Luton. Ten minutes later the real entourage got into the back of an unmarked Green Way International lorry and drove to Gatwick.
Now the decoys would remain in the Audi as long as possible to keep whoever was in the Bentley occupied long enough for Mr Hydt and the others to get out of UK airspace.
Groelle said, ‘We have a bit of a wait.’ He gestured at the radio with a glance toward the Green Way workers. ‘What’ll it be?’
They voted and Radio 2 took the majority.
‘Ah, ah. It was a bloody decoy,’ Osborne-Smith said. His voice was as calm as always but the expletive, if that was what it was nowadays, indicated that he was livid.
A CCTV camera in the Luton car park was now beaming an image on to the big screen in Division Three and the reality show presently airing was not felicitous. The angular view into the Audi wasn’t the best in the world but it was clear that the couple in the back seats were not Severan Hydt and his female companion. And the passenger in the front, whom he’d taken to be the Irishman, was not the gawky blond man he’d seen earlier, plodding to the garage.
Decoys.
‘They have to be going to
‘Unless they decided to cruise up to Manchester or Leeds-Bradford.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘Send all the Watchers in A Branch Hydt’s picture. Without delay.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Osborne-Smith squinted as he looked at the image broadcast from the CCTV. He could see a bit of the wing of James Bond’s Bentley parked twenty-five yards from the Audi.
If there was any consolation to the flap, it was that at least Bond had fallen for the ruse too. Combined with his lack of co-operation, his questionable use of the French secret service and his holier-than- thou attitude, the lapse might just signal a significant downsizing of his career.
22
The fifteen-foot lorry, leased to Green Way International but unmarked, pulled up to the kerb at the executive flight services terminal at Gatwick airport. The door slid open and Severan Hydt, an older woman and the Irishman climbed out and collected their suitcases.
Thirty feet away, in the car park, sat a black-and-red Mini Cooper, whose interior decor 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
‘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 Rene 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
