Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

‘We had such a connection. It was very… refreshing. In the pageants, I used to joke that life isn’t even skin deep; it’s make-up deep. That’s all people see. Make-up and clothes. Severan saw some depth in me, I guess. We hit it off. He asked for my number and kept calling. Well, I wasn’t a stupid woman. I was fifty-seven years old, no family, very little money. And here was a handsome man… a vital man.’

Bond wondered if that meant what he suspected it might.

Sat-nav instructed him to leave the highway. He drove carefully along a congested road. The minibus taxis were everywhere. Tow trucks waited at intersections, apparently to be the first at the site of an accident. People sold drinks by the roadside; impromptu businesses operated from the backs of lorries and vans. Several were doing a booming trade selling batteries and performing alternator repairs. Why did that malady plague South African vehicles in particular?

Now that he had broken yet more ice, Bond asked casually about the meeting tomorrow, but she said she knew nothing about it and he believed her. Frustratingly to Bond, it seemed that Hydt kept her in the dark about Gehenna and any other illegal activities he, Dunne or the company were involved in.

They were five minutes from their destination, the sat-nav reported, when Bond said, ‘I have to be honest. It’s odd.’

‘What is?’

‘Just how he surrounds himself with it all.’

‘All of what?’ Jessica asked, her eyes on him closely.

‘Decay, destruction.’

‘Well, it’s his business.’

‘I don’t mean his work with Green Way. That I understand. I’m speaking of his personal interest with the old, the used… the discarded.’

Jessica said nothing for a moment. She pointed ahead to a large wooden private residence, surrounded by an imposing stone fence. ‘That’s it, the house. That’s-’

Her voice choked and she began to cry.

Bond pulled to the kerb. ‘Jessica, what’s the matter?’

‘I…’ Her breathing was coming fast.

‘Are you all right?’ He reached down and pulled the adjustment lever, moving the seat back, so he could turn to face her.

‘It’s nothing, oh, nothing. How embarrassing is this?’

Bond took her handbag and dug around inside for a tissue. He found one and handed it to her.

‘Thank you.’ She tried to speak, then surrendered to her sobs. When she had calmed, she tilted the rear-view mirror towards herself. ‘He doesn’t let me wear make-up – so at least my mascara hasn’t run and turned me into a clown.’

‘Doesn’t let you… What do you mean?’

The confession died on her lips. ‘Nothing,’ Jessica whispered.

‘Was it something I said? I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I was just making conversation.’

‘No, no, it’s nothing you’ve done, Gene.’

‘Tell me what’s wrong.’ His eyes locked with hers.

She debated a moment. ‘I wasn’t being honest with you. I put on a good show but it’s all a façade. We don’t have a connection. We never have. He wants me…’ She raised her hand. ‘Oh, you don’t want to hear this.’

Bond touched her arm. ‘Please, I’m responsible in some way. I was just blundering along. I feel the fool. Tell me.’

‘Yes, he loves the old… the used, the discarded. Me .’

‘My God, no. I didn’t mean-’

‘I know you didn’t. But that is what Severan wants me for – because I’m part of the downward spiral too. I’m his laboratory for fading, for ageing, for decay.

‘That’s all I mean to him. He hardly talks to me, ever. I’ve got almost no idea what goes on in that mind of his and he has no interest in finding out who I am. He gives me credit cards, takes me nice places, provides for me. In return he… well, he watches me age. I’ll catch him staring at me, a new wrinkle here, an age-spot there. That’s why I can’t wear make-up. He leaves the lights on when… you know what I mean. Do you know how humiliating that is for me? He knows it too. Because humiliation is another form of decay.’

She laughed bitterly, dabbing her eyes with the tissue. ‘And the irony, Gene? The goddamn irony? When I was young I lived for beauty pageants. Nobody cared about who I was inside, the judges, my fellow contestants… even my mother. Now I’m old and Severan doesn’t care about who I am inside either. There are times when I hate being with him. But what can I do? I’m powerless.’

Bond applied a bit more pressure to her arm. ‘That’s not true. You’re not powerless at all. Being older is strength. It’s experience, judgement, discernment, knowing your resources. Youth is mistake and impulse. Believe me, I know that quite well.’

‘But without him what could I do – where would I go?’

‘Anywhere. You could do whatever you wanted. You’re obviously clever. You must have some money.’

‘Some. But it’s not about money. It’s about finding someone at my age.’

‘Why do you need someone?’

‘Spoken like a young man.’

‘And that ’s spoken like someone who believes what she’s been told, rather than thinking for herself.’

Jessica gave a faint smile. ‘ Touché , Gene.’ She patted his hand. ‘You’ve been very kind and I can’t believe I had a meltdown with a total stranger. Please, I’ve got to get inside. He’ll be calling to check up on me.’ She gestured at the house.

Bond drove forward and pulled up to the gate, under the watchful eye of a security guard – which put to rest his plan to get inside the house and see what secrets lay there.

Jessica gripped his hand in both of hers, then climbed out.

‘I will see you tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘At the plant?’

A faint smile. ‘Yes, I’ll be there. My leash is pretty short.’ She turned and walked quickly through the opening gate.

Then Bond shoved the car into first and skidded away, Jessica Barnes vanishing instantly from his thoughts. His attention was on his next destination and what would greet him there.

Friend or foe?

In his chosen profession, though, James Bond had learnt that those two categories were not mutually exclusive.

All Thursday morning, all afternoon there had been talk of threats.

Threats from the North Koreans, threats from the Taliban, threats from al-Qaeda, the Chechnyans, the Islamic Jihad Brotherhood, eastern Malaysia, Sudan, Indonesia. There’d been a brief discussion about the Iranians; despite the surreal rhetoric issuing from their presidential palace, nobody took them too seriously. M almost felt sorry for the poor regime in Tehran. Persia had once been such a great empire.

Threats…

But the actual assault, he thought wryly, was occurring only now, during a tea break at the security conference. M disconnected from Moneypenny and sat back stiffly in the well-worn, gilt drawing room of a building in Richmond Terrace, between Whitehall and the Victoria Embankment. It was one of those utterly unremarkable fading structures of indeterminate age in which the sweat work of governing the country was done.

The impending assault involved two ministers who sat on the Joint Intelligence Committee. Their heads were now poking through the door, side by side, bespectacled faces scanning the room until they spotted their target. Once an image of television’s Two Ronnies had sidled into his head, M could not dislodge it. As they strode forward, however, there was nothing comedic about their expressions.

‘Miles,’ the older one greeted him. ‘Sir Andrew’ prefaced the man’s surname and those two words were in perfect harmony with his distinguished face and silver mane.

The other, Bixton, tipped his head, whose fleshy dome reflected light from the dusty chandelier. He was breathing hard. In fact, they both were.