Carte Blanche

waves; airflow disruption; propeller and helicopter rotor vibrations; exhaust from jet engines, trains and cars; velocity patterns, and more.
    The director-general continued: “Last night Five registered a MASINT profile that matched the helicopter he escaped in.”
    Bloody hell . . . . If MI5 had found the chopper, that meant it was in England. The Irishman—the sole lead to Noah and Incident 20—was in the one place where James Bond had no authority to pursue him.
    M added, “The helicopter landed northeast of London at about one A.M . and vanished. They lost all track.” He shook his head. “I don’t see why Whitehall didn’t give us more latitude about operating at home when they chartered us. Would have been easy. Hell, what if you’d followed the Irishman to the London Eye or Madame Tussauds? What should you have done—rung nine-nine-nine? For God’s sake, these are the days of globalization, of the Internet, the EU, yet we can’t follow leads in our own country.”
    The rationale for this rule, however, was clear. MI5 conducted brilliant investigations. MI6 was a master at foreign-intelligence gathering and “disruptive action,” such as destroying a terrorist cell from within by planting misinformation. The Overseas Development Group did rather more, including occasionally, if rarely, ordering its 00 Section agents to lie in wait for enemies of the state and shoot them dead. But to do so within the UK, however morally justifiable or tactically convenient, would play rather badly among bloggers and the Fleet Street scribblers.
    Not to mention that the Crown’s prosecutors might be counted on to have a say in the matter as well.
    But, politics aside, Bond adamantly wanted to pursue Incident 20. He’d developed a particular dislike for the Irishman. His words to M were measured: “I think I’m in the best position to find this man and Noah and to suss out what they’re up to. I want to keep on it, sir.”
    “I thought as much. And I want you to pursue it, 007. I’ve been on the phone this morning with Five and Specialist Operations at the Yard. They’re both willing to let you have a consulting role.”
    “Consulting?” Bond said sourly, then realized that M would have done some impressive negotiating to achieve that much. “Thank you, sir.”
    M deflected the words with a jerk of his head. “You’ll be working with someone from Division Three, a fellow named Osborne-Smith.”
    Division Three . . . British security and police operations were like human beings: forever being born, marrying, producing progeny, dying and even, Bond had once joked, undergoing sex-change operations. Division Three was one of the more recent offspring. It had some loose affiliation with Five, in much the same way that the ODG had a gossamer-thin connection to Six.
    Plausible deniability . . .
    While Five had broad investigation and surveillance powers, it had no arrest authority or tactical officers. Division Three did. It was a secretive, reclusive group of high-tech wizards, bureaucrats and former SAS and SBS tough boys with serious firepower. Bond had been impressed with its recent successes in taking down terrorist cells in Oldham, Leeds and London.
    M regarded him evenly. “I know you’re used to having carte blanche to handle the mission as you see fit, 007. You have your independent streak and it’s served you well in the past.” A dark look. “ Most of the time. But at home your authority’s limited. Significantly. Do I make myself clear?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    So, no longer carte blanche, Bond reflected angrily, more carte grise.
    Another dour glance from M. “Now, a complication. That security conference.”
    “Security conference?”
    “Haven’t read your Whitehall briefing?” M asked petulantly.
    These were administrative announcements about internal government matters and, accordingly, no, Bond did not read them. “Sorry, sir.”
    M’s jowls tightened. “We have thirteen security agencies in the UK. Maybe more as of this morning. The heads of Five, Six, SOCA, JTAC, SO Thirteen, DI, the whole lot—myself included—will be holed up in Whitehall for three days later in the week. Oh, the CIA and some chaps from the Continent too. Briefings on Islamabad, Pyongyang, Venezuela, Beijing, Jakarta. And there’ll probably be some young analyst in Harry Potter glasses touting his theory that the Chechnyan rebels are responsible for that damned volcano in Iceland. A bloody inconvenience,