Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

Bond spotted a young woman in front of a desk at the end of a large open area filled with work stations. Sublime, he had thought, upon meeting her a month ago. Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones, and surrounded by Rossetti red hair that cascaded from her marvellous temples to past her shoulders. A tiny off-centre dimple, which he found completely charming, distressed her chin. Her hazel eyes, golden green, held yours intently, and to Bond, her figure was as a woman’s should be: slim and elegant. Her unpainted nails were trimmed short. Today she was in a knee-length black skirt and an apricot shirt, high-necked, yet thin enough to hint at lace beneath, managing to be both tasteful and provocative. Her legs were embraced by nylon the colour of café au lait.

Stockings or tights? Bond couldn’t help but wonder.

Ophelia Maidenstone was an intelligence analyst with MI6. She was stationed with the ODG as a liaison officer because the Group was not an intelligence-gathering organisation; it was operational, tactical, largely. Accordingly, like the Cabinet and the prime minister, it was a consumer of ‘product’, as intelligence was called. And the ODG’s main supplier was Six.

Admittedly, Philly’s appearance and forthright manner were what had initially caught Bond’s attention, just as her tireless efforts and resourcefulness had held it. Equally alluring, though, was her love of driving. Her favourite vehicle was a BSA 1966 Spitfire, the A65, one of the most beautiful motorcycles ever made. It wasn’t the most powerful bike in the Birmingham Small Arms’ line but it was a true classic and, when properly tuned (which, God bless her, she did herself), it left a broad streak of rubber at the take-off line. She’d told Bond she liked to drive in all weather and had bought an insulated leather jumpsuit that let her take to the roads whenever she fancied. He’d imagined it as an extremely tight-fitting garment and arched an eyebrow. He’d received in return a sardonic smile, which told him that his gesture had ricocheted like a badly placed bullet.

She was, it emerged, engaged to be married. The ring, which he’d noted immediately, was a deceptive ruby.

So, that settled that.

Philly now looked up with an infectious smile. ‘James, hello!… Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘I need you.’

She tucked back a loose strand of hair. ‘Delighted to help if I could but I’ve got something on for John. He’s in Sudan. They’re about to start shooting.’

The Sudanese had been fighting the British, the Egyptians, other nearby African nations – and themselves – for more than a hundred years. The Eastern Alliance, several Sudanese states near the Red Sea, wanted to secede and form a moderate secular country. The regime in Khartoum, still buffeted by the recent independence movement in the south, was not pleased by this initiative.

Bond said, ‘I know. I was the one going originally. I drew Belgrade instead.’

‘The food’s better,’ she said, with studied gravity. ‘If you like plums.’

‘It’s just that I collected some things in Serbia that should be looked into.’

‘It’s never “just” with you, James.’

Her mobile buzzed. She frowned, peering at the screen. As she took the call, her piercing hazel eyes swung his way and regarded him with some humour. She said, into the phone, ‘I see.’ When she had disconnected, she said, ‘You pulled in some favours. Or bullied someone.’

‘Me? Never.’

‘It seems that war in Africa will have to soldier on without me. So to speak.’ She went to another work station and handed the Khartoum baton to a fellow spook.

Bond sat down. There seemed to be something different about her space but he couldn’t work out what it was. Perhaps she’d tidied it, or rearranged the furniture – as far as anyone could in the tiny area.

When she came back she focused her eyes on him. ‘Right, then. I’m all yours. What do we have?’

‘Incident Twenty.’

‘Ah, that. I wasn’t on the hot list so you’d better brief me.’

Like Bond, Ophelia Maidenstone was Developed Vetting Cleared by the Defence Vetting Agency, the FCO and Scotland Yard, which permitted virtually unlimited access to top-secret material, short of the most classified nuclear-arms data. He briefed her on Noah, the Irishman, the threat on Friday and the incident in Serbia. She took careful notes.

‘I need you to play detective inspector. This is all we have to go on.’ He handed her the carrier bag containing the slips of paper he’d snatched from the burning car outside Novi Sad and his own sunglasses. ‘I’ll need identification fast – very fast – and anything else you dig up.’

She lifted her phone and requested collection of the materials for analysis at the MI6 laboratory or, if that proved insufficient, Scotland Yard’s extensive forensic operation in Specialist Crimes. She rang off. ‘Runner’s on his way.’ She found a pair of tweezers in her handbag and extracted the two slips of paper. One was a bill from a pub near Cambridge, the date recent. It had been settled in cash unfortunately.

The other slip of paper read: Boots – March. 17. No later than that. Was it code or merely a reminder from two months ago to pick up something at the chemist?

‘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 documents, handed him a set, kept one for herself and replaced the originals in the bag with the glasses.

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, ‘Hello, James. Welcome back.’

‘M?’ he asked.

‘M.’

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 compassionate faster than a Formula One gearbox.

‘Hello, 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 assistant.

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 relationship: she’d kept him in his place but opened the avenue of friendship. 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.)