Carte Blanche

chatting with Mary Goodnight. Bond nodded and the Six agent joined him, taking a wooden chair opposite his desk.
    “What’ve you found, Philly?”
    She sat forward, crossing her legs, and Bond believed he heard the appealing rustle of nylon. “First, your photo skills are fine, James, but the light was too low. I couldn’t get high enough resolution of the Irishman’s face for recognition. And there were no prints on the pub bill or the other note, except for a partial of yours.”
    So, the man would have to remain anonymous for the time being.
    “But the prints on the glasses were good. The local was Aldo Karic, Serbian. He lived in Belgrade and worked for the national railway.” She pursed her lips in frustration, which emphasized the charming dimple. “But it’s going to take a little longer than I’d hoped to get more details. The same with the hazmat on the train. Nobody’s saying anything. You were right—Belgrade’s not in the mood to cooperate.
    “Now for the slips of paper you found in the burning car. I got some possible locations.”
    Bond noted the printouts she was producing from a folder. They were of maps emblazoned with the cheerful logo of MapQuest, the online directions-finding service. “Are you having budget problems at Six? I’d be happy to ring the Treasury for you.”
    She laughed, a breathy sound. “I used proxies, of course. Just wanted an idea of where on the pitch we’re playing.” She tapped one. “The receipt? The pub is here.” It was just off the motorway near Cambridge.
    Bond stared at the map. Who had eaten there? The Irishman? Noah? Other associates? Or someone who’d hired the car last week and had no connection whatsoever with Incident Twenty?
    “And the other piece of paper? With the writing on it?”
    Boots—March. 17. No later than that.
    She produced a lengthy list. “I tried to think of every possible combination of what it could mean. Dates, footwear, geographical locations, the chemist.” Her mouth tightened again. She was displeased that her efforts had fallen short. “Nothing obvious, I’m afraid.”
    He rose and pulled down several Ordnance Survey maps from the shelf. He flipped through one, scanning carefully.
    Mary Goodnight appeared in the doorway. “James, someone downstairs to see you. From Division Three, he says. Percy Osborne-Smith.”
    Philly must have caught the sea change in Bond’s expression. “I’ll make myself scarce now, James. I’ll keep on at the Serbs. They’ll crack. I guarantee it.”
    “Oh, one more thing, Philly.” He handed her the signal he’d just been reading. “I need you to catch everything you can about a Soviet or Russian operation called Steel Cartridge. There’s a little in here, not much.”
    She glanced down at the printout.
    He said, “Sorry it’s not translated but you can probably—”
    “Ya govoryu po russki .”
    Bond smiled weakly. “And with a far better accent than mine.” He told himself never to sell her short again.
    Philly examined the printout closely. “This was hacked from an online source. Who has the original data file?”
    “One of your people would. It came out of Station R.”
    “I’ll contact the Russia Desk,” she said. “I’ll want to look at the metadata coded in the file. That’ll have the date it was created, who the author was, maybe cross-references to other sources.” She slipped the Russian document into a manila folder and took a pen to tick off one of the boxes on the front. “How do you want it classified?”
    He debated for a moment. “Our eyes only.”
    “‘Our’?” she asked. That pronoun was not used in official document classification.
    “Yours and mine,” he said softly. “No one else.”
    A brief hesitation and then, in her delicate lettering, she penned at the top: Eyes only. SIS Agent Maidenstone. ODG Agent James Bond. “And priority?” she wondered aloud.
    At this question Bond did not hesitate at all. “Urgent.”

Chapter 11
    Bond was sitting forward at his desk, doing some research of his own in government databases, when he heard footsteps approaching, accompanied by a loud voice.
    “I’m fine, just great. You can peel off now, please and thank you—I can do without the sat-nav.”
    With that, a man in a close-fitting striped suit strode into Bond’s office, having discarded the Section P security officer who’d accompanied him. He’d also bypassed Mary Goodnight, who had risen with a frown as the man stormed past,