Carte Blanche

by Jeffery Deaver

  Head lolling, blood streaming into his eyes, he continued to be drawn towards the compactor mechanism.

  Eighteen inches away, sixteen… twelve.

  Bond leapt on to the belt and jammed a foot against the frame, then wound Leiter’s jacket around his hands and gripped furiously hard. The momentum slowed but the massive motor continued to drive the belt relentlessly under the faces of the plates shooting back and forth.

  Leiter was eight inches, then six, from the plates that would turn his feet and ankles to pulp.

  His arm and leg muscles in fiery agony, Bond tugged harder, groaning at the effort.

  Three inches…

  Finally the belt stopped and, with a hydraulic gasp, so did the plates.

  Struggling for breath, Bond reached in and untangled the American’s trousers from the teeth on the belt and pulled him out, easing him to the floor. He ran to the loading bay, drawing his weapon, but there was no sign of the man in blue. Then, scanning for other threats, Bond returned to the CIA agent, who was coming round. He sat up slowly, Bond helping, and oriented himself.

  ‘Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?’ Bond asked, masking the horror he’d felt at his friend’s near fate, as he examined the wound in the man’s head and mopped it with a rag he’d found nearby.

  Leiter gazed at the machine. Shook his head. Then his familiar grin spread across his lean face. ‘You Brits’re always barging in at the wrong time. I had him just where I wanted him.’

  ‘Hospital?’ Bond asked. His heart pounded from the effort of the rescue and relief at the outcome.

  ‘Naw.’ The American examined the rag. It was bloody but Leiter seemed more angry than injured. ‘Hell, James, we’re past the deadline! The ninety people?’

  Bond explained about the exhibition.

  Leiter barked a harsh laugh. ‘What a screw-up! Brother, did we misread that one. So Hydt gets off on dead bodies. And he wanted picturesof them? Man’s got a whole new idea of porn.’

  Bond collected Leiter’s phone and weapon and returned them to him. ‘What happened, Felix?’

  Leiter’s eyes stilled. ‘The driver of the Town Car came into the warehouse right after you left. I could see him and that Irishman talking, looking at the girl. I knew something was going down, and that meant she’d know something. I was going to finesse it somehow and save her. Claim we were safety inspectors or something. Before I could move, they grabbed the girl and taped her up, dragged her toward the office. I sent Yusuf around to the other side and started toward them but that bastard nailed me before I got ten feet – the guy from the shopping centre, your tail.’

  ‘I know. I spotted him.’

  ‘Man, the SOB knows some martial-arts crap, I’ll tell you that. He clocked me good and I was down for the count.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Grunted a lot. When he hit me.’

  ‘Was he working with the Irishman or al-Fulan?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell. I didn’t see them together.’

  ‘And the girl? We’ve got to find her if we can.’

  ‘They’re probably on their way out to the desert. If we’re lucky, Yusuf’s following them. Probably tried to call when I was out.’ With Bond helping, the agent struggled to his feet. He took his phone and hit speed dial.

  And from nearby came the chirp of a ringtone, a cheerful electronic tune. But muted.

  Both men looked around.

  Then Leiter turned to Bond. ‘Oh, no,’ the American whispered, closing his eyes briefly. They hurried to the back of the compactor. The sound was coming from inside a large, filled bin liner, which the machine had automatically sealed with wire and then disgorged on to the loading-bay platform to be carted off for disposal.

  Bond, too, had realised what had happened. ‘I’ll look,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Leiter said firmly. ‘It’s my job.’ He unwound the wire, took a deep breath and looked inside the bag. Bond joined him.

  The dense jigsaw of sharp metal pieces, wires and nuts, bolts and screws were entwined with a mass of gore and bloody cloth, bits of human organs, bone.

  The glazed eyes in Yusuf Nasad’s crushed, distorted face stared directly between the two men.

  Without a word, they returned to the Alfa and checked the satellite tracking system, which reported that Hydt’s limo had returned to the Intercontinental. It had made two brief stops on the way – presumably to transfer the girl to another car, for her last trip out to the desert, and to collect Hydt from the museum.

  Fifteen minutes later Bond piloted the Alfa past the hotel and into the car park.

  ‘Do you want to get a room?’ Bond asked. ‘Take care of that?’ He gestured at Leiter’s head.

  ‘Naw, I need a goddamn drink. I’ll just wash up. Meet you in the bar.’

  They parked and Bond opened the boot. He collected his laptop bag, leaving the suitcase inside. Leiter pulled his own small bag over his shoulder and found a cap – branded, so to speak, with the logo of the University of Texas Longhorns gridiron team. He pulled it gingerly over his wound and stuffed his straw-coloured hair underneath. They took the side entrance into the hotel.

  Inside, Leiter went to wash and Bond, making sure none of the Hydt entourage was in the lobby, passed through it and stepped outside. He assessed a group of limo drivers standing in a cluster and talking busily. Bond saw that none of them was Hydt’s driver. He gestured to the smallest of the lot and the man walked over eagerly.

  ‘You have a card?’ Bond asked.

  ‘Indeed, yes, I do, sir.’ And offered one. Bond glanced at and pocketed it. ‘What would like, sir? A dune bashing trip? No, I know, the gold souk! For your lady. You will bring her something from Dubai and be her hero.’

  ‘The man who hired that limo?’ Bond’s gaze swept quickly over Hydt’s Lincoln.

  The driver’s eyes went still. Bond wasn’t worried; he knew when somebody was for sale. He tried once more. ‘You know him, don’t you?’

  ‘Not especially, sir.’

  ‘But you drivers always talk among yourselves. You know everything that goes on here. Especially regarding a curious fellow like Mr Hydt.’

  He slipped the man five hundred dirhams.

  ‘Yes, sir, yes, sir. I may have heard something… Let me think. Yes, perhaps.’

  ‘And what might that have been?’

  ‘I believe he and his friends have gone to the restaurant. They will be there for two hours or so. It’s a very good restaurant. Meals are leisurely.’

  ‘Any idea where they’re going from here?’

  A nod. But no accompanying words.

  Another five hundred dirhams joined their friends.

  The man laughed softly and cynically. ‘People are careless around us. We are simply people to shepherd folks around. We are camels. Beasts of burden. I’m referring to the fact that people think we don’t exist. Therefore whatever they say in front of us they believe we do not hear, however sensitive it might be. However valuable.’

  Bond held up more cash, then returned it to his pocket.

  The driver glanced about briefly then said, ‘He’s flying to Cape Town tonight. A private jet, leaving in about three hours. As I told you, the restaurant downstairs is known for its sumptuous and leisurely dining experience.’ A fake pout. ‘But your questions tell me you probably do not want me to have an associate book a table. I understand. Perhaps on your next trip to Dubai.’

  Now Bond handed over the rest of the money. He then withdrew the man’s business card and, flicking it with his thumb, asked, ‘My associate? The man who came in with me? Did you see him?’

  ‘Tough one?’

  ‘Very tough. I will be leaving Dubai soon but he will be staying. He most sincerely hopes your information about Mr Hydt is accurate.’

  The smile blew away like sand. ‘Yes, yes, sir, it is completely accurate, I swear to Allah. Praise be to Him.’

  30

  Bond went into the bar and took a table on the outdoor terrace o
verlooking Dubai Creek, a peaceful mirror dotted with swaying reflections of coloured light, which utterly belied the horror he had witnessed at al-Fulan’s works.

  The waiter approached and asked what he would like. American bourbon was Bond’s favourite spirit, but he believed vodka was medicinal, if not curative, when served bitingly cold. He now ordered a double Stolichnaya martini, medium dry, and asked that it be shaken very well, which not only chilled the vodka better than stirring but bruised – aerated – it too, improving the flavour considerably.

  ‘Lemon peel only.’

  When the drink arrived, suitably opaque – evidence of a proper shaking – he drank half immediately and felt the oxymoronic burning chill flow from throat to face. It helped dull the frustration that he hadn’t been able to save either the young woman or Yusuf Nasad.

  It did nothing, however, to mitigate the memory of Hydt’s eerie expression as he gazed, lusting, at the petrified bodies.

  He sipped again, staring absently at the television above the bar, on whose screen the beautiful Bahraini singer Ahlam was swirling through a video edited in the jerky style fashionable on Arab and Indian TV. Her infectious, trilling voice floated from the speakers.

  He drained the glass, then called Bill Tanner. He explained about the false alarm at the history museum and the deaths and added that Hydt would head for Cape Town that night. Could T Branch arrange a ride for Bond? He could no longer hitchhike on his friend’s Grumman, which had gone back to London.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, James. Probably have to be commercial. I don’t know if I can get you there ahead of Hydt, though.’

  ‘I just need a watcher to meet the flight and see where he goes. What’s the Six situation down there?’

  ‘Station Z’s got a covert operator on the Cape. Gregory Lamb. Let me check his status.’ Bond heard typing. ‘He’s up in Eritrea at the moment – that sabre-rattling on the Sudanese border’s got worse. But, James, we don’t want to get Lamb involved if we can avoid it. He doesn’t have an entirely irreproachable record. He went native, like some character out of a Graham Greene novel. I think Six have been meaning to hand him a redundancy package but haven’t got round to it. I’ll find somebody local for you. I’d recommend SAPS, the police service, rather than National Intelligence – NIA’s been in the news lately and not in a good way. I’ll make some calls and let you know.’

  ‘Thanks, Bill. Can you patch me to Q?’

  ‘Will do. Good luck.’

  A thoughtful voice was soon on the line: ‘Q Branch. Hirani.’

  ‘It’s 007, Sanu. I’m in Dubai. I need something fast.’

  After Bond had explained, Hirani seemed disappointed at the simplicity of the assignment. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Intercontinental, Festival City.’

  Bond heard typing.

  ‘All right. Thirty minutes. Just remember: flowers.’

  They rang off, as Leiter arrived, sat down and ordered a Jim Beam, neat. ‘That means no ice, no water, no fruit salad, no nothing. But it does mean a double. And I could live with a triple.’

  Bond ordered another martini. When the waiter left he asked, ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Leiter murmured. He didn’t seem badly injured and Bond knew that his subdued mood was due to the loss of Nasad. ‘You find out anything about Hydt?’

  ‘They’re leaving tonight. A couple of hours. Going to Cape Town.’

  ‘What’s down there?’

  ‘No idea. That’s what I have to find out.’

  And find out within three days, Bond reminded himself, if he wanted to save those thousands of people.

  They fell silent as the waiter brought their drinks. Both agents scanned the large room as they sipped. There was no sign of the dark-haired man with the earring, or of watchers paying too much attention – or not enough – to the men in the corner.

  Neither man raised a toast to the memory of the asset who’d just died. As tempted as you were, you never did that.

  ‘Nasad?’ Bond asked. ‘His body?’ The thought of an ally going to such an ignominious grave was hard.

  Leiter’s lips tightened. ‘If Hydt and the Irishman were involved and I called in a team, they’d know we were on to them. I’m not risking our cover at this point. Yusuf knew what he was getting into.’

  Bond nodded. It was the right way to handle it, though that didn’t make the decision any easier.

  Leiter inhaled the fumes of his whiskey, then drank again. ‘You know, in this business, it’s choices like that that’re the hard ones – not pulling out your six-shooter and playing Butch Cassidy. That, you just do without thinking.’

  Bond’s mobile buzzed. T Branch had booked him an overnight flight on Air Emirates to Cape Town. It left in three hours. Bond was pleased with the choice of carrier. The airline had studiously avoided becoming just another mass market operation and treated its passengers to what he guessed was the quality service that typified the golden age of air travel fifty or sixty years ago. He told Leiter of his departure arrangements. He added, ‘Let’s get some food.’

  The American waved over a waiter and asked for a mezzeplatter. ‘And then bring us a grilled hammour. Bone it, if y’all’d be so kind.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Bond ordered a bottle of a good premier cruChablis, which arrived a moment later. They sipped from the chilled glasses silently until the first course arrived: kofta, olives, hummus, cheese, aubergine, nuts and the best flatbread Bond had ever had. Both men began to eat. After the waiter had cleared away the remnants, he brought the main course. The simple white fish lay steaming on a bed of green lentils. It was very good, delicate yet with a faint meatiness. Bond had eaten only a few mouthfuls when his phone hummed again. Caller ID showed only the code for a British government number. Thinking Philly might be ringing from a different office, Bond answered.

  He immediately regretted doing so.

  31

  ‘James! James! James! Guess who? Percy here. Long time no speak!’

  Bond’s heart sank.

  Leiter frowned at the glower on Bond’s face.

  ‘Percy… yes.’

  Division Three’s Osborne-Smith enquired, ‘You well? No altercations requiring anything more than a plaster, I trust.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Delighted to hear it. Now, things are proceeding apace here. Your boss has briefed everyone about the Gehenna plan. You were perhaps too busy fleeing the jurisdiction to be in touch.’ He let that hang for a moment, then said, ‘Aha. Just winding you up, James. Fact is, I’m calling for several reasons and the first is to apologise.’

  ‘Really?’ Bond asked, suspicious.

  The Division Three man’s voice grew serious. ‘In London this morning, I’ll admit I had a tac team ready to grab Hydt at the airport, bring him in for some tea and conversation. But it turns out you were right. The Watchers picked up a scrap and managed to decrypt it. Hold on – I quote from the record. Here we go: something garbled, then “Severan has three main partners… any one of them can push the button if he’s not available.” So you see, James, arresting him wouldhave been a disaster, just as you said. The others would have scurried down the rabbit hole and we’d’ve lost any chance to find out what Gehenna was about and stop it.’ He paused for breath. ‘I was a touch whingey when we met and I’m sorry about that too. I want to work with you on this, James. Apologies accepted? Bygones turned to bygones with a swipe of Hermione’s magic wand?’

  In the intelligence world, Bond had learnt, your allies sought forgiveness for their transgressions against you about as often as your enemies did. He supposed that some of Osborne-Smith’s contrition was based on staying in the game for part of the glory, but that was all right with Bond. All he cared about was learning what the Gehenna plan was and preventing thousands of deaths.

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Good. Now, your boss sent us a signal about what you found up in March and I’m following it up. The “bl
ast radius” is pretty obvious – an IED – so we’re tracking down any reports of stray explosives. And we know that one of the “terms” of the deal involves five million quid. I’ve called in some favours at the Bank of England to check SFT activity.’

  Bond too had thought of calling the Bank with a request to flag suspect financial transactions. But nowadays five million pounds was such small change that he’d believed there would be far too many responses to plough through. Still, it couldn’t hurt for Osborne-Smith to go ahead.

  The Division Three man added, ‘As for the reference to the “course” being confirmed, well, until we know more, there’re no aircraft or ships to monitor. But I’ve put the aviation and port chaps on alert to move fast if we need to.’

  ‘Good,’ Bond said, without adding that he’d asked Bill Tanner to do much the same. ‘I’ve just found out that Hydt, his lady friend and the Irishman are on their way to Cape Town.’

  ‘Cape Town? Now that’s worth chewing over. I’ve been peering into Hydt’s recesses, so to speak.’

  This was, Bond supposed, what passed for a comradely joke with Percy Osborne-Smith.

  ‘South Africa is one of Green Way’s biggest operations. His home from home. I bet Gehenna must have some connection with it – Lord knows, there’re plenty of British interests there.’

  Bond told him about al-Fulan and the girl’s death. ‘All we learnt specifically is that Hydt gets a kick out of pictures of dead bodies. And the Arab’s company probably has something to do with Gehenna. He’s supplied equipment to arms dealers and warlords in the past.’

  ‘Really? Interesting. Which reminds me. Take a look at the photo I’m uploading. You should have it now.’

  Bond minimised the active-call screen on his mobile and opened a secure attachment. The picture was of the Irishman. ‘That’s him,’ he told Osborne-Smith.

  ‘Thought it might be. His name’s Niall Dunne.’ He spelt it out.

  ‘How did you find him?’

  ‘Footage from the CCTVs at Gatwick. He’s not in the databases but I had my indefatigable staff compare the pic with street cameras in London. There were some close hits of a man with that weird fringe inspecting tunnels that Green Way’s building near the Victoria Embankment. It’s the latest thing – underground rubbish transfer and collection. Keeps the roads clear and the tourists happy. A few of our boys pretended they were from Public Works, flashed his picture and got his real name. I’ve sent his file to Five, the Yard and your chief of staff.’