Carte Blanche

by Jeffery Deaver

  Felix Leiter was more than willing to meet Hydt’s plane and follow the trio to their destination, which had turned out to be the Intercontinental Hotel – it was connected to the shopping centre where the two men now sat.

  Bond had briefed him about Hydt, the Irishman and, ten minutes ago via text, about the man in the Toyota. Leiter had remained in surveillance positions at the shopping centre for a time to – literally – watch Bond’s back.

  ‘So, do I have a friend hanging about?’

  ‘Spotted him moving in, about forty yards to the south,’ said Leiter, smiling as if counter-surveillance was the last thing on his mind. ‘He was by the entrance, thataway. But the son-of-a-bitch vanished.’

  ‘Whoever he is, he’s good.’

  ‘You got that right.’ Gazing around, Leiter now asked, ‘You believe the shopping here?’ He gestured at the patrons. ‘You have malls in England, James?’

  ‘Yes indeed. Televisions too. And running water. We’re hoping to get computers some day.’

  ‘Ha. I’ll come visit some time. Soon as you learn how to refrigerate beer.’

  Leiter flagged down the waiter and ordered coffee. He whispered to Bond, ‘I’d say “Americano”, but then people might guess my nationality, which’d blow my cover all to hell.’

  He tugged at his ear – a signal, it seemed, for a slightly built Arab man, dressed like a local, appeared. Bond had no idea where he’d been stationed. The man looked as if he might have been piloting one of the abra boat taxis that plied Dubai Creek.

  ‘Yusuf Nasad,’ Leiter introduced him. ‘This is Mr Smith.’

  Bond assumed that Nasad was not the Arab’s real name either. He would be a local asset and, because Leiter was running him, he’d be a damn good one too. Felix Leiter was a master handler. It was Nasad who’d helped him track Hydt from the airport, the American explained.

  Nasad sat down. Leiter asked, ‘Our friend?’

  ‘Gone. He saw you, I am thinking.’

  ‘I stand out too damn much.’ Leiter laughed. ‘Don’t know why Langley sent me here. If I was undercover in Alabama, nobody’d notice me.’

  Bond said, ‘I didn’t get much of a view. Dark hair, blue shirt.’

  ‘A tough boy,’ Nasad said, in what Bond thought of as American TV English. ‘Athletic. Hair’s cut very short. And he has a gold earring. No beard. I tried to get a picture. But he was gone too fast.’

  ‘Besides,’ Leiter filled in, ‘all we’ve got is crap to take pictures with. You still have that fellow giving you folks neat toys? What’s his name again – Q Somebody? Quentin? Quigley?’

  ‘Q’s the branch, not a person. Stands for Quartermaster.’

  ‘And it was a jacket he was wearing,’ Nasad added, ‘not a shirt. Like a windbreaker.’

  ‘In this heat?’ Bond asked. ‘So he was carrying. You see what type of weapon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any idea who he might be?’

  Nasad offered, ‘Definitely not Arab. Could have been a katsa.’

  ‘Why the hell would a Mossad field officer be interested in me?’

  Leiter said, ‘Only you can answer that, boy.’

  Bond shook his head. ‘Maybe somebody recruited by the secret police here?’

  ‘Naw, doubt it. The Amn al-Dawla don’t tail you. They just invite you to their four-star accommodations in the Deira, where you spill everything they want to know. And I mean everything.’

  Nasad’s quick eyes took in the café and surrounding area and apparently noted no threats. Bond had observed him doing this since his arrival.

  Leiter asked Bond, ‘You think it was somebody working for Hydt?’

  ‘Possibly. But if so I doubt they know who I am.’ Bond explained that before he’d left London he’d been concerned that Hydt and the Irishman would get too suspicious that he was on their trail, especially after the flap in Serbia. He’d had T Branch adjust the records of his Bentley to link the number plate to a disposal company in Manchester with possible underworld ties. Then Bill Tanner had sent agents posing as Scotland Yard officers to the March demolition site with a story about one of Midlands Disposal’s security men going missing in the area.

  ‘It’ll put Hydt and the Irishman off the scent at least for a few days,’ Bond said. ‘Now, have you heard any chatter here?’

  The American’s otherwise cheerful face tightened. ‘No relevant ELINT or SIGINT. Not that I care much about eavesdropping.’

  Felix Leiter, a former marine whom Bond had met in the service, was a HUMINT spy. He vastly preferred the role of handler – running local assets, like Yusuf Nasad. ‘I pulled in a lot of favours and talked to all my key assets. Whatever Hydt and his local contacts’re up to, they’re keeping the lid on really tight. I can’t find any leads. Nobody’s been moving any mysterious shipments of nasty stuff into Dubai. Nobody’s been telling friends and family to avoid this mosque or that shopping centre around seven tonight. No bad actors’re slipping in from across the Gulf.’

  ‘That’s the Irishman’s doing – keeping the wraps on everything. I don’t know exactly what he does for Hydt but he’s bloody clever, always thinking about security. It’s as if he can anticipate whatever we’re going to do and think up a way to counter it.’

  They fell silent as they casually surveyed the shopping centre. No sign of the blue-jacketed tail. No sign of Hydt or the Irishman.

  Bond asked Leiter, ‘You still a scribbler?’

  ‘Sure am,’ the Texan confirmed.

  Leiter’s cover was as a freelance journalist and blogger, specialising in music, particularly the blues, R &B and Afro-Caribbean. Journalism is a commonly used cover for intelligence agents; it gives credence to their frequent travelling, often to hotspots and the less-savoury places of the world. Leiter was fortunate in that the best covers are those that mirror an agent’s actual interests, since an assignment may require the operative to be undercover for weeks or months at a time. The filmmaker Alexander Korda – recruited by the famed British spymaster Sir Claude Dansey – reportedly used location scouting expeditions as a cover to photograph off-limits areas in the run-up to the Second World War. Bond’s bland official cover, a security and integrity analyst for the Overseas Development Group, subjected him to excruciatingly boring stints when he was on assignment. On a particularly bad day he would long for an official cover as a skiing or SCUBA instructor.

  Bond sat forward and Leiter followed his gaze. They watched two men come out of the front door of the Intercontinental and walk towards a black Lincoln Town Car.

  ‘It’s Hydt. And the Irishman.’

  Leiter sent Nasad to fetch his vehicle, then pointed to a dusty old Alfa Romeo in a nearby car park, whispering to Bond, ‘Over there. My wheels. Let’s go.’

  27

  The Lincoln carrying Severan Hydt and Niall Dunne eased east through the haze and heat, paralleling the massive power lines conducting electricity to the outer regions of the city-state. Nearby was the Persian Gulf, the rich blue muted nearly to beige by the dust in the air and the glare of the low but unrelenting sun.

  They were taking a convoluted route through Dubai, cruising past the indoor ski complex, the striking Burj Al-Arab hotel, which resembled a sail and was nearly as tall as the Eiffel Tower, and the luxurious Palm Jumeirah – the sculpted development of shops, homes and hotels extending far into the Gulf and fashioned, as the name suggested, in the likeness of an indigenous tree. These areas of glistening beauty upset Severan Hydt: the new, the unblemished. He felt much more comfortable when the vehicle slipped into the older Satwa neighbourhood, densely populated by thousands upon thousands of working-class folk – mostly immigrants.

  The time was nearly five thirty. An hour and a half before the event. It was also, Hydt had noted, with irony, an hour and a half until sunset.

  Curious coincidence, he reflected. A good sign. His ancestors – his spiritual, if not necessarily genetic forebears – had believed in omens and portents and he allowed himself to do so as we
ll; yes, he was a practical, hard-headed businessman… but he had his otherside.

  He thought again about tonight.

  They continued to cruise along the roads in a complicated fashion. The purpose of this dizzying tour wasn’t to sightsee. No, taking the roundabout route to get to a spot merely five miles from the Intercontinental had been Dunne’s idea of security.

  But the driver – a mercenary with experience in Afghanistan and Syria – reported, ‘I thought we were being followed, an Alfa and possibly a Ford. But if so, we’ve lost them, I’m sure.’

  Dunne looked back, then said, ‘Good. Go to the works.’

  They circled back to the city. In ten minutes they were at an industrial complex in the Deira, the cluttered and colourful area in the centre of town nestled along Dubai Creek and the Gulf. This was another place in which Hydt felt immediately comfortable. To enter the neighbourhood was to take a step back in time: its uneven houses, traditional markets and the rustic port along the Creek, whose docks teemed with dhows and other small vessels, might have been the backdrop to a 1930s adventure film. The ships were piled impossibly high with stacks of cargo lashed into place. The driver found the destination, a good-sized factory and warehouse, with attached offices, one storey, the shabby beige paint peeling. Razor wire, rare in low-crime Dubai, topped the chain-link fence surrounding the place. The driver pulled up to an intercom and spoke in Arabic. The gate slowly swung open. The Town Car eased into the car park and stopped.

  The two men climbed out. With an hour and fifteen minutes to sunset, the air was cooling, even as the ground radiated heat banked during the day.

  Hydt heard a voice, carried on the dusty wind. ‘Please! My friend, please come in!’ The man waving his hand was in a white dishdasharobe – in the uniquely Emirates style – and had no head covering. He was in his mid-fifties, Hydt knew, although, like many Arab men, he looked younger. A studious face, smart glasses, Western shoes. His longish hair was swept back.

  Mahdi al-Fulan strode over sprays of red sand, which drifted along the tarmac and sloped against the kerb, the walkways and the sides of buildings. The Arab’s eyes were bright, as if he were a schoolboy about to show off a treasured project. Which wasn’t far from the truth, Hydt reflected. A black beard framed his smile; Hydt had been amused to learn that, while hair colouring was not a good product to market in a land where both male and female heads were usually covered, beard dye was a bestseller.

  Hands were gripped. ‘My friend.’ Hydt didn’t try to offer an Arabic greeting. He had no talent for languages and believed it a weakness to attempt anything you were not skilled at.

  Niall Dunne stepped forward, his shoulders bouncing as they always did in his gangling walk, and also greeted the man, but the pale eyes were gazing past the Arab. For once, they were not searching for threats. He was staring raptly at the bounty that the warehouse held, which could be seen through the open door: perhaps fifty or so machines, in every shape a geometrician could name, made of raw and painted steel, iron, aluminium, carbon fibre… who knew what else? Pipes protruded, wires, control panels, lights, switches, chutes and belts. If robots had pleasant dreams, they would be set in this room.

  They entered the warehouse, which was devoid of workers. Dunne paused to study and occasionally even caress some device or other.

  Mahdi al-Fulan was an industrial product designer, MIT educated. He shunned the kind of high-profile entrepreneurship that gets you on the cover of business magazines – and often into the bankruptcy court – and specialised instead in designing functional industrial equipment and control systems for which there was a consistent market. He was one of Severan Hydt’s main suppliers. Hydt had met him at a recycling-equipment conference. Once he’d learnt about certain trips the Arab took abroad and about the dangerous men to whom he sold his wares, they’d become partners. Al-Fulan was a clever scientist, an innovative engineer, a man with ideas and inventions important to Gehenna.

  And with other connections too.

  Ninety dead…

  At that thought, Hydt involuntarily consulted his watch. Nearly six.

  ‘Follow me, please, Severan, Niall.’ Al-Fulan had caught Hydt’s glance. The Arab led them through the various rooms, dim and still. Dunne again slowed his step to examine some machinery or a control panel. He’d nod approvingly or frown, perhaps trying to understand how a system worked.

  Leaving behind the machines with their scent of oil, paint and the unique metallic, almost blood-like odour of high-powered electrical systems, they entered the offices. At the end of a dim corridor al-Fulan used a computer key to open an unmarked door and they stepped into a work area, which was large and cluttered with thousands of sheets of paper, blueprints and other documents on which were words, graphs and diagrams, many of them incomprehensible to Hydt.

  The atmosphere was eerie, to say the least, both because of the dimness and the clutter… and because of what decorated the walls.

  Images of eyes.

  Eyes of all sorts – human, fish, canine, feline and insect – photos, computerised three-dimensional renderings, medical drawings from the 1800s. Particularly unsettling was a fanciful, detailed blueprint of a human eye, as if a modern-day Dr Frankenstein had used current engineering techniques to construct his monster.

  In front of one of the dozens of large computer monitors sat an attractive woman, a brunette, in her late twenties. She stood up, strode to Hydt and shook his hand vigorously. ‘Stella Kirkpatrick. I’m Mahdi’s research assistant.’ She greeted Dunne too.

  Hydt had been to Dubai several times but had not met her before. The woman’s accent was American. Hydt supposed she was clever, hard-headed and typical of a common phenomenon in this part of the world, one that went back hundreds of years: the Westerner in love with Arab culture.

  Al-Fulan said, ‘Stella worked up most of the algorithms.’

  ‘Did you now?’ Hydt asked, with a smile.

  She blushed, the ruddy colour stemming from her affection for her mentor, whom she glanced at quickly, a supplication for approval, which al-Fulan provided in the form of a seductive smile; Hydt was not a participant in this exchange.

  As the decorations on the walls suggested, al-Fulan’s speciality was optics. His goal in life was to invent an artificial eye for the blind that would work as well as those ‘Allah – praise be to Him – created for us’. But until that happened he would make a great deal of money designing industrial machinery. He had come up with most of the specialised safety, control and inspection systems for Green Way’s sorters and document-destruction devices.

  Hydt had recently commissioned him to create yet another device for the company and had come here today with Dunne to see the prototype.

  ‘A demonstration?’ the Arab said.

  ‘Please,’ Hydt replied.

  They all walked back into the garden of machines. Al-Fulan led them to a complicated device, weighing several tons, sitting in the loading bay beside two large industrial refuse compactors.

  The Arab hit buttons and, with a growl, the machine slowly warmed up. It was about twenty feet long, six high and six wide. At the front end a metal conveyor-belt led into a mouth about a yard square. Inside all was blackness, although Hydt could just make out horizontal cylinders, covered with spikes, like a combine harvester. At the rear, half a dozen chutes led to bins, each containing a thick grey plastic liner, open at the top to catch whatever the machine disgorged.

  Hydt studied it carefully. He and Green Way made a lot of money from destroying documents securely, but the world was changing. Most data resided on computer and flash drives nowadays and this would be increasingly the case in the future. Hydt had decided to expand his empire by offering a new approach to destroying computer data storage devices.

  A number of companies did this, as did Green Way, but the new approach would be different, thanks to al-Fulan’s invention. At the moment, to destroy data effectively, computers had to be dismantled by hand and hard drives had to be wiped of
data with magnetic degaussing units, then crushed. Other steps were required to separate the other components of the old computer – many of them dangerous e-waste.

  This machine, however, did everything automatically. You simply tossed the old computer on to the belt and the device did the rest, breaking it apart while al-Fulan’s optical systems identified the components and sent them to appropriate bins. Hydt’s sales people could assure his customers that this machine would make certain not only that the sensitive information on the hard drive was destroyed but that all the other components were identified and disposed of according to local environmental regulations.

  At a nod from her boss, Stella picked up an old laptop and set it on the ribbed conveyor-belt. It vanished into the dim recesses of the device.

  They heard a series of sharp cracks and thuds and finally a loud grinding noise. Al-Fulan directed his guests to the rear, where after five or six minutes they watched the machine spit the various sorted bits of scrap into different bins – metal, plastic, circuit boards and the like. In the bin liner marked ‘Media Storage’ they saw fine metal and silicon dust, all that was left of the hard drive. The dangerous e-waste, like the batteries and heavy metals, was deposited in a receptacle marked with warning labels and the benign components were dropped into recycling bins.

  Al-Fulan then directed Hydt and Dunne to a monitor, on which a report about the machine’s efforts scrolled past.

  Dunne’s icy façade had slipped. He seemed almost excited.

  Hydt, too, was pleased, very pleased. He began to ask a question. But then he looked at a clock on the wall. It was six thirty. He could concentrate on the machinery no longer.

  28

  James Bond, Felix Leiter and Yusuf Nasad were fifty feet from the factory, crouching beside a large skip, observing Hydt, the Irishman, an Arab in a traditional white robe and an attractive dark-haired woman through a loading-bay window.