Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

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.

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 Customs 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 blanche restored.

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 Asir and Maghrib prayer 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.