Carte Blanche

emirate had been hit hard in the recent economic downturn. For his official cover Bond had to keep up on world finance and he found himself impatient with the criticism ladled upon places like Dubai, which often originated in London or New York; yet weren’t the City and Wall Street the more enthusiastic co-conspirators in causing the economic woe?
    Yes, there had been excess here and many ambitious projects might never be finished—like the artificial archipelago in the shape of a map of the world, composed of small sand islands offshore (you could actually buy a “country” of your choosing, though the good ones had long ago been spoken for). Yet the reputation for swelling luxury was but a small aspect of Dubai—and, in truth, the emirate was no different from Singapore, California, Monaco and hundreds of other places where the wealthy worked and played. To Bond, in any event, Dubai was not about unfettered business or real estate but about its exotic ways, a place where new and old blended, where many cultures and religions coexisted respectfully. He particularly enjoyed the vast, empty landscape of red sand, populated by camels and Range Rovers, as different from his boyhood vistas of Kent as one could imagine. He wondered if his mission today would take him to the Empty Quarter.
    They drove on, past small brown, white and yellow one-story buildings whose names and services were disclosed in modest green Arabic lettering. No gaudy billboards, no neon lights, except for a few announcements of forthcoming events. The minarets of mosques rose above the low residences and businesses, persistent spikes of faith throughout the hazy distance. The intrusion of the ubiquitous desert was everywhere and date palm, neem and eucalyptus trees formed gallant outposts against the encroaching, endless sand.
    The taxi driver dropped Bond, as directed, at a shopping center. He handed over some ten-dirham notes and climbed out. The mall was packed with locals—it was between Asir and Maghrib prayer times—as well as many foreigners, all carting carrier bags and crowding the shops, which were doing brisk business. The country was often referred to as “Do buy,” he recalled.
    Bond lost himself in the crowd, looking around, as if he were trying to find a companion he’d agreed to meet. In fact, he was searching for someone else: the man who’d been following him from the airport, probably with hostile intent. Twice now he’d seen someone in sunglasses and a blue shirt or jacket: at the airport and then in a dusty black Toyota behind Bond’s taxi. For the drive he had donned a plain black cap but, from the set of his head and shoulders and the shape of his glasses, Bond knew he was the man he’d seen at the airport. The same Toyota had just now eased past the shopping center—driving slowly for no apparent reason—and vanished behind a nearby hotel.
    This was no coincidence.
    Bond had considered sending the taxi on a diversionary route but, in truth, he wasn’t sure he wanted to lose the tail. More often than not it’s better to trap your pursuer and see what he has to say for himself.
    Who was he? Had he been waiting in Dubai for Bond? Or somehow followed him from London? Or did he not even know who Bond was but had chosen merely to keep an eye on a stranger in town?
    Bond bought a newspaper. Today it was hot, searingly so, but he shunned the air-conditioned interior of the café he had selected and sat outside where he could observe all the entrances and exits to and from the area. He looked around occasionally for the tail but saw nothing specific.
    As he sent and received several text messages, a waiter came to him. Bond glanced at the faded menu on the table and ordered Turkish coffee and sparkling water. As the man walked away, Bond looked at his watch: 5 P.M .
    Only two hours until more than ninety people died somewhere in this elegant city of sand and heat.
    Half a block away from the shopping center, a solidly built man in a blue jacket slipped a Dubai traffic warden several hundred dirhams and told him in English that he’d only be a short while. He’d certainly be gone before the crowds returned following sunset prayer.
    The warden wandered off as if the conversation about the dusty black Toyota, parked illegally at the curb, had never occurred.
    The man, who went by the name Nick, lit a cigarette and lifted his backpack over his shoulder. He eased into the shadows of the shopping center where his target