Carte Blanche

of the machine.
    He froze at what he saw ahead of him.
    The man in the blue jacket—his tail from earlier—was rolling the barely conscious Felix Leiter into one of the massive rubbish-compacting machines. The CIA agent lay sprawled, feetfirst, on the conveyor belt, which wasn’t moving, though the machine itself was running; in the center two huge metal plates on either side of the belt pressed forward, nearly meeting, then withdrawing to accept a new batch of junk.
    Leiter’s legs were a mere two yards from them.
    The assailant glanced up and, scowling, stared at the intruder.
    Bond steadied his weapon’s sights on the man and shouted, “Hands out to your sides!”
    The man did so but suddenly lunged to his right and slapped a button on the machine, then sprinted away, vanishing from sight.
    The conveyor belt began rolling steadily forward, with Leiter easing toward the thick steel plates, which came within six inches of each other, then shot back to allow more refuse into their path.
    Bond sped to the unit and slapped the red off button, then started after the attacker. But the heavy-duty motor didn’t stop immediately; the belt continued to carry his friend toward the deadly plates, pulsing relentlessly back and forth.
    Oh God! . . . Bond holstered his Walther and turned back. He grabbed Leiter and struggled to pull him out of the machinery. But the conveyor belt was dotted with pointed teeth, to improve its grip, and Leiter’s clothing was caught.
    Head lolling, blood streaming into his eyes, he continued to be drawn toward the compactor mechanism.
    Eighteen inches away, sixteen . . . twelve.
    Bond leaped on to the belt and jammed a foot against the frame, then wound Leiter’s jacket around his hands and gripped furiously hard. The momentum slowed but the massive motor continued to drive the belt relentlessly under the faces of the plates shooting back and forth.
    Leiter was eight inches, then six, from the plates that would turn his feet and ankles to pulp.
    His arm and leg muscles in fiery agony, Bond tugged harder, groaning at the effort.
    Three inches . . .
    Finally the belt stopped and, with a hydraulic gasp, so did the plates.
    Struggling for breath, Bond reached in and untangled the American’s trousers from the teeth on the belt and pulled him out, easing him to the floor. He ran to the loading bay, drawing his weapon, but there was no sign of the man in blue. Then, scanning for other threats, Bond returned to the CIA agent, who was coming round. He sat up slowly, Bond helping, and oriented himself.
    “Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?” Bond asked, masking the horror he’d felt at his friend’s near fate, as he examined the wound in the man’s head and mopped it with a rag he’d found nearby.
    Leiter gazed at the machine. Shook his head. Then his familiar grin spread across his lean face. “You Brits’re always barging in at the wrong time. I had him just where I wanted him.”
    “Hospital?” Bond asked. His heart pounded from the effort of the rescue and relief at the outcome.
    “Naw.” The American examined the rag. It was bloody but Leiter seemed more angry than injured. “Hell, James, we’re past the deadline! The ninety people?”
    Bond explained about the exhibition.
    Leiter barked a harsh laugh. “What a screwup! Brother, did we misread that one. So Hydt gets off on dead bodies. And he wanted pictures of them? Man’s got a whole new idea of porn.”
    Bond collected Leiter’s phone and weapon and returned them to him. “What happened, Felix?”
    Leiter’s eyes stilled. “The driver of the Town Car came into the warehouse right after you left. I could see him and that Irishman talking, looking at the girl. I knew something was going down and that meant she’d know something. I was going to finesse it somehow and save her. Claim we were safety inspectors or something. Before I could move, they grabbed the girl and taped her up, dragged her toward the office. I sent Yusuf around to the other side and started toward them but that bastard nailed me before I got ten feet—the guy from the shopping center, your tail.”
    “I know. I spotted him.”
    “Man, the SOB knows some martial arts crap, I’ll tell you that. He clocked me good and I was down for the count.”
    “Did he say anything?”
    “Grunted a lot. When he hit me.”
    “Was he working with the Irishman or al-Fulan?”
    “Couldn’t tell. I didn’t see them together.”
    “And the