Carte Blanche

was nonchalantly sipping espresso or Turkish coffee and reading the paper as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
    That was how he thought of the man: target. Not bastard, not enemy. Nick knew that in an operation like this you had to be utterly dispassionate, as difficult as that might be. This man was no more of a person than the black dot of a bull’s-eye.
    A target.
    He supposed the man was talented but he’d been pretty damn careless leaving the airport. Nick had easily followed him. This gave him confidence in what he was about to do.
    Face obscured by a baseball cap with a long brim and sunglasses, Nick moved closer to his target, dodging from shadow to shadow. Unlike in other places, the disguise did not draw attention to him; in Dubai everyone wore head coverings and sunglasses.
    One thing that was a bit different was the long-sleeved jacket, which few local people wore, given the heat. But there was no other way to hide the pistol that was tucked into his waistband.
    Nick’s gold earring, too, might have earned him some curious glances but this area of Dubai Creek, with its shopping malls and amusement park, was filled with tourists and as long as people didn’t drink alcohol or kiss one another in public, the locals forgave unusual dress.
    He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then dropped and crushed it, easing closer to his target.
    A hawker appeared suddenly and asked, in English, if he wanted to buy rugs. “Very cheap, very cheap. Many knots! Thousands upon thousands of knots!” One look from Nick shut his mouth and he vanished.
    Nick considered his plan. There would be some logistical problems, of course—in this country everyone watched everyone else. He would have to get his target out of sight, into the car park or, better, the basement of the shopping center, perhaps during prayer time, when the crowds thinned. Probably the simplest approach was the best. Nick could slip up behind him, shove the gun into his back and “escort” him downstairs.
    Then the knife work would begin.
    Oh, the target—All right, maybe I will think of him as a bastard—would have many things to say when the blade began its leisurely journey across his skin.
    Nick reached under his jacket and pushed up the safety lever of his pistol, as he began moving smoothly from shadow to shadow.

Chapter 26
    James Bond had his coffee and water in front of him as he sat with the National newspaper, published out of Abu Dhabi. He considered it the best newspaper in the Middle East. You could find every sort of story imaginable, from a scandal about Mumbai firemen’s inefficient uniforms to pieces about women’s rights in the Arab world to a half-page exposé on a Cypriot gangster stealing the body of the island’s former president from his grave.
    Excellent Formula One coverage too—important to Bond.
    Now, however, he was paying no attention to the paper but was using it as a prop . . . though not with the cliché of an eyehole torn from the gutter between ads for Dubai’s Lulu Hypermarkets and the local news. The paper sat flat in front of him and his head was down. His eyes, however, were up, scanning.
    It was at that moment that he heard a brief rasp of shoe leather behind him and was aware of someone moving quickly toward his table.
    Bond remained completely still.
    Then a large hand—pale and freckled—gripped the chair beside him and yanked it back.
    A man dropped heavily into it.
    “Howdy, James.” The voice was thick with a Texas accent. “Welcome to Dubai.”
    Du-bah . . .
    Bond turned to his friend with a grin. They shook hands warmly.
    A few years older than Bond, Felix Leiter was tall and had a lanky frame, on which his suit hung loose. The pale complexion and mop of straw-colored hair largely precluded most undercover work in the Middle East unless he was playing exactly who he was: a brash, savvy guy from the American South, who’d ridden into town for business, with no small amount of pleasure thrown in. His slow manners and easygoing speech were deceptive; he could react like a spring knife when the occasion demanded . . . as Bond had seen firsthand.
    When the pilot of Fouad Kharaz’s Grumman had reported that they weren’t going to beat Hydt’s to Dubai, it was Felix Leiter whom Bond had rung, calling in his Lehman Brothers favor. While Bond was uneasy using the MI6 connections here, because of Osborne-Smith’s inquiries earlier, he had no such reservations about enlisting the CIA, which had