Now, however, he was paying no attention to the paper but was using it as a prop… though not with the cliche of an eyehole torn from the gutter between ads for Dubai’s Lulu Hypermarkets and the local news. The paper sat flat in front of him and his head was down. His eyes, however, were up, scanning.
It was at that moment that he heard a brief rasp of shoe leather behind him and was aware of someone moving quickly towards his table.
Bond remained completely still.
Then a large hand – pale and freckled – gripped the chair beside him and yanked it back.
A man dropped heavily into it.
‘Howdy, James.’ The voice was thick with a Texas accent. ‘Welcome to Dubai.’
Bond turned to his friend with a grin. They shook hands warmly.
A few years older than Bond, Felix Leiter was tall and had a lanky frame, on which his suit hung loose. The pale complexion and mop of straw-coloured hair largely precluded most undercover work in the Middle East unless he was playing exactly who he was: a brash, savvy
When the pilot of Fouad Kharaz’s Grumman had reported that they weren’t going to beat Hydt’s to Dubai, it was Felix Leiter whom Bond had rung, calling in his Lehman Brothers favour. While Bond was uneasy using the MI6 connections here, because of Osborne-Smith’s inquiries earlier, he had no such reservations about enlisting the CIA, which had an extensive operation throughout the United Arab Emirates. Asking Leiter, a senior agent in the Agency’s National Clandestine Service, to help out was risky politically. Using a sister agency without clearance from the top might result in serious diplomatic repercussions and Bond had already done so once with Rene Mathis. He was certainly putting his newly reinstated
Felix Leiter was more than willing to meet Hydt’s plane and follow the trio to their destination, which had turned out to be the Intercontinental Hotel – it was connected to the shopping centre where the two men now sat.
Bond had briefed him about Hydt, the Irishman and, ten minutes ago via text, about the man in the Toyota. Leiter had remained in surveillance positions at the shopping centre for a time to – literally – watch Bond’s back.
‘So, do I have a friend hanging about?’
‘Spotted him moving in, about forty yards to the south,’ said Leiter, smiling as if counter- surveillance was the last thing on his mind. ‘He was by the entrance, thataway. But the son-of-a-bitch vanished.’
‘Whoever he is, he’s good.’
‘You got that right.’ Gazing around, Leiter now asked, ‘You believe the shopping here?’ He gestured at the patrons. ‘You have malls in England, James?’
‘Yes indeed. Televisions too. And running water. We’re hoping to get computers some day.’
‘Ha. I’ll come visit some time. Soon as you learn how to refrigerate beer.’
Leiter flagged down the waiter and ordered coffee. He whispered to Bond, ‘I’d say “Americano”, but then people might guess my nationality, which’d blow my cover all to hell.’
He tugged at his ear – a signal, it seemed, for a slightly built Arab man, dressed like a local, appeared. Bond had no idea where he’d been stationed. The man looked as if he might have been piloting one of the abra boat taxis that plied Dubai Creek.
‘Yusuf Nasad,’ Leiter introduced him. ‘This is Mr Smith.’
Bond assumed that Nasad was not the Arab’s real name either. He would be a local asset and, because Leiter was running him, he’d be a damn good one too. Felix Leiter was a master handler. It was Nasad who’d helped him track Hydt from the airport, the American explained.
Nasad sat down. Leiter asked, ‘Our friend?’
‘Gone. He saw you, I am thinking.’
‘I stand out too damn much.’ Leiter laughed. ‘Don’t know why Langley sent me here. If I was undercover in Alabama, nobody’d notice me.’
Bond said, ‘I didn’t get much of a view. Dark hair, blue shirt.’
‘A tough boy,’ Nasad said, in what Bond thought of as American TV English. ‘Athletic. Hair’s cut very short. And he has a gold earring. No beard. I tried to get a picture. But he was gone too fast.’
‘Besides,’ Leiter filled in, ‘all we’ve got is crap to take pictures with. You still have that fellow giving you folks neat toys? What’s his name again – Q Somebody? Quentin? Quigley?’
‘Q’s the branch, not a person. Stands for Quartermaster.’
‘And it was a jacket he was wearing,’ Nasad added, ‘not a shirt. Like a windbreaker.’
‘In this heat?’ Bond asked. ‘So he was carrying. You see what type of weapon?’
‘No.’
‘Any idea who he might be?’
Nasad offered, ‘Definitely not Arab. Could have been a
‘Why the hell would a Mossad field officer be interested in me?’
Leiter said, ‘Only you can answer that, boy.’
Bond shook his head. ‘Maybe somebody recruited by the secret police here?’
‘Naw, doubt it. The Amn al-Dawla don’t tail you. They just invite you to their four-star accommodations in the Deira, where you spill everything they want to know. And I mean everything.’
Nasad’s quick eyes took in the cafe and surrounding area and apparently noted no threats. Bond had observed him doing this since his arrival.
Leiter asked Bond, ‘You think it was somebody working for Hydt?’
‘Possibly. But if so I doubt they know who I am.’ Bond explained that before he’d left London he’d been concerned that Hydt and the Irishman would get too suspicious that he was on their trail, especially after the flap in Serbia. He’d had T Branch adjust the records of his Bentley to link the number plate to a disposal company in Manchester with possible underworld ties. Then Bill Tanner had sent agents posing as Scotland Yard officers to the March demolition site with a story about one of Midlands Disposal’s security men going missing in the area.
‘It’ll put Hydt and the Irishman off the scent at least for a few days,’ Bond said. ‘Now, have you heard any chatter here?’
The American’s otherwise cheerful face tightened. ‘No relevant ELINT or SIGINT. Not that I care much about eavesdropping.’
Felix Leiter, a former marine whom Bond had met in the service, was a HUMINT spy. He vastly preferred the role of handler – running local assets, like Yusuf Nasad. ‘I pulled in a lot of favours and talked to all my key assets. Whatever Hydt and his local contacts’re up to, they’re keeping the lid on really tight. I can’t find any leads. Nobody’s been moving any mysterious shipments of nasty stuff into Dubai. Nobody’s been telling friends and family to avoid this mosque or that shopping centre around seven tonight. No bad actors’re slipping in from across the Gulf.’
‘That’s the Irishman’s doing – keeping the wraps on everything. I don’t know exactly what he does for Hydt but he’s bloody clever, always thinking about security. It’s as if he can anticipate whatever we’re going to do and think up a way to counter it.’
They fell silent as they casually surveyed the shopping centre. No sign of the blue- jacketed tail. No sign of Hydt or the Irishman.
Bond asked Leiter, ‘You still a scribbler?’
‘Sure am,’ the Texan confirmed.
Leiter’s cover was as a freelance journalist and blogger, specialising in music, particularly
