Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

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 assistant? 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 associate – 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 God’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 God,’ 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 sexiest 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 tortoiseshell sunglasses 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 airspace. 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 passports 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. Hello, 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 René 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 damned 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 passports, 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 passed 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.’

Damn. 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 mass murderer in broad daylight. My God, 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.’