Carte Blanche

leave an explosive device? Perhaps it was what had been constructed in the hospital basement in March.
    Or perhaps the industrial designer al-Fulan himself had made a weapon for Hydt.
    Bond circled through the large marble lobby, filled with Arabic art and antiquities. A massive chandelier, in gold, dominated the room. Bond casually pointed the microphone toward the men. He caught dozens of scraps of conversation from others but none between Hydt and al-Fulan. Angry with himself, he adjusted his aim more carefully and finally heard Hydt’s voice: “I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time. I must thank you again for making it happen.”
    Al-Fulan: “I am pleased to do what I can. It is good we are in business together.”
    Distracted, Hydt whispered, “I would like to take pictures of the bodies.”
    “Yes, yes, of course. Anything you want, Severan.”
    How close can I get to the bodies?
    Hydt then said, “It’s almost seven. Are we ready?”
    What should I do? Bond thought desperately. People are about to die.
    Your enemy’s purpose will dictate your response . . .
    On the wall, he noted a fire alarm. He could pull it, evacuate the building. But he also saw CCTVs and security guards. He’d be identified immediately as the man who’d pulled the lever and, though he’d try to flee, the guards and police might stop him, find his weapon. Hydt might see him. He’d easily deduce what had happened. The mission would collapse.
    Was there any better response?
    He couldn’t think of one and edged close to the fire-alarm panel.
    Six fifty-five.
    Hydt and al-Fulan were walking quickly to a door at the rear of the lobby. Bond was at the alarm now. He was in full view of three security cameras.
    And a guard was no more than twenty feet away. He had noticed Bond now and perhaps registered that his behavior wasn’t quite what you’d expect of a casual Western tourist in an arcane museum of this sort. The man bent his head and spoke into a microphone attached to his shoulder.
    In front of Bond a family stood before a diorama of a camel race. The little boy and his father were laughing at the comical models.
    Six fifty-six.
    The squat guard turned toward Bond. He wore a pistol. And the protective flap covering it had been unsnapped.
    Six fifty-seven.
    The guard started forward, his hand near his gun.
    Still, with Hydt and al-Fulan merely twenty feet away, Bond reached for the fire-alarm lever.

Chapter 29
    At that moment an announcement in Arabic came over the public-address system.
    Bond paused to listen. He understood most of it. The English translation a moment later confirmed his take on the words.
    “Gentlemen. Will ticket holders for the seven o’clock show now proceed through the North Wing door.”
    That was the entrance Hydt and al-Fulan were now approaching, at the back of the main hall. They weren’t leaving the museum; if this was the location where the people would die, why weren’t the two men fleeing?
    Bond left the alarm panel and stepped to the door. The guard eyed him once more, then turned away, fixing his holster flap.
    Hydt and his colleague stood at the entrance to a special show the museum was hosting. Bond exhaled slowly as he understood at last. The title of the exhibition was “Death in the Sand.” A notice at the entrance explained that last autumn archaeologists had discovered a mass grave dating back a thousand years, located near Abu Dhabi’s Liwa Oasis, about a hundred kilometers inland from the Persian Gulf. An entire nomadic Arab tribe, ninety-two people, had been attacked and slaughtered. Just after the battle, a sandstorm had buried the bodies. When the village had been discovered last year the remains were found perfectly preserved in the hot dry sands.
    The exhibition was of the desiccated bodies laid out exactly as they were found, in a re-creation of the village. For the general public, it seemed, the bodies were modestly covered. The special exhibition tonight, at seven—which included only men—was for scientists, doctors and professors. The corpses were not covered. Al-Fulan had apparently managed to get Hydt a ticket.
    Bond nearly laughed out loud and relief flooded through him. Misunderstandings—and even outright errors—are not uncommon in the nuanced business of espionage, where operatives have to make plans and execute them with only fragments of information at hand. Often the results of such mistakes are disastrous; Bond couldn’t recall an