Read Online Carte Blanche by Jeffery Deaver - Free Book Online Page B

motorway near Cambridge.
    Bond stared at the map. Who had eaten there? The Irishman? Noah? Other associates? Or someone who’d hired the car last week and had no connection whatsoever with Incident Twenty?
    “And the other piece of paper? With the writing on it?”
    Boots—March. 17. No later than that.
    She produced a lengthy list. “I tried to think of every possible combination of what it could mean. Dates, footwear, geographical locations, the chemist.” Her mouth tightened again. She was displeased that her efforts had fallen short. “Nothing obvious, I’m afraid.”
    He rose and pulled down several Ordnance Survey maps from the shelf. He flipped through one, scanning carefully.
    Mary Goodnight appeared in the doorway. “James, someone downstairs to see you. From Division Three, he says. Percy Osborne-Smith.”
    Philly must have caught the sea change in Bond’s expression. “I’ll make myself scarce now, James. I’ll keep on at the Serbs. They’ll crack. I guarantee it.”
    “Oh, one more thing, Philly.” He handed her the signal he’d just been reading. “I need you to catch everything you can about a Soviet or Russian operation called Steel Cartridge. There’s a little in here, not much.”
    She glanced down at the printout.
    He said, “Sorry it’s not translated but you can probably—”
    “Ya govoryu po russki .”
    Bond smiled weakly. “And with a far better accent than mine.” He told himself never to sell her short again.
    Philly examined the printout closely. “This was hacked from an online source. Who has the original data file?”
    “One of your people would. It came out of Station R.”
    “I’ll contact the Russia Desk,” she said. “I’ll want to look at the metadata coded in the file. That’ll have the date it was created, who the author was, maybe cross-references to other sources.” She slipped the Russian document into a manila folder and took a pen to tick off one of the boxes on the front. “How do you want it classified?”
    He debated for a moment. “Our eyes only.”
    “‘Our’?” she asked. That pronoun was not used in official document classification.
    “Yours and mine,” he said softly. “No one else.”
    A brief hesitation and then, in her delicate lettering, she penned at the top: Eyes only. SIS Agent Maidenstone. ODG Agent James Bond. “And priority?” she wondered aloud.
    At this question Bond did not hesitate at all. “Urgent.”

Chapter 11
    Bond was sitting forward at his desk, doing some research of his own in government databases, when he heard footsteps approaching, accompanied by a loud voice.
    “I’m fine, just great. You can peel off now, please and thank you—I can do without the sat-nav.”
    With that, a man in a close-fitting striped suit strode into Bond’s office, having discarded the Section P security officer who’d accompanied him. He’d also bypassed Mary Goodnight, who had risen with a frown as the man stormed past, ignoring her.
    He walked up to Bond’s desk, thrusting out a fleshy palm. Slim but flabby, unimposing, he nonetheless had assertive eyes and large hands at the end of his long arms. He seemed the sort to deliver a bone-crusher so Bond, darkening his computer screen and standing up, prepared to counter it, shooting his hand in close to deny him leverage.
    In fact, Percy Osborne-Smith’s clasp was brief and harmless, though unpleasantly damp.
    “Bond. James Bond.” He motioned the Division Three officer to the chair Philly had just occupied and reminded himself not to let the man’s coiffure—dark blond hair combed and apparently glued to the side of his head—pouting lips and rubbery neck deceive. A weak chin did not mean a weak man, as anyone familiar with Field Marshal Montgomery’s career could certify.
    “So,” Osborne-Smith said, “here we are. Excitement galore with Incident Twenty. Who thinks up these names, do you wonder? The Intelligence Committee, I suppose.”
    Bond tipped his head