Carte Blanche

intelligence solidified Osborne-Smith’s determination to clap Severan “Noah” Hydt in irons, drag him into Belmarsh or Division Three’s own interrogation room, which was not much more hospitable than the prison’s, and bleed him dry.
    He said to Deputy-Deputy, “Run the whole battery on Hydt. I want to know about his good and his bad, what medicine he takes, the Independent or the Daily Sport, Arsenal or Chelsea, his dietary preferences, movies that scare him or that make him cry, who he’s dallying or who’s dallying him. And how. And get an arrest team together. Say, we didn’t get Bond’s firearms authorization form, did we?”
    “No, sir.”
    Now this piqued Osborne-Smith.
    “Where’s my eye in the sky?” he asked the young technician, sitting at his video-game console.
    They had tried to find Hydt’s destination the easy way. Since the espion in Paris had learned the man was departing in a private aircraft, they’d searched CAA records for planes registered to Severan Hydt, Green Way or any subsidiaries. But none could be found. So, it was to be old-fashioned snooping, if one could describe a £3 million drone thus.
    “Hold on, hold on,” the technician said, wasting breath. Finally: “Got Big Bird peeping now.”
    Osborne-Smith regarded the screen. The view from two miles overhead was remarkably clear. But then he took in the image and said, “Are you sure that’s Hydt’s house? Not part of his company?”
    “Positive. Private residence.”
    The home occupied a full square block in Canning Town. It was separated, not surprisingly, from the neighbors in their council houses or dilapidated flats by an imposing wall, glistening at the crest with razor wire. Within the grounds there were neatly tended gardens, in May bloom. The place had apparently been a modest warehouse or factory around a century ago but had been done up recently, it seemed. Four outbuildings and a garage were clustered together.
    What was this about? he wondered. Why did such a wealthy man live in Canning Town? It was poor, ethnically complex, prone to violent crime and gangs but with fiercely loyal residents and activist councilors who worked very, very hard for their constituents. A massive amount of redevelopment was going on, apart from the Olympics construction, which some said was taking the heart out of the place. His father, Osborne-Smith recalled, had seen the Police, Jeff Beck and Depeche Mode perform at some legendary pub in Canning Town decades ago.
    “Why does Hydt live there?” he mused aloud.
    His assistant called, “Just had word that Bond left his flat, heading east. He lost our man, though. Bond drives like Michael Schumacher.”
    “We know where he’s going,” Osborne-Smith said. “Hydt’s.” He hated to have to explain the obvious.
    As the minutes rolled by without any activity at Hydt’s, Osborne-Smith’s young assistant gave him updates: An arrest team had been assembled, firearms officers included. “They want to know their orders, sir.”
    Osborne-Smith considered this. “Get them ready but let’s wait and see if Hydt’s meeting anybody. I want to scoop up the entire cast and crew.”
    The technician said, “Sir, we have movement.”
    Leaning closer to the screen, Osborne-Smith observed that a bulky man in a black suit—bodyguard, he assessed—was wheeling suitcases out of Hydt’s house and into the detached garage.
    “Sir, Bond’s just arrived in Canning Town.” The man teased a joystick and the field of view expanded. “There.” He pointed. “That’s him. The Bentley.” The subdued gray vehicle slowed and pulled to the curb.
    The assistant whistled. “A Continental GT. Now, that ’s a bloody fine automobile. I think they reviewed it on Top Gear . You ever watch the show, Percy?”
    “Sadly, I’m usually working.” Osborne-Smith cast a mournful gaze toward tousle-haired Deputy-Deputy and decided that if the youngster couldn’t muster a bit more humility and respect, he probably wouldn’t survive—careerwise—much beyond the end of the Incident 20 assignment.
    Bond’s car was parked discreetly—if the word could be used to describe a £125,000 car in Canning Town—about fifty yards from Hydt’s house, hidden behind several skips.
    The assistant: “The arrest team’s on board the chopper.”
    Osborne-Smith said, “Put them in the air. Get them to hover somewhere near the Gherkin.”
    The forty-story Swiss Re office building rising above the City—it