He took the lift to the third floor where he stepped out and turned left, walking down a bland, white-painted corridor, the walls a bit scuffed, their monotony broken by prints of London from the era of Cromwell to Victoria’s reign and of battlefields aplenty. Someone had brightened up the windowsills with vases of greenery – fake, of course; the real thing would have meant employing external maintenance staff to water and prune.
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.’
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 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 aboveme.’ 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 beginto 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.)
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 button 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 crashing 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 skyscrapers of glass 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 glass 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 brass 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 assumption. 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.’
Bloody hell… 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 latitude about operating at home when they chartered us. Would have been easy. Hell, what if you’d followed the Irishman to the London Eye or Madame Tussaud’s? What should you have done – rung 999? For God’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 wantyou 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 sex-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 blancheto 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 analyst in Harry Potter glasses touting his theory that the Chechnyan rebels are responsible for that damned volcano in Iceland. A bloody inconvenience, the whole thing.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll be largely incommunicado. Chief of staff will be running the Incident Twenty operation for the Group.’
Carte Blanche Page 4
