Carte Blanche Part 11

22.

The fifteen-foot lorry, leased to Green Way International but unmarked, pulled up to the kerb at the executive flight services terminal at Gatwick airport. The door slid open and Severan Hydt, an older woman and the Irishman climbed out and collected their suitcases.

Thirty feet away, in the car park, sat a black-and-red Mini Cooper, whose interior decor included a yellow rose in a plastic vase wedged into the cup holder. Behind the wheel, James Bond was watching the trio of pa.s.sengers deploy to the pavement. The Irishman, naturally, was looking around carefully. He never seemed to drop his guard.

'What do you think of it?' Bond asked, into the hands-free connected to his mobile.

'It?'

'The Bentley.'

'"It"? Honestly, James, a car like this simply demands a name,' Philly Maidenstone chided. She was sitting in his Bentley Continental GT, at Luton airport, having chased Hydt's Audi all the way from Canning Town.

'I never got into the habit of naming my cars.' Any more than I'd give my gun a gender, he reflected. And kept his eyes on the threesome not far away.

Bond had been convinced that after the incidents in Serbia and March, Hydt or the Irishman, more likely would suspect he might be tailed in London. He was also concerned that Osborne-Smith had arranged to follow Bond himself. So, after he had talked to Rene Mathis, he'd left his flat and sped to a covered car park in the City, where he'd met Philly to swap cars. She was to trail Hydt's Audi, which Bond was sure would be a decoy, in his Bentley, while he, in her Mini, would wait for the man's true departure, which came just ten minutes after the German car had sped away from Hydt's Canning Town home.

Bond now watched Hydt, head down, making a phone call. Beside him stood the woman. In her early to mid-sixties, Bond guessed, she had attractive features, though her face was pale and gaunt, an image accentuated by her black overcoat. Too little sleep, perhaps.

His lover? Bond wondered. Or a long-time a.s.sistant? From her expression as she looked at Hydt, he decided the former.

Also, the Irishman. Bond hadn't seen him clearly in Serbia but there was no doubt; the gawky stride, feet turned out, bad posture, the odd blond fringe.

Bond supposed he was the man in the bulldozer in March who had so ruthlessly crushed his security man to death. He also pictured the dead in Serbia the agents, the train and lorry drivers, as well as the man's own a.s.sociate and he let the anger rising in him crest and dissolve.

Philly said, 'In answer to your question, I liked it very much. A lot of engines have horses nowadays; you can get AMG Mercedes estate cars to take the kids to school, for G.o.d's sake but how many pounds torque does the Bentley have? I've never felt anything like it.'

'A touch over five hundred.'

'Oh, my G.o.d,' Philly whispered, either impressed or envious, perhaps both. 'And I'm in love with the all-wheel drive. How's it distributed?'

'Sixty-forty rear to front.'

'Brilliant.'

'Yours isn't bad either,' he told her, of the Mini. 'You added a supercharger.'

'I did indeed.'

'Whose?'

'Autorotor. The Swedish outfit. Nearly doubled the horsepower. Close to three hundred now.'

'I thought as much.' Bond was himself impressed. 'I must get the name of your mechanic. I have an old Jaguar that needs work.'

'Oh, tell me it's an E-type. That's the s.e.xiest car in the history of motoring.'

Yet one more thing in common. Bond wrapped this thought up and put it quickly away. 'I'll leave you in suspense. Hold on. Hydt's on the move.' Bond climbed out of the Mini and hid Philly's key in the wheel arch. He grabbed his suitcase and laptop bag, slipped on a new pair of tortoisesh.e.l.l sungla.s.ses and eased into a crowd to follow Hydt, the Irishman and the woman to Gatwick's private jet terminal.

'You there?' he asked, into the hands-free.

'I am,' Philly replied.

'What's happening with the decoys?'

'They're just sitting in the Audi.'

'They'll be waiting until Hydt takes off and the plane's out of UK airs.p.a.ce. Then they'll turn round to lead you and probably Mr Osborne-Smith back to London.'

'You think Ozzy's watching?'

Bond had to smile. 'You've got a drone hovering about ten thousand feet over you, I'm sure. They're walking into the terminal now. I should go, Philly.'

'I don't get out of the office enough, James. Thanks for the chance to play Formula One.'

Impulsively he said, 'Here's an idea. Maybe we'll take it out into the country together, do some serious driving.'

'James!' she said crossly. He wondered if he'd crossed a line. 'You simply can't keep referring to this magnificent machine as "it". I shall rack my brains and think up a proper name for her. And, yes, a trip out to the country sounds divine, provided you let me drive for exactly half the time. And we put in a null-detain request. I already have a few points on my driving licence.'

They rang off and Bond discreetly followed his prey. The threesome paused at a gate in a chain-link fence and presented pa.s.sports to the guard. Bond saw that the woman's was blue. American? The uniformed man jotted on a clipboard and gestured the three through. As Bond got to the fence he caught a glimpse of them climbing the stairs to a white private jet, a large one, seven round windows on each side of the fuselage, running lights already on. The door closed.

Bond hit speed-dial.

'Flanagan. h.e.l.lo, James.'

'Maurice,' he said to the head of T Branch, the group within the ODG that handled all things vehicular. 'I need a destination for a private plane, departing just about now from Gatwick.' He read off the five-letter registration painted on the engine.

'Give me a minute.'

The aircraft moved forward. Dammit, he thought angrily. Slow down. He was all too aware that, if Rene Mathis's information was correct, Hydt was on his way to oversee the murder of at least ninety people that evening.

Maurice Flanagan said, 'I have it. Nice bird, Grumman Five-fifty. State-of-the-art and d.a.m.ned expensive. That one's owned by a Dutch company in the business of waste and recycling.'

One of Hydt's, of course.

'The flight plan's filed for Dubai.'

Dubai? Was that where the deaths were going to happen? 'Where will it stop for refuelling?'

Flanagan laughed. 'James, the range is over six and a half thousand miles. Flies at Mach point eight eight.'

Bond watched the plane taxiing to the runway. Dubai was about 3,500 miles from London. With the time difference the Grumman would land at three or four p.m.

'I need to beat that plane to Dubai, Maurice. What can you cobble together for me? I have pa.s.sports, credit cards and three grand in cash. Whatever you can do. Oh, I have my weapon you'll need to take that into account.'

Bond kept staring at the sleek white jet, wingtips turned up. It looked less like a bird than a dragon, though that might have been because he knew who the occupants were and what they had planned.

Ninety dead . . .

Several tense moments pa.s.sed as Bond watched the jet edge closer to the runway.

Then Flanagan said, 'Sorry, James. The best I can do is get you on a commercial flight out of Heathrow in a few hours. Puts you in Dubai around six twenty.'

'Won't do, Maurice. Military? Government?'

'Nothing available. Absolutely nothing.'

d.a.m.n. At least he could have Philly or Bill Tanner arrange with someone at Six's UAE desk to have a watcher meet the flight at Dubai airport and tail Hydt and Dunne to their destination.

He sighed. 'Put me on the commercial flight.'

'Will do. Sorry.'

Bond glanced at his watch.

Nine hours until the deaths . . .

He could always hope for a delay to Hydt's flight.

Just then he saw the Grumman turn on to the main runway and, without pause, accelerate fast, lifting effortlessly from the concrete, then shrinking to a dot as the dragon shot higher into the sky, speeding directly away from him.

Percy Osborne-Smith was leaning towards the large, flatscreen monitor, split into six rectangles. Twenty minutes ago, they'd had a CCTV hit on the number plate of a lorry registered to Severan Hydt's company at the Redhill and Reigate exit from the A23, which led to Gatwick. He and his underlings were now scanning every camera in and around the airport for the vehicle.

The second technician to join them finished securing her blonde hair with an elastic band and pointed a pudgy finger to one of the screens. 'There. That's it.'

It seemed that fifteen minutes ago, according to the time stamp, the lorry had paused at the kerb near the private aviation terminal and several people had got out. Yes, it was the trio.

'Why didn't Hydt's face get read when he arrived? We can find hooligans from Rio before they get into Old Trafford but we can't spot a ma.s.s murderer in broad daylight. My G.o.d, does that say something about Whitehall's priorities? Don't repeat that, anyone. Scan the tarmac.'

The technician manipulated the controls. There was an image of Hydt and the others walking to a private jet.

'Bring up the registration number. Run it.'

To his credit Deputy-Deputy already had. 'Owned by a Dutch company that does recycling. Okay, got the flight plan. He's headed for Dubai. They've already taken off.'

'Where are they now? Where?'

'Checking . . .' The a.s.sistant sighed. 'Just pa.s.sing out of UK airs.p.a.ce.'

Teeth clenched, Osborne-Smith stared at the still video image of the plane. He mused, 'Wonder what it would take to scramble some Harriers and force them down?' Then he looked up to note everyone staring at him. 'I'm not serious, people.'

Though he had been, just a little.

'Look at that,' the male technician interrupted.

'Look at b.l.o.o.d.y what?'

Deputy-Deputy said, 'Yes, somebody else is watching them.'

The screen was showing the entrance to the private jet terminal at Gatwick. A man was standing at the wire fence, staring at Hydt's plane.

My G.o.d it was Bond.

So, the b.l.o.o.d.y clever ODG agent, with a fancy car and without permission to carry a firearm in the UK, had tailed Hydt after all. Osborne-Smith wondered briefly who'd been in the Bentley. The ruse, he knew, had been not only to fool Hydt but to fool Division Three.

With considerable contentment he watched Bond turn from the fence and head back to the car park, head down and speaking into his mobile, undoubtedly enduring a verbal las.h.i.+ng from his boss for having let the fox slip away.

23.

Usually we never hear the sound that wakes us. Perhaps we might, if it repeats: an alarm or an urgent voice. But a once-only noise rouses without registering in our consciousness.

James Bond didn't know what lifted him from his dreamless sleep. He glanced at his watch.

It was just after one p.m.

Then he smelt a delicious aroma: a combination of floral perfume jasmine, he believed and the ripe, rich scent of vintage champagne. Above him he saw the heavenly form of a beautiful Middle Eastern woman, wearing a sleek burgundy skirt and long-sleeved golden s.h.i.+rt over her voluptuous figure. Her collar was secured with a pearl, which was different from the lower b.u.t.tons. He found the tiny cream dot particularly appealing. Her hair was as blue-black as crow feathers, pinned up, though a teasing strand fell loose, cupping one side of her face, which was subtly and meticulously made-up.

He said to her, 'Salam alaik.u.m.'

'Wa alaik.u.m salam,' she replied. She set the crystal flute on the tray table in front of him, along with the elegant bottle of the king of Mots, Dom Perignon. 'I'm sorry, Mr Bond, I've woken you. I'm afraid the cork popped more loudly than I'd hoped. I was just going to leave the gla.s.s and not disturb you.'

'Shukran,' he said, as he took the gla.s.s. 'And don't worry. My second favourite way to wake up is to the sound of champagne opening.'

She responded to this with a subtle smile. 'I can arrange some lunch for you too.'

'That would be lovely, if it's not too much trouble.'

She returned to the galley.

Bond sipped his champagne and looked out of the private jet's s.p.a.cious window, the twin Rolls-Royce engines pulsing smoothly as it flew towards Dubai at 42,000 feet, doing more than 600 miles an hour. The aircraft was, Bond reflected with amus.e.m.e.nt, a Grumman, like Severan Hydt's, but Bond was in a Grumman 650, the faster model, with a greater range than the Rag-and-bone Man's.

Bond had started the chase hours ago, with the modern equivalent of a scene from an old American police movie, in which the detective leaps into a taxi and orders, 'Follow that car.' He'd decided that the commercial flight would get him to Dubai too late to stop the killings so he'd placed a call to his Commodore Club friend, Fouad Kharaz, who had instantly put a private jet at his disposal. 'My friend, you know I owe you,' the Arab a.s.sured him.

A year ago he had approached Bond awkwardly for help, suspecting he did something that involved government security. On his way home from school, Kharaz's teenage son had become the target of some hooded thugs, nineteen or twenty years old, who flaunted their anti-social behaviour orders like insignias of rank. The police were sympathetic but had little time for the drama. Worried sick about his son, Kharaz asked if there was anything Bond could recommend. In a moment of weakness, the knight errant within Bond had prevailed and he had trailed the boy home from school one day when nothing much was going on at the ODG. When the tormentors had moved in, so had Bond.

With a few effortless martial arts manoeuvres he had gently laid two of them out on the pavement and pinned the third, the ringleader, to a wall. He had taken their names from their driving licences and whispered coldly that if the Kharaz boy was ever troubled again, the hoodies' next visit from Bond would not end so civilly. The boys had strode off defiantly, but the son was never troubled again; his status at school had soared.