Part 11 (2/2)

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 pa.s.sed 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.'

d.a.m.n. 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 Osborne-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 ma.s.s murderer in broad daylight. My G.o.d, 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 a.s.sistant sighed. 'Just pa.s.sing out of UK airs.p.a.ce.'

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 b.l.o.o.d.y what?'

Deputy-Deputy said, 'Yes, somebody else is 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 G.o.d it was Bond.

So, the b.l.o.o.d.y 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 las.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+rt over her voluptuous figure. Her collar was secured with a pearl, which was different from the lower b.u.t.tons. 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 alaik.u.m.'

'Wa alaik.u.m 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 Mots, Dom Perignon. '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 gla.s.s and not disturb you.'

'Shukran,' he said, as he took the gla.s.s. '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 s.p.a.cious 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 a.s.sured 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.

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