Carte Blanche

looked more like a 1950s spaceship than a pickled cucumber, in Osborne-Smith’s view—was centrally located and thus a good place from which to begin the hunt. “Alert security at all the airports: Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton, Stansted, London City, Southend and Biggin Hill.”
    “Right, sir.”
    “More subjects,” the technician said.
    On the screen, three people were leaving the house. A tall man in a suit, with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, walked next to a gangly blond man whose feet pointed outward. A slight woman in a black suit, her hair white, followed.
    “That’s Hydt,” the technician said. “The one with the beard.”
    “Any idea about the woman?”
    “No, sir.”
    “And the giraffe?” Osborne-Smith asked with a snide inflection. He was really quite irritated that Bond had ignored his firearms form. “Is he the Irishman everyone’s talking about? Get a picture and run with it. Hurry up.”
    The trio walked into the garage. A moment later a black Audi A8 sped out through the front gate and pulled into the road, accelerating fast.
    “Head count—all three are in the car, along with the bodyguard,” Deputy-Deputy called.
    “Lock on it, MASINT. And paint it with a laser for good measure.”
    “I’ll try,” the technician said.
    “You better had.”
    They watched Bond in his Bentley, pulling smoothly into traffic and speeding after the Audi.
    “Pan out and stay on them,” Osborne-Smith said, with the lisp he was forever trying to slice off, though the affliction had proved a hydra all his life.
    The camera latched on to the German car. “There’s a good lad,” he said to the technician.
    The Audi sped up. Bond was following discreetly but never missing a turn. As skillful as the driver of the German car was, Bond was better—anticipating when the chauffeur would try something clever, some aborted turn or unexpected lane change, and counter the measure. The cars zipped through green, amber and red alike.
    “Going north. Prince Regent Lane.”
    “So London City Airport’s out.”
    The Audi hit Newham Way.
    “All right,” Deputy-Deputy enthused, tugging at his eruption of hair. “It’s either Stansted or Luton.”
    “Going north on the A406,” another technician, a round blonde woman who had materialized from nowhere, called.
    Then, after some impressive fox and hound driving, the competitors, Audi and Bentley, were on the M25 going anticlockwise.
    “It’s Luton!” the assistant cried.
    More subdued, Osborne-Smith ordered, “Get the whirlybird moving.”
    “Will do.”
    In silence they followed the progress of the Audi. Finally it sped into the short-term car park at Luton Airport. Bond wasn’t far behind. The car parked carefully out of view of Hydt’s.
    “Chopper’s setting down on the antiterror pad at the airport. Our people’ll deploy toward the car park.”
    No one got out of the Audi. Osborne-Smith smiled. “I knew it! Hydt’s waiting to meet associates. We’ll get them all. Tell our people to stay under cover until I give the word. And get all the eyes at Luton online.”
    He reflected that the CCTV cameras on the ground might make it possible for them to see Bond’s shocked reaction when the Division Three teams descended like hawks and arrested Hydt and the Irishman. That hadn’t been Osborne-Smith’s goal in ordering the video, of course . . . but it would be a very nice bonus.

Chapter 21
    Hans Groelle sat behind the wheel of Severan Hydt’s sleek black Audi A8. The thickly built, blond Dutch Army veteran had done some motocross and other racing in his younger days and he was pleased Mr. Hydt had asked him to put his driving skills to use this morning. Relishing the memory of the frantic drive from Canning Town to Luton Airport, Groelle listened absently to the three-way conversation of the man and woman in the backseat and the passenger in the front.
    They were laughing about the excitement of the race. The driver of the Bentley was extremely competent but, more important, intuitive. He couldn’t have known where Groelle was going so he’d had to anticipate the turns, many of them utterly random. It was as if the pursuing driver had had some sixth sense that told him when Groelle was going to turn, to slow, to speed forward.
    A natural driver.
    But who was he?
    Well, they’d soon find out. No one in the Audi had been able to get a description of the driver—he was that clever—but they’d pieced together the number-plate. Groelle had