Gardner, John (10 page)

LATER BOND CONSIDERED that, in all probability, he had expected the Victorian Gothic gloom of the porchway to be reflected in the interior of Murik Castle-Landseer and deer antlers. He was, therefore, greatly surprised by the dazzling sight that met his eyes.

From the brooding exterior he was suddenly transported into another world. The hall, with its vast circular staircase and surrounding gallery, was decorated in shimmering white, the doors being picked out in black, and the matching white carpet underfoot giving Bond the impression that he was sinking into a soft, well-kept lawn.

The lower part of the walls was decorated, with elegant sparseness, by a series of highly polished, mint-condition halberds,
ronchas,
bat's wing
corsèques,
war forks and other thrusting weapons of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, which gleamed under the light thrown from a huge steel candelabra of intricate modern design. The arrangement was in no way cluttered or overdressed.

Murik spread out an arm, The raw materials of war,' he said. 'I'm a bit of a collector, though the best pieces are kept in other parts of the house-except, possibly, these.' He pointed to a gilded console table on which rested a glass case covering an open pistol box - a pair of duelling pistols, with tell-tale octagonal barrels, the case fitted out with all necessary accessories, brass powder measure and the like. 'Last known English duel,' Murik said proudly. 'Monro and Fawcett, 1843.' He indicated the nearest pistol. 'Monro's weapon. Did the killing.'

Bond stepped back to view the hallway again. There were other illuminations, placed strategically over modern pictures which hung higher up the walls. He recognised at least two from Picasso's Blue Period, and what looked like the original of Matisse's 'Pink Nude'.

Bond caught the smile on Murik's face. 'You're a collector of other things too,' he said. 'That looks like the-' 'Original? Yes,' Murik made a little swooping movement.

'But I thought -'

'That it was in the Baltimore Museum of Art?' The Laird nodded. 'Yes, well, you know the art world. After all there is a da Vinci "Virgin of the Rocks" in the Louvre and in London. The same goes for the de Champaigne "Richelieu". Come now, Mr Bond. You would like a drink.' He raised his voice for Mary-Jane Mashkin, who appeared as though on cue at the top of the stairs.

'Had to do a quick change.' She smiled, making a regal descent and extending a hand which appeared to drip with expensive rings. 'Nice to see you, Mr Bond. It was kind of dark outside.' She raised her voice. 'Lavender, where are you? We have a guest. The nice Mr Bond is here. The one who was so helpful with your necklace.' She crossed the hall to Bond's right, opening a pair of double doors.

'You will excuse me.' Murik gave his birdlike nod. 'The ladies will take care of you. I must talk to Caber. I hope he did not treat you too roughly; though you seem to have given him good measure.'

'Come.' Mary-Jane Mashkin ushered Bond towards the drawing room, in the doorway of which Lavender Peacock now stood.

'Mr Bond, how nice.' Lavender looked even more like a young Bacall, and somehow seemed almost relieved to see Bond, her eyes shining with undisguised pleasure.

Both women were dressed in evening clothes, Mary-Jane having done her quick change into a sombre black, probably by Givenchy. Lavender glowed in flowing white which was, to Bond's experienced eye, undoubtedly a Saint Laurent. They motioned him towards the room.

'After you, ladies.' As they turned, Bond detected a tiny noise on the balustraded gallery above them. Glancing up quickly, he was just in time to see a figure slipping into a doorway on the landing. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but there was little doubt in Bond's mind concerning the identity of the man. He had studied too many pictures and silhouettes of him in the past few days. Franco was still at Murik Castle.

The room in which Bond now found himself was long and wide, with a high, ornate ceiling, decorated in the same bold style as the hall. The walls were a delicate shell pink, the furnishings designed for comfort, and mainly in leather and glass. The wall opposite the doorway had been transformed into one huge picture window. Even in this light, Bond recognised the tint of the glass, similar to that in the Oval Office of the White House, but in a pink shade and not the green of that elegant seat of power. One would be able to see out of this huge window; but, from the outside, the human eye would only be able to note light, without detail. It was undoubtedly bulletproof.

'Well now, a drink, Mr Bond.' Mary-Jane stood by a glass cabinet. 'What will you take after all our exertions?' She made it sound coquettish.

Bond had an overwhelming urge to ask for a Virgin on the Rocks, but chose Talisker. 'When in Scotland . . .' he explained. 'A small one. I'm not a great drinker —a little champagne sometimes, and a well-made vodka martini. But here —well . . .'

Mary-Jane Mashkin smiled knowingly, opening the cabinet and taking out the fine malt whisky. 'There.' She held out the glass of amber liquid which glowed like a precious stone in the light.

Lavender had seated herself on a deep leather sofa. 'Well, it's certainly nice to have someone else staying here, Mr Bond. Especially for the Games.' She looked him straight in the eyes as she said it; as though trying to pass a message. Yet, as he looked quizzically at her, Bond saw the eyes alter, the steady look faltering, her gaze shifting over his shoulder.

'They're looking after you, then, Mr Bond?' Murik had come silently back into the room, and Bond turned to acknowledge his presence. 'I have verbally chastised Caber,' the Laird continued. 'He has no right to manhandle people — even if he does suspect them of poaching or spying.' The old, dangerous grey lava lurked in Anton Murik's eyes, and Bond saw that he was holding out the Nitefinder headset. 'An interesting toy, Mr Bond.'

'In my profession we use interesting toys,' Bond smiled, raising his hands. 'I have to admit to carrying out a reconnaissance of the castle. You invited me; but my training . . .'

Murik gave a small smile. 'I understand, Mr Bond. Probably more than you will ever know. I rather like your style.'

Lavender asked what the strange glasses and headset might be, and Bond told her briefly that they allowed you to see clearly in the dark. 'Very useful for night driving,' he added.

'Mr Bond,' Murik cut in, 'if you'll let one of my men have your car keys, I'll see your luggage is taken to the guest room.'

Bond did not like the idea, but he knew the only way to gain Anton Murik's confidence was to appear unruffled. After all, they would need a great deal of time and some very expert equipment to discover the secrets of both the car and baggage. He felt in his pockets and handed the keys to Murik. Almost at the same moment a burly man, whose tail coat and general demeanour proclaimed him as the butler, entered and stood in subservient silence. Anton Murik addressed him as Donal, telling him to get 'one of the lads to take Mr Bond's luggage to the East Guest Room and then park the car'.

Donal acknowledged the instructions without a word, and departed with the car keys.

'There now, Mr Bond.' Anton Murik gestured to one of the comfortable leather chairs. 'Sit down. Rest yourself. As you see, we're old-fashioned enough to be formal here. We dress for dinner. But, as you've arrived late, and unprepared, we'll forgive you.'

'If the ladies don't mind.' Bond turned to smile at Mary-Jane Mashkin and Lavender Peacock. The Mashkin woman returned his smile; Lavender gave him a broad, almost conspiratorial grin.

'Not at all, Mr Bond,' said Mary-Jane, and Lavender followed with a quick, 'Just this once, Mr Bond.'

James Bond nodded his thanks and took a seat. He had long ago ceased to worry about being the odd man out on formal occasions — except, of course, when it was some forewarned important function.

In the back of his mind, Lavender Peacock caused niggling concern. She was beautiful, obviously intelligent, and at ease when Dr Anton Murik was absent; but in her guardian's presence Lavender had about her a certain wariness that he could not readily define.

It should not surprise him, Bond realised. Anton Murik and his castle, with people like Caber and the butler creeping around, would be enough to make anyone wary. There was something eery about this large Gothic structure with its interior which stank of wealth, taste and gadgetry, all set far out in the middle of a beautiful nowhere.

Murik helped himself to a drink, and they chatted amiably —Murik mainly interested in Bond's journey north — until Donal, the butler, reappeared to confirm that Mr Bond's luggage had been taken to his room and that the car was parked next to the Laird's Rolls outside. As an afterthought, and a look of distinct disapproval at Bond's apparel, he announced that dinner was served.

Bond was led across the hall — automatically glancing up at the doorway through which he had seen Franco vanish — into the long dining-room, this time decorated in more traditional style, but still retaining light colours and the same stamp and flair which showed in the hall and drawing room. None of Murik's weapon collection was on view in either drawing or dining room.

They sat at a fine long mahogany table, polished and kept in magnificent condition, and ate with Georgian silver from an exquisite dinner service, every piece of which was rimmed in gold. The Lairds of Murcaldy had obviously lived well for many decades: the table silver and china would, Bond considered, have brought a small fortune in any reputable London auction room.

Murik's food matched the outer show: a fine lobster cocktail, prepared individually at each diner's elbow from freshly cooked and cooled crustaceans; a light consomme with a chicken base, followed by rare rib of beef which almost dissolved on the tongue; and, before the cheese board was circulated, there was one of Bond's favourite Scottish puddings, the delicious cream-crowdie - toasted oatmeal folded into thick whipped cream.

'The simplest things are best at table,' Anton Murik commented. 'You pay a fortune for that in the Edinburgh and Glasgow hotels, and yet it's merely an old farmhouse dish.'

Bond reflected on a fact he had noted so often in his travels: that the wealthy of today's world take their so-called 'simple' pleasures for granted.

He was not surprised when the port arrived and the ladies withdrew, leaving the two men to their own devices. The running of Murik Castle, it seemed, clung to the fashions of more gracious days. The servants - there had been two muscular young men waiting at table under Donal's eye - withdrew; as did the butler himself, after placing cigars, cutter and matches within the Laird's reach. Bond refused a cigar, asking permission to smoke his own cigarettes.

As he drew out the old and faithful gunmetal case, James Bond's thumb felt the rough section around the middle, where it had been skilfully repaired. The thought flashed through his head that this very case had once saved his life, by stopping a SMERSH assassin's bullet. The evidence was in the rough patch, invisible to the eye, on either side of the case. For a second he wondered if he would have need of any life-saving devices in this present encounter with the Laird of Murcaldy.

'So, you took up my offer, Mr Bond?' The eyes assumed the grey and menacing lava flow look as Anton Murik faced Bond across the table.

'To visit you, yes.' Bond watched as Murik expelled a great cloud of cigar smoke.

'Oh, I didn't just mean the visit.' He gave a throaty chuckle. 'I know men, Bond. I can scent them. You are a man of vigour who lives for danger. I smelled that the moment I met you. I also felt you have a similar facility — for scenting out possible dangers. Yes?'

Bond shrugged. It was not time to commit himself to anything.

'You must be good,' Murik continued. 'Only good mercenaries stay alive; and you did all the right things — reconnoitring my estate, I mean. There may well be a job for you. Just stay for a day or two and we shall see. Tomorrow I may even give you a small test. Again, we shall see.'

There was a moment's pause, and then Bond asked levelly, 'How did you do it?'

Murik arched his eyebrows in surprise. 'Do what?'

'Win the Gold Cup with China Blue?' Bond did not smile.

Murik spread out his hands. 'I have a good trainer. How else would I win such a prestigeous cup race? And I had the right horse.'

'How?' Bond asked again. 'China Blue's form made him the biggest outsider in the race. He even looked like a loser. Now I know that's easy enough to do, but you brought it off and there were no questions. You have him pulled in his other races?'

Slowly the Laird of Murcaldy shook his head. 'There was no need for that. China Blue won. Fair and square.' Then, as though suddenly making up his mind, he rose from the table. 'Come, I'll show you something.' He led the way to a door Bond had not noticed, in a corner on the far side of the dining room. He took out a bunch of keys on a thin gold chain, selected a key and unlocked the door.

They went down a cool, well-lit passage which terminated at yet another door, which Murik unlocked with a second key. A moment later they stood in a large book-lined room. There were three leather chairs facing a wide military desk and a cabinet containing some exquisite pieces of antique weaponry. On the wall above the desk hung the only painting in the room - a large and undeniable Turner.

'Genuine?' asked Bond.

'Naturally.' Murik moved behind the desk and motioned Bond into one of the chairs facing him. 'My inner sanctum,' he commented. 'You are honoured to be here at all. This is where I work and plan.'

Gently Bond drew the chair nearer to the desk. Murik was opening one of the drawers. He removed a small buff folder, opened it and passed two photographs to Bond. 'Tell me about these photographs, Mr Bond.'

Bond said they were pictures of China Blue.

'Almost correct.' Murik smiled again: a deep secretive smirk. 'They are brothers. You see —I will not bore you with the documents —just over four years ago I had a mare in foal, here on the estate. I happened to be in residence at the time, and was in at the birth, so to speak. Happily I have a vet who knows how to keep his mouth closed. It was a rare thing, Bond. Two identical foals. Absolutely identical. No expert could have told them apart, though it was obvious to the vet and myself that the second would always be the weaker of the two. That is usual in such cases.'