Carte Blanche

by Jeffery Deaver

  Bond called the pilot on the intercom to learn the status of the jet they were pursuing. It seemed that air-traffic control had slowed their own plane, though not Hydt’s, and they would not be able to overtake him. They would land half an hour, at least, after Hydt did.

  Damn. That thirty minutes could mean the difference between life and death for at least ninety people. He stared out of the window at the Persian Gulf. Pulling out his mobile, he was thinking again of the great espionage balance sheet as he scrolled through his extensive phone book to find a number. I’m beginning to feel a bit like Lehman Brothers, he thought. My debts vastly outweigh my assets.

  Bond placed a call.

  24

  The limousine bearing Severan Hydt, Jessica Barnes and Niall Dunne pulled up at the Intercontinental Hotel, situated on broad, peaceful Dubai Creek. The solid, stern driver was a local man they’d used before. Like Hans Groelle in England, he doubled as a bodyguard (and did a bit more than that from time to time).

  They remained in the car while Dunne read a text or an email. He logged off his iPhone, looked up and said to Hydt, ‘Hans has found out about the driver of the Bentley. It’s interesting.’

  Groelle had told someone at Green Way to check the number-plate. Hydt tapped his long fingernails together.

  Dunne avoided looking at them. He said, ‘And there’s a connection to March.’

  ‘Is there?’ Hydt tried to read Dunne’s eyes. As usual, they remained utterly cryptic.

  The Irishman said nothing more – not with Jessica present. Hydt nodded. ‘We’ll check in now.’

  Hydt lifted the cuff of his elegant suit jacket and regarded his watch. Two and a half hours to go.

  The number of dead will be ninety or so.

  Dunne stepped out first; his keen eyes made their usual scan for threats. ‘All right,’ came the Irishman’s slight brogue. ‘It’s clear.’

  Hydt and Jessica climbed out into the astonishing heat and headed quickly into the chill of the Intercontinental lobby, which was dominated by a stunning ten-foot-high assembly of exotic flowers. On a nearby wall hung portraits of the United Arab Emirates’ ruling families, gazing down sternly and confidently.

  Jessica signed for the room, which they’d taken in her name, another of Dunne’s ideas. Though they would not be staying long – their onward flight was this evening – it was helpful to have somewhere to leave the bags and get some rest. They handed the luggage to the bell captain to have it taken to the room.

  Leaving Jessica beside the flowers, Hydt nodded Dunne aside. ‘The Bentley? Who was it?’

  ‘Registered to a company in Manchester – same address as Midlands Disposal.’

  Midlands was connected to one of the bigger organised-crime syndicates operating out of south Manchester. In America the Mob had traditionally been heavily involved in waste management, and in Naples, where the Camorra crime syndicate ruled, refuse collection was known as Il Re del Crimine. In Britain organised crime was less interested in the business, but occasionally some local underworld boss tried to bluster his way into the market, like a heavy in a Guy Ritchie film.

  ‘And this morning,’ Dunne continued, ‘the coppers came round to the army base site, showing pictures of somebody who’d been spotted in the area the day before. There’s a warrant on him for grievous bodily harm. He worked for Midlands. The police said he’s gone missing.’

  As will happen, Hydt reflected, when one’s body is commencing to rot beneath a thousand tons of wrecked hospital. ‘What would he have been doing up there?’ Hydt asked.

  Dunne considered this. ‘Probably planning to sabotage the demolition job. Something goes wrong, you get bad publicity and Midlands moves in to pick up some of your business.’

  ‘So whoever was in the Bentley only wanted to find out what happened to his mate yesterday.’

  ‘Right.’

  Hydt was vastly relieved. The incident had nothing to do with Gehenna. And, more important, the intruder wasn’t the police or Security Service. Merely one more instance of the underbelly of the discard business. ‘Good. We’ll deal with Midlands later.’

  Hydt and Dunne returned to Jessica. ‘Niall and I have some things to take care of. I’ll be back for dinner.’

  ‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ she said.

  Hydt frowned. ‘In this heat? It might not be good for you.’ He didn’t like her to stray too far afield. He wasn’t worried that she’d let slip anything she shouldn’t – he had kept all aspects of Gehenna from her. And what she knew of the rest of his darker life, well, that was potentially embarrassing but not illegal. It was just that when he wanted her, he wanted her and Severan Hydt was a man whose belief in the inevitable power of decay had taught him that life is far too short and precarious to deny yourself anything at any time.

  ‘I can judge that,’ she said, but spoke timidly.

  ‘Of course, of course. Only… a woman alone?’ Hydt continued. ‘The men, you know how they can be.’

  ‘You mean Arab men?’ Jessica asked. ‘It’s not Tehran or Jeddah. They don’t even leer. In Dubai they’re more respectful than they are in Paris.’

  Hydt smiled his gentle smile. That was amusing. And true. ‘But still… don’t you think it would be best just to be safe? Anyway, the hotel has a wonderful spa. It will be perfect for you. And the pool is partly Plexiglas. You can look down and see the ground forty feet below. The view of the Burj Khalifa is quite impressive.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  It was then that Hydt noticed a new configuration of wrinkles around her eyes, as she peered up at the towering floral arrangement.

  He thought, too, of the body of the woman found in the Green Way skip yesterday, her grave now subtly marked, according to the foreman, Jack Dennison. And Hydt felt that subtle unravelling within him, a spring loosening.

  ‘As long as you’re happy,’ he said to her softly and brushed her face, near the wrinkles, with one of his long nails. She’d stopped recoiling long ago, not that her reactions had ever affected him one bit.

  Hydt was suddenly aware of Dunne’s crystalline blue eyes turning his way. The younger man stiffened, ever so slightly, then recovered and looked elsewhere. Hydt was irritated. What business was it of his what Hydt found alluring? He wondered, as he often had, if perhaps Dunne’s distaste for his brands of lust stemmed not from the fact that they were unconventional but from his disdain for anysexuality. In the months he’d known him, the Irishman hadn’t so much as glanced at a woman or man, with bedroom eyes.

  Hydt lowered his hand and looked again at Jessica, at the lines radiating from her resigned eyes. He gauged the timing. They would fly out tonight and the plane boasted no private suites. He couldn’t imagine making love to her when Dunne was nearby, even if the man was asleep.

  He debated. Was there time now to get to the room, lay Jessica on the bed, pull the curtains wide so that the low sun streamed across the soft flesh, illuminating the topography of her body…

  … and run his nails over her skin?

  The way he felt at the moment, absorbed with her and thinking of the spectacle at seven o’clock tonight, the liaison wouldn’t take long.

  ‘Severan,’ Dunne said crisply. ‘We don’t know what al-Fulan has for us. We probably should go.’

  Hydt appeared to ponder the words but it was not serious consideration. He said, ‘It’s been a long flight. I feel like a change of clothes.’ He glanced down at Jessica’s weary eyes. ‘And you might like a nap, my dear.’ He directed her firmly to the lift.

  25

  At around four forty-five on Tuesday afternoon Fouad Kharaz’s private jet eased to a stop. James Bond unbuckled his seatbelt and collected his luggage. He thanked the pilots and the flight attendant, gripping her hand warmly and resisting the urge to kiss her cheek; they were now in the Middle East.

  The immigration officer lethargically stamped his passport, slid it back and gestured him into the country. Bond strode through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ lane at Cu
stoms with a suitcase containing its deadly contraband, and was soon outside in the piquant heat, feeling as if a huge burden had been lifted.

  He was in his element once more, the mission his and his alone to pursue. He was on foreign soil, his carte blancherestored.

  The short ride from the airport to his destination at Festival City took Bond through a nondescript part of the town – drives to and from airports were similar throughout the world and this route was little different from the A4 just west of London, or the toll road to Dulles in Washington, D.C., although it was decorated with far more sand and dust. And, as most of the emirate, was immaculately clean.

  On the way Bond gazed out over the sprawling city, looking north towards the Persian Gulf. In the late-afternoon, heat-shimmering light, the needle of the Burj Khalifa glowed, soaring above the geometrically complex skyline of Sheikh Zayed Road. It was presently the tallest building on earth. That distinction seemed to change monthly but this tower would surely hold that honour for a long time to come.

  He noted one other ubiquitous characteristic of the city – the construction cranes, white and yellow and orange. They were everywhere and busy once again. On his last trip there had been just as many of these looming stalks but most were sitting idle, like toys discarded by a child who’d lost interest in playing with them. The emirate had been hit hard in the recent economic downturn. For his official cover Bond had to keep up on world finance and he found himself impatient with the criticism ladled upon places like Dubai, which often originated in London or New York; yet weren’t the City and Wall Street the more enthusiastic co-conspirators in causing the economic woe?

  Yes, there had been excess here and many ambitious projects might never be finished – like the artificial archipelago in the shape of a map of the world, composed of small sand islands offshore. Yet the reputation for swelling luxury was but a small aspect of Dubai – and, in truth, no different from Singapore, California, Monaco and hundreds of other places where the wealthy worked and played. To Bond, in any event, Dubai was not about unfettered business or real estate but about its exotic ways, a place where new and old blended, where many cultures and religions coexisted respectfully. He particularly enjoyed the vast, empty landscape of red sand, populated by camels and Range Rovers, as different from his boyhood vistas of Kent as one could imagine. He wondered if his mission today would take him to the Empty Quarter.

  They drove on, past small brown, white and yellow one-storey buildings whose names and services were disclosed in modest green Arabic lettering. No gaudy billboards, no neon lights, except for a few announcements of forthcoming events. The minarets of mosques rose above the low residences and businesses, persistent spikes of faith throughout the hazy distance. The intrusion of the ubiquitous desert was everywhere and date palm, neem and eucalyptus trees formed gallant outposts against the encroaching, endless sand.

  The taxi driver dropped Bond, as directed, at a shopping centre. He handed over some ten-dirham notes and climbed out. The mall was packed with locals – it was between Asirand Maghribprayer times – as well as many foreigners, all carting carrier bags and crowding the shops, which were doing brisk business. The country was often referred to as ‘Do buy’, he recalled.

  Bond lost himself in the crowd, looking around, as if he were trying to find a companion he’d agreed to meet. In fact, he was searching for someone else: the man who’d been following him from the airport, probably with hostile intent. Twice now he’d seen a man in sunglasses and a blue shirt or jacket: at the airport and then in a dusty black Toyota behind Bond’s taxi. For the drive he had donned a plain black cap but, from the set of his head and shoulders and the shape of his glasses, Bond knew he was the man he’d seen at the airport. The same Toyota had just now eased past the shopping centre – driving slowly for no apparent reason – and vanished behind a nearby hotel.

  This was no coincidence.

  Bond had considered sending the taxi on a diversionary route but, in truth, he wasn’t sure he wanted to lose the tail. More often than not it’s better to trap your pursuer and see what he has to say for himself.

  Who was he? Had he been waiting in Dubai for Bond? Or somehow followed him from London? Or did he not even know who Bond was, but had chosen merely to keep an eye on a stranger in town?

  Bond bought a newspaper. Today it was hot, searingly so, but he shunned the air-conditioned interior of the café he had selected and sat outside where he could observe all the entrances and exits to and from the area. He looked around occasionally for the tail but saw nothing specific.

  As he sent and received several text messages, a waiter came to him. Bond glanced at the faded menu on the table and ordered Turkish coffee and sparkling water. As the man walked away, Bond looked at his watch. Five p.m.

  Only two hours until more than ninety people died somewhere in this elegant city of sand and heat.

  Half a block away from the shopping centre, a solidly built man in a blue jacket slipped a Dubai traffic warden several hundred dirhams and told him in English that he’d only be a short while. He’d certainly be gone before the crowds returned after sunset prayer.

  The warden wandered off as if the conversation about the dusty black Toyota, parked illegally at the kerb, had never occurred.

  The man, who went by the name Nick, lit a cigarette and lifted his backpack over his shoulder. He eased into the shadows of the shopping centre where his target was nonchalantly sipping espresso or Turkish coffee and reading the paper as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  That was how he thought of the man: target. Not bastard, not enemy. Nick knew that in an operation like this you had to be utterly dispassionate, as difficult as that might be. This man was no more of a person than the black dot of a bull’s-eye.

  A target.

  He supposed the man was talented but he’d been pretty damn careless leaving the airport. Nick had easily followed him. This gave him confidence at what he was about to do.

  Face obscured by a baseball cap with a long brim and sunglasses, Nick moved closer to his target, dodging from shadow to shadow. Unlike in other places, the disguise did not draw attention to him; in Dubai everyone wore head coverings and sunglasses.

  One thing that was a bit different was the long-sleeved blue jacket, which few local people wore, given the heat. But there was no other way to hide the pistol that was tucked into his waistband.

  Nick’s gold earring, too, might have earned him some curious glances but this area of Dubai Creek, with its shopping malls and amusement park, was filled with tourists and as long as people didn’t drink alcohol or kiss each other in public, the locals forgave unusual dress.

  He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then dropped and crushed it, easing closer to his target.

  A hawker appeared suddenly and asked, in English, if he wanted to buy rugs. ‘Very cheap, very cheap. Many knots! Thousands upon thousands of knots!’ One look from Nick shut his mouth and he vanished.

  Nick considered his plan. There would be some logistical problems, of course – in this country everyone watched everyone else. He would have to get his target out of sight, into the car park or, better, the basement of the shopping centre, perhaps during prayer time, when the crowds thinned. Probably the simplest approach was the best. Nick could slip up behind him, shove the gun into his back and ‘escort’ him downstairs.

  Then the knife work would begin.

  Oh, the target – all right, maybe I will think of him as a bastard – would have many things to say when the blade began its leisurely journey across his skin.

  Nick reached under his jacket and pushed up the safety lever of his pistol, moving smoothly from shadow to shadow.

  26

  James Bond had his coffee and water in front of him as he sat with the Nationalnewspaper, published out of Abu Dhabi. He considered it the best newspaper in the Middle East. You could find every sort of story imaginable, from a scandal about Mumbai firemen’s inefficient uniforms to pieces about women’s ri
ghts in the Arab world to a half-page exposé on a Cypriot gangster stealing the body of the island’s former president from his grave.

  Excellent Formula One coverage too – important to Bond.

  Now, however, he was paying no attention to the paper but was using it as a prop… though not with the cliché of an eyehole torn from the gutter between ads for Dubai’s Lulu Hypermarkets and the local news. The paper sat flat in front of him and his head was down. His eyes, however, were up, scanning.

  It was at that moment that he heard a brief rasp of shoe leather behind him and was aware of someone moving quickly towards his table.

  Bond remained completely still.

  Then a large hand – pale and freckled – gripped the chair beside him and yanked it back.

  A man dropped heavily into it.

  ‘Howdy, James.’ The voice was thick with a Texas accent. ‘Welcome to Dubai.’

  Du-bah…

  Bond turned to his friend with a grin. They shook hands warmly.

  A few years older than Bond, Felix Leiter was tall and had a lanky frame, on which his suit hung loose. The pale complexion and mop of straw-coloured hair largely precluded most undercover work in the Middle East unless he was playing exactly who he was: a brash, savvy guyfrom the American South, who’d ridden into town for business, with no small amount of pleasure thrown in. His slow manners and easy-going speech were deceptive; he could react like a spring knife when the occasion demanded… as Bond had seen first hand.

  When the pilot of Fouad Kharaz’s Grumman had reported that they weren’t going to beat Hydt’s to Dubai, it was Felix Leiter whom Bond had rung, calling in his Lehman Brothers favour. While Bond was uneasy using the MI6 connections here, because of Osborne-Smith’s inquiries earlier, he had no such reservations about enlisting the CIA, which had an extensive operation throughout the United Arab Emirates. Asking Leiter, a senior agent in the Agency’s National Clandestine Service, to help out was risky politically. Using a sister agency without clearance from the top might result in serious diplomatic repercussions and Bond had already done so once with René Mathis. He was certainly putting his newly reinstated carte blancheto the test.