Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [66]
Another call. Voicemail again. Bond broke into a run, weaving through the souks as haunting voices calling the faithful to prayer filled the sunset sky.
Sweating hard, gasping, he arrived at al-Fulan’s warehouse five minutes later. Hydt’s Town Car was gone. Bond slipped through the hole they’d cut earlier in the fence. The window Leiter had climbed through was now closed. Bond ran to the warehouse and used a lock pick to open a side door. He slipped inside, drawing the Walther.
The place seemed to be deserted, though he could hear the loud whining of machinery from somewhere nearby.
No sign of the girl.
And where were Leiter and Nasad?
Just a few seconds later Bond learnt the answer to that question, part of it, at least. In the room Leiter had entered, he found bloodstains on the floor, fresh. There were signs of a struggle, with several tools lying nearby . . . along with Leiter’s pistol and phone.
Bond summoned a scenario of what might have happened. Leiter and Nasad had separated, with the American hiding here. He must have been watching the Irishman and Stella when the Arab chauffeur had slipped up behind and hit him with a spanner or pipe. Had Leiter been dragged off, thrown into the boot of the Town Car and taken to the desert with the girl?
Gun in his hand, Bond headed for the doorway where he heard the sound of the machine.
He froze at what he saw ahead of him.
The man in the blue jacket – his tail from earlier – was rolling the barely conscious form of Felix Leiter into one of the massive rubbish-compacting machines. The CIA agent lay sprawled, feet first, on the conveyor-belt, which wasn’t moving, though the machine itself was running; in the centre two huge metal plates on either side of the belt pressed forward, nearly meeting, then withdrawing to accept a new batch of junk.
Leiter’s legs were a mere two yards from them.
The assailant glanced up and, scowling, stared at the intruder.
Bond steadied his weapon’s sights on the man and shouted, ‘Hands out to your sides!’
The man did so but suddenly lunged to his right and slapped a button on the machine, then sprinted away, vanishing from sight.
The conveyor-belt began rolling steadily forward, with Leiter easing towards the thick steel plates, which came within six inches of each other then shot back to allow more refuse into their path.
Bond sped to the unit and slapped the red OFF button, then started after the attacker. But the heavy-duty motor didn’t stop immediately; the belt continued to carry his friend towards the deadly plates, pulsing relentlessly back and forth.
Oh, God! . . . Bond holstered his Walther and turned back. He grabbed Leiter and struggled to pull him out of the machinery. But the conveyor-belt was dotted with pointed teeth, to improve its grip, and Leiter’s clothing was caught.
Head lolling, blood streaming into his eyes, he continued to be drawn towards the compactor mechanism.
Eighteen inches away, sixteen . . . twelve.
Bond leapt on to the belt and jammed a foot against the frame, then wound Leiter’s jacket around his hands and gripped furiously hard. The momentum slowed but the massive motor continued to drive the belt relentlessly under the faces of the plates shooting back and forth.
Leiter was eight inches, then six, from the plates that would turn his feet and ankles to pulp.
His arm and leg muscles in fiery agony, Bond tugged harder, groaning at the effort.
Three inches . . .
Finally the belt stopped and, with a hydraulic gasp, so did the plates.
Struggling for breath, Bond reached in and untangled the American’s trousers from the teeth on the belt and pulled him out, easing him to the floor. He ran to the loading bay, drawing his weapon, but there was no sign of the man in blue. Then, scanning for other threats, Bond returned to the CIA agent, who was coming round. He sat up slowly, Bond helping, and oriented himself.
‘Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?’ Bond asked, masking the horror he’d felt at his friend’s near fate,