On the way Bond gazed out over the sprawling city, looking north towards the Persian Gulf. In the late-afternoon, heat-shimmering light, the needle of the Burj Khalifa glowed, soaring above the geometrically complex skyline of Sheikh Zayed Road. It was presently the tallest building on earth. That distinction seemed to change monthly but this tower would surely hold that honour for a long time to come.
He noted one other ubiquitous characteristic of the city – the construction cranes, white and yellow and orange. They were everywhere and busy once again. On his last trip there had been just as many of these looming stalks but most were sitting idle, like toys discarded by a child who’d lost interest in playing with them. The emirate had been hit hard in the recent economic downturn. For his official cover Bond had to keep up on world finance and he found himself impatient with the criticism ladled upon places like Dubai, which often originated in London or New York; yet weren’t the City and Wall Street the more enthusiastic co-conspirators in causing the economic woe?
Yes, there had been excess here and many ambitious projects might never be finished – like the artificial archipelago in the shape of a map of the world, composed of small sand islands offshore. Yet the reputation for swelling luxury was but a small aspect of Dubai – and, in truth, no different from Singapore, California, Monaco and hundreds of other places where the wealthy worked and played. To Bond, in any event, Dubai was not about unfettered business or real estate but about its exotic ways, a place where new and old blended, where many cultures and religions coexisted respectfully. He particularly enjoyed the vast, empty landscape of red sand, populated by camels and Range Rovers, as different from his boyhood vistas of Kent as one could imagine. He wondered if his mission today would take him to the Empty Quarter.
They drove on, past small brown, white and yellow one-storey buildings whose names and services were disclosed in modest green Arabic lettering. No gaudy billboards, no neon lights, except for a few announcements of forthcoming events. The minarets of mosques rose above the low residences and businesses, persistent spikes of faith throughout the hazy distance. The intrusion of the ubiquitous desert was everywhere and date palm, neem and eucalyptus trees formed gallant outposts against the encroaching, endless sand.
The taxi driver dropped Bond, as directed, at a shopping centre. He handed over some ten-dirham notes and climbed out. The mall was packed with locals – it was between
Bond lost himself in the crowd, looking around, as if he were trying to find a companion he’d agreed to meet. In fact, he was searching for someone else: the man who’d been following him from the airport, probably with hostile intent. Twice now he’d seen a man in sunglasses and a blue shirt or jacket: at the airport and then in a dusty black Toyota behind Bond’s taxi. For the drive he had donned a plain black cap but, from the set of his head and shoulders and the shape of his glasses, Bond knew he was the man he’d seen at the airport. The same Toyota had just now eased past the shopping centre – driving slowly for no apparent reason – and vanished behind a nearby hotel.
This was no coincidence.
Bond had considered sending the taxi on a diversionary route but, in truth, he wasn’t sure he wanted to lose the tail. More often than not it’s better to trap your pursuer and see what he has to say for himself.
Who was he? Had he been waiting in Dubai for Bond? Or somehow followed him from London? Or did he not even know who Bond was, but had chosen merely to keep an eye on a stranger in town?
Bond bought a newspaper. Today it was hot, searingly so, but he shunned the air- conditioned interior of the cafe he had selected and sat outside where he could observe all the entrances and exits to and from the area. He looked around occasionally for the tail but saw nothing specific.
As he sent and received several text messages, a waiter came to him. Bond glanced at the faded menu on the table and ordered Turkish coffee and sparkling water. As the man walked away, Bond looked at his watch. Five p.m.
Only two hours until more than ninety people died somewhere in this elegant city of sand and heat.
Half a block away from the shopping centre, a solidly built man in a blue jacket slipped a Dubai traffic warden several hundred dirhams and told him in English that he’d only be a short while. He’d certainly be gone before the crowds returned after sunset prayer.
The warden wandered off as if the conversation about the dusty black Toyota, parked illegally at the kerb, had never occurred.
The man, who went by the name Nick, lit a cigarette and lifted his backpack over his shoulder. He eased into the shadows of the shopping centre where his target was nonchalantly sipping espresso or Turkish coffee and reading the paper as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
That was how he thought of the man: target. Not bastard, not enemy. Nick knew that in an operation like this you had to be utterly dispassionate, as difficult as that might be. This man was no more of a person than the black dot of a bull’s-eye.
A target.
He supposed the man was talented but he’d been pretty damn careless leaving the airport. Nick had easily followed him. This gave him confidence at what he was about to do.
Face obscured by a baseball cap with a long brim and sunglasses, Nick moved closer to his target, dodging from shadow to shadow. Unlike in other places, the disguise did not draw attention to him; in Dubai everyone wore head coverings and sunglasses.
One thing that was a bit different was the long-sleeved blue jacket, which few local people wore, given the heat. But there was no other way to hide the pistol that was tucked into his waistband.
Nick’s gold earring, too, might have earned him some curious glances but this area of Dubai Creek, with its shopping malls and amusement park, was filled with tourists and as long as people didn’t drink alcohol or kiss each other in public, the locals forgave unusual dress.
He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then dropped and crushed it, easing closer to his target.
A hawker appeared suddenly and asked, in English, if he wanted to buy rugs. ‘Very cheap, very cheap. Many knots! Thousands upon thousands of knots!’ One look from Nick shut his mouth and he vanished.
Nick considered his plan. There would be some logistical problems, of course – in this country everyone watched everyone else. He would have to get his target out of sight, into the car park or, better, the basement of the shopping centre, perhaps during prayer time, when the crowds thinned. Probably the simplest approach was the best. Nick could slip up behind him, shove the gun into his back and ‘escort’ him downstairs.
Then the knife work would begin.
Oh, the target – all right, maybe I will think of him as a bastard – would have many things to say when the blade began its leisurely journey across his skin.
Nick reached under his jacket and pushed up the safety lever of his pistol, moving smoothly from shadow to shadow.
26
James Bond had his coffee and water in front of him as he sat with the
Excellent Formula One coverage too – important to Bond.
