Carte Blanche

not Tehran or Jeddah. They don’t even leer. In Dubai they’re more respectful than they are in Paris.”
    Hydt smiled his gentle smile. That was amusing. And true. “But still . . . don’t you think it would be best just to be safe? Anyway, the hotel has a wonderful spa. It will be perfect for you. And the pool is partly Plexiglas. You can look down and see the ground forty feet below. The view of the Burj Khalifa is quite impressive.”
    “I suppose.”
    It was then that Hydt noticed a new configuration of wrinkles around her eyes, as she peered up at the towering floral arrangement.
    He thought, too, of the body of the woman found in the Green Way skip yesterday, her grave now subtly marked, according to the foreman, Jack Dennison. And Hydt felt that subtle unraveling within him, a spring loosening.
    “As long as you’re happy,” he said to her softly and brushed her face, near the wrinkles, with one of his long nails. She’d stopped recoiling long ago, not that her reactions had ever affected him one bit.
    Hydt was suddenly aware of Dunne’s crystalline blue eyes turning his way. The younger man stiffened, ever so slightly, then recovered and looked elsewhere. Hydt was irritated. What business was it of his what Hydt found alluring? He wondered, as he often had, if perhaps Dunne’s distaste for his brands of lust stemmed not from the fact that they were unconventional but from his disdain for any sexuality. In the months he’d known him, the Irishman hadn’t so much as glanced at a woman or man, with bedroom eyes.
    Hydt lowered his hand and looked again at Jessica, at the lines radiating from her resigned eyes. He gauged the timing. They would fly out tonight and the plane boasted no private suites. He couldn’t imagine making love to her when Dunne was nearby, even if the man was asleep.
    He debated. Was there time now to get to the room, lay Jessica on the bed, pull the curtains wide so that the low sun streamed across the soft flesh, illuminating the topography of her body . . .
    . . . and run his nails over her skin?
    The way he felt at the moment, absorbed with her and thinking of the spectacle at seven o’clock tonight, the liaison wouldn’t take long.
    “Severan,” Dunne said crisply. “We don’t know what al-Fulan has for us. We probably should go.”
    Hydt appeared to ponder the words but it was not serious consideration. He said, “It’s been a long flight. I feel like a change of clothes.” He glanced down at Jessica’s weary eyes. “And you might like a nap, my dear.” He directed her firmly to the lift.

Chapter 25
    At around four forty-five on Tuesday afternoon Fouad Kharaz’s private jet eased to a stop. James Bond unbuckled his seat belt and collected his luggage. He thanked the pilots and the flight attendant, gripping her hand warmly and resisting the urge to kiss her cheek; they were now in the Middle East.
    The immigration officer lethargically stamped his passport, slid it back and gestured him into the country. Bond strode through the “Nothing to Declare” lane at Customs with a suitcase containing its deadly contraband, and was soon outside in the piquant heat, feeling as if a huge burden had been lifted.
    He was in his element once more, the mission his and his alone to pursue. He was on foreign soil, his carte blanche restored.
    The short ride from the airport to his destination at Festival City took Bond through a nondescript part of the town—drives to and from airports were similar throughout the world and this route was little different from the A4 just west of London or the toll road to Dulles in Washington, D.C., although it was decorated with far more sand and dust. And, like most of the emirate, it was immaculately clean.
    On the way Bond gazed out over the sprawling city, looking north toward the Persian Gulf. In the late-afternoon, heat-shimmering light, the glowing needle of the Burj Khalifa soared above the geometrically complex skyline of Sheikh Zayed Road. It was presently the tallest building on earth. That distinction seemed to change monthly but this tower would surely hold that honor for a long time to come.
    He noted one other ubiquitous characteristic of the city—the construction cranes, white and yellow and orange. They were everywhere and busy once again. On his last trip there had been just as many of these looming stalks but most were sitting idle, like toys discarded by a child who’d lost interest in playing with them. The