Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

‘There were no days before encryption, René. There were only days before there was an app for it on a touch screen.’

‘Well said, James. You are waxing wise, comme un philosophe . And so early in the morning.’

The thirty-five-year-old Mathis was an agent for the French secret service, the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure. He and Bond worked together occasionally, in joint ODG and DGSE operations, most recently wrapping up al-Qaeda and other criminal enterprises in Europe and North Africa. They had also drunk significant quantities of Lillet and Louis Roederer together and spent some rather… well, colourful nights in such cities as Bucharest, Tunis and Bari, that free-wheeling gem on Italy’s Adriatic coast.

It had been René Mathis whom Bond had called yesterday evening, not Osborne-Smith, to ask his friend to run surveillance on Severan Hydt. He had made the decision reluctantly but he had realised he had to take the politically risky step of circumventing not only Division Three but M himself. He needed surveillance but had to make sure that Hydt and the Irishman remained unaware that the British authorities were on to them.

France, of course, has its own snoop operation, like GCHQ in England, the NSA in America and any other country’s intelligence agency with a flush budget. The DGSE was continually listening in to conversations and reading emails of the citizens of other countries, the United Kingdom’s included. (Yes, the countries were allies at the moment, but there was that little matter of the history between them.)

So Bond had called in a favour. He’d asked René Mathis to listen to the ELINT and SIGINT from London being hoovered up by the hundred-metre antenna of France’s gravity gradient stabilised spy satellite, searching for relevant key words.

Mathis now said, ‘I have something for you, James.’

‘I’m dressing. I’ll put you on speaker.’ Bond hit the button and leapt out of bed.

‘Does this mean that the beautiful redhead lying beside you will be listening as well?’

Bond chuckled, not least because the Frenchman had happened to pick that particular hair colour. A brief image surfaced of pressing his cheek against Philly’s last night on her doorstep as her vibrant hair caressed his shoulder before he returned to his flat.

‘I searched for signals tagged “Severan Hydt” or his nickname “Noah”. And anything related to Green Way International, the Gehenna plan, Serbia train derailments, or threat-oriented events this coming Friday, and all of those in proximity to any names sounding Irish. But it is very odd, James: the satellite vector was aimed right at Green Way’s premises east of London, but there was virtually no SIGINT coming out of the place. It’s as if he forbids his workers to have mobiles. Very curious.’

Yes, it was, Bond reflected. He continued dressing fast.

‘But there are several things we were able to pick up. Hydt is presently at home and he’s leaving the country this morning. Soon, I believe. Going where, I don’t know. But he’ll be flying. There was a reference to an airport and another to passports. And it will be in a private jet, since his people had spoken to the pilot directly. I’m afraid there was no clue as to which airport. I know there are many in London. We have them targeted… for surveillance only, I must add quickly!’

Bond couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Now, James, we found nothing about this Gehenna plan. But I have some disturbing information. We decrypted a brief call fifteen minutes ago to a location about ten miles west of Green Way, outside London.’

‘Probably Hydt’s home.’

Mathis continued, ‘A man’s voice said, “Severan, it’s me.” Accented but our algorithms couldn’t tell region of origin. There were some pleasantries, then this: “We’re confirmed for seven p.m. today. The number of dead will be ninety or so. You must be there no later than six forty-five.”’

So Hydt either was part of a plan to murder scores of people or was going to do so himself. ‘Who are the victims? And why are they going to die?’

‘I don’t know, James. But what I found just as troubling was your Mr Hydt’s reaction. His voice was like that of un enfant offered chocolate. He said, “Oh, such wonderful news! Thank you so much.”’ His voice dark, Mathis said, ‘I’ve never heard that kind of joy at the prospect of killing. But, even stranger, he then asked, “How close can I get to the bodies?”’

‘He said that?’

‘Indeed. The man told him he could be very close. And Hydt sounded very pleased at that too. Then the phones went silent and haven’t been used again.’

‘Seven p.m. Somewhere out of the country. Anything more?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Thank you, for all this. I’d better get on with the hunt.’

‘I wish I could keep our satellite online longer but my superiors are already asking questions about why I am so interested in that insignificant little place called London.’

‘Next time the Dom is on me, René.’

‘But of course. Au revoir. ’

‘ À bientôt, et merci beaucoup. ’ Bond hit disconnect.

In his years as a Royal Naval Reserve commander and an agent for ODG, he’d been up against some very bad people: insurgents, terrorists, psychopathic criminals, amoral traitors selling nuclear secrets to men mad enough to use them. But what was Hydt’s game?

Purpose… response.

Well, even if it wasn’t clear what the man’s twisted goal might be, at least there was one response Bond could initiate.

Ten minutes later he ran down the stairs, fishing the car key from his pocket. He didn’t need to look up Severan Hydt’s address. He’d memorised it last night.

Thames House, the home of MI5, the Northern Ireland Office and some related security organisations, is less impressive than the residence of MI6, which happens to be nearby, across the river on the South Bank. Six’s headquarters look rather like a futuristic enclave from a Ridley Scott film (it’s referred to as Babylon-upon-Thames, for its resemblance to a ziggurat, and, less kindly, as Legoland).

But if not as architecturally striking, Thames House is far more intimidating. The ninety-year-old grey stone monolith is the sort of place where, were it a police headquarters in Soviet Russia or East Germany, you would begin answering before questions were asked. On the other hand, the place does boast some rather impressive sculpture (Charles Sargeant Jagger’s Britannia and St George , for instance) and every few days tourists from Arkansas or Tokyo stroll up to the front door thinking it’s Tate Britain, which is located a short distance away.

In the windowless bowels of Thames House were the offices of Division Three. The organisation conscientiously – for the sake of deniability – rented space and equipment from Five (and nobody has better equipment than MI5), all at arm’s length.

In the middle of this fiefdom was a large control room, rather frayed at the edges, the green walls battered and scuffed, the furniture dented, the carpet insulted by too many heels. The requisite government regulatory posters about suspicious parcels, fire drills, health and trade union matters were omnipresent, often tarted up by bureaucrats with nothing better to do.

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But the computers here were voracious and the dozens of flatscreen monitors big and bright, and Deputy Senior Director of Field Operations Percy Osborne-Smith was standing, arms folded, in front of the biggest and brightest. In brown jacket and mismatched trousers – he’d woken at four a.m. and dressed by five past – Osborne-Smith was with two young men: his assistant and a rumpled technician hovering over a keyboard.