Carte Blanche

attempt to decipher the code.

Chapter 18
    At eight fifteen the taxi dropped Bond at Antoine’s in Bloomsbury and he immediately approved of Philly’s choice. He hated crowded, noisy restaurants and bars and on more than one occasion had walked out of upmarket establishments when the decibel level had proved to be too irritating. Upscale pubs were more “ghastly” than “gastro,” he’d once quipped.
    But Antoine’s was quiet and dimly lit. An impressive wine selection was visible at the back of the room and the walls were filled with muted portraits from the nineteenth century. Bond asked for a small booth not far from the wall of bottles. He settled into the plush leather, facing the front, as always, and studied the place. Businesspeople and locals, he judged.
    “Something to drink?” asked the waiter, a pleasant man in his late thirties, with a shaved head and pierced ears.
    Bond decided on a cocktail. “Crown Royal, on ice, a double, please. Add a half-measure of triple sec, two dashes of bitters and a twist of orange peel.”
    “Yes, sir. Interesting drink.”
    “Based on an Old Fashioned. My own creation, actually.”
    “Does it have a name?”
    “Not yet,” he said. “I’ve been looking for the right one.”
    A few moments later it arrived and he took a sip—it was constructed perfectly and Bond said so. He’d just set the glass down when he saw Philly coming through the door, radiant with a smile. It seemed that her pace quickened when she saw him.
    She was in close-fitting black jeans, a brown leather jacket and, under it, a tight dark green sweater, the color of his Jaguar.
    He half rose as she joined him, sitting to his side, rather than across. She was carrying a briefcase.
    “You all right?” she said.
    He’d half expected something a bit more personal than this rather casual greeting. But then he asked himself sternly, Why?
    She had barely taken off her jacket before she’d caught the eye of the waiter, who greeted her with a smile. “Ophelia.”
    “Aaron. I’ll have a glass of the Mosel Riesling.”
    “On its way.”
    Her wine arrived and Bond told Aaron they’d wait to order. Their glasses nodded at one another but did not clink.
    “First,” Bond murmured, edging a little closer, “Hydt. Tell me about him.”
    “I checked with Specialist Operations at the Yard, Six, Interpol, NCIC and the CIA in America and the AIVD in the Netherlands. I made some discreet enquiries at Five, too.” She’d obviously deduced the tension between Bond and Osborne-Smith. “No criminal records. No watch lists. More Tory than Labour but doesn’t have much interest in politics. Not a member of any church. Treats his people well—no labor unrest of any kind. No problems with the Inland Revenue or Health and Safety. He just seems to be a wealthy businessman. Very wealthy. All he’s ever done professionally is rubbish collection and recycling.”
    The Rag-and-Bone Man . . .
    “He’s fifty-six, never married. Both parents—they were Dutch—are dead now. His father had some money and traveled a lot on business. Hydt was born in Amsterdam, then came here with his mother to live when he was twelve. She had a breakdown so he grew up mostly under the care of the housekeeper, who’d accompanied them from Holland. Then his father lost most of his money and vanished from his son’s life. Because she wasn’t getting paid, the housekeeper called in Social Services and vanished—after eight years of looking after the boy.” Philly shook her head in sympathy. “He was fourteen.”
    Philly continued, “He started working as a dustman at fifteen. Then he’s off the radar until he’s in his twenties. He opened Green Way just as the recycling trend caught on.”
    “What happened? Did he inherit some money?”
    “No. It’s a bit of a mystery. He started penniless, as far as I can tell. When he was older he put himself through university. He read ancient history and archaeology.”
    “And Green Way?”
    “It handles general rubbish disposal, wheelie-bin collection, removal of construction waste at building sites, scrap metal, demolition, recycling, document shredding, dangerous-materials reclamation and disposal. According to the business press, it’s moving into a dozen other countries to start up rubbish tips and recycling centers.” Philly displayed a printout of a company sales brochure.
    Bond frowned at the logo. It looked like a green dagger, resting on its side.
    “It’s not a