Dunne avoided looking at them. He said, ‘And there’s a connection to March.’
‘Is there?’ Hydt tried to read Dunne’s eyes. As usual, they remained utterly cryptic.
The Irishman said nothing more – not with Jessica present. Hydt nodded. ‘We’ll check in now.’
Hydt lifted the cuff of his elegant suit jacket and regarded his watch. Two and a half hours to go.
Dunne stepped out first; his keen eyes made their usual scan for threats. ‘All right,’ came the Irishman’s slight brogue. ‘It’s clear.’
Hydt and Jessica climbed out into the astonishing heat and headed quickly into the chill of the Intercontinental lobby, which was dominated by a stunning ten-foot-high assembly of exotic flowers. On a nearby wall hung portraits of the United Arab Emirates’ ruling families, gazing down sternly and confidently.
Jessica signed for the room, which they’d taken in her name, another of Dunne’s ideas. Though they would not be staying long – their onward flight was this evening – it was helpful to have somewhere to leave the bags and get some rest. They handed the luggage to the bell captain to have it taken to the room.
Leaving Jessica beside the flowers, Hydt nodded Dunne aside. ‘The Bentley? Who was it?’
‘Registered to a company in Manchester – same address as Midlands Disposal.’
Midlands was connected to one of the bigger organised-crime syndicates operating out of south Manchester. In America the Mob had traditionally been heavily involved in waste management, and in Naples, where the Camorra crime syndicate ruled, refuse collection was known as Il Re del Crimine. In Britain organised crime was less interested in the business, but occasionally some local underworld boss tried to bluster his way into the market, like a heavy in a Guy Ritchie film.
‘And this morning,’ Dunne continued, ‘the coppers came round to the army base site, showing pictures of somebody who’d been spotted in the area the day before. There’s a warrant on him for grievous bodily harm. He worked for Midlands. The police said he’s gone missing.’
As will happen, Hydt reflected, when one’s body is commencing to rot beneath a thousand tons of wrecked hospital. ‘What would he have been doing up there?’ Hydt asked.
Dunne considered this. ‘Probably planning to sabotage the demolition job. Something goes wrong, you get bad publicity and Midlands moves in to pick up some of your business.’
‘So whoever was in the Bentley only wanted to find out what happened to his mate yesterday.’
‘Right.’
Hydt was vastly relieved. The incident had nothing to do with Gehenna. And, more important, the intruder wasn’t the police or Security Service. Merely one more instance of the underbelly of the discard business. ‘Good. We’ll deal with Midlands later.’
Hydt and Dunne returned to Jessica. ‘Niall and I have some things to take care of. I’ll be back for dinner.’
‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ she said.
Hydt frowned. ‘In this heat? It might not be good for you.’ He didn’t like her to stray too far afield. He wasn’t worried that she’d let slip anything she shouldn’t – he had kept all aspects of Gehenna from her. And what she knew of the rest of his darker life, well, that was potentially embarrassing but not illegal. It was just that when he wanted her, he wanted her and Severan Hydt was a man whose belief in the inevitable power of decay had taught him that life is far too short and precarious to deny yourself anything at any time.
‘I can judge that,’ she said, but spoke timidly.
‘Of course, of course. Only… a woman alone?’ Hydt continued. ‘The men, you know how they can be.’
‘You mean Arab men?’ Jessica asked. ‘It’s not Tehran or Jeddah. They don’t even leer. In Dubai they’re more respectful than they are in Paris.’
Hydt smiled his gentle smile. That was amusing. And true. ‘But still… don’t you think it would be best just to be safe? Anyway, the hotel has a wonderful spa. It will be perfect for you. And the pool is partly Plexiglas. You can look down and see the ground forty feet below. The view of the Burj Khalifa is quite impressive.’
‘I suppose.’
It was then that Hydt noticed a new configuration of wrinkles around her eyes, as she peered up at the towering floral arrangement.
He thought, too, of the body of the woman found in the Green Way skip yesterday, her grave now subtly marked, according to the foreman, Jack Dennison. And Hydt felt that subtle unravelling within him, a spring loosening.
‘As long as you’re happy,’ he said to her softly and brushed her face, near the wrinkles, with one of his long nails. She’d stopped recoiling long ago, not that her reactions had ever affected him one bit.
Hydt was suddenly aware of Dunne’s crystalline blue eyes turning his way. The younger man stiffened, ever so slightly, then recovered and looked elsewhere. Hydt was irritated. What business was it of his what Hydt found alluring? He wondered, as he often had, if perhaps Dunne’s distaste for his brands of lust stemmed not from the fact that they were unconventional but from his disdain for
Hydt lowered his hand and looked again at Jessica, at the lines radiating from her resigned eyes. He gauged the timing. They would fly out tonight and the plane boasted no private suites. He couldn’t imagine making love to her when Dunne was nearby, even if the man was asleep.
He debated. Was there time now to get to the room, lay Jessica on the bed, pull the curtains wide so that the low sun streamed across the soft flesh, illuminating the topography of her body…
… and run his nails over her skin?
The way he felt at the moment, absorbed with her and thinking of the spectacle at seven o’clock tonight, the liaison wouldn’t take long.
‘Severan,’ Dunne said crisply. ‘We don’t know what al-Fulan has for us. We probably should go.’
Hydt appeared to ponder the words but it was not serious consideration. He said, ‘It’s been a long flight. I feel like a change of clothes.’ He glanced down at Jessica’s weary eyes. ‘And you might like a nap, my dear.’ He directed her firmly to the lift.
25
At around four forty-five on Tuesday afternoon Fouad Kharaz’s private jet eased to a stop. James Bond unbuckled his seatbelt and collected his luggage. He thanked the pilots and the flight attendant, gripping her hand warmly and resisting the urge to kiss her cheek; they were now in the Middle East.
The immigration officer lethargically stamped his passport, slid it back and gestured him into the country. Bond strode through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ lane at Customs with a suitcase containing its deadly contraband, and was soon outside in the piquant heat, feeling as if a huge burden had been lifted.
He was in his element once more, the mission his and his alone to pursue. He was on foreign soil, his
The short ride from the airport to his destination at Festival City took Bond through a nondescript part of the town – drives to and from airports were similar throughout the world and this route was little different from the A4 just west of London, or the toll road to Dulles in Washington, D.C., although it was decorated with far more sand and dust. And, as most of the emirate, was immaculately clean.
