Carte Blanche

‘Ten’ll do. You’ve had a rather busy week.’

They rang off and Bond had enough time for one sip of whiskey before the phone vibrated once more. He peered at the screen.

On the third buzz he hit answer.

‘Philly.’

‘James, I’ve been reading the signals. My God – are you all right?’

‘Yes. A bit of a rough day but it looks like we got everything sorted.’

‘You arethe master of the understatement. So Gehenna and Incident Twenty were entirely different? I wouldn’t have thought it. How did you suss it all out?’

‘Correlation of analysis and, of course, you need to think three-dimensionally,’ Bond said gravely.

A pause. Then Philly Maidenstone asked, ‘You’re winding me up, aren’t you, James?’

‘I suppose I am.’

A faint trickle of laughter. ‘Now, I’m sure you’re knackered and need to get some rest but I found one more piece of the Steel Cartridge puzzle. If you’re interested.’

Relax, he told himself.

But he couldn’t. Had his father been a traitor or not?

‘I’ve got the identity of the KGB mole inside Six, the one who was murdered.’

‘I see.’ He inhaled slowly. ‘Who was he?’

‘Hold on a second… where is it now? I didhave it.’

Agony. He struggled to stay calm.

Then she said, ‘Ah, here we go. His cover name was Robert Witherspoon. Recruited by a KGB handler when he was at Cambridge. He was shoved in front of a tube train at Piccadilly Circus by a KGB active-measures agent in 1988.’

Bond closed his eyes. Andrew Bond had not been at Cambridge. And he and his wife had died in 1990, on a mountain in France. His father had been no traitor. Neither had he been a spy.

Philly continued, ‘But I also found that anotherMI6 freelance operator was killed as part of Steel Cartridge, not a double – considered quite a superstar agent, apparently, working counter-intelligence, tracking down moles in Six and the CIA.’

Bond swirled this around in his mind, like the whiskey in his glass. He said, ‘Do you know anything about his death?’

‘Pretty hush-hush. But I do know it occurred around 1990, somewhere in France or Italy. It was disguised as an accident, too, and a steel cartridge was left at the scene as a warning to other agents.’

A wry smile crossed Bond’s lips. So maybe his father hadbeen a spy after all – though not a traitor. At least, not to his country. But, Bond reflected, had he been a traitor to his family and to his son? Hadn’t Andrew been foolhardy in taking young James along when he was meeting enemy agents he was trying to trick?

‘But one thing, James. You said “his death”.’

‘How’s that?’

‘The Six counter-intelligence op who was killed in ’90 – you said “his”. A signal in the archives suggested the agent was a woman.’

My God, Bond thought. No… His mothera spy? Monique Delacroix Bond? Impossible. But she wasa freelance photojournalist, which was a frequently used nonofficial cover for agents. And she was by far the more adventurous of his parents; it was she who had encouraged her husband to take up rock climbing and skiing. Bond also recalled her polite but firm refusal to let young James accompany her on photographic assignments.

A mother, of course, would never endanger her child, whatever tradecraft recommended.

Bond didn’t know the recruitment requirements back then but presumably the fact that she was Swiss-born would not have been an obstacle to her working as a contract op.

There was more research to do, of course, to confirm the suspicion. And, if it was true, he would find out who had ordered the killing and who had carried it out. But that was for Bond alone to pursue. He said, ‘Thanks, Philly. I think that’s all I need. You’ve been a star. You deserve an OBE.’

‘A Selfridges gift voucher will do… I’ll stock up when they have Bollywood week in the food hall.’

Ah, another instance of their similar interests. ‘In that case, better yet, I’ll take you to a curry house I know in Brick Lane. The best in London. They’re not fully licensed but we can bring a bottle of one of those Bordeaux you were talking about. A week on Saturday, how’s that?’

She paused, consulting her diary, Bond guessed. ‘Yes, James, that’ll be great.’

He imagined her again: the abundant red hair, the sparkling golden-green eyes, the rustling as she crossed her legs.

Then she added, ‘And you’ll have to bring a date.’

The whiskey stopped halfway to his lips. ‘Of course,’ Bond said automatically.

‘You and yours, Tim and me. It’ll be such great fun.’

‘Tim. Your fiance.’

‘You might’ve heard we went through a bad patch. But he turned down a chance of a big job overseas to stay in London.’

‘Good man. Came to his senses.’

‘It’s hardly his fault for considering it. I’m not easy to live with. But we decided to see if we could make it work. We have history together. Oh, do let’s try for Saturday. You and Tim can talk cars and motorbikes. He knows quite a lot about them. More than I do, even.’

She was talking quickly – too quickly. Ophelia Maidenstone was savvy, in addition to being clever, of course, and she was fully aware of what had happened between them at the restaurant last Monday. She’d sensed the very real connection they’d had and would be thinking even now that something might have developed… had the past not intruded.

The past, Bond reflected wryly: Severan Hydt’s passion.

And his nemesis.

He said sincerely, ‘I’m very glad for you, Philly.’

‘Thank you, James,’ she said, a dash of emotion in her voice.

‘But listen, I won’t have you spending your life wheeling babies around Clapham in a pram. You’re the best liaison officer we’ve ever had and I’m insisting on using you on every assignment I possibly can.’

‘I’ll be there for you, James. Whenever and wherever you want me.’

Under the circumstances, probably not the best choice of words, he reflected, smiling to himself. ‘I have to go, Philly. I’ll ring you next week for the post-mortem on Incident Twenty.’

They disconnected.

Bond ordered another drink. When it arrived, he drank half as he looked out over the harbour, though he was not seeing much of its spectacular beauty. And his distraction had nothing – well, little – to do with Ophelia Maidenstone’s repaired engagement.

No, his thoughts dealt with a more primal theme.

His mother, a spy…

Suddenly a voice intruded on his turbulent musings. ‘I’m late. I’m sorry.’

James Bond turned to Bheka Jordaan, sitting down across from him. ‘She’s well, Ugogo?’

‘Oh, yes, but at my sister’s she made us all watch a ’Sgudi