Carte Blanche Part 15

The man in the blue jacket his tail from earlier was rolling the barely conscious form of Felix Leiter into one of the ma.s.sive rubbish-compacting machines. The CIA agent lay sprawled, feet first, on the conveyor-belt, which wasn't moving, though the machine itself was running; in the centre two huge metal plates on either side of the belt pressed forward, nearly meeting, then withdrawing to accept a new batch of junk.

Leiter's legs were a mere two yards from them.

The a.s.sailant glanced up and, scowling, stared at the intruder.

Bond steadied his weapon's sights on the man and shouted, 'Hands out to your sides!'

The man did so but suddenly lunged to his right and slapped a b.u.t.ton on the machine, then sprinted away, vanis.h.i.+ng from sight.

The conveyor-belt began rolling steadily forward, with Leiter easing towards the thick steel plates, which came within six inches of each other then shot back to allow more refuse into their path.

Bond sped to the unit and slapped the red OFF b.u.t.ton, then started after the attacker. But the heavy-duty motor didn't stop immediately; the belt continued to carry his friend towards the deadly plates, pulsing relentlessly back and forth.

Oh, G.o.d! . . . Bond holstered his Walther and turned back. He grabbed Leiter and struggled to pull him out of the machinery. But the conveyor-belt was dotted with pointed teeth, to improve its grip, and Leiter's clothing was caught.

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 ma.s.sive 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 b.l.o.o.d.y but Leiter seemed more angry than injured. 'h.e.l.l, 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 pictures of them? Man's got a whole new idea of p.o.r.n.'

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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 c.r.a.p, 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 ma.s.s of gore and b.l.o.o.d.y 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n 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, pa.s.sed through it and stepped outside. He a.s.sessed a group of limo drivers standing in a cl.u.s.ter 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 bas.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sociate 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 a.s.sociate? 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 overlooking 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, l.u.s.ting, 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 fas.h.i.+onable on Arab and Indian TV. Her infectious, trilling voice floated from the speakers.

He drained the gla.s.s, 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 a.s.signment. '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 a.s.set 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 Ca.s.sidy. That, you just do without thinking.'