Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [53]
It was then that he received more troubling news. An encrypted email from Philly. Someone, it seemed, had been unofficially checking with Six about Bond’s whereabouts and planned itinerary.
The ‘someone’, Bond supposed, had to be his dear friend Percy Osborne-Smith. Technically he’d be out of the Division Three man’s jurisdiction, in Dubai, but that didn’t mean the man couldn’t make a great deal of trouble for him and even blow his cover.
Bond had no relation with Six’s people in Dubai. He’d have to assume, though, that Osborne-Smith might. Which meant Bond couldn’t have local ops or assets meet Hydt’s flight, after all. Indeed, he decided he couldn’t have anything to do with any of his countrymen – a particular shame because the consul general in Dubai was clever and savvy . . . and a friend of Bond’s. He texted Bill Tanner and told him to hold off setting up a liaison with Six.
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,