At that moment an announcement in Arabic came over the public-address system.
Bond paused to listen. He understood most of it. The English translation a moment later confirmed his take on the words.
‘Gentlemen. Will ticket holders for the seven o’clock show now proceed through the North Wing door.’
That was the entrance Hydt and al-Fulan were now approaching, at the back of the main hall. They weren’t leaving the museum; if this was the location where the people would die, why weren’t the two men fleeing?
Bond left the alarm panel and stepped to the door. The guard eyed him once more, then turned away, fixing his holster flap.
Hydt and his colleague stood at the entrance to a special show the museum was hosting. Bond exhaled slowly as he understood at last. The title of the exhibition was ‘Death in the Sand’. A notice at the entrance explained that last autumn archaeologists had discovered a mass grave dating back a thousand years, located near Abu Dhabi’s Liwa oasis, about a hundred kilometres inland from the Persian Gulf. An entire nomadic Arab tribe, ninety-two people, had been attacked and slaughtered. Just after the battle, a sandstorm had buried the bodies. When the village had been discovered last year the remains were found perfectly preserved in the hot dry sands.
The exhibition was of the desiccated bodies laid out exactly as they were found, in a re- creation of the village. For the general public, it seemed, the bodies were modestly covered. The special exhibition tonight, at seven – which included only men – was for scientists, doctors and professors. The corpses were not covered. Al-Fulan had apparently managed to get Hydt a ticket.
Bond nearly laughed out loud, and relief flooded over him. Misunderstandings – and even outright errors – are not uncommon in the nuanced business of espionage, where operatives have to make plans and execute them with only fragments of information at their disposal. Often the results of such mistakes are disastrous; Bond couldn’t recall an 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: he’d almost destroyed the mission for the sake of ninety people who had been dead for nearly a millennium.
Then his mood grew more sombre 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 a 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.
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 learnt 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 Twenty, 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.’
If he was going to kill Stella, there
Leiter’s mobile, however, rang four times, then stepped into voicemail. 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. Voicemail 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 learnt 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 his hand, Bond headed for the doorway where he heard the sound 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 form of Felix Leiter into one of the massive rubbish-compacting machines. The CIA agent lay sprawled, feet first, on the conveyor-belt, which wasn’t moving, though the machine itself was running; in the centre 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 towards 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.
