Carte Blanche by Jeffery Deaver

speedometer needle occasionally reached 100 mph and frequently he’d tap the paddle of the silken, millisecond-response Quickshift gearbox to overtake a slow-moving horsebox or Ford Mondeo. He stayed mostly in the right lane, although once or twice he took to the hard shoulder for some exhilarating, if illegal, passing. He enjoyed a few controlled skids on stretches of adverse camber.
    The police were not a problem. While the jurisdiction of ODG was limited in the UK—carte grise, not blanche, Bond now joked to himself again—it was often necessary for O Branch agents to get around the country quickly. Bond had phoned in an NDR—a Null Detain Request—and his number-plate was ignored by cameras and constables with speed guns.
    Ah, the Bentley Continental GT coupé . . . the finest off-the-peg vehicle in the world, Bond believed.
    He had always loved the marque; his father had kept hundreds of old newspaper photos of the famed Bentley brothers and their creations leaving Bugattis and the rest of the field in the dust at Le Mans in the 1920s and 1930s. Bond himself had witnessed the astonishing Bentley Speed 8 take the checkered flag at the race in 2003, back in the game after three-quarters of a century. It had always been his goal to own one of the stately yet wickedly fast and clever vehicles. While the E-type Jaguar sitting below his flat had been a legacy from his father, the GT had been an indirect bequest. He’d bought his first Continental some years ago, depleting what remained of the life-insurance payment that had come his way upon his parents’ deaths. He’d recently traded up to the new model.
    He now came off the motorway and proceeded toward March, in the heart of the Fens. He knew little about the place. He’d heard of the “March March March,” a walk by students from March to Cambridge in, of course, the third month of the year. There was Whitemoor prison. And tourists came to see St. Wendreda’s Church—Bond would have to trust the tourist office’s word that it was spectacular; he hadn’t been inside a house of worship, other than for surveillance purposes, in years.
    Ahead loomed the old British Army base. He continued in a broad circle to the back, which was surrounded by vicious barbed-wire fencing and signs warning against intrusion. He saw why: It was being demolished. So this was the work he’d learned of. Half a dozen buildings had already been razed. Only one remained, three stories high, old red brick. A faded sign announced: H OSPITAL .
    Several large lorries were present, along with bulldozers, other earth-moving equipment and caravans, which sat on a hill a hundred yards from the building, probably the temporary headquarters for the demolition crew. A black car was parked near the largest caravan but no one was about. Bond wondered why; today was Monday and not a bank holiday.
    He nosed the car into a small copse, where it could not be seen. Climbing out, he surveyed the terrain: complicated waterways, potato and sugar-beet fields and clusters of trees. Bond donned his 5.11 tactical outfit, with the shrapnel tear in the shoulder of the jacket and tainted from the smell of scorching—from rescuing the clue in Serbia that had led him here—then stepped out of his City shoes into low combat boots.
    He clipped his Walther and two holsters of ammunition to a canvas web utility belt.
    If you hit a speed bump, give me a shout.
    He also pocketed his silencer, a torch, a tool kit and his folding knife.
    Then Bond paused, going into that other place, where he went before any tactical operation: dead calm, eyes focused and taking in every detail—branches that might betray with a snap, bushes that could hide the muzzle of a sniper rifle, evidence of wires, sensors and cameras that might report his presence to an enemy.
    And preparing to take a life, quickly and efficiently, if he had to. That was part of the other world too.
    And he was all the more cautious because of the many questions