Carte Blanche

an extensive operation throughout the United Arab Emirates. Asking Leiter, a senior agent in the agency’s National Clandestine Service, to help out was risky politically. Using a sister agency without clearance from the top might result in serious diplomatic repercussions and Bond had already done so once with René Mathis. He was certainly putting his newly reinstated carte blanche to the test.
    Felix Leiter was more than willing to meet Hydt’s plane and follow the trio to their destination, which had turned out to be the Intercontinental Hotel—it was connected to the shopping center where the two men now sat.
    Bond had briefed him about Hydt, the Irishman and, ten minutes ago via text, about the man in the Toyota. Leiter had remained in surveillance positions at the shopping center for a time to—literally—watch Bond’s back.
    “So, do I have a friend hanging about?”
    “Spotted him moving in, about forty yards to the south,” said Leiter, smiling as if countersurveillance was the last thing on his mind. “He was by the entrance, thataway. But the son of a bitch vanished.”
    “Whoever he is, he’s good.”
    “You got that right.” Gazing around, Leiter now asked, “You believe the shopping here?” He gestured at the patrons. “You have malls in England, James?”
    “Yes indeed. Televisions too. And running water. We’re hoping to get computers someday.”
    “Ha. I’ll come visit sometime. Soon as you learn how to refrigerate beer.”
    Leiter flagged down the waiter and ordered coffee. He whispered to Bond, “I’d say ‘Americano,’ but then people might guess my nationality, which’d blow my cover all to hell.”
    He tugged at his ear—a signal, it seemed, for a slightly built Arab man, dressed like a local, appeared quickly. Bond had no idea where he’d been stationed. The man looked as if he might have been piloting one of the abra boat taxis that plied Dubai Creek.
    “Yusuf Nasad,” Leiter introduced him. “This is Mr. Smith.”
    Bond assumed that Nasad was not the Arab’s real name either. He would be a local asset and, because Leiter was running him, he’d be a damn good one too. Felix Leiter was a master handler. It was Nasad who’d helped him track Hydt from the airport, the American explained.
    Nasad sat down. Leiter asked, “Our friend?”
    “Gone. He saw you, I am thinking.”
    “I stand out too damn much.” Leiter laughed. “Don’t know why Langley sent me here. If I was undercover in Alabama, nobody’d notice me.”
    Bond said, “I didn’t get much of a view. Dark hair, blue shirt.”
    “A tough boy,” Nasad said, in what Bond thought of as American TV English. “Athletic. Hair’s cut very short. And he has a gold earring. No beard. I tried to get a picture. But he was gone too fast.”
    “Besides,” Leiter filled in, “all we’ve got is crap to take pictures with. You still have that fellow giving you folks neat toys? What’s his name again—Q Somebody? Quentin? Quigley?”
    “Q’s the branch, not a person. Stands for Quartermaster.”
    “And it was a jacket he was wearing,” Nasad added, “not a shirt. Like a windbreaker.”
    “In this heat?” Bond asked. “So he was carrying. You see what type of weapon?”
    “No.”
    “Any idea who he might be?”
    Nasad offered, “Definitely not Arab. Could have been a katsa .”
    “Why the hell would a Mossad field officer be interested in me?”
    Leiter said, “Only you can answer that, boy.”
    Bond shook his head. “Maybe somebody recruited by the secret police here?”
    “Naw, doubt it. The Amn al-Dawla don’t tail you. They just invite you to their four-star accommodations in the Deira, where you spill everything they want to know. And I mean everything.”
    Nasad’s quick eyes took in the café and surrounding area and apparently noted no threats. Bond had observed him doing this since his arrival.
    Leiter asked Bond, “You think it was somebody working for Hydt?”
    “Possibly. But if so I doubt they know who I am.” Bond explained that before he’d left London he’d been concerned that Hydt and the Irishman would get too suspicious that he was on their trail, especially after the flap in Serbia. He’d had T Branch adjust the records of his Bentley to link the number plate to a disposal company in Manchester with possible underworld ties. Then Bill Tanner had sent agents posing as Scotland Yard officers to the March demolition site with a story about a Midland Disposal