Carte Blanche

filled with workstations. Sublime, he had thought, upon meeting her a month ago. Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones, and surrounded by Rossetti-red hair that cascaded from her marvelous temples to past her shoulders. A tiny off-center dimple, which he found completely charming, distressed her chin. Her hazel eyes, golden green, held yours intently, and to Bond, her figure was as a woman’s should be: slim and elegant. Her unpainted nails were trimmed short. Today she was in a knee-length black skirt and an apricot shirt, high-necked, yet thin enough to hint at lace beneath, managing to be both tasteful and provocative. Her legs were embraced by nylon the color of café au lait.
    Stockings or tights? Bond couldn’t help but wonder.
    Ophelia Maidenstone was an intelligence analyst with MI6. She was stationed with the ODG as a liaison officer because the Group was not an intelligence-gathering organization; it was operational, tactical, largely. Accordingly, like the Cabinet and the prime minister, it was a consumer of “product,” as intelligence was called. And the ODG’s main supplier was Six.
    Admittedly, Philly’s appearance and forthright manner were what had initially caught Bond’s attention, just as her tireless efforts and resourcefulness had held it. Equally alluring, though, was her love of driving. Her favorite vehicle was a BSA 1966 Spitfire, the A65, one of the most beautiful motorcycles ever made. It wasn’t the most powerful bike in the Birmingham Small Arms line but it was a true classic and, when properly tuned (which, God bless her, she did herself), it left a broad streak of rubber at the takeoff line. She’d told Bond she liked to drive in all weather and had bought an insulated leather jumpsuit that let her take to the roads whenever she fancied. He’d imagined it as an extremely tight-fitting garment and arched an eyebrow. He’d received in return a sardonic smile, which told him that his gesture had ricocheted like a badly placed bullet.
    She was, it emerged, engaged to be married. The ring, which he’d noted immediately, was a deceptive ruby.
    So, that settled that.
    Philly now looked up with an infectious smile. “James, hello! . . . Why are you looking at me like that?”
    “I need you.”
    She tucked back a loose strand of hair. “Delighted to help if I could but I’ve got something on for John. He’s in Sudan. They’re about to start shooting.”
    The Sudanese had been fighting the British, the Egyptians, other nearby African nations—and themselves—for more than a hundred years. The Eastern Alliance, several Sudanese states near the Red Sea, wanted to secede and form a moderate secular country. The regime in Khartoum, still buffeted by the recent independence movement in the south, was not pleased by this initiative.
    Bond said, “I know. I was the one going originally. I drew Belgrade instead.”
    “The food’s better,” she said, with studied gravity. “If you like plums.”
    “It’s just that I collected some things in Serbia that should be looked into.”
    “It’s never ‘just’ with you, James.”
    Her mobile buzzed. She frowned, peering at the screen. As she took the call, her piercing hazel eyes swung his way and regarded him with some humor. She said, into the phone, “I see.” When she had disconnected, she said, “You pulled in some favors. Or bullied someone.”
    “Me? Never.”
    “It seems that war in Africa will have to soldier on without me. So to speak.” She went to another workstation and handed the Khartoum baton to a fellow spook.
    Bond sat down. There seemed to be something different about her space but he couldn’t work out what it was. Perhaps she’d tidied it or rearranged the furniture—as far as anyone could in the tiny area.
    When she came back she focused her eyes on him. “Right, then. I’m all yours. What do we have?”
    “Incident Twenty.”
    “Ah, that. I wasn’t on the hot list so you’d better brief me.”
    Like Bond, Ophelia Maidenstone was Developed Vetting Cleared by the Defense Vetting Agency, the FCO and Scotland Yard, which permitted virtually unlimited access to top secret material, short of the most classified nuclear-arms data. He briefed her on Noah, the Irishman, the threat on Friday and the incident in Serbia. She took careful notes.
    “I need you to play detective inspector. This is all we have to go on.” He handed her the carrier bag containing the slips of paper he’d snatched