Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [50]
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 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