Carte Blanche

by Jeffery Deaver

  O Branch took up nearly the entire fourth floor.

  It was a large open area, ringed with agents’ offices. In the centre were work stations for PAs and other support staff. It might have been the sales department of a major supermarket, if not for the fact that every office door had an iris scanner and keypad lock. There were many flatscreen computers in the centre but none of the giant monitors that seemed de rigueur in spy outfits on TV and in movies.

  Bond strode through this busy area and nodded a greeting to a blonde in her mid twenties, perched forward in her office chair, presiding over an ordered work space. Had Mary Goodnight worked for any other department, Bond might have invited her to dinner and seen where matters led from there. But she wasn’t in any other department: she was fifteen feet from his office door and was his human diary, his portcullis and drawbridge, and was capable of repelling the unannounced firmly and, most important in government service, with unimprovable tact. Although none were on view, Goodnight occasionally received – from office mates, friends and dates – cards or souvenirs inspired by the film Titanic, so closely did she resemble Kate Winslet.

  ‘Good morning, Goodnight.’

  That play on words, and others like it, had long ago moved from flirtatiousness to affection. They had become like an endearment between spouses, almost automatic and never tiresome.

  Goodnight ran through his appointments for the day but Bond told her to cancel everything. He’d be meeting a man from Division Three, coming over from Thames House, and afterwards he might have to be off at a minute’s notice.

  ‘Shall I hold the signals too?’ she asked.

  Bond considered this. ‘I suppose I’ll plough through them now. Should probably clear my desk anyway. If I have to be away, I don’t want to come back to a week’s worth of reading.’

  She handed him the top-secret green-striped folders. With approval from the keypad lock and iris scanner beside his door Bond entered his office and turned on the light. The space wasn’t small by London office standards, about fifteen by fifteen, but was rather sterile. His government-issue desk was slightly larger than, but the same colour as, his desk at Defence Intelligence. The four wooden bookshelves were filled with volumes and periodicals that had been, or might be, helpful to him and varied in subject from the latest hacking techniques used by the Bulgarians to Thai idioms to a guide for reloading Lapua.338 sniper rounds. There was little of a personal nature to brighten the room. The one object he might have had on display, his Conspicuous Gallantry Cross, awarded for his duty in Afghanistan, was in the bottom drawer of his desk. He’d accepted the honour with good grace, but to Bond, courage was simply another tool in a soldier’s kit and he saw no more point in displaying indications of its past use than in hanging a spent cipher pad on the wall.

  Bond now sat in his chair and began to read the signals – intelligence reports from Requirements at MI6, suitably buffed and packaged. The first was from the Russia Desk. Their Station R had managed to hack into a government server in Moscow and suck out some classified documents. Bond, who had a natural facility for language and had studied Russian at Fort Monckton, skipped the English synopsis and went to the raw intelligence.

  He got one paragraph into the leaden prose when two words stopped him in his tracks. The Russian words for ‘Steel Cartridge’.

  The phrase pinged deep inside him, just as sonar on a submarine notes a distant but definite target.

  Steel Cartridge appeared to be a code name for an ‘active measure’, the Soviet term describing a tactical operation. It had involved ‘some deaths’.

  But there was nothing specific on operational details.

  Bond sat back, staring at the ceiling. He heard women’s voices outside his door and looked up. Philly, holding several files, was chatting with Mary Goodnight. Bond nodded and the Six agent joined him, taking a wooden chair opposite his desk.

  ‘What’ve you found, Philly?’

  She sat forward, crossing her legs, and Bond believed he heard the appealing rustle of nylon. ‘First, your photo skills were fine, James, but the light was too low. I couldn’t get high enough resolution of the Irishman’s face for recognition. And there were no prints on the pub bill or the other note, except for a partial of yours.’

  So, the man would have to remain anonymous for the time being.

  ‘But the prints on the glasses were good. The local was Aldo Karic, Serbian. He lived in Belgrade and worked for the national railway.’ She pursed her lips in frustration, which emphasised the charming dimple. ‘But it’s going to take a little longer than I’d hoped to get more details. The same with the haz-mat on the train. Nobody’s saying anything. You were right – Belgrade’s not in the mood to co-operate.

  ‘Now for the slips of paper you found in the burning car. I got some possible locations.’

  Bond noted the printouts she was producing from a folder. They were of maps emblazoned with the cheerful logo of MapQuest, the online directions-finding service. ‘Are you having budget problems at Six? I’d be happy to ring the Treasury for you.’

  She laughed, a breathy sound. ‘I used proxies, of course. Just wanted an idea of where on the pitch we’re playing.’ She tapped one. ‘The receipt? The pub is here.’ It was just off the motorway near Cambridge.

  Bond stared at the map. Who had eaten there? The Irishman? Noah? Other associates? Or someone who’d hired the car last week and had no connection whatsoever with Incident Twenty?

  ‘And the other piece of paper? With the writing on it?’

  Boots – March. 17. No later than that.

  She produced a lengthy list. ‘I tried to think of every possible combination of what it could mean. Dates, footwear, geographical locations, the chemist.’ Her mouth tightened again. She was displeased that her efforts had fallen short. ‘Nothing obvious, I’m afraid.’

  He rose and pulled down several Ordnance Survey maps from the shelf. He flipped through one, scanning carefully.

  Mary Goodnight appeared in the doorway. ‘James, someone downstairs to see you. From Division Three, he says. Percy Osborne-Smith.’

  Philly must have caught the sea change in Bond’s expression. ‘I’ll make myself scarce now, James. I’ll keep on at the Serbs. They’ll crack. I guarantee it.’

  ‘Oh, one more thing, Philly.’ He handed her the signal he’d just been reading. ‘I need you to catch everything you can about a Soviet or Russian operation called Steel Cartridge. There’s a little in here, not much.’

  She glanced down at the printout.

  He said, ‘Sorry it’s not translated but you can probably-’

  ‘Ya govoryu po russki .’

  Bond smiled weakly. ‘And with a far better accent than mine.’ He told himself never to sell her short again.

  Philly examined the printout closely. ‘This was hacked from an online source. Who has the original data file?’

  ‘One of your people would. It came out of Station R.’

  ‘I’ll contact the Russia Desk,’ she said. ‘I’ll want to look at the metadata coded in the file. That’ll have the date it was created, who the author was, maybe cross references to other sources.’ She slipped the Russian document into a manila folder and took a pen to tick off one of the boxes on the front. ‘How do you want it classified?’

  He debated for a moment. ‘Our eyes only.’

  ‘“Our”?’ she asked. That pronoun was not used in official document classification.

  ‘Yours and mine,’ he said softly. ‘No one else.’

  A brief hesitation and then, in her delicate lettering, she penned at the top: Eyes only. SIS Agent Maidenstone. ODG Agent James Bond.‘And priority?’ she wondered aloud.

  At this question Bond did not hesitate at all. ‘Urgent.’

  11

  Bond was sitting forward at his desk, doing some research of his own in government databases, when he heard footsteps approaching, accompanied by a loud voice.

  ‘I’m fine, just great. You can peel off now, please
and thank you – I can do without the sat-nav.’

  With that, a man in a close-fitting striped suit strode into Bond’s office, having discarded the Section P security officer who’d accompanied him. He’d also bypassed Mary Goodnight, who had risen with a frown as the man stormed past, ignoring her.

  He walked up to Bond’s desk, thrusting out a fleshy palm. Slim but flabby, unimposing, he nonetheless had assertive eyes and large hands at the end of his long arms. He seemed the sort to deliver a bone-crusher so Bond, darkening his computer screen and standing up, prepared to counter it, shooting his hand in close to deny him leverage.

  In fact, Percy Osborne-Smith’s clasp was brief and harmless, though unpleasantly damp.

  ‘Bond. James Bond.’ He motioned the Division Three officer to the chair Philly had just occupied and reminded himself not to let the man’s coiffure – dark blond hair combed and apparently glued to the side of his head – pouting lips and rubbery neck deceive. A weak chin did not mean a weak man, as anyone familiar with Field Marshal Montgomery’s career could certify.

  ‘So,’ Osborne-Smith said, ‘here we are. Excitement galore with Incident Twenty. Who thinks up these names, do you wonder? The Intelligence Committee, I suppose.’

  Bond tipped his head noncommittally.

  The man’s eyes swept around the office, alighted briefly on a plastic gun with an orange muzzle used in close-combat training and returned to Bond. ‘Now, from what I hear Defence and Six are firing up the boilers to steam down the Afghan route, looking for baddies in the hinterland. Makes you and me the awkward younger brothers, left behind, stuck with this Serbian connection. But sometimes it’s the pawns that win the game, isn’t it?’

  He dabbed his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. Bond couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen anyone under the age of seventy employ this combination of gesture and accessory. ‘Heard about you, Bond… James. Let’s go with givens, shall we? My surname’s a bit of a mouthful. Crosses to bear. Just like my title – Deputy Senior Director of Field Operations.’

  Rather unskilfully inserted, Bond reflected.

  ‘So, it’s Percy and James. Sounds like a stand-up act at a Comic Relief show. Anyway, I’ve heard about you, James. Your reputation precedes you. Not “exceeds”, of course. At least, not from what I hear.’

  Oh, God, Bond thought, his patience already worn thin. He pre-empted a continuation of the monologue and explained in detail what had happened in Serbia.

  Osborne-Smith took it all in, jotting notes. Then he described what had happened on the British side of the Channel, which wasn’t particularly informative. Even enlisting the impressive surveillance skills of MI5’s A Branch – known as the Watchers – no one had been able to confirm more than that the helicopter carrying the Irishman had landed somewhere north-east of London. No MASINT or other trace of the chopper had been found since.

  ‘So, our strategy?’ Osborne-Smith said, though not as a question. Rather, it was a preface to a directive: ‘While Defence and Six and everybody under the sun are prowling the desert looking for Afghans of mass destruction, I want to go all out here, find this Irishman and Noah, wrap them up in tidy ribbons and bring them in.’

  ‘Arrest them?’

  ‘Well, “detain” might be the happier word.’

  ‘Actually, I’m not sure that’s the best approach,’ Bond said delicately.

  For God’s sake, be diplomatic with the natives…

  ‘Why not? We don’t have time to surveille.’ Bond noticed a faint lisp. ‘Only to interrogate.’

  ‘If thousands of lives are at risk, the Irishman and Noah can’t be operating alone. They might even be pretty low in the food chain. All we know for sure is that there was a meeting at Noah’s office. Nothing ever suggested he was in charge of the whole operation. And the Irishman? He’s a triggerman. Certainly knows his craft but basically he’s muscle. I think we need to identify them and keep them in play until we get more answers.’

  Osborne-Smith was nodding agreeably. ‘Ah, but you’re not familiar with my background, James, my curriculum vitae.’ The smile and the smarminess vanished. ‘I cut my teeth grilling prisoners. In Northern Ireland. And Belmarsh.’

  The infamous so-called ‘Terrorists’ Prison’ in London.

  ‘I’ve sunned myself in Cuba too,’ he continued. ‘Guantánamo. Yes, indeed. People end up talking to me, James. After I’ve been going at them for a few days, they’ll hand me the address where their brother’s hiding, won’t they? Or their son. Or daughter. Oh, people talk when I ask them… ever so politely.’

  Bond wasn’t giving up. ‘But if Noah has partners and they learn he’s been picked up, they might accelerate whatever’s planned for Friday. Or disappear – and we’ll lose them until they strike again in six or eight months when all the leads’ve gone cold. This Irishman would have planned for a contingency like that, I’m sure of it.’

  The soft nose wrinkled with regret. ‘It’s just that, well, if we were on the Continent somewhere or padding about in Red Square, I’d be de lighted to sit back and watch you bowl leg or off breaks, as you thought best, but, well, it isour cricket ground here.’

  The whip crack was, of course, inevitable. Bond decided there was no point in arguing. The dandified puppet had a steel spine. He also had ultimate authority and could shut out Bond entirely if he wished to. ‘It’s your call, of course,’ Bond said pleasantly. ‘So, I suppose the first step is to find them. Let me show you the leads.’ He passed over a copy of the pub receipt and the note: Boots – March. 17. No later than that.

  Osborne-Smith was frowning as he examined the sheets. ‘What do you make of them?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing very sexy,’ Bond said. ‘The pub’s outside Cambridge. The note’s a bit of a mystery.’

  ‘March the seventeenth? A reminder to drop in at the chemist?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Bond said dubiously. ‘I was thinking it might be code.’ He pushed forward the MapQuest printout that Philly had provided. ‘If you ask me, the pub’s probably nothing. I can’t find anything distinctive about it – it’s not near anywhere important. Off the M11, near Wimpole Road.’ He touched the sheet. ‘Probably a waste of time. But it ought to be looked into. Why don’t I take that? I’ll head up there and look around Cambridge. Maybe you could run the March note past the cryptanalysts at Five and see what their computers have to say. That holds the key, I think.’

  ‘I will do. But actually, if you don’t mind, James, it’s probably best if I handle the pub myself. I know the lie of the land. I was at Cambridge – Magdalene.’ The map and the pub receipt vanished into Osborne-Smith’s briefcase, with a copy of the March note. Then he produced another sheet of paper. ‘Can you get that girl in?’

  Bond lifted an eyebrow. ‘Which one?’

  ‘The pretty young thing outside. Single, I see.’

  ‘You mean my PA,’ Bond said drily. He rose and went to the door. ‘Miss Goodnight, would you come in, please?’

  She did so, frowning.

  ‘Our friend Percy wants a word with you.’

  Osborne-Smith missed the irony in Bond’s choice of names and handed the sheet of paper to her. ‘Make a copy of this, would you?’

  With a glance towards Bond, who nodded, she took the document and went to the copier. Osborne-Smith called after her, ‘Double-sided, of course. Waste works to the enemy’s advantage, doesn’t it?’

  Goodnight returned a moment later. Osborne-Smith put the original in his briefcase and handed the copy to Bond. ‘You ever get out to the firearms range?’

  ‘From time to time,’ Bond told him. He didn’t add: six hours a week, religiously, indoor here with small arms, outdoor with full-bore at Bisley. And once a fortnight he trained at Scotland Yard’s FATS range – the high-definition computerised firearms training simulator, in which an electrode was mounted against your back; if the terrorist shot you before you shot him, you ended up on your knees in excruciating pain.

  ‘We have to observe the formalit
ies, don’t we?’ Osborne-Smith gestured at the sheet in Bond’s hand. ‘Application to become a temporary AFO.’

  Only a very few law enforcers – authorised firearms officers – could carry weapons in the UK.

  ‘It’s probably not a good idea to use my name on that,’ Bond pointed out.

  Osborne-Smith seemed not to have thought of this. ‘You may be right. Well, use a nonofficial cover, why don’t you? John Smith’ll do. Just fill it in and do the quiz on the back – gun safety and all that. If you hit a speed bump, give me a shout. I’ll walk you through.’

  ‘I’ll get right to it.’

  ‘Good man. Glad that’s settled. We’ll co-ordinate later – after our respective secret missions.’ He tapped his briefcase. ‘Off to Cambridge.’

  He pivoted and strode out as boisterously as he’d arrived.

  ‘What a positively wretched man,’ Goodnight whispered.

  Bond gave a brief laugh. He pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and tugged it on, picked up the Ordnance Survey. ‘I’m going down to the armoury to collect my gun and after that I’ll be out for three or four hours.’

  ‘What about the firearms form, James?’

  ‘Ah.’ He picked it up, tore it into neat strips and slipped them into the map booklet to mark his places. ‘Why waste departmental Post-it notes? Works to the enemy’s advantage, you know.’

  12

  An hour and a half later, James Bond was in his Bentley Continental GT, a grey streak speeding north.

  He was reflecting on his deception of Percy Osborne-Smith. He’d decided that the lead to the Cambridge pub wasn’t, in fact, very promising. Yes, possibly the Incident Twenty principals had eaten there – the bill suggested a meal for two or three. But the date was more than a week ago so it was unlikely that anyone on the staff would remember a man fitting the Irishman’s description and his companions. And since the man had proved to be particularly clever, Bond suspected he rotated the places where he dined and shopped; he would not be a regular there.