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  Thirty feet away, in the car park, sat a black-and-red Mini Cooper, whose interior décor included a yellow rose in a plastic vase wedged into the cup holder. Behind the wheel, James Bond was watching the trio of passengers deploy to the pavement. The Irishman, naturally, was looking around carefully. He never seemed to drop his guard.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ Bond asked, into the hands-free connected to his mobile.

  ‘It?’

  ‘The Bentley.’

  ‘“It”? Honestly, James, a car like this simply demandsa name,’ Philly Maidenstone chided. She was sitting in his Bentley Continental GT, at Luton airport, having chased Hydt’s Audi all the way from Canning Town.

  ‘I never got into the habit of naming my cars.’ Any more than I’d give my gun a gender, he reflected. And kept his eyes on the threesome not far away.

  Bond had been convinced that after the incidents in Serbia and March, Hydt – or the Irishman, 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 mid-sixties, 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 long-time 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 in the bulldozer in March – who had so ruthlessly crushed his 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 licence.’

  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 group within the ODG that handled all things vehicular. ‘I need a destination for a private plane, departing just about now from Gatwick.’ He read off the five-letter registration painted on the engine.

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  The aircraft moved forward. Dammit, he thought angrily. Slow down. He was all too aware that, if René Mathis’s information was correct, Hydt was on his way to oversee the murder of at least ninety people that evening.

  Maurice Flanagan said, ‘I have it. Nice bird, Grumman Five-fifty. State-of-the-art and damned expensive. That one’s owned by a Dutch company in the business of waste and recycling.’

  One of Hydt’s, of course.

  ‘The flight plan’s filed for Dubai.’

  Dubai? Was that where the deaths were going to happen? ‘Where will it stop for refuelling?’

  Flanagan laughed. ‘James, the range is over six and a half thousand miles. Flies at Mach point eight eight.’

  Bond watched the plane taxiing to the runway. Dubai was about 3,500 miles from London. With the time difference the Grumman would land at three or four p.m.

  ‘I need to beat that plane to Dubai, Maurice. What can you cobble together for me? I have passports, credit cards and three grand in cash. Whatever you can do. Oh, I have my weapon – you’ll need to take that into account.’

  Bond kept staring at the sleek white jet, wingtips turned up. It looked less like a bird than a dragon, though that might have been because he knew who the occupants were and what they had planned.

  Ninety dead…

  Several tense moments passed as Bond watched the jet edge closer to the runway.

  Then Flanagan said, ‘Sorry, James. The best I can do is get you on a commercial flight out of Heathrow in a few hours. Puts you in Dubai around six twenty.’

  ‘Won’t do, Maurice. Military? Government?’

  ‘Nothing available. Absolutely nothing.’

  Damn. At least he could have Philly or Bill Tanner arrange with someone at Six’s UAE desk to have a watcher meet the flight at Dubai airport and tail Hydt and Dunne to their destination.

  He sighed. ‘Put me on the commercial flight.’

  ‘Will do. Sorry.’

  Bond glanced at his watch.

  Nine hours until the deaths…

  He could always hope for a delay to Hydt’s flight.

  Just then he saw the Grumman turn on to the main runway and, without pause, accelerate fast, lifting effortlessly from the concrete, then shrinking to a dot as the dragon shot higher into the sky, speeding directly away from him.

  Percy Osborn
e-Smith was leaning towards the large, flatscreen monitor, split into six rectangles. Twenty minutes ago, they’d had a CCTV hit on the number plate of a lorry registered to Severan Hydt’s company at the Redhill and Reigate exit from the A23, which led to Gatwick. He and his underlings were now scanning every camera in and around the airport for the vehicle.

  The second technician to join them finished securing her blonde hair with an elastic band and pointed a pudgy finger to one of the screens. ‘There. That’s it.’

  It seemed that fifteen minutes ago, according to the time stamp, the lorry had paused at the kerb near the private aviation terminal and several people had got out. Yes, it was the trio.

  ‘Why didn’t Hydt’s face get read when he arrived? We can find hooligans from Rio before they get into Old Trafford but we can’t spot a mass murderer in broad daylight. My God, does that say something about Whitehall’s priorities? Don’t repeat that, anyone. Scan the tarmac.’

  The technician manipulated the controls. There was an image of Hydt and the others walking to a private jet.

  ‘Bring up the registration number. Run it.’

  To his credit Deputy-Deputy already had. ‘Owned by a Dutch company that does recycling. Okay, got the flight plan. He’s headed for Dubai. They’ve already taken off.’

  ‘Where are they now? Where?’

  ‘Checking…’ The assistant sighed. ‘Just passing out of UK airspace.’

  Teeth clenched, Osborne-Smith stared at the still video image of the plane. He mused, ‘Wonder what it would take to scramble some Harriers and force them down?’ Then he looked up to note everyone staring at him. ‘I’m not serious, people.’

  Though he had been, just a little.

  ‘Look at that,’ the male technician interrupted.

  ‘Look at bloody what?’

  Deputy-Deputy said, ‘Yes, somebody elseis watching them.’

  The screen was showing the entrance to the private jet terminal at Gatwick. A man was standing at the wire fence, staring at Hydt’s plane.

  My God – it was Bond .

  So, the bloody clever ODG agent, with a fancy car and without permission to carry a firearm in the UK, had tailed Hydt after all. Osborne-Smith wondered briefly who’d been in the Bentley. The ruse, he knew, had been not only to fool Hydt but to fool Division Three.

  With considerable contentment he watched Bond turn from the fence and head back to the car park, head down and speaking into his mobile, undoubtedly enduring a verbal lashing from his boss for having let the fox slip away.

  23

  Usually we never hear the sound that wakes us. Perhaps we might, if it repeats: an alarm or an urgent voice. But a once-only noise rouses without registering in our consciousness.

  James Bond didn’t know what lifted him from his dreamless sleep. He glanced at his watch.

  It was just after one p.m.

  Then he smelt a delicious aroma: a combination of floral perfume – jasmine, he believed – and the ripe, rich scent of vintage champagne. Above him he saw the heavenly form of a beautiful Middle Eastern woman, wearing a sleek burgundy skirt and long-sleeved golden shirt over her voluptuous figure. Her collar was secured with a pearl, which was different from the lower buttons. He found the tiny cream dot particularly appealing. Her hair was as blue-black as crow feathers, pinned up, though a teasing strand fell loose, cupping one side of her face, which was subtly and meticulously made-up.

  He said to her, ‘ Salam alaikum .’

  ‘ Wa alaikum salam ,’ she replied. She set the crystal flute on the tray table in front of him, along with the elegant bottle of the king of Moëts, Dom Pérignon. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bond, I’ve woken you. I’m afraid the cork popped more loudly than I’d hoped. I was just going to leave the glass and not disturb you.’

  ‘ Shukran ,’ he said, as he took the glass. ‘And don’t worry. My second favourite way to wake up is to the sound of champagne opening.’

  She responded to this with a subtle smile. ‘I can arrange some lunch for you too.’

  ‘That would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  She returned to the galley.

  Bond sipped his champagne and looked out of the private jet’s spacious window, the twin Rolls-Royce engines pulsing smoothly as it flew towards Dubai at 42,000 feet, doing more than 600 miles an hour. The aircraft was, Bond reflected with amusement, a Grumman, like Severan Hydt’s, but Bond was in a Grumman 650, the faster model, with a greater range than the Rag-and-bone Man’s.

  Bond had started the chase hours ago, with the modern equivalent of a scene from an old American police movie, in which the detective leaps into a taxi and orders, ‘Follow that car.’ He’d decided that the commercial flight would get him to Dubai too late to stop the killings so he’d placed a call to his Commodore Club friend, Fouad Kharaz, who had instantly put a private jet at his disposal. ‘My friend, you know I owe you,’ the Arab assured him.

  A year ago he had approached Bond awkwardly for help, suspecting he did something that involved government security. On his way home from school, Kharaz’s teenage son had become the target of some hooded thugs, nineteen or twenty years old, who flaunted their anti-social behaviour orders like insignias of rank. The police were sympathetic but had little time for the drama. Worried sick about his son, Kharaz asked if there was anything Bond could recommend. In a moment of weakness, the knight errant within Bond had prevailed and he had trailed the boy home from school one day when nothing much was going on at the ODG. When the tormentors had moved in, so had Bond.

  With a few effortless martial arts manoeuvres he had gently laid two of them out on the pavement and pinned the third, the ringleader, to a wall. He had taken their names from their driving licences and whispered coldly that if the Kharaz boy was ever troubled again, the hoodies’ next visit from Bond would not end so civilly. The boys had strode off defiantly, but the son was never troubled again; his status at school had soared.

  So, Bond had become Fouad Kharaz’s ‘best friend of all best friends’. He’d decided to call in the favour and borrow one of the man’s jets.

  According to the digital map on the bulkhead, beneath the airspeed and altitude indicators, they were over Iran. Two hours to go until they touched down in Dubai.

  Just after takeoff, Bond had called Bill Tanner and told him of his destination and about the ninety or so deaths planned for seven o’clock that evening, presumably in Dubai, but perhaps anywhere in the United Arab Emirates.

  ‘Why’s Hydt going to kill them?’ the chief of staff had asked.

  ‘I’m not sure he is, but all those people are going to die and he’ll be there.’

  ‘I’ll go through diplomatic channels, tell the embassies there’s some threat but we don’t have anything concrete. They’ll leak word to the Dubai security apparatus too, through back channels.’

  ‘Don’t mention Hydt’s name. He needs to get into the country undisturbed. He can’t suspect anything. I have to find out what he’s up to.’

  ‘I agree. We’ll handle it on the sly.’

  He’d asked Tanner to check the Golden Wire about Hydt’s affiliation with the Emirates, hoping there was a specific place he might be headed for. A moment later the chief of staff was back. ‘No offices, residences or business affiliations anywhere in the area. And I’ve just done a data-mining search. No hotel reservations in his name.’

  Bond wasn’t pleased. As soon as Hydt landed, he would disappear into the sprawling emirate of two and a half million people. It would be impossible to find him before the attack.

  Just as he disconnected, the flight attendant appeared. ‘We have many different dishes but I saw you look at the Dom with appreciation so I decided you would like the best we have aboard. Mr Kharaz said you were to be treated like a king.’ She set the silver tray on the table beside his champagne flute, which she refilled for him. ‘I’ve brought you Iranian caviar – beluga, of course – with toast, not blinis, crème fraîche and capers.’ The capers were the l
arge ones, so large she had sliced them. ‘The grated onions are Vidalia, from America, the sweetest in the world.’ She added, ‘They are kind to the breath too. We call them “lovers’ onions”. To follow, there is duck in aspic, with minted yogurt and dates. I can also cook you a steak.’

  He laughed. ‘No, no. This is more than enough.’

  She left him to eat. When he had finished, he had two small cups of cardamom-flavoured Arabic coffee, as he read the intelligence that Philly Maidenstone had provided about Hydt and Green Way. He was struck by two things: the man’s care in steering clear of organised crime and his almost fanatical efforts to expand the company throughout the world. She had discovered recently filed applications to do business in South Korea, China, India, Argentina and half a dozen smaller countries. He was disappointed that he could find no clue in any of the material as to the Irishman’s identity. Philly had run the man’s picture, along with that of the older woman, through databases, but found no matches. And Bill Tanner had reported that the MI5 agents, SOCA and Specialist Crime officers who’d descended on Gatwick had been told that, unfortunately, records about the passengers on the Grumman ‘seem to have vanished’.

  It was then that he received more troubling news. An encrypted email from Philly. Someone, it seemed, had been unofficially checking with Six about Bond’s whereabouts and planned itinerary.

  The ‘someone’, Bond supposed, had to be his dear friend Percy Osborne-Smith. Technically he’d be out of the Division Three man’s jurisdiction, in Dubai, but that didn’t mean the man couldn’t make a great deal of trouble for him and even blow his cover.

  Bond had no relation with Six’s people in Dubai. He’d have to assume, though, that Osborne-Smith might. Which meant Bond couldn’t have local ops or assets meet Hydt’s flight, after all. Indeed, he decided he couldn’t have anything to do with anyof his countrymen – a particular shame because the consul general in Dubai was clever and savvy… and a friend of Bond’s. He texted Bill Tanner and told him to hold off setting up a liaison with Six.