Mathis continued, ‘A man’s voice said, “Severan, it’s me.” Accented but our algorithms couldn’t tell region of origin. There were some pleasantries, then this: “We’re confirmed for seven p.m. today. The number of dead will be ninety or so. You must be there no later than six forty-five.”’
So Hydt either was part of a plan to murder scores of people or was going to do so himself. ‘Who are the victims? And why are they going to die?’
‘I don’t know, James. But what I found just as troubling was your Mr Hydt’s reaction. His voice was like that of un enfantoffered chocolate. He said, “Oh, such wonderful news! Thank you so much.”’ His voice dark, Mathis said, ‘I’ve never heard that kind of joy at the prospect of killing. But, even stranger, he then asked, “How close can I get to the bodies?”’
‘He said that?’
‘Indeed. The man told him he could be very close. And Hydt sounded very pleased at that too. Then the phones went silent and haven’t been used again.’
‘Seven p.m. Somewhere out of the country. Anything more?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Thank you, for all this. I’d better get on with the hunt.’
‘I wish I could keep our satellite online longer but my superiors are already asking questions about why I am so interested in that insignificant little place called London.’
‘Next time the Dom is on me, René.’
‘But of course. Au revoir.’
‘ À bientôt, et merci beaucoup. ’ Bond hit disconnect.
In his years as a Royal Naval Reserve commander and an agent for ODG, he’d been up against some very bad people: insurgents, terrorists, psychopathic criminals, amoral traitors selling nuclear secrets to men mad enough to use them. But what was Hydt’s game?
Purpose… response.
Well, even if it wasn’t clear what the man’s twisted goal might be, at least there was one response Bond could initiate.
Ten minutes later he ran down the stairs, fishing the car key from his pocket. He didn’t need to look up Severan Hydt’s address. He’d memorised it last night.
20
Thames House, the home of MI5, the Northern Ireland Office and some related security organisations, is less impressive than the residence of MI6, which happens to be nearby, across the river on the South Bank. Six’s headquarters look rather like a futuristic enclave from a Ridley Scott film (it’s referred to as Babylon-upon-Thames, for its resemblance to a ziggurat, and, less kindly, as Legoland).
But if not as architecturally striking, Thames House is far more intimidating. The ninety-year-old grey stone monolith is the sort of place where, were it a police headquarters in Soviet Russia or East Germany, you would begin answering before questions were asked. On the other hand, the place doesboast some rather impressive sculpture (Charles Sargeant Jagger’s Britanniaand St George, for instance) and every few days tourists from Arkansas or Tokyo stroll up to the front door thinking it’s Tate Britain, which is located a short distance away.
In the windowless bowels of Thames House were the offices of Division Three. The organisation conscientiously – for the sake of deniability – rented space and equipment from Five (and nobody has better equipment than MI5), all at arm’s length.
In the middle of this fiefdom was a large control room, rather frayed at the edges, the green walls battered and scuffed, the furniture dented, the carpet insulted by too many heels. The requisite government regulatory posters about suspicious parcels, fire drills, health and trade union matters were omnipresent, often tarted up by bureaucrats with nothing better to do.
W E A
R E Y E P R
O T E C
T I O N W H E
N N E C E S
S A R Y
But the computers here were voracious and the dozens of flatscreen monitors big and bright, and Deputy Senior Director of Field Operations Percy Osborne-Smith was standing, arms folded, in front of the biggest and brightest. In brown jacket and mismatched trousers – he’d woken at four a.m. and dressed by five past – Osborne-Smith was with two young men: his assistant and a rumpled technician hovering over a keyboard.
Osborne-Smith bent forward and pressed a button, listened again to the recording that had just been made by the surveillance he’d put in place after the pointless drive up to Cambridge for, as it developed, the sole purpose of eating a meal of chicken curry that had turned on him in the night. The snooping didn’t involve the suspect in Incident Twenty, since no one had been courteous enough to share the man’s identity, but Osborne-Smith’s boys and girls had managed to arrange a productive listen-in. Without informing MI5 that they were doing so, the troops had slapped some microphones on the windows of one of the anonymous evil-doer’s co-conspirators: a lad named James Bond, 00 Section, O Branch, Overseas Development Group, Foreign and Commonwealth Office.
And so Osborne-Smith had learnt about Severan Hydt, that he was Noah and that he ran Green Way International. Bond seemed to have neglected to mention that his mission to Boots the road, not Boots the chemist, thank you very much, had resulted in these rather important discoveries.
‘Bastard,’ said Osborne-Smith’s adjutant, a lean young man with an irritating mop of abundant brown hair. ‘Bond’s playing games with lives.’
‘Just calm it now, eh?’ Osborne-Smith said to the youngster, whom he referred to as ‘Deputy-Deputy’, though not in his presence.
‘Well, he is. Bastard.’
For his part, Osborne-Smith was rather impressed that Bond had contacted the French secret service. Otherwise, nobody would have learnt that Hydt was about to leave the country and kill ninety-odd people later today, or at least be present at their deaths. This intelligence solidified Osborne-Smith’s determination to clap Severan ‘Noah’ Hydt in irons, drag him into Belmarsh or Division Three’s own interrogation room, which was not much more hospitable than the prison’s, and bleed him dry.
He said to Deputy-Deputy, ‘Run the whole battery on Hydt. I want to know about his good and his bad, what medicine he takes, the Independent or the Daily Sport, Arsenal or Chelsea, his dietary preferences, movies that scare him or that make him cry, who he’s dallying or who’s dallying him. And how. And get an arrest team together. Say, we didn’t get Bond’s firearms authorisation form, did we?’
‘No, sir.’
Now, thispiqued Osborne-Smith.
‘Where’s my eye in the sky?’ he asked the young technician, sitting at his video-games console.
They had tried to find Hydt’s destination the easy way. Since the espionin Paris had learnt the man was departing in a private aircraft, they’d searched CAA records for planes registered to Severan Hydt, Green Way, or any subsidiaries. But none could be found. So, it was to be old-fashioned snooping, if one could describe a £3 million drone thus.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ the technician said, wasting breath. Finally: ‘Got Big Bird peeping now.’
Osborne-Smith regarded the screen. The view from two miles overhead was remarkably clear. But then he took in the image and said, ‘Are you surethat’s Hydt’s house? Not part of his company?’
‘Positive. Private residence.’
The home occupied a full square block in Canning Town. It was separated, not surprisingly, from the neighbours in their council houses or dilapidated flats by an imposing wall, glistening at the crest with razor wire. Within the grounds there were neatly tended gardens, in May bloom. The place had apparently been a modest warehouse or factory around a century ago but had been done up recently, it seemed. Four outbuildings and a garage were clustered together.
What was this about? he wondered. Why did such a wealthy man live in Canning Town? It was poor, ethnically complex, prone to violent crime and gangs, but with fiercely loyal residents and activist councillors who worked very, very hard for their constituents. A massive amount of redevelopment was going on, apart from the Olympics construction, which some said was taking the heart out of the place. His father, Osborne-Smith recalled, had
seen the Police, Jeff Beck and Depeche Mode perform at some legendary pub in Canning Town decades ago.
‘Why does Hydt live there?’ he mused aloud.
His assistant called, ‘Just had word that Bond left his flat, heading east. He lost our man, though. Bond drives like Michael Schumacher.’
‘We knowwhere he’s going,’ Osborne-Smith said. ‘Hydt’s.’ He hated to have to explain the obvious.
As the minutes rolled by without any activity at Hydt’s, Osborne-Smith’s young assistant gave him updates: an arrest team had been assembled, firearms officers included. ‘They want to know their orders, sir.’
Osborne-Smith considered this. ‘Get them ready but let’s wait and see if Hydt’s meeting anybody. I want to scoop up the entire cast and crew.’
The technician said, ‘Sir, we have movement.’
Leaning closer to the screen, Osborne-Smith observed that a bulky man in a black suit – bodyguard, he assessed – was wheeling suitcases out of Hydt’s house and into the detached garage.
‘Sir, Bond’s just arrived in Canning Town.’ The man teased a joystick and the field of view expanded. ‘There.’ He pointed. ‘That’s him. The Bentley.’ The subdued grey vehicle slowed and pulled to the kerb.
The assistant whistled. ‘A Continental GT. Now, that’s a bloody fine automobile. I think they reviewed it on Top Gear. You ever watch the show, Percy?’
‘Sadly, I’m usually working.’ Osborne-Smith cast a mournful gaze towards tousle-haired Deputy-Deputy and decided that if the youngster couldn’t muster a bit more humility and respect, he probably wouldn’t survive – career wise – much beyond the end of the Incident Twenty assignment.
Bond’s car was parked discreetly – if the word could be used to describe a £125,000 car in Canning Town – about fifty yards from Hydt’s house, hidden behind several skips.
The assistant: ‘The arrest team’s on board the chopper.’
Osborne-Smith said, ‘Put them in the air. Get them to hover somewhere near the Gherkin.’
The forty-storey Swiss Re office building rising above the City – it looked more like a 1950s spaceship than a pickled cucumber, in Osborne-Smith’s view – was centrally located and thus a good place from which to begin the hunt. ‘Alert security at all the airports: Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton, Stansted, London City, Southend and Biggin Hill.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘More subjects,’ the technician said.
On the screen, three people were leaving the house. A tall man in a suit, with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, walked next to a gangly blond man whose feet pointed outwards. A slight woman in a black suit, her hair white, followed.
‘That’s Hydt,’ the technician said. ‘The one with the beard.’
‘Any idea about the woman?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And the giraffe?’ Osborne-Smith asked with a snide inflection. He was really quite irritated that Bond had ignored his firearms form. ‘Is he the Irishman everyone’s talking about? Get a picture and run with it. Hurry up.’
The trio walked into the garage. A moment later a black Audi A8 sped out through the front gate and pulled into the road, accelerating fast.
‘Head count – all three are in the car, along with the bodyguard,’ Deputy-Deputy called.
‘Lock on it, MASINT. And paint it with a laser for good measure.’
‘I’ll try,’ the technician said.
‘You better had.’
They watched Bond in his Bentley, pulling smoothly into traffic and speeding after the Audi.
‘Pan out and stay on them,’ Osborne-Smith said, with the lisp he was forever trying to slice off, though the affliction had proved a hydra all his life.
The camera latched on to the German car. ‘There’s a good lad,’ he said to the technician.
The Audi speeded up. Bond was following discreetly but never missing a turn. As skilful as the driver of the German car was, Bond was better – anticipating when the chauffeur would try something clever, some aborted turn or unexpected lane change, and counter the measure. The cars zipped through green, amber and red alike.
‘Going north. Prince Regent Lane.’
‘So London City airport’s out.’
The Audi hit Newham Way.
‘All right,’ Deputy-Deputy enthused, tugging at his eruption of hair. ‘It’s either Stansted or Luton.’
‘Going north on the A406,’ another technician, a round blonde woman who had materialised from nowhere, called.
Then, after some impressive fox and hound driving, the competitors, Audi and Bentley, were on the M25 going anticlockwise.
‘It’s Luton!’ the assistant cried.
More subdued, Osborne-Smith ordered, ‘Get the whirly-bird moving.’
‘Will do.’
In silence they followed the progress of the Audi. Finally it sped into the short-term car park at Luton airport. Bond wasn’t far behind. The car parked carefully out of view of Hydt’s.
‘Chopper’s setting down on the anti-terror pad at the airport. Our people’ll deploy towards the car park.’
No one got out of the Audi. Osborne-Smith smiled. ‘I knew it! Hydt’s waiting to meet associates. We’ll get them all. Tell our people to stay under cover until I give the word. And get all the eyes at Luton online.’
He reflected that the CCTV cameras on the ground might make it possible for them to see Bond’s shocked reaction when the Division Three teams descended like hawks and arrested Hydt and the Irishman. That hadn’t been Osborne-Smith’s goal in ordering the video, of course… but it would be a very nice bonus.
21
Hans Groelle sat behind the wheel of Severan Hydt’s sleek, black Audi A8. The thickly built, blond Dutch Army veteran had done some motocross and other racing in his younger days and he was pleased Mr Hydt had asked him to put his driving skills to use this morning. Relishing the memory of the frantic drive from Canning Town to Luton airport, Groelle listened absently to the three-way conversation of the man and woman in the back seat and the passenger in the front.
They were laughing about the excitement of the race. The driver of the Bentley was extremely competent but, more important, intuitive. He couldn’t have known where Groelle was going so he’d had to anticipate the turns, many of them utterly random. It was as if the pursuing driver had had some sixth sense that told him when Groelle was going to turn, to slow, to speed forward.
A natural driver.
But who was he?
Well, they’d soon find out. No one in the Audi had been able to get a description of the driver – he was that clever – but they’d pieced together the number plate. Groelle had called an associate in the Green Way headquarters, who was using some contacts at the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency in Swansea to find out who owned the car.
But whatever the threat, Hans Groelle would be ready. A Colt 1911.45 sat snug and warm in his left armpit.
He glanced once more at the sliver of the Bentley’s grey wing and said to the man in the back seat, ‘It worked, Harry. We tricked them. Call Mr Hydt.’
The two passengers in the back and the man sitting beside Groelle were Green Way workers involved in Gehenna. They resembled Mr Hydt, Ms Barnes and Niall Dunne, who were currently en route to an entirely different airport, Gatwick, where a private jet was waiting to fly them out of the country.
The deception had been Dunne’s idea, of course. He was a cold fish, but that didn’t dull his brain. There’d been trouble up in March – somebody had killed Eric Janssen, one of Groelle’s fellow security men. The killer was dead, but Dunne had assumed there might be others, watching the factory or the house, perhaps both. So he had found three employees close enough in appearance to deceive watchers and had driven them to Canning Town very early that morning. Groelle had then carted suitcases out to the garage, followed by Mr Hydt, Ms Barnes and the Irishman. Groelle and the decoys, who’d been waiting in the Audi, then sped towards Luton. Ten minutes later the real entourage got into t
he back of an unmarked Green Way International lorry and drove to Gatwick.
Now the decoys would remain in the Audi as long as possible to keep whoever was in the Bentley occupied long enough for Mr Hydt and the others to get out of UK airspace.
Groelle said, ‘We have a bit of a wait.’ He gestured at the radio with a glance toward the Green Way workers. ‘What’ll it be?’
They voted and Radio 2 took the majority.
‘Ah, ah. It was a bloody decoy,’ Osborne-Smith said. His voice was as calm as always but the expletive, if that was what it was nowadays, indicated that he was livid.
A CCTV camera in the Luton car park was now beaming an image on to the big screen in Division Three and the reality show presently airing was not felicitous. The angular view into the Audi wasn’t the best in the world but it was clear that the couple in the back seats were not Severan Hydt and his female companion. And the passenger in the front, whom he’d taken to be the Irishman, was not the gawky blond man he’d seen earlier, plodding to the garage.
Decoys.
‘They have to be going to someLondon airport,’ Deputy-Deputy pointed out. ‘Let’s split up the team.’
‘Unless they decided to cruise up to Manchester or Leeds-Bradford.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘Send all the Watchers in A Branch Hydt’s picture. Without delay.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Osborne-Smith squinted as he looked at the image broadcast from the CCTV. He could see a bit of the wing of James Bond’s Bentley parked twenty-five yards from the Audi.
If there was any consolation to the flap, it was that at least Bond had fallen for the ruse too. Combined with his lack of co-operation, his questionable use of the French secret service and his holier-than-thou attitude, the lapse might just signal a significant downsizing of his career.
22
The fifteen-foot lorry, leased to Green Way International but unmarked, pulled up to the kerb at the executive flight services terminal at Gatwick airport. The door slid open and Severan Hydt, an older woman and the Irishman climbed out and collected their suitcases.
Carte Blanche Page 11
