But, Bond realised too late, the guard had feinted again; he’d taken the hit intentionally so that now he could do as he’d planned and launch himself sideways towards the table where the phone lay. He grabbed the Nokia, snapped it in half and flung the pieces out of the window. One skipped across the surface of the water before it sank.
By the time the man righted himself, however, Bond was on him. He dropped systema and went into a classic boxer’s stance, swung a left fist into his opponent’s solar plexus, doubling him over, then drew back his right and brought it arching down to a spot below and behind the man’s ear. The strike was perfectly aimed. The guard shivered and went down, unconscious. He wouldn’t be out for long, though, even with a solid hit like that. Bond quickly trussed him with lamp cord and gagged him with napkins from a breakfast tray.
As he did so he turned to Jessica, who was getting to her feet. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she whispered breathlessly. She ran to the window. ‘The phone is gone. What are we going to do? There aren’t any others. Only Severan and Niall have one. And he’s closed the switchboard today because the employees are off.’
Bond said, ‘Turn round. I’m going to tie you up. It’ll be tight – we have to make them believe you didn’t try to help me.’
She held her hands behind her back, and he bound her wrists. ‘I’m sorry. I tried.’
‘Sssh,’ Bond whispered. ‘I know you did. If someone comes in, tell them you don’t know where I went. Just act scared.’
‘I won’t have to act,’ she said. Then: ‘Gene…’
He glanced at her.
‘My mother and I prayed before every one of my beauty contests. I won a lot. We must’ve prayed pretty well. I’ll pray for you now.’
57
Bond was hurrying down the dim corridor, passing photographs of the reclaimed land that Hydt’s workers had turned into Elysian Fields, the beautiful gardens covering Green Way’s landfills to the east.
It was nine fifty-five in York. The detonation would take place in thirty-five minutes.
He had to get out of the plant immediately. He was sure there’d be an armoury of some kind, probably near the front security post. That was where he was headed now, walking steadily, head down, carrying the maps and the yellow pad. He was about fifty yards from the entrance, thinking tactically. Three men at the security post in front. Was the rear door guarded too? Presumably it was; although there were no employees in the business office, Bond had seen workers throughout the grounds. Three guards had been there yesterday. How many other security personnel would be present? Had any of the visitors handed weapons in, or had they all been told to leave them in their cars? Maybe-
‘There you are, sir!’
The voice startled him. Two beefy guards appeared and walked in front of him, barring his way. Their faces revealed no emotion. Bond wondered if they’d discovered Jessica and the man he’d trussed up. Apparently not. ‘Mr Theron, Mr Hydt is looking for you. You were not in your office so he sent us to bring you to the conference room.’
The smaller one regarded him with eyes as hard as a black beetle’s carapace.
There was nothing for it but to go with them. They arrived at the conference room a few minutes later. The larger guard knocked on the door. Dunne opened it, examined Bond with a neutral face and beckoned the men inside. Hydt’s three partners sat around a table. The huge dark-suited security man who’d escorted Bond into the plant yesterday stood near the door, arms crossed.
Hydt called, with the excitement he’d exhibited earlier, ‘Theron! How have you been getting on?’
‘Very well. But I’ve not quite finished. I’d say I need another fifteen or twenty minutes.’ He glanced at the door.
But Hydt was like a child. ‘Yes, yes, but first let me introduce you to the people you’ll be working with. I’ve told them about you and they’re eager to meet you. I have about ten investors altogether but these are the three main ones.’
As introductions were made, Bond wondered if anyone of the three would be suspicious that they had not heard of Mr Theron. But Mathebula, Eberhard and Huang were distracted by the day’s business and, contrary to Hydt’s comment, apart from brief nods they ignored him.
It was five past ten in York.
Bond tried to leave. But Hydt said, ‘No, stay.’ He nodded at the TV, which Dunne had turned on to Sky News in London. He lowered the volume.
‘You’ll want to see this, our first project. Let me tell you what’s going on here.’ Hydt sat down and explained to Bond what he already knew: that Gehenna was about the reconstruction or scanning of classified material, for sale, extortion and blackmail.
Bond lifted an eyebrow, pretending to be impressed. Another glance at the exits. He decided he could hardly bolt for the door; the huge security man in the black suit was inches from it.
‘So you see, Theron, I was not quite honest with you the other day when I described the Green Way document-shredding operation. But that was before we had our little test with the Winchester rifle. I apologise.’
Bond shrugged it off and measured distances and assessed the strength of the enemy. His conclusions were not good.
With his long, yellowing nails, Hydt raked at his beard. ‘I’m sure you’re curious about what’s happening today. I started Gehenna merely to steal and sell classified information. But then I grasped there was a more lucrative… and, for me, more satisfyinguse for resurrected secrets. They could be used as weapons. To kill, to destroy.
‘Some months ago I met with the head of a drug company I’d been selling reconstructed trade secrets to – R and K Pharmaceuticals, in Raleigh, North Carolina. He was pleased with that but he had another proposition for me, something a bit more extreme. He told me of a brilliant researcher, a professor in York, who was developing a new cancer drug. When it came to market, my client’s company would go out of business. He was willing to pay millions to make sure that the researcher died and his office was destroyed. That was when Gehenna truly blossomed.’
Hydt then confirmed Bond’s other deductions – about using a prototype of a Serbian bomb they’d constructed from reassembled plans and blueprints that people in Hydt’s Belgrade subsidiary had managed to piece together. This would make it appear that the intended target was another professor at the same university in York – a man who’d testified at the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. He was teaching a course in Balkan history in the room next to the cancer researcher’s. Everyone would think that the Slav was the intended target.
Bond glanced at the time on the TV programme crawl. It was ten fifteen in England.
He had to get out now. ‘Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,’ he said. ‘But let me get my notes so I can tell you all about my idea.’
‘Stay and watch the festivities.’ A nod towards the television. Dunne turned the volume up. Hydt said to Bond, ‘We were originally going to detonate the device at ten thirty in England, but since we’ve got confirmation that both classes are in session, I think we can do it now. Besides,’ Hydt confessed, ‘I’m rather eager to see if our device works.’
Before Bond could react, Hydt had dialled a number on his phone. He looked at the screen. ‘Well, the signal’s gone through. We shall see.’
Silent, everyone turned to stare at the television. A recorded item about the royal family was in progress. A few minutes later the screen went blank, then flashed to a stark red-and-black logo.
BREAKING NEWS
The screen went to a smartly dressed South-Asian woman sitting at a desk in the newsroom. Her voice was shaking as she read the story. ‘We’re interrupting this programme to report that there has been an explosion in York. Apparently a car bomb… the authorities are saying a car bomb has detonated and destroyed a large part of a university building… We’re just learning… yes, the building is on the grounds of Yorkshire-Bradford University… We have a report that lectures were in progress at the time of the explosion and the rooms nearest the
bomb were thought to be full… No one has yet claimed responsibility.’
Bond’s breath hissed through his set teeth as he stared at the screen. But Severan Hydt’s eyes shone in triumph. And everyone else in the room applauded as heartily as if their favourite striker had just scored a goal at the World Cup.
58
Five minutes later, a local news crew had arrived and was beaming pictures of the tragedy to the world. The video footage showed a half-destroyed building, smoke, glass and wreckage covering the ground, rescue workers running, dozens of police cars and fire engines pulling up. The crawler said, ‘Massive explosion at university in York.’
In this era we’ve become inured to terrible images on television. Scenes appalling to an eyewitness are somehow tame when observed in two dimensions on the medium that brings us Dr Whoand advertisements for Ford Mondeos and M &S fashions.
But this picture of tragedy – a university building in ruins, enveloped by smoke and dust, and people standing about, confused, helpless – was gripping beyond words. It would have been impossible for anybody in the rooms closest to the bomb to survive.
Bond could only stare at the screen.
Hydt did, too, but he, of course, was enraptured. His three partners were chatting among themselves, boisterous, as one might expect of people who had made millions of pounds in a thousandth of a second.
The presenter now reported that the bomb had been loaded with metal shards, like razor blades, which had shot out at thousands of miles per hour. The explosive had ripped apart most of the lecture theatres and the teaching staff’s offices on the ground and first floors.
The presenter reported that a newspaper in Hungary had just found a letter, left in its reception area, from a group of Serbian military officers claiming responsibility. The university, the note stated, was ‘harbouring and giving succour’ to a professor described as ‘a traitor to the Serbian people and his race’.
Hydt said, ‘That was our doing too. We collected some Serbian army letterhead from a rubbish bin. That’s what the statement’s printed on.’ He glanced at Dunne, and Bond understood that the Irishman had incorporated this fillip into the master blueprint.
The man who thinks of everything…
Hydt said, ‘Now, we need to plan a celebratory lunch.’
Bond glanced once more at the screen and started to make for the door.
Just then, though, the presenter cocked her head and said, ‘We have a new development in York.’ She sounded confused. She was touching her earpiece, listening. ‘Yorkshire Police Chief Superintendent Phil Pelham is about to make a statement. We’ll go live to him now.’
The camera showed a harried middle-aged man in police uniform but without hat or jacket standing in front of a fire engine. A dozen microphones were being thrust towards him. He cleared his throat. ‘At approximately ten fifteen a.m. today an explosive device detonated on the grounds of Yorkshire-Bradford University. Although property damage was extensive, it appears that there were no fatalities and only half a dozen minor injuries.’
The three partners had fallen silent. Niall Dunne’s blue eyes twitched with uncharacteristic emotion.
Frowning deeply, Hydt inhaled a rasping breath.
‘About ten minutes before the explosion, authorities received word that a bomb had been planted in or around a university in York. Certain additional facts suggested that Yorkshire-Bradford might be the target but as a precaution all educational institutions in the city were evacuated, according to plans put into effect by officials after the Seven-seven attacks in London.
‘The injuries – and again I stress they were minor – were sustained mostly by staff, who remained after the students had gone to make certain the evacuation was complete. In addition, one professor – a medical researcher who was lecturing in the hall nearest the bomb – was slightly injured retrieving files from his office just before the explosion.
‘We are aware that a Serbian group is claiming credit for the attack and I can assure you that police here in Yorkshire, the Metropolitan Police in London and Security Service investigators are giving this attack the highest priority-’
With the silent tap of a button, Hydt blackened the screen.
‘One of your people there?’ Huang snapped. ‘He had a change of heart and warned them!’
‘You said we could trust everyone!’ the German observed coldly, glaring at Hydt.
The partnership was fraying.
Hydt’s eyes slipped to Dunne, on whose face the fractional emotion was gone; the Irishman was concentrating – an engineer calmly analysing a malfunction. As the partners argued heatedly among themselves Bond took the chance to move to the door.
He was halfway to freedom when it burst open. A security guard squinted at him and pointed a finger. ‘Him. He’s the one.’
‘What?’ Hydt demanded.
‘We found Chenzira and Miss Barnes tied up in her room. He’d been knocked unconscious but as he came to he saw that man reach into Miss Barnes’s purse and take something out. A small radio, he thought. That man spoke to someone on it.’
Hydt frowned, trying to make sense of this. Yet the look on Dunne’s face revealed that he’d almost been expecting a betrayal from Gene Theron. At a glance from the engineer, the massive security man in the black suit drew his gun and pointed it directly at Bond’s chest.
59
So the guard in Jessica’s office had woken sooner than Bond had anticipated… and had seen what had happened after he’d tied her up: he had retrieved from her handbag the other items Gregory Lamb had delivered, along with the inhaler, yesterday morning.
The reason Bond had asked Jessica such insensitive questions when they were parked near her house yesterday was to upset, distract and, ideally, to make her cry so that he could take her handbag to find a tissue… and to slip into a side pocket the items Sanu Hirani had provided yesterday via Lamb. Among them was the miniature satellite phone, the size of a thick pen. Since the double fence around Green Way made it impossible to hide the instrument in the grass or bushes just inside the perimeter and since Bond knew Jessica was coming back today, he’d decided to hide it in her bag, knowing she’d walk through the metal detector undisturbed.
‘Give it to me,’ Hydt ordered.
Bond reached into his pocket and dug it out. Hydt examined it, then dropped and crushed it beneath his heel. ‘Who are you? Who are you working for?’
Bond shook his head.
No longer calm, Hydt gazed at the angry faces of his partners, who were asking furiously what steps had been taken to shield their identities. They wanted their mobile phones. Mathebula demanded his gun.
Dunne studied Bond in the way he might a misfiring engine. He spoke softly, as if to himself: ‘ You had to be the one in Serbia. And at the army base in March.’ His brow beneath the blond fringe furrowed. ‘How did you escape?… How?’ He didn’t seem to want an answer; he wasn’t speaking to anyone but himself. ‘And Midlands Disposal wasn’t involved. That was a cover for your surveillance there. Then here, the killing fields…’ His voice ebbed. A look approaching admiration tinted his face, as perhaps he decided Bond was an engineer in his own right, a man who also drafted clever blueprints.
He said to Hydt, ‘He has contacts in the UK – it’s the only way they could have evacuated the university in time. He’s with some British security agency. But he would’ve been working with somebody here. London will have to call Pretoria, though, and we’ve got enough people in our pocket to stall for a time.’ He said to one of the guards, ‘Get the remaining workers out of the plant. Keep only security. Hit the toxic-spill alarm. Marshal everyone into the car park. That’ll jam things up nicely if SAPS or NIA decides to pay us a visit.’
The guard walked to an intercom and gave the instructions. An alarm blared and an announcement rattled from the public-address system in various languages.
‘And him?’ Huang asked, nodding to Bond.
‘Oh,’ Dunne said matter of factly, as if it
were understood. He looked at the security man. ‘Kill him and get the body into a furnace.’
The huge man was equally blasé as he stepped forward, aiming his Glock pistol with care.
‘Please, no!’ Bond cried and lifted a hand imploringly.
A natural gesture under the circumstances.
So the guard was surprised by the swirling black razor knife that Bond had pitched towards his face. This was the final item in Hirani’s CARE package, hidden in Jessica’s bag.
Bond had not been able to adjust his distance for knife throwing, at which he was not particularly proficient anyway, but he’d flung it more as a distraction. The security man, though, swatted away the spiralling weapon and the honed edge cut his hand deeply. Before he recovered or anyone else could react, Bond moved in, twisted his wrist back and relieved him of his gun, which he fired into the guard’s fat leg, to make sure that the weapon was ready to shoot and to disable him further. As Dunne and the other armed guard drew their weapons and began firing, Bond rolled through the door.
The corridor was empty. Slamming the door shut, he sprinted twenty yards and took cover behind, ironically, a green recycling bin.
The door to the conference room opened cautiously. The second armed guard eased out, narrow eyes scanning. Bond saw no reason to kill the young man so he shot him near the elbow. He dropped to the floor, screaming.
Bond knew they would have called for back-up so he stood up and continued his flight. As he ran he dropped out the magazine and glanced at it. Ten rounds left. Nine millimetre, 110 grain, full-metal jacket. Light rounds, and with the copper jacketing they’d have less stopping power than a hollow point but they’d shoot flat and fast.
He shoved the magazine back in.
Ten rounds.
Always count…
But before he got far, there was a huge snap near his head and the nearly simultaneous boom of a rifle from a side corridor. He saw two men in security-guard khaki approaching, holding Bushmaster assault rifles. Bond fired twice, missing, but giving himself enough cover to kick in the door to the office beside him and run into the cluttered workspace. No one was inside. A fusillade from the.223 slugs tore up the jamb, wall and door.
Carte Blanche Page 32
