Carte Blanche

building.”
    “What?” Hydt barked, turning his huge, equine head the man’s way.
    “He went in through the tunnel.”
    Dunne rattled off a number of questions. Was he alone? Had there been any transmissions that Janssen had monitored? Was his car nearby? Had there been any unusual traffic in the area? Was the man armed?
    The answers suggested that he was operating by himself and wasn’t with Scotland Yard or the Security Service.
    “Did you get a picture or a good look at him?” Dunne asked.
    “No, sir.”
    Hydt clicked two long nails together. “The man with the Serbs? From last night?” he asked Dunne. “The private operator?”
    “Not impossible but I don’t know how he could have traced us here.” Dunne gazed out of the caravan’s dirt-spattered window as if he wasn’t seeing the building. Hydt knew the Irishman was drafting a blueprint in his mind. Or perhaps examining one he’d already prepared in case of such a contingency. For a long moment he was motionless. Finally, drawing his gun, Dunne stepped out of the caravan, gesturing to Janssen to follow.

Chapter 13
    The smells of mold, rot, chemicals, oil and petrol were overwhelming. Bond struggled not to cough and blinked tears from his stinging eyes. Could he detect smoke too?
    The hospital’s basement here was windowless. Only faint illumination filtered in from where he’d entered the tunnel. Bond splayed light from his torch around him. He was beside a railway turntable, designed to rotate small locomotives after they’d carted in supplies or patients.
    His Walther in hand, Bond searched the area, listening for voices, footsteps, the click of a weapon chambering bullets or going off safety. But the place was deserted.
    He’d entered through the tunnel at the south end. As he moved farther north and away from the turntable, he came to a sign that prompted a brief laugh: M ORTUARY .
    It consisted of three large windowless rooms that had clearly been occupied recently; the floors were dust-free and new cheap workbenches were arranged throughout. One of these rooms seemed to be the source of the smoke. Bond saw electricity cables secured to the wall and floor with duct tape, presumably providing power for lights and whatever work had been going on. Perhaps an electrical short had produced the fumes.
    He left the mortuary and came to a large open space, with a double door, to the right, east, opening to the parade ground. Light filtered through the crack between the panels—a possible escape route, he noted, and he memorized its location and the placement of columns that might provide cover in the event he had to make his way to it under fire.
    Ancient steel tables, stained brown and black, were bolted to the floor, each with its own drain. For postmortems, of course.
    Bond continued to the north end of the building, which ended in a series of smaller rooms with barred windows. A sign here suggested why: M ENTAL H EALTH W ARD .
    He tried the doors leading up to the ground floor, found them locked and returned to the three rooms next to the turntable. A systematic search finally revealed the source of the smoke. On the floor in the corner of one room there was an improvised hearth. He spotted large curls of ash, on which he could discern writing. The flakes were delicate; he tried to pick one up but it dissolved between his fingers.
    Careful, he told himself.
    He walked over to one of the wires running up the wall. He pulled off several pieces of the silver duct tape securing the cords and sliced them into six-inch lengths with his knife. He then carefully pressed them onto the gray and black ash curls, slipped them into his pocket and continued his search. In a second room something silvery caught his eye. He hurried to the corner and found tiny splinters of metal littering the floor. He picked them up with another piece of tape, which he also pocketed.
    Then Bond froze. The building had begun to vibrate. A moment later the shaking increased considerably. He heard a diesel engine rattling, not far away. That explained why the demolition site had been deserted; the workers must have been at lunch and now they’d returned. He couldn’t get to the ground or higher floors without going outside, where he’d surely be spotted. It was time to leave.
    He stepped back into the turntable room to leave through the tunnel.
    And was saved from a broken skull by a matter of a few decibels.
    He didn’t see the attacker or hear his breathing or the