Carte Blanche

toward the garden’s gate.
    “Wait—wait.” Hydt was walking after him, frowning. “We’re businesspeople. This is what we do. We must make certain.”
    Bond spat an obscenity and continued down the path, his fists clenching and unclenching.
    Urgently Hydt said, “You can keep going. But please know, Theron, you’re walking away not only from me but from one million dollars, which will be yours tomorrow if you stay. And there will be much more.”
    Bond stopped. He turned.
    “Let us go back to the office and talk. Let us be professional.”
    Bond looked at the man he’d shot, who was still grinning happily. He asked Hydt, “A million?”
    Hydt nodded. “Yours tomorrow.”
    Bond remained where he was for a moment, staring across the gardens, which were truly magnificent. Then he walked back to Hydt, casting a cool glance at Niall Dunne, who was unloading the rifle and cleaning it carefully, caressing the metal parts.
    Bond tried to keep an indignant look on his face, playing the role of offended party.
    And fiction it was, for he’d figured out about the wax bullets. Nobody who’s fired a gun with a normal load of gunpowder and a lead bullet would be fooled by a wax round, which produces far less recoil than a real slug (giving a blank round to a soldier in a firing squad is absurd; he clearly knows his bullet is not real the minute he shoots). A few moments ago Bond had been given the clue when the “thief” covered his eyes. People about to be shot don’t shield anything with their hands. So, Bond had reflected, he’s afraid of being blinded, not killed. That suggested that the bullets were blank or wax.
    He’d fired into the foliage to judge the recoil and learned from the very light kick that these were nonlethal rounds.
    He guessed that the man would earn hazard pay for his efforts. Hydt seemed to take care of his employees, whatever else one could say about him. This was confirmed now. Hydt peeled off some rand and gave them to the man, who walked up to Bond and pumped his hand. “Hey, mister, sir! You a good shot. You got me in a blessed spot. Look, right here!” He tapped his chest. “One man shot me down below, you know where. He was bastard. Oh, that hurt and hurt for days. An’ my lady, she complain much.”
    In the Range Rover once more, the three men drove in silence back to the plant, the beautiful gardens giving way to harrowing Disappearance Row, the cacophony of the gulls, the fumes.
    Gehenna . . .
    Dunne parked at the main building, nodded to Bond and told Hydt, “Our associates? I’ll meet the flights. They’re arriving around nineteen hundred hours. I’ll get them settled and then come back.”
    So, Dunne and Hydt would be working into the night. Did that bode well or badly for any future reconnaissance at Green Way? One thing was clear: Bond had to get inside Research and Development now.
    Dunne strode away, while Hydt and Bond continued to the building. “You going to give me a tour here?” Bond asked Hydt. “It’s warmer . . . and there aren’t as many seagulls.”
    Hydt laughed. “There isn’t much to see. We’ll just go to my office.” He didn’t, however, spare his new partner the procedures at the backdoor security post—though the guards missed the inhaler again. As they stepped into the main corridor, Bond noted again the sign to Research and Development. He lowered his voice. “Well, I wouldn’t mind a tour of the toilet.”
    “That way.” Hydt pointed, then pulled out his mobile to make a call. Bond walked quickly down the corridor. He entered the empty men’s room, grabbed a large handful of paper towels and tossed them into one of the toilets. When he flushed, the paper jammed in the drain. He went to the door and looked toward where Hydt was waiting. The man’s head was down and he was concentrating on his call. There was no CCTV, Bond saw, so he walked away from Hydt, planning his cover story.
    Oh, one cubicle was occupied and the other was jammed so I went for another one. Didn’t want to bother you when you were on the phone.
    Plausible deniability . . .
    Bond remembered where he’d seen the sign when he’d entered. He now hurried down a deserted hallway.
    R ESEARCH AND D EVELOPMENT. R ESTRICTED
    The metal security door was operated by a number pad, in conjunction with a key-card reader. Bond palmed the inhaler and took several pictures, including close-ups of the pad.
    Come on, he urged an unsuspecting confederate inside the