Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [56]
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.
One thing that was a bit different was the long-sleeved blue jacket, which few local people wore, given the heat. But there was no other way to hide the pistol that was tucked into his waistband.
Nick’s gold earring, too, might have earned him some curious glances but this area of Dubai Creek, with its shopping malls and amusement park, was filled with tourists and as long as people didn’t drink alcohol or kiss each other in public, the locals forgave unusual dress.
He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then dropped and crushed it, easing closer to his target.
A hawker appeared suddenly and asked, in English, if he wanted