Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [34]
Which was, Hydt now reflected, a metaphor for his own role on earth.
15
Early-afternoon zebra bands of sun and shadow rolled over the low rows of sugarbeet in the Fenland field.
James Bond lay on his back, arms and legs splayed, like a child who’d been making angels in snow and didn’t want to go home. Surrounded by the sea of low green leaves, he was thirty yards from the pile of rubble that had been the old army hospital . . . the pile of rubble that had very nearly entombed him. He was – temporarily, he prayed – deprived of his hearing, thanks to the shockwaves from the plastic explosive. He’d kept his eyes closed against the flash and shrapnel, but he’d had to use both hands to manage his escape, wrenching open the mental-health ward’s door, as the main charges detonated and the building came down behind him.
He now rose slightly – sugar beet in May provided scant cover – and gazed around for signs of a threat.
Nothing. Whoever had been behind the plan – the Irishman, Noah or an associate – wasn’t searching for him; they were probably convinced he had died in the collapse.
Breathing hard to clear his lungs of dust and sour chemical smoke, he got to his feet and staggered from the field.
He returned to the car and dropped into the front seat. He fished a bottle of water from the back and drank some, then leant outside and poured the rest into his eyes.
He fired the massive engine, comforted that he could now hear the bubble of the exhaust, and took a different route out of March, heading east to avoid running into anyone connected with the demolition site, then doubling back west. Soon he was on the A1, heading back to London to decipher whatever cryptic messages about Incident Twenty the scraps of ash he’d collected might hold.
At close to four that afternoon Bond pulled into the ODG car park beneath the building.
He thought of having a shower but decided he didn’t have time. He washed his hands and face, stuck a plaster on a small gash, courtesy of a falling brick, and hurried to Philly. He handed her the pieces of duct tape. ‘Can you get these analysed?’
‘For God’s sake, James, what happened?’ She sounded alarmed. The tactical trousers and jacket had taken the bulk of the abuse but some new bruises were already showing in glorious violet.
‘Little run-in with a bulldozer and some C4 or Semtex – I’m fine. Find out everything you can about Eastern Demolition and Scrap. And I’d like to know who owns the army base outside March. The MoD? Or have they sold it?’
‘I’ll get on to it.’
Bond returned to his office and had just sat down when Mary Goodnight buzzed him. ‘James. That man is on line two.’ Her tone made clear who the caller was.
Bond stabbed the button. ‘Percy.’
The slick voice: ‘James. Hello! I’m en route back from Cambridge. Thought you and me should have a chinwag. See if we’ve found any pieces to our puzzle.’
You and me . . . Unfortunate pronoun from an Oxbridge man. ‘How about your excursion?’
‘When I got up there, I did some looking around. Turns out the Porton Down folk have a little operation nearby. Stumbled across it. Quite by chance.’
This amused Bond. ‘Well, that’s interesting. And is there a connection between biochemicals and Noah or Incident Twenty?’
‘Can’t say. Their CCTVs and visitor logs didn’t turn up anything that stood out. But I’ve got my assistant toiling away.’
‘And the pub?’
‘Curry was all right. The waitress didn’t remember who’d ordered the pie or the ploughman’s so long ago but we could hardly expect her to, could we? What about you? Did the mysterious note about the chemist and two days past the Ides of March pan out?’
Bond had prepared for this. ‘I tried a long shot. I went to March,