Carte Blanche

more likely—would suspect he might be tailed in London. He was also concerned that Osborne-Smith had arranged to follow Bond himself. So, after he had talked to René Mathis, he’d left his flat and sped to a covered car park in the City, where he’d met Philly to swap cars. She was to trail Hydt’s Audi, which Bond was sure would be a decoy, in his Bentley, while he, in her Mini, would wait for the man’s true departure, which came just ten minutes after the German car had sped away from Hydt’s Canning Town home.
    Bond now watched Hydt, head down, making a phone call. Beside him stood the woman. In her early to midsixties, Bond guessed, she had attractive features, though her face was pale and gaunt, an image accentuated by her black overcoat. Too little sleep, perhaps.
    His lover? Bond wondered. Or a longtime assistant? From her expression as she looked at Hydt, he decided the former.
    Also, the Irishman. Bond hadn’t seen him clearly in Serbia but there was no doubt; the gawky stride, feet turned out, bad posture, the odd blond fringe.
    Bond supposed he was the man at the controls of the bulldozer in March—who had so ruthlessly crushed his own security man to death. He also pictured the dead in Serbia—the agents, the train and lorry drivers, as well as the man’s own associate—and he let the anger rising in him crest and dissolve.
    Philly said, “In answer to your question, I liked it very much. A lot of engines have horses nowadays; you can get AMG Mercedes estate cars to take the kids to school, for God’s sake—but how many pounds’ torque does the Bentley have? I’ve never felt anything like it.”
    “A touch over five hundred.”
    “Oh my God,” Philly whispered, either impressed or envious, perhaps both. “And I’m in love with the all-wheel drive. How’s it distributed?”
    “Sixty-forty rear to front.”
    “Brilliant.”
    “Yours isn’t bad either,” he told her, of the Mini. “You added a supercharger.”
    “I did indeed.”
    “Whose?”
    “Autorotor. The Swedish outfit. Nearly doubled the horsepower. Close to three hundred now.”
    “I thought as much.” Bond was himself impressed. “I must get the name of your mechanic. I have an old Jaguar that needs work.”
    “Oh, tell me it’s an E-type. That’s the sexiest car in the history of motoring.”
    Yet one more thing in common. Bond wrapped this thought up and put it quickly away. “I’ll leave you in suspense. Hold on. Hydt’s on the move.” Bond climbed out of the Mini and hid Philly’s key in the wheel arch. He grabbed his suitcase and laptop bag, slipped on a new pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses and eased into a crowd to follow Hydt, the Irishman and the woman to Gatwick’s private jet terminal.
    “You there?” he asked, into the hands-free.
    “I am,” Philly replied.
    “What’s happening with the decoys?”
    “They’re just sitting in the Audi.”
    “They’ll be waiting until Hydt takes off and the plane’s out of UK airspace. Then they’ll turn round to lead you—and probably Mr. Osborne-Smith—back to London.”
    “You think Ozzy’s watching?”
    Bond had to smile. “You’ve got a drone hovering about ten thousand feet over you, I’m sure. They’re walking into the terminal now. I should go, Philly.”
    “I don’t get out of the office enough, James. Thanks for the chance to play Formula One.”
    Impulsively he said, “Here’s an idea. Maybe we’ll take it out into the country together, do some serious driving.”
    “James!” she said crossly. He wondered if he’d crossed a line. “You simply can’t keep referring to this magnificent machine as ‘it.’ I shall rack my brains and think up a proper name for her . And, yes, a trip out to the country sounds divine, provided you let me drive for exactly half the time. And we put in a null-detain request. I already have a few points on my driving license.”
    They rang off and Bond discreetly followed his prey. The threesome paused at a gate in a chain-link fence and presented passports to the guard. Bond saw that the woman’s was blue. American? The uniformed man jotted on a clipboard and gestured the three through. As Bond got to the fence he caught a glimpse of them climbing the stairs to a white private jet, a large one, seven round windows on each side of the fuselage, running lights already on. The door closed.
    Bond hit speed dial.
    “Flanagan. Hello, James.”
    “Maurice,” he said to the head of T Branch, the