably providing power for lights and whatever work had been going on. Perhaps an electrical short had produced the fumes.

He left the mortuary and came to a large open s.p.a.ce, with a double door, to the right, east, opening to the parade ground. Light filtered through the crack between the panels a possible escape route, he noted, and he memorised its location and the placement of columns that might provide cover in the event he had to make his way to it under fire.

Ancient steel tables, stained brown and black, were bolted to the floor, each with its own drain. For post-mortems, of course.

Bond continued to the north end of the building, which ended in a series of smaller rooms with barred windows. A sign here suggested why: Mental Health Ward.

He tried the doors leading up to the ground floor, found them locked and returned to the three rooms next to the turntable. A systematic search finally revealed the source of the smoke. On the floor in the corner of one room there was an improvised hearth. He spotted large curls of ash, on which he could discern writing. The flakes were delicate; he tried to pick one up but it dissolved between his fingers.

Careful, he told himself.

He walked over to one of the wires running up the wall. He pulled off several pieces of the silver duct tape securing the cord and sliced them into six-inch lengths with his knife. He then carefully pressed them on to the grey and black ash curls, slipped them into his pocket and continued his search. In a second room something silvery caught his eye. He hurried to the corner and found tiny splinters of metal littering the floor. He picked them up with another piece of tape, which he also pocketed.

Then Bond froze. The building had begun to vibrate. A moment later the shaking increased considerably. He heard a diesel engine rattling, not far away. That explained why the demolition site had been deserted; the workers must have been at lunch and now they'd returned. He couldn't get to the ground or higher floors without going outside, where he'd surely be spotted. It was time to leave.

He stepped back into the turntable room to leave through the tunnel.

And was saved from a broken skull by a matter of a few decibels.

He didn't see the attacker or hear his breathing or the hiss of whatever he swung, but Bond sensed a faint muting of the diesel's rattle, as the man's clothing absorbed the sound.

Instinctively, he leapt back and the metal pipe missed him by inches.

Bond grabbed it firmly in his left hand and his attacker stumbled, off balance, too surprised to release his weapon. The young blond man wore a cheap dark suit and white shirt, a security man's uniform, Bond a.s.sessed. He had no tie; he'd probably removed it in antic.i.p.ation of the a.s.sault. His eyes wide in dismay, he staggered again and nearly fell but righted himself fast and clumsily launched himself into Bond. Together they crashed to the filthy floor of the circular room. He was not, Bond noted, the Irishman.

Bond jumped up and stepped forward, clenching his hands into fists, but it was a feint he intended to get the muscular fellow to step back and avoid a blow, which he accommodatingly did, giving Bond the chance to draw his weapon. He didn't, however, fire; he needed the man alive.

Covered by Bond's .40-calibre pistol, he froze, although his hand went inside his jacket.

'Leave it,' Bond said coldly. 'Lie down, arms spread.'

Still, the man remained motionless, sweating with nerves, hand hovering over the b.u.t.t of his gun. A Glock, Bond noted. The man's phone began to hum. He glanced at his jacket pocket.

'Get down now!'

If he drew, Bond would try to wound but he might end up killing the man.

The phone stopped ringing.

'Now.' Bond lowered his aim, focusing on the attacker's right arm, near the elbow.

It appeared the blond man was going to comply. His shoulders drooped and in the shadowy light his eyes widened with fear and uncertainty.

At that moment, though, the bulldozer must have rolled over the ground nearby; bricks and earth rained down from the ceiling. Bond was struck by a large chunk of stone. He winced and stepped back, blinking dust out of his eyes. Had his a.s.sailant been more professional or less panicked he would have drawn his weapon and fired. But he didn't; he turned and ran down the tunnel.

Bond slipped into his preferred stance, a fencer's, left foot pointing forward and the right perpendicular and behind. Two-handed, he fired a single deafening shot that struck the man in the calf; screaming, he went down hard, about ten yards from the entrance to the tunnel.

Bond raced after him. As he did so, the shaking grew stronger, the rattle louder, and more bricks fell from the walls. Cascades of plaster and dust poured from the ceiling. A cricket ball of concrete landed directly on Bond's shoulder wound and he grunted at the burst of pain.

But he kept moving steadily along the tunnel. The a.s.sailant was on the ground, dragging himself towards the fissure where sunlight eased in.

The bulldozer seemed directly overhead now. Move, dammit, Bond told himself. They were probably about to knock the whole b.l.o.o.d.y place down. As he got closer to the wounded man, the chug chug chug of the diesel engine rose in volume. More bricks plummeted to the floor.

Not a great place to be buried alive . . .

Only ten yards to the wounded man. Get a tourniquet on him, get him out of the tunnel and under cover and start asking questions.

But at a stunning crash, the soft illumination of the spring day at the end of the tunnel dimmed. It was replaced by two burning white eyes, glowing through the dust. They paused and then, as if they belonged to a lion spotting its prey, shifted slightly, turning directly towards Bond. With a fierce cough, the bulldozer ploughed relentlessly forward, pushing a surge of mud and stone before it.

Bond aimed his gun but there was no target the blade of the machine was high, protecting the operator's cab. The vehicle crawled steadily on, pushing before it a ma.s.s of earth, brick and other debris.

'No!' cried the wounded man, as the bulldozer pressed forward. The driver didn't see him. Or if he did, he couldn't have cared less about the man's death.

With a scream, Bond's a.s.sailant disappeared under the rocky blanket. A moment later the rattling treads rolled over the spot where he was buried.

Soon the headlights were gone, blocked by debris, and then all was total darkness. Bond clicked his torch on and sprinted back to the turntable room. At the entrance he tripped and fell hard as earth and brick piled up to his ankles, then calves.

A moment later his knees were held fast.

Behind him the bulldozer continued to ram forward, shoving the muddy detritus farther into the room. Bond was now gripped to the waist. Another thirty seconds and his face would be covered.

But the weight of the debris mountain proved too much for the bulldozer or perhaps it had hit the building's foundation. The tide ceased to move forward. Before the operator could manoeuvre for better purchase, Bond dug himself free and scrabbled out of the room. His eyes stung, his lungs were in agony. Spitting dust and grit, he shone the torch back up the tunnel. It was completely plugged.

He hurried back through the three windowless rooms where he'd collected the ash and the bits of metal. He paused beside the door that led to the autopsy chamber; had they sealed the exit to force him into a trap? Were the Irishman and other security people waiting in there? He screwed the silencer on to his Walther.

Inhaling deep breaths, he paused for a moment then pushed the door open fast, dropping into a defensive shooting position, torch pointing forward from his left hand, on which rested his right, clutching the pistol.

The ma.s.sive empty hall yawned. But the double doors he'd seen earlier, admitting a shaft of light, were sealed; the bulldozer had piled tons of dirt against them too.

Trapped . . .

He sprinted to the smaller rooms on the north side of the bas.e.m.e.nt, the mental health ward. The largest of these the office, he a.s.sumed had a door but it was securely locked. Bond aimed the Walther and, standing at an oblique angle, fired four wheezing shots into the metal lock plate, then four into the hinges.

This had no effect. Lead, even half-jacketed lead, is no match for steel. He reloaded and slipped the spent magazine into his left pocket, where he always kept the empties.

He was regarding the barred windows when a loud voice made him jump.

'Attention! Opgelet! Groba! Nebezpei!'

Swinging around, Bond looked for a target.

But the voice came from a loudspeaker on the wall.

'Attention! Opgelet! Groba! Nebezpei! This is the three-minute warning!' The last sentence, a recording, was repeated in Dutch, Polish and Ukrainian.

Warning?

'Evacuate immediately! Danger! Explosive charges have been set!'

Bond shone the torch around the room.

The wires! They weren't to provide electricity for construction they were attached to explosives. Bond hadn't seen them since the charges were taped to steel joists high in the ceiling. The entire building had been rigged for demolition.

Three minutes . . .

The torch revealed dozens of packets of explosive, enough to turn the stone walls around him to dust and Bond into vapour. And all the exits had been sealed. His heart rate ratcheting, sweat dotting his forehead, Bond slipped the torch and pistol away and gripped one of the iron bars over a window. He tugged hard, but it held.

In the hazy light trickling through the gla.s.s, he looked about, then climbed a nearby girder. He ripped one of the explosive packets down and leapt back to the floor. The charges were an RDX composite, to judge from the smell. With his knife he cut off a large wad and jammed it against the k.n.o.b and lock on the door. That should be enough to blow the lock without killing himself in the process.

Get on with it!

Bond stepped back about twenty feet, steadied his aim and fired. He hit the explosive dead on.

But, as he'd feared, nothing happened except that the yellow-grey ma.s.s of deadly plastic fell undramatically to the floor with a plop. Composites explode only with a detonator, not with physical impact, even that of a bullet travelling at 2,000 feet per second. He'd hoped this substance might prove the exception.