Carte Blanche Part 8

He received a terse reply: 007 - Authorised to proceed. Appropriate liaison with domestic organisations expected.

M.

My carte grise . . .

Bond left his office, took the lift to the second floor and entered a large room filled with more computers than an electronics shop. A few men and women laboured at monitors, or at the type of work stations to be found in a university chemistry laboratory. Bond walked to a small, gla.s.s-walled office at the far end and tapped on the window.

Sanu Hirani, head of the ODG's Q Branch, was a slim man of forty or so. His complexion was sallow and his luxuriant black hair framed a face handsome enough to get him roles in Bollywood. A brilliant cricketer, known for his fast bowling, he had degrees in chemistry, electrical engineering and computer science from top universities in the UK and America (where he had been successful in everything except introducing his sport to the Yanks, who could neither grasp the game's subtleties, nor tolerate the length of a Test match).

Q Branch was the technical support enclave within the ODG and Hirani oversaw all aspects of the gadgetry that has always been used in tradecraft. Wizards for departments like Q Branch and the CIA's Science and Technology Division spent their time coming up with hardware and software innovations, like miniature cameras, improbable weapons, concealments, communications devices and surveillance equipment such as Hirani's latest: a hypersensitive omnidirectional microphone mounted within a dead fly. ('A bug in a bug,' Bond had commented wryly to its creator, who had replied that he was the eighteenth person to make the joke and, by the way, a fly was not, biologically speaking, a bug.) Since the ODG's raison d'tre was operational, much of Hirani's work lay in ensuring he had sufficient monoculars, binoculars, camouflage, communications devices, specialised weapons and counter-surveillance gear to hand. In this regard he was like a librarian who made sure the books were checked out appropriately and returned on time.

But Hirani's particular genius was his ability to invent and improvise, coming up with devices like the iQPhone. The ODG was, of all things, the patent holder on dozens of his inventions. When Bond or other O Branch agents were in the field and found themselves in a tight spot, one call to Hirani, at any time of day or night, and he would find a solution. He or his people might put something together in the office and pop it into the FCO diplomatic pouch for overnight delivery. More often, though, time was critical and Hirani would enlist one of his many wily innovators and scroungers around the world to build, find or modify a device in the field.

'James.' The men shook hands. 'You've bought Incident Twenty, I hear.'

'Seems so.'

Bond sat down, noticing a book on Hirani's desk: The Secret War of Charles Fraser-Smith. It was one of his own favourites on the history of gadgetry in espionage.

'How serious is it?'

'Rather,' Bond said laconically, not sharing that he'd nearly been killed twice already in pursuing the a.s.signment, which he'd had for less than forty-eight hours.

Sitting beneath pictures of early IBM computers and of Indian cricketers, Hirani asked, 'What do you need?'

Bond lowered his voice so that the closest Q Branch worker, a young woman raptly staring at her screen, could not hear. 'What kind of surveillance kits do you have that one man could put in place? I can't get to the subject's computer or phone but I may be able to plant something in his office, vehicle or home. Disposable. I probably can't retrieve it later.'

'Ah, yes . . .' Hirani's luminescent eyes dimmed.

'Some problem, Sanu?'

'Well, I must tell you, James. Not ten minutes ago I had a call from upstairs.'

'Bill Tanner?'

'No farther upstairs.'

M. Dammit, Bond thought. He could see where this was going.

Hirani went on: 'And he said that if anyone from O Branch wished to check out a surveillance kit I was to let him know immediately. A touch coincidental.'

'A touch,' Bond said sourly.

'So,' Hirani said, with a qualified smile, 'shall I tell him that someone from O Branch wishes to check out a surveillance kit?'

'Perhaps you could hold off for a bit.'

'Well, get it sorted,' he said, the gleam in his face restored. 'I have some wonderful packages for you to choose from.' He sounded like a car salesman. 'A microphone that's powered by induction. You only have to place it near a power cord, no battery needed. It'll pick up voices from fifty feet away and adjust the volume automatically so there's no distortion. Oh, and another thing we've been having great success with is a two-pound coin the 'ninety-four tercentenary of the Bank of England commemorative. It's relatively rare so a target tends to keep it for good luck but not so rare that he would sell it. Battery lasts for four months.'

Bond sighed. The off-limits devices sounded so d.a.m.n perfect. He thanked the man and told him he'd be in touch. He returned to his office, where he found Mary Goodnight at her desk. He saw no reason for her to stay. 'Scoot on home now. Good evening, Goodnight.'

She glanced at his latest injuries and forewent the opportunity for mothering him, which from past experience she knew would be deflected. She settled for 'See to those, James,' then gathered up her handbag and coat.

Sitting back, Bond was suddenly aware of the stench of his sweat and the crescents of brick dust under his nails. He wanted to get home and shower. Have his first drink of the day. Yet there was something he had to sort out first.

He turned to his screen and entered the Golden Wire's general information database, from which he learnt where Severan Hydt's business and home were located, the latter, curiously, in a low-income area of East London known as Canning Town. Green Way's main premises were on the Thames near Rainham, ab.u.t.ting the Wilds.p.a.ce Conservation Park.

Bond peered at satellite maps of Hydt's home and Green Way's operation. It was vitally important to set up surveillance on the man. But there was no legitimate way to conduct it without enlisting Osborne-Smith and the A Branch snoop teams from MI5 and the instant the Division Three man learnt Hydt's ident.i.ty he'd move in to 'detain' him and the Irishman. Bond considered the risk again. How realistic was his concern that if the two were pulled in, other co-conspirators would accelerate the carnage, or vanish until they struck again next month or next year?

Evil, James Bond had learnt, can be tirelessly patient.

Surveillance or not?

He debated. After a moment's hesitation, he reluctantly picked up the phone.

17.

At half past six, Bond drove to his flat and, in the garage, reversed into the spot beside his racing-green Jaguar. He climbed the stairs to the first floor, unlocked the door, disarmed the alarm and confirmed with a separate security function a fast-framed video that only May, his housekeeper, had been there. (Feeling somewhat embarra.s.sed, he'd told her when she'd started working for him that the security camera was a requirement of his government employer's; the flat had to be monitored when he was away, even if she was working there. 'Considering what you must do for the country, being a patriot and all, it's no bother's,' the staunch woman had said, using the fragment of 'sir', a mark of respect reserved for him alone.) He checked messages on his home phone. He had only one. It was from a friend who lived in Mayfair, Fouad Kharaz, a wily, larger-than-life Jordanian, who had all manner of business dealings, involving vehicles mostly: cars, planes and the most astonishing yachts Bond had ever seen. Kharaz and he were members of the same gaming club in Berkeley Square, the Commodore.

Unlike many such clubs in London, where membership could be had with twenty-four hours' notice and five hundred pounds, the Commodore was a proper establishment, requiring patience and considerable vetting to join. Once you were a member, you were expected to adhere strictly to a number of rules, such as the dress code, and behave impeccably at the tables. It also boasted a fine restaurant and cellar.

Kharaz had called to invite Bond to dine there tonight. 'A problem, James. I have fallen heir to two beautiful women from Saint-Tropez how it happened is too long, and delicate, a story to leave as a message. But I can't be charming enough for both of them. Will you help?'

Smiling, Bond rang him back and told him he had another engagement. A rain check was arranged.

Then he went through his shower ritual steaming hot, then icy cold and dried himself briskly. He ran his fingers over his cheeks and chin and decided to maintain a lifelong prejudice against shaving twice in one day. Then he chided himself: why were you even thinking about it? Philly Maidenstone's pretty and clever and she rides a h.e.l.l of a fine motorcycle but she's a colleague. That's all.

The black leather jumpsuit, however, made an unbidden appearance in his mind.

In a towelling robe Bond stepped into the kitchen and poured two fingers of bourbon, Basil Hayden's, into a gla.s.s, dropped in one ice cube and drank half, enjoying the sharp nutty flavour. The first sip of the day was invariably the best, especially coming as this one did after a harrowing excursion against an enemy and ahead of an evening with a beautiful woman . . .

He caught himself again. Stop.

He sat in an old leather chair in the living room, which was spa.r.s.ely furnished. The majority of the items in it had been his parents', inherited when they had died and kept in storage near his aunt's in Kent. He'd bought a few things: some lamps, a desk and chairs, a Bose sound system he rarely had a chance to listen to.

On the mantelpiece there were silver-framed photos of his parents and grandparents on his father's side in Scotland, his mother's in Switzerland. Several showed his aunt Charmian with the young Bond in Kent. On the walls were other photographs, taken by his mother, a freelance photojournalist. Mostly black and white, the photos depicted a variety of images: political gatherings, labour union events, sports compet.i.tions, panoramic scenes of exotic locations.

There was also a curious objet d'art in the mantelpiece's centre: a bullet. It had nothing to do with Bond's role as an agent in the 00 Section of the ODG's...o...b..anch. Its source was a very different time and place of Bond's life. He walked to the fireplace and turned the solid piece of ammunition in his hand once or twice, finally replacing it and returning to his chair.

Then, despite his protest that he keep affairs with Philly that he keep matters relating to Agent Maidenstone purely professional, he couldn't stop thinking of her as a woman.

And one no longer betrothed.

Bond had to admit that what he felt for Philly was more than pure physical l.u.s.t. And he now asked himself a question that had arisen at other times, about other women, albeit rarely: could something serious develop between them?

Bond's romantic life was more complicated than most. The barriers to his having a partner were to some degree his extensive travelling, the demands of his job and the constant danger that surrounded him. But more fundamental was the tricky matter of admitting who he really was and, more tellingly, his duties within the 00 Section, which some, perhaps most, women would find distasteful, if not abhorrent.

He knew that at some point he would have to admit to at least part of it to any woman who became more than a casual lover. You can keep secrets from those you're close to for only so long. People are far more clever and observant than we think and, between romantic partners, one's fundamental secrets stay hidden only because the other chooses to let them remain so.

Plausible deniability might work in Whitehall but it didn't last between lovers.

Yet with Philly Maidenstone this was not a problem. There would be no confessions about his profession over dinner or amid tousled morning bedclothes; she knew his CV and his remit knew them intimately.

And she'd suggested a restaurant near her flat.

What sort of message lay in that choice?

James Bond glanced at his watch. It was time to dress and attempt to decipher the code.

18.

At eight fifteen the taxi dropped Bond at Antoine's in Bloomsbury and he immediately approved of Philly's choice. He hated crowded, noisy restaurants and bars and on more than one occasion had walked out of upmarket establishments when the decibel level had proved to be too irritating. Upscale pubs were more 'ghastly' than 'gastro', he'd once quipped.

But Antoine's was quiet and dimly lit. An impressive wine selection was visible at the back of the room and the walls were filled with muted portraits from the nineteenth century. Bond asked for a small booth not far from the wall of bottles. He settled into the plush leather, facing the front, as always, and studied the place. Business people and locals, he judged.

'Something to drink?' asked the waiter, a pleasant man in his late thirties, with a shaved head and pierced ears.

Bond decided on a c.o.c.ktail. 'Crown Royal, on ice, a double, please. Add a half-measure of triple sec, two dashes of bitters and a twist of orange peel.'

'Yes, sir. Interesting drink.'

'Based on an Old Fashioned. My own creation, actually.'

'Does it have a name?'

'Not yet,' he said. 'I've been looking for the right one.'

A few moments later it arrived and he took a sip it was constructed perfectly and Bond said so. He'd just set the gla.s.s down when he saw Philly coming through the door, radiant with a smile. It seemed that her pace quickened when she saw him.

She was in close-fitting black jeans, a brown leather jacket and, under it, a tight dark green sweater, the colour of his Jaguar.

He half rose as she joined him, sitting to his side, rather than across. She was carrying a briefcase.

'You all right?' she said.

He'd half expected something a bit more personal than this rather casual greeting. But then he asked himself sternly, Why?

She had barely taken off her jacket before she'd caught the eye of the waiter, who greeted her with a smile. 'Ophelia.'

'Aaron. I'll have a gla.s.s of the Mosel Riesling.'

'On its way.'

Her wine arrived and Bond told Aaron they'd wait to order. Their gla.s.ses nodded at one another but did not clink.

'First,' Bond murmured, edging a little closer, 'Hydt. Tell me about him.'

'I checked with Specialist Operations at the Yard, Six, Interpol, NCIC and CIA in America and the AIVD in the Netherlands. I made some discreet enquiries at Five too.' She'd obviously deduced the tension between Bond and Osborne-Smith. 'No criminal records. No watchlists. More Tory than Labour but doesn't have much interest in politics. Not a member of any church. Treats his people well no labour unrest of any kind. No problems with the Inland Revenue or Health and Safety. He just seems to be a wealthy businessman. Very wealthy. All he's ever done professionally is rubbish collection and recycling.'

The Rag-and-bone Man . . .

'He's fifty-six, never married. Both parents they were Dutch are dead now. His father had some money and travelled a lot on business. Hydt was born in Amsterdam, then came here with his mother to live when he was twelve. She had a breakdown so he grew up mostly under the care of the housekeeper, who'd accompanied them from Holland. Then his father lost most of his money and vanished from his son's life. Because she wasn't getting paid, the housekeeper called in Social Services and vanished after eight years of looking after the boy.' Philly shook her head in sympathy. 'He was fourteen.'

Philly continued, 'He started working as a dustman at fifteen. Then he's off the radar until he's in his twenties. He opened Green Way just as the recycling trend caught on.'

'What happened? Did he inherit some money?'

'No. It's a bit of a mystery. He started penniless, as far as I can tell. When he was older he put himself through university. He read ancient history and archaeology.'

'And Green Way?'

'It handles general rubbish disposal, wheelie-bin collection, removal of construction waste at building sites, sc.r.a.p metal, demolition, recycling, doc.u.ment shredding, dangerous-materials reclamation and disposal. According to the business press, it's moving into a dozen other countries to start up rubbish tips and recycling centres.' Philly displayed a printout of a company sales brochure.

Bond frowned at the logo. It looked like a green dagger, resting on its side.

'It's not a knife,' Philly said, laughing. 'I thought the same thing. It's a leaf. Global warming, pollution and energy are the s.e.xiest subjects in the au courant environmental movement. But rising quickly are planet-friendly rubbish disposal and recycling. And Green Way's one of the big innovators.'

'Any Serbian connection?'

'Through a subsidiary he owns part of a small operation in Belgrade. But, like everybody else in the organisation, n.o.body there has any criminal past.'

'I just can't work out his game,' Bond said. 'He's not political, has no terrorist leanings. It almost looks like he's been hired to arrange the attack, or whatever it's to be, on Friday. But he hardly needs money.' He sipped his c.o.c.ktail. 'Right, then, Detective Inspector Maidenstone, tell me about the evidence that other bit of ash from up in March. Six made out the "Gehenna plan" and "Friday, 20 May". Did Forensics at the Yard find anything else?'

Her voice dropped, which necessitated his leaning closer. He smelt a sweet but undefined scent. Her sweater, cashmere, brushed the back of his hand. 'They did. They think the rest of the words were "Course is confirmed. Blast radius must be a hundred feet minimum. Ten thirty is the optimal time."'

'So, an explosive device of some kind. Ten thirty Friday p.m., according to the original intercept. And "Course" a shipping route or plane most likely.'

'Now,' she continued, 'the metal you found? It's a t.i.tanium-steel laminate. Unique. n.o.body in the lab has ever seen anything like it. The pieces were shavings. They'd been machined in the past day or so.'

Was that what Hydt's people had been doing in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the hospital? Were they building a weapon with this metal?

'And Defence still owns the facility but it hasn't been used for three years.'

His eyes swept over her marvellous profile from forehead to b.r.e.a.s.t.s as she sipped her wine.

Philly continued, 'As for the Serbs, I practically said I'd force them to take on the euro in place of the dinar if they didn't help me. But they came through. The man working with the Irishman, Aldo Karic, was a load scheduler with the railway.'