Carte Blanche

then—
    But what was this? Dunne was suddenly aware of movement in a field nearby, an indistinct shape pounding over the uneven ground making directly for the track. “Do you see that?” he asked Karic.
    The Serbian gasped. “Yes, I am seeing—It’s a car! What is happening?”
    It was indeed. In the faint moonlight Dunne could see the small, light-colored saloon, assaulting hillocks and swerving around trees and fragments of fences. How could the driver keep his high speed on such a course? It seemed impossible.
    Teenagers, perhaps, playing one of their stupid games. As he stared at the mad transit, he judged velocity, he judged angles. If the car didn’t slow it would cross the track with some seconds to spare . . . but the driver would have to vault over the tracks themselves; there was no crossing here. If it were stuck on the rail, the diesel would crush it like a tin of vegetables. Still, that wouldn’t affect Dunne’s mission here. The tiny car would be pitched aside and the train would continue to the deadly spur.
    Now—wait—what was this ? Dunne realized it was a police car. But why no lights or siren? It must have been stolen. A suicide?
    But the police car’s driver had no intention of stopping on the rail or crossing to the other side. With a final leap into the air from the crest of the hill, the saloon crashed to earth and skidded to a stop, just short of the roadbed, around fifty yards in front of the train. The driver jumped out—a man. He was wearing dark clothing. Dunne couldn’t see him clearly but he appeared not to be a policeman. Neither was he trying to flag down the engine driver. He ran into the middle of the track itself and crouched calmly, directly in front of the locomotive, which bore down upon him at fifty or sixty miles an hour.
    The frantic blare of the train’s horn filled the night and orange streaks of sparks shot from the locked wheels.
    With the train feet away from him, the man launched himself from the track and vanished into the ditch.
    “What is happening?” Karic whispered.
    Just then a yellow-white flash burst from the tracks in front of the diesel and a moment later Dunne heard a crack he recognized: the explosion of a small IED or grenade. A similar blast followed seconds later.
    The driver of the police car, it seemed, had a blueprint of his own.
    One that trumped Dunne’s.
    No, he wasn’t a policeman or a suicide. He was an operative of some sort, with experience in demolition work. The first explosion had blown out the spikes fixing the rail to the wooden ties, the second had pushed the unsecured track to the side slightly so that the diesel’s front left wheels would slip off.
    Karic muttered something in Serbian. Dunne ignored him and watched the disc of the diesel’s headlight waver. Then, with a rumble and a terrible squeal, the engine and the massive wagons it tugged behind sidled off the track and, spewing a world of dust, pushed forward through the soil and chipped rock of the rail bed.

Chapter 4
    From the ditch, James Bond watched the locomotive and the cars continue their passage, slowing as they dug into the soft earth, peeling up rails and flinging sand, dirt and stones everywhere. Finally he climbed out and assessed the situation. He’d had only minutes to work out how to avert the calamity that would send the deadly substance into the Danube. After braking to a stop, he’d grabbed two of the grenades the Serbians had brought with them, then leaped onto the tracks to plant the devices.
    As he had calculated, the locomotive and wagons had stayed upright and hadn’t toppled into the stream. He’d orchestrated his derailment where the ground was still flat, unlike the intended setting of the Irishman’s sabotage. Finally, hissing, groaning and creaking, the train came to a standstill not far from the Irishman and his partner, though Bond could not see them through the dust and smoke.
    He spoke into the SRAC radio. “This is Leader One. Are you there?” Silence. “Are you there?” he growled. “Respond.” Bond massaged his shoulder, where a piece of whistling shrapnel had torn through his jacket and sliced skin.
    A crackle. Finally: “The train is derailed!” It was the older Serbian’s voice. “Did you see? Where are you?”
    “Listen to me carefully.”
    “What has happened?”
    “Listen! We don’t have much time. I think they’ll try to blow up or shoot the hazmat containers. It’s their only way to spill the