Carte Blanche

instance in which the opposite was true, as here, when a looming tragedy turned into an evening’s innocuous cultural excursion. His first thought was that he’d enjoy telling Philly Maidenstone the story.
    His amusement dimmed, however, as he reflected soberly that he’d almost destroyed the mission for the sake of ninety people who’d been dead for nearly a millennium.
    His mood grew more somber yet as he looked into the large exhibition room and caught glimpses of the panorama of death: the bodies, some retaining much of the skin, like leather. Others were mostly skeletons. Hands reaching out, perhaps in the last plea for mercy. Emaciated forms of mothers cradling their children. Eye sockets empty, fingers mere twigs and more than a few mouths twisted into horrific smiles by the ravages of time and decay.
    Bond looked at Hydt’s face as the Rag-and-Bone Man stared down at the victims. He was enraptured; an almost sexual lust glowed in his eyes. Even al-Fulan seemed troubled at the pleasure his business associate was displaying.
    I’ve never heard that kind of joy at the prospect of killing . . .
    Hydt was taking picture after picture, the repeated flash from his mobile bathing the corpses in brilliant light and making them all the more supernatural and horrific.
    What a bloody waste of time, Bond reflected. All he’d learned from the trip was that Hydt had some fancy new machinery for his recycling operations and that he got a sick high from images of dead bodies. Was Incident 20, whatever it might be, a similar misreading of the intercept? He thought back to the phrasing of the original message and concluded that whatever was planned for Friday was a real threat.
    . . . estimated initial casualties in the thousands, british interests adversely affected, funds transfers as discussed.
    That clearly described an attack.
    Hydt and al-Fulan were moving deeper into the exhibition hall and, without a special ticket, Bond couldn’t pursue them further. But Hydt was speaking again. Bond lifted the phone.
    “I do hope you understand about that girl of yours. What’s her name again?”
    “Stella,” al-Fulan said. “No, we don’t have any choice. When she finds out I’m not leaving my wife she’ll be a risk. She knows too much. And, frankly,” he added, “she’s been quite a nuisance lately.”
    Hydt continued, “My associate’s handling everything. He’ll take her out to the desert, make her disappear. Whatever he does, though, will be efficient. He’s quite amazing at planning . . . well, everything.”
    That was why the Irishman had remained at the warehouse.
    If he was going to kill Stella, there was something more to this trip than legitimate business. He’d have to assume it involved Incident 20. Bond hurried from the museum, calling Felix Leiter. They had to save the woman and learn what she knew.
    Leiter’s mobile, however, rang four times, then stepped into voice mail. Bond tried again. Why the hell wasn’t the American picking up? Were he and Nasad trying to save Stella at this moment, perhaps fighting with the Irishman or the chauffeur? Or both of them?
    Another call. Voice mail again. Bond broke into a run, weaving through the souks as haunting voices calling the faithful to prayer filled the sunset sky.
    Sweating hard, gasping, he arrived at al-Fulan’s warehouse five minutes later. Hydt’s Town Car was gone. Bond slipped through the hole they’d cut earlier in the fence. The window Leiter had climbed through was now closed. Bond ran to the warehouse and used a lock pick to open a side door. He slipped inside, drawing the Walther.
    The place seemed to be deserted, though he could hear the loud whining of machinery from somewhere nearby.
    No sign of the girl.
    And where were Leiter and Nasad?
    Just a few seconds later Bond learned the answer to that question—part of it, at least. In the room Leiter had entered, he found bloodstains on the floor, fresh. There were signs of a struggle, with several tools lying nearby . . . along with Leiter’s pistol and phone.
    Bond summoned a scenario of what might have happened. Leiter and Nasad had separated, with the American hiding here. He must have been watching the Irishman and Stella when the Arab chauffeur had slipped up behind and hit him with a spanner or pipe. Had Leiter been dragged off, thrown into the boot of the Town Car and taken to the desert with the girl?
    Gun in hand, Bond headed for the doorway where he heard the sound