Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [65]
The exhibition was of the desiccated bodies laid out exactly as they were found, in a re-creation of the village. For the general public, it seemed, the bodies were modestly covered. The special exhibition tonight, at seven – which included only men – was for scientists, doctors and professors. The corpses were not covered. Al-Fulan had apparently managed to get Hydt a ticket.
Bond nearly laughed out loud, and relief flooded over him. Misunderstandings – and even outright errors – are not uncommon in the nuanced business of espionage, where operatives have to make plans and execute them with only fragments of information at their disposal. Often the results of such mistakes are disastrous; Bond couldn’t recall an instance in which the opposite was true, as here, when a looming tragedy turned into an evening’s innocuous cultural excursion. His first thought was that he’d enjoy telling Philly Maidenstone the story.
His amusement dimmed, however, as he reflected soberly: he’d almost destroyed the mission for the sake of ninety people who had been dead for nearly a millennium.
Then his mood grew more sombre yet as he looked into the large exhibition room and caught glimpses of the panorama of death: the bodies, some retaining much of the skin, like leather. Others were mostly skeletons. Hands reaching out, perhaps in a last plea for mercy. Emaciated forms of mothers cradling their children. Eye sockets empty, fingers mere twigs and more than a few mouths twisted into horrific smiles by the ravages of time and decay.
Bond looked at Hydt’s face as the Rag-and-bone Man stared down at the victims. He was enraptured; an almost sexual lust glowed in his eyes. Even al-Fulan seemed troubled at the pleasure his business associate was displaying.
I’ve never heard that kind of joy at the prospect of killing . . .
Hydt was taking picture after picture, the repeated flash from his mobile bathing the corpses in brilliant light and making them all the more supernatural and horrific.
What a bloody waste of time, Bond reflected. All he’d learnt from the trip was that Hydt had some fancy new machinery for his recycling operations and that he got a sick high from images of dead bodies. Was Incident Twenty, whatever it might be, a similar misreading of the intercept? He thought back to the phrasing of the original message and concluded that whatever was planned for Friday was a real threat.
. . . estimated initial casualties in the thousands, british interests adversely affected, funds transfers as discussed.
That clearly described an attack.
Hydt and al-Fulan were moving deeper into the exhibition hall and, without a special ticket, Bond couldn’t pursue them further. But Hydt was speaking again. Bond lifted the phone.
‘I do hope you understand about that girl of yours. What’s her name again?’
‘Stella,’ al-Fulan said. ‘No, we don’t have any choice. When she finds out I’m not leaving my wife she’ll be a risk. She knows too much. And, frankly,’ he added, ‘she’s been quite a nuisance lately.’
Hydt continued, ‘My associate’s handling everything. He’ll take her out to the desert, make her disappear. Whatever he does, though, will be efficient. He’s quite amazing at planning . . . well, everything.’
That was why the Irishman had remained at the warehouse.
If he was going to kill Stella, there was something more to this trip than legitimate business. He’d have to assume it involved Incident Twenty. Bond hurried from the museum, calling Felix Leiter. They had to save the woman and learn what she knew.
Leiter’s mobile, however, rang four times, then stepped into voicemail. Bond tried again. Why the hell wasn’t the American picking up? Were he and Nasad trying to save Stella at this moment,