Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [68]
‘You have a card?’ Bond asked.
‘Indeed, yes, I do, sir.’ And offered one. Bond glanced at and pocketed it. ‘What would like, sir? A dune bashing trip? No, I know, the gold souk! For your lady. You will bring her something from Dubai and be her hero.’
‘The man who hired that limo?’ Bond’s gaze swept quickly over Hydt’s Lincoln.
The driver’s eyes went still. Bond wasn’t worried; he knew when somebody was for sale. He tried once more. ‘You know him, don’t you?’
‘Not especially, sir.’
‘But you drivers always talk among yourselves. You know everything that goes on here. Especially regarding a curious fellow like Mr Hydt.’
He slipped the man five hundred dirhams.
‘Yes, sir, yes, sir. I may have heard something . . . Let me think. Yes, perhaps.’
‘And what might that have been?’
‘I believe he and his friends have gone to the restaurant. They will be there for two hours or so. It’s a very good restaurant. Meals are leisurely.’
‘Any idea where they’re going from here?’
A nod. But no accompanying words.
Another five hundred dirhams joined their friends.
The man laughed softly and cynically. ‘People are careless around us. We are simply people to shepherd folks around. We are camels. Beasts of burden. I’m referring to the fact that people think we don’t exist. Therefore whatever they say in front of us they believe we do not hear, however sensitive it might be. However valuable.’
Bond held up more cash, then returned it to his pocket.
The driver glanced about briefly then said, ‘He’s flying to Cape Town tonight. A private jet, leaving in about three hours. As I told you, the restaurant downstairs is known for its sumptuous and leisurely dining experience.’ A fake pout. ‘But your questions tell me you probably do not want me to have an associate book a table. I understand. Perhaps on your next trip to Dubai.’
Now Bond handed over the rest of the money. He then withdrew the man’s business card and, flicking it with his thumb, asked, ‘My associate? The man who came in with me? Did you see him?’
‘Tough one?’
‘Very tough. I will be leaving Dubai soon but he will be staying. He most sincerely hopes your information about Mr Hydt is accurate.’
The smile blew away like sand. ‘Yes, yes, sir, it is completely accurate, I swear to Allah. Praise be to Him.’
30
Bond went into the bar and took a table on the outdoor terrace overlooking Dubai Creek, a peaceful mirror dotted with swaying reflections of coloured light, which utterly belied the horror he had witnessed at al-Fulan’s works.
The waiter approached and asked what he would like. American bourbon was Bond’s favourite spirit, but he believed vodka was medicinal, if not curative, when served bitingly cold. He now ordered a double Stolichnaya martini, medium dry, and asked that it be shaken very well, which not only chilled the vodka better than stirring but bruised – aerated – it too, improving the flavour considerably.
‘Lemon peel only.’
When the drink arrived, suitably opaque – evidence of a proper shaking – he drank half immediately and felt the oxymoronic burning chill flow from throat to face. It helped dull the frustration that he hadn’t been able to save either the young woman or Yusuf Nasad.
It did nothing, however, to mitigate the memory of Hydt’s eerie expression as he gazed, lusting, at the petrified bodies.
He sipped again, staring absently at the television above the bar, on whose screen the beautiful Bahraini singer Ahlam was swirling through a video edited in the jerky style fashionable on Arab and Indian TV. Her infectious, trilling voice floated from the speakers.
He drained the glass, then called Bill Tanner. He explained about the false alarm at the history museum and the deaths and added that Hydt would head for Cape Town that night. Could T Branch arrange a ride for Bond? He could no longer hitchhike on his friend’s Grumman, which had gone back to London.
‘I’ll see what I can do, James. Probably have to be commercial. I don’t know if I can get you there ahead of Hydt, though.’
‘I just need a