Carte Blanche Part 3

'And the Oakleys?' She was gazing down into the bag.

'There's a fingerprint in the middle of the right lens. The Irishman's partner. There was no pocket litter.'

She made copies of the two doc.u.ments, handed him a set, kept one for herself and replaced the originals in the bag with the gla.s.ses.

Bond then explained about the hazardous material that the Irishman was trying to spill into the Danube. 'I need to know what it was. And what kind of damage it could have caused. Afraid I've ruffled some feathers among the Serbs. They won't want to co-operate.'

'We'll see about that.'

Just then his mobile buzzed. He looked at the screen, though he knew this distinctive chirp quite well. He answered. 'Moneypenny.'

The woman's low voice said, 'h.e.l.lo, James. Welcome back.'

'M?' he asked.

'M.'

8.

The sign beside the top-floor office read Director-General.

Bond stepped into the ante-room, where a woman in her mid-thirties sat at a tidy desk. She wore a pale cream camisole beneath a jacket that was nearly the same shade as Bond's. A long face, handsome and regal, eyes that could flick from stern to compa.s.sionate faster than a Formula One gearbox.

'h.e.l.lo, Moneypenny.'

'It'll just be a moment, James. He's on the line to Whitehall again.'

Her posture was upright, her gestures economical. Not a hair was out of place. He reflected, as he often did, that her military background had left an indelible mark. She'd resigned her commission with the Royal Navy to take her present job with M as his personal a.s.sistant.

Just after he'd joined the ODG, Bond had dropped into her office chair and flashed a broad smile. 'Rank of lieutenant, were you, Moneypenny?' he'd quipped. 'I'd prefer to picture you above me.' Bond had left the service as a commander.

He'd received in reply not the searing rejoinder he deserved but a smooth riposte: 'Oh, but I've found in life, James, that all positions must be earned through experience. And I'm pleased to say I have little doubt that my level of such does not begin to approach yours.'

The cleverness and speed of her retort and the use of his first name, along with her radiant smile, instantly and immutably defined their relations.h.i.+p: she'd kept him in his place but opened the avenue of friends.h.i.+p. So it had remained ever since, caring and close but always professional. (Still, he harboured the belief that of all the 00 Section agents she liked him best.) Moneypenny looked him over and frowned. 'You had quite a time of it over there, I heard.'

'You could say so.'

She glanced at M's closed door and said, 'This Noah situation's a tough one, James. Signals flying everywhere. He left at nine last night, came in at five this morning.' She added, in a whisper, 'He was worried about you. There were some moments last night when you were incommunicado. He was on the phone quite often then.'

They saw a light on her phone extinguish. She hit a b.u.t.ton and spoke through a nearly invisible stalk mike. 'It's 007, sir.'

She nodded at the door, towards which Bond now walked, as the do-not-disturb light above it flashed on. This occurred silently, of course, but Bond always imagined the illumination was accompanied by the sound of a deadbolt cras.h.i.+ng open to admit a new prisoner to a medieval dungeon.

'Morning, sir.'

M looked exactly the same as he had at the Travellers Club lunch when they'd met three years ago and might have been wearing the same grey suit. He gestured to one of the two functional chairs facing the large oak desk. Bond sat down.

The office was carpeted and the walls were lined with bookshelves. The building was at the fulcrum where old London became new and M's windows in the corner office bore witness to this. To the west Marylebone High Street's period buildings contrasted sharply with Euston Road's skysc.r.a.pers of gla.s.s and metal, sculptures of high concept and questionable aesthetics and lift systems cleverer than you were.

These scenes, however, remained dim, even on sunny days, since the window gla.s.s was both bomb- and bullet-proof and mirrored to prevent spying by any ingenious enemy hanging from a hot-air balloon over Regent's Park.

M looked up from his notes and scanned Bond. 'No medical report, I gather.'

Nothing escaped him. Ever.

'A scratch or two. Not serious.'

The man's desk held a yellow pad, a complicated console phone, his mobile, an Edwardian bra.s.s lamp and a humidor stocked with the narrow black cheroots M sometimes allowed himself on drives to and from Whitehall or during his brief walks through Regent's Park, when he was accompanied by his thoughts and two P Branch guards. Bond knew very little of M's personal life, only that he lived in a Regency manor-house on the edge of Windsor Forest and was a bridge player, a fisherman and a rather accomplished watercolourist of flowers. A personable and talented Navy corporal named Andy Smith drove him about in a well-polished ten-year-old Rolls-Royce.

'Give me your report, 007.'

Bond organised his thoughts. M did not tolerate a muddled narrative or padding. 'Ums' and 'ers' were as unacceptable as stating the obvious. He reiterated what had happened in Novi Sad, then added, 'I found a few things in Serbia that might give us some details. Philly's sorting them now and finding out about the haz-mat on the train.'

'Philly?'

Bond recalled that M disliked the use of nicknames, even though he was referred to exclusively by one throughout the organisation. 'Ophelia Maidenstone,' he explained. 'Our liaison from Six. If there's anything to be found, she'll sniff it out.'

'Your cover in Serbia?'

'I was working false flag. The senior people at BIA in Belgrade know I'm with the ODG and what my mission was, but we told their two field agents I was with a fictional UN peacekeeping outfit. I had to mention Noah and the incident on Friday in case the BIA agents stumbled across something referring to them. But whatever the Irishman got out of the younger man, it wasn't compromising.'

'The Yard and Five are wondering with the train in Novi Sad, do you think Incident Twenty's about sabotaging a railway line here? Serbia was a dry run?'

'I wondered that too, sir. But it wouldn't be the sort of operation that'd need much rehearsal. Besides, the Irishman's partner rigged the derailment in about three minutes. Our rail systems here must be more sophisticated than a freight line in rural Serbia.'

A bushy eyebrow rose, perhaps disputing that a.s.sumption. But M said, 'You're right. It doesn't seem like a prelude to Incident Twenty.'

'Now.' Bond sat forward. 'What I'd like to do, sir, is get back to Station Y immediately. Enter through Hungary and set up a rendition op to track down the Irishman. I'll take a couple of our double-one agents with me. We can trace the lorry he stole. It'll be tricky but-'

M was shaking his head, rocking back in his well-worn throne. 'It seems there's a bit of a flap, 007. It involves you.'

'Whatever Belgrade's saying, the young agent who died-'

M waved a hand impatiently. 'Yes, yes, of course what happened was their fault. There was never any question about that. Explanation is a sign of weakness, 007. Don't know why you're doing it now.'

'Sorry, sir.'

'I'm speaking of something else. Last night, Cheltenham managed to get a satellite image of the lorry the Irishman escaped in.'

'Very good, sir.' So, his tracking tactic had apparently succeeded.

But M's scowl suggested Bond's satisfaction was premature. 'About fifteen miles south of Novi Sad the lorry pulled over and the Irishman got into a helicopter. No registration or ID but GCHQ got a MASINT profile of it.'

Material and Signature Intelligence was the latest in high-tech espionage. If information came from electronic sources like microwave transmissions or radio, it was ELINT; from photographs and satellite images, IMINT; from mobile phones and emails, SIGINT; and from human sources, HUMINT. With MASINT, instruments collected and profiled data such as thermal energy, sound waves, airflow disruption, propeller and helicopter rotor vibrations, exhaust from jet engines, trains and cars, velocity patterns and more.

The director-general continued, 'Last night Five registered a MASINT profile that matched the helicopter he escaped in.'

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l . . . If MI5 had found the chopper, that meant it was in England. The Irishman the sole lead to Noah and Incident Twenty was in the one place where James Bond had no authority to pursue him.

M added, 'The helicopter landed north-east of London at about one a.m. and vanished. They lost all track.' He shook his head. 'I don't see why Whitehall didn't give us more lat.i.tude about operating at home when they chartered us. Would have been easy. h.e.l.l, what if you'd followed the Irishman to the London Eye or Madame Tussaud's? What should you have done rung 999? For G.o.d's sake, these are the days of globalisation, of the Internet, the EU, yet we can't follow leads in our own country.'

The rationale for this rule, however, was clear. MI5 conducted brilliant investigations. MI6 was a master at foreign intelligence gathering and 'disruptive action', such as destroying a terrorist cell from within by planting misinformation. The Overseas Development Group did rather more, including occasionally, if rarely, ordering its 00 Section agents to lie in wait for enemies of the state and shoot them dead. But to do so within the UK, however morally justifiable or tactically convenient, would play rather badly among bloggers and the Fleet Street scribblers.

Not to mention that the Crown's prosecutors might be counted on to have a say in the matter as well.

But, politics aside, Bond adamantly wanted to pursue Incident Twenty. He'd developed a particular dislike for the Irishman. His words to M were measured: 'I think I'm in the best position to find this man and Noah and to suss out what they're up to. I want to keep on it, sir.'

'I thought as much. And I want you to pursue it, 007. I've been on the phone this morning with Five and Specialist Operations at the Yard. They're both willing to let you have a consulting role.'

'Consulting?' Bond said sourly, then realised that M would have done some impressive negotiating to achieve that much. 'Thank you, sir.'

M deflected the words with a jerk of his head. 'You'll be working with someone from Division Three, a fellow named Osborne-Smith.'

Division Three . . . British security and police operations were like human beings: forever being born, marrying, producing progeny, dying and even, Bond had once joked, undergoing s.e.x-change operations. Division Three was one of the more recent offspring. It had some loose affiliation with Five, in much the same way that the ODG had a gossamer thin connection to Six.

Plausible deniability . . .

While Five had broad investigation and surveillance powers, it had no arrest authority or tactical officers. Division Three did. It was a secretive, reclusive group of high-tech wizards, bureaucrats and former SAS and SBS tough boys with serious firepower. Bond had been impressed with its recent successes in taking down terrorist cells in Oldham, Leeds and London.

M regarded him evenly. 'I know you're used to having carte blanche to handle the mission as you see fit, 007. You have your independent streak and it's served you well in the past.' A dark look. 'Most of the time. But at home your authority's limited. Significantly. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, sir.'

So, no longer carte blanche, Bond reflected angrily, more carte grise.

Another dour glance from M. 'Now, a complication. That security conference.'

'Security conference?'

'Haven't read your Whitehall briefing?' M asked petulantly.

These were administrative announcements about internal government matters and, accordingly, no, Bond did not read them. 'Sorry, sir.'

M's jowls tightened. 'We have thirteen security agencies in the UK. Maybe more as of this morning. The heads of Five, Six, SOCA, JTAC, SO Thirteen, DI, the whole lot myself included will be holed up in Whitehall for three days later in the week. Oh, the CIA and some chaps from the Continent too. Briefings on Islamabad, Pyongyang, Venezuela, Beijing, Jakarta. And there'll probably be some young a.n.a.lyst in Harry Potter gla.s.ses touting his theory that the Chechnyan rebels are responsible for that d.a.m.ned volcano in Iceland. A b.l.o.o.d.y inconvenience, the whole thing.' He sighed. 'I'll be largely incommunicado. Chief of staff will be running the Incident Twenty operation for the Group.'

'Yes, sir. I'll co-ordinate with him.'

'Get on to it, 007. And remember: you're operating in the UK. Treat it like a country you've never been to. Which means, for G.o.d's sake, be diplomatic with the natives.'

9.

'It's pretty bad, sir. Are you sure you want to see it?'

To the foreman, the man replied immediately. 'Yes.'

'Right, then. I'll drive you out.'

'Who else knows?'

'Just the s.h.i.+ft chief and the lad what found it.' Casting a glance at his boss, the man added, 'They'll keep quiet. If that's what you want.'

Severan Hydt said nothing.

Under an overcast and dusty sky, the two men left the loading bay of the ancient headquarters building and walked to a nearby car park. They climbed into a people-carrier emblazoned with the logo of Green Way International Disposal and Recycling; the company name was printed over a delicate drawing of a verdant leaf. Hydt didn't much care for the design, which struck him as mockingly trendy, but he'd been told that the image had scored well in focus groups and was good for public relations ('Ah, the public,' he'd responded with veiled contempt and reluctantly approved it).

He was a tall man six foot three and broad-shouldered, his columnar torso encased in a bespoke suit of black wool. His ma.s.sive head was covered with thick, curly hair, black streaked with white, and he wore a matching beard. His yellowing fingernails extended well past his fingertips, but were carefully filed; they were long by design, not neglect.

Hydt's pallor accentuated his dark nostrils and darker eyes, framed by a long face that appeared younger than his fifty-six years. He was a strong man still, having retained much of his youthful muscularity.

The van started through his company's dishevelled grounds, more than a hundred acres of low buildings, rubbish tips, skips, hovering seagulls, smoke, dust . . .

And decay . . .

As they drove over the rough roads, Hydt's attention momentarily slipped to a construction about half a mile away. A new building was nearing completion. It was identical to two that stood already in the grounds: five-storey boxes from which chimneys rose, the sky above them rippling from the rising heat. The buildings were known as destructors, a Victorian word that Severan Hydt loved. England was the first country in the world to make energy from munic.i.p.al refuse. In the 1870s the first power plant to do so was built in Nottingham and soon hundreds were operating throughout the country, producing steam to generate electricity.

The destructor now nearing completion in the middle of his disposal and recycling operation was no different in theory from its gloomy d.i.c.kensian forebears, save that it used scrubbers and filters to clean the dangerous exhaust and was far more efficient, burning RDF refuse-derived fuel as it produced energy that was pumped (for profit, of course) into the London and Home County power grids.

Indeed, Green Way International, plc, was simply the latest in a long British tradition of innovation in refuse disposal and reclamation. Henry IV had decreed that rubbish should be collected and removed from the streets of towns and cities on threat of forfeit. Mudlarks had kept the banks of the Thames clean for entrepreneurial profit, not government wages and rag pickers had sold sc.r.a.ps of wool to mills for the production of cheap cloth called shoddy. In London, as early as the nineteenth century, women and girls had been employed to sift through incoming refuse and sort it according to future usefulness. The British Paper Company had been founded to manufacture recycled paper in 1890.

Green Way was located nearly twenty miles east of London, well past the boxed sets of office buildings on the Isle of Dogs and the sea-mine of the O2, past the ramble of Canning Town and Silvertown, the Docklands. To reach it you turned south-east off the A13 and drove towards the Thames. Soon you were down to a narrow lane, unwelcoming, even forbidding, surrounded by nothing but brush and stalky plants, pale and translucent as a dying patient's skin. The tarmac strip seemed a road to nowhere . . . until it crested a low rise and ahead you could see Green Way's ma.s.sive complex, forever muted through a haze.

In the middle of this wonderland of rubbish the van now stopped beside a battered skip, six feet high, twenty long. Two workers, somewhere in their forties, wearing tan Green Way overalls, stood uncomfortably beside it. They didn't look any less uneasy now that the owner of the company himself, no less, was present.

'Crikey,' one whispered to the other.

Hydt knew they were also cowed by his black eyes, the tight ma.s.s of his beard and his towering frame.

And then there were those fingernails.

He asked, 'In there?'

The workers remained speechless and the foreman, the name Jack Dennison st.i.tched on his overalls, said, 'That's right, sir.' Then he snapped to one of the workers, 'Right, suns.h.i.+ne, don't keep Mr Hydt waiting. He hasn't got all day, has he?'

The employee hurried to the side of the skip and, with some effort, pulled the large door open, a.s.sisted by a spring. Inside were the ubiquitous mounds of green bin liners and loose junk bottles, magazines and newspapers that people had been too lazy to separate for recycling.

And there was another item of discard inside: a human body.