Carte Blanche

destination and about the ninety or so deaths planned for seven o’clock that evening, presumably in Dubai, but perhaps anywhere in the United Arab Emirates.
    “Why’s Hydt going to kill them?” the chief of staff had asked.
    “I’m not sure he is but all those people are going to die and he’ll be there.”
    “I’ll go through diplomatic channels, tell the embassies there’s some threat but we don’t have anything concrete. They’ll leak word to the Dubai security apparatus too, through back channels.”
    “Don’t mention Hydt’s name. He needs to get into the country undisturbed. He can’t suspect anything. I have to find out what he’s up to.”
    “I agree. We’ll handle it on the sly.”
    He’d asked Tanner to check the Golden Wire about Hydt’s affiliation with the Emirates, hoping there was a specific place he might be headed for. A moment later the chief of staff was back. “No offices, residences or business affiliations anywhere in the area. And I’ve just done a data-mining search. No hotel reservations in his name.”
    Bond wasn’t pleased. As soon as Hydt landed, he would disappear into the sprawling emirate of two and a half million people. It would be impossible to find him before the attack.
    Just as he disconnected, the flight attendant appeared. “We have many different dishes but I saw you look at the Dom with appreciation so I decided you would like the best we have aboard. Mr. Kharaz said you were to be treated like a king.” She set the silver tray on the table beside his champagne flute, which she refilled for him. “I’ve brought you Iranian caviar—beluga, of course—with toast, not blinis, crème fraîche and capers.” The capers were the large ones, so large she had sliced them. “The grated onions are Vidalia, from America, the sweetest in the world.” She added, “They are kind to the breath too. We call them ‘lovers’ onions.’ To follow, there is duck in aspic, with minted yogurt and dates. I can also cook you a steak.”
    He laughed. “No, no. This is more than enough.”
    She left him to eat. When he had finished, he had two small cups of cardamom-flavored Arabic coffee as he read the intelligence that Philly Maidenstone had provided about Hydt and Green Way. He was struck by two things: the man’s care in steering clear of organized crime and his almost fanatical efforts to expand the company throughout the world. She had discovered recently filed applications to do business in South Korea, China, India, Argentina and half a dozen smaller countries. He was disappointed that he could find no clue in any of the material as to the Irishman’s identity. Philly had run the man’s picture, along with that of the older woman, through databases but found no matches. And Bill Tanner had reported that the MI5 agents and SOCA and Specialist Crime officers who’d descended on Gatwick had been told that, unfortunately, records about the passengers on the Grumman “seem to have vanished.”
    It was then that he received more troubling news. An encrypted e-mail 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 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