Carte Blanche

me into a clown.”
    “Doesn’t let you . . . What do you mean?”
    The confession died on her lips. “Nothing,” Jessica whispered.
    “Was it something I said? I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I was just making conversation.”
    “No, no, it’s nothing you’ve done, Gene.”
    “Tell me what’s wrong.” His eyes locked with hers.
    She debated a moment. “I wasn’t being honest with you. I put on a good show but it’s all a façade. We don’t have a connection. We never have. He wants me . . .” She raised her hand. “Oh, you don’t want to hear this.”
    Bond touched her arm. “Please, I’m responsible in some way. I was just blundering along. I feel the fool. Tell me.”
    “Yes, he loves the old . . . the used, the discarded. Me .”
    “My God, no. I didn’t mean—”
    “I know you didn’t. But that is what Severan wants me for—because I’m part of the downward spiral too. I’m his laboratory for fading, for aging, for decay.
    “That’s all I mean to him. He hardly talks to me, ever. I’ve got almost no idea what goes on in that mind of his and he has no interest in finding out who I am. He gives me credit cards, takes me nice places, provides for me. In return he . . . well, he watches me age. I’ll catch him staring at me, a new wrinkle here, an age spot there. That’s why I can’t wear makeup. He leaves the lights on when . . . you know what I mean. Do you know how humiliating that is for me? He knows it too. Because humiliation is another form of decay.”
    She laughed bitterly, dabbing her eyes with the tissue. “And the irony, Gene? The goddamn irony? When I was young I lived for beauty pageants. Nobody cared about who I was inside, the judges, my fellow contestants . . . even my mother. Now I’m old and Severan doesn’t care about who I am inside either. There are times when I hate being with him. But what can I do? I’m powerless.”
    Bond applied a bit more pressure to her arm. “That’s not true. You’re not powerless at all. Being older is strength. It’s experience, judgment, discernment, knowing your resources. Youth is mistake and impulse. Believe me, I know that quite well.”
    “But without him what could I do—where would I go?”
    “Anywhere. You could do whatever you wanted. You’re obviously clever. You must have some money.”
    “Some. But it’s not about money. It’s about finding someone at my age.”
    “Why do you need someone?”
    “Spoken like a young man.”
    “And that ’s spoken like someone who believes what she’s been told, rather than thinking for herself.”
    Jessica gave a faint smile. “Touché, Gene.” She patted his hand. “You’ve been very kind and I can’t believe I had a meltdown with a total stranger. Please, I’ve got to get inside. He’ll be calling to check up on me.” She gestured at the house.
    Bond drove forward and pulled up to the gate, under the watchful eye of a security guard—which put to rest his plan to get inside the house and see what secrets lay there. Jessica gripped his hand in both of hers, then climbed out.
    “I will see you tomorrow?” he asked. “At the plant?”
    A faint smile. “Yes, I’ll be there. My leash is pretty short.” She turned and walked quickly through the opening gate.
    Then Bond shoved the car into first and skidded away, Jessica Barnes vanishing instantly from his thoughts. His attention was on his next destination and what would greet him there.
    Friend or foe?
    In his chosen profession, though, James Bond had learned that those two categories were not mutually exclusive.

Chapter 49
    All Thursday morning, all afternoon there had been talk of threats.
    Threats from the North Koreans, threats from the Taliban, threats from al-Qaeda, the Chechnyans, the Islamic Jihad Brotherhood, eastern Malaysia, Sudan, Indonesia. There’d been a brief discussion about the Iranians; despite the surreal rhetoric issuing from their presidential palace, nobody took them too seriously. M almost felt sorry for the poor regime in Tehran. Persia had once been such a great empire.
    Threats . . .
    But the actual assault, he thought wryly, was occurring only now, during a tea break at the security conference. M disconnected from Moneypenny and sat back stiffly in the well-worn gilt drawing room of a building in Richmond Terrace, between Whitehall and the Victoria Embankment. It was one of those utterly unremarkable fading structures of indeterminate age in which the sweat work