Gardner, John (20 page)

'Sod you, Murik,' Bond shouted.

'No.' He heard Mary-Jane shout, so loudly, close to his ear, that he winced - as though the whole of his hearing and the centre of his brain had been branded by the white noise.

'You'll get nothing now.'

'Then we'll take him along for the ride. Dispose of him after the girl.'

Bond found it hard to understand what Murik was saying. The words were there, clear enough, but his concentration was so bad that he seemed incapable of sorting out the meaning. Each word had to be weighed and understood, then the whole put together. 'Get Caber,' he heard. Then:'Quite extraordinary,' from the woman. 'His mental discipline is amazing. You'd normally expect a man to crack and blurt out everything. He's either for real-an adventurer of some kind who got frightened — or a very clever, tough professional.' 'I want him kept safe; and well away from the girl. Does she suspect anything?' Mary-Jane Mashkin was answering, 'I don't think so. Went a little white when I told her Mr Bond had met with an accident. I think the silly bitch imagines she's in love with him.' 'Love! What's love?' spat Murik. 'Get him out.' 'I'd like tae do it fur permanent.' It was Caber's voice, and they were Caber's tree-like arms that picked Bond from the table. Bond could smell the man close to him. Then the weakness came, suddenly, and he felt the world zoom away from him, as though down the wrong end of a telescope. After that the darkness.

The next time he opened his eyes, Bond seemed to be alone. He lay on a bed that was vaguely familiar, but as soon as he shut his lids, all consciousness withdrew itself from him again.

Some kind of noise woke him the next time, and it was impossible to know for how long he had slept. He heard his own voice, a croak, asking to be left alone, and, louder, 'Just let me rest for a minute and I'll be okay,' before he drifted off again. This time into a real dream - not the nightmare from the torture chamber-with music: the band playing light opera overtures and Lavender close to him among the trees of St James's Park, with a cloudless London sky above them. Then an inbound jet stormed its way overhead, lowering its gear on a final approach to Heathrow; and he woke, clear-headed, with the pain gone.

He was in the East Guest Room, but it had been changed greatly. Everything movable had been taken out - tables, chairs, standard lamps, even the fitments in the Sleep-centre, on which he was lying, had gone. Bond's final wakening, he realised, had come because of another noise the clunk of the electronic locks coming off. Caber's bulk filled the doorway. 'The Laird's seen fit tae feed ye.' He moved back, allowing his henchman, Hamish, to enter, carrying a tray of cold meats and salads, together with a vacuum flask of what turned out to be coffee.

'Very good of him,' Bond smiled. 'Recovered, have we, Caber?' 'It'll be a gey long time afore ye recover, Bond.' 'Might I ask a couple of questions?' 'Ye may ask; whether I answer'll be up tae me.' 'Is it morning or evening?' 'Ye daftie, it's evening.' 'And what day?'

'Tuesday. Now tak your food. Ye'll no' be bothered agin this night,' Caber gave him a look of unconcealed hatred. 'But we'll all be off early on the morn's morn.' The door closed, and the locks thudded into place again.

Bond looked at the food, suddenly realising he was very hungry. He began to tear into the meal. Tuesday, he thought; and they were leaving in the morning - Wednesday. That meant something. Yes, on Wednesday Franco had a date with someone who was to die. Cat-walk palace . . . Majorca . . . high-powered air rifle with a gelatine-covered projectile. Murik's words in the torture chamber came floating back into his head. 'Dispose of him after the girl.' Could Murik have meant after Lavender, of whom Bond was not entirely sure? The pieces of the Meltdown puzzle floated around in his head for most of the night. He dozed and woke, then dozed again, until dawn, when the door locks came off and Caber threw in a pile of clothes, telling him to get dressed. There would be breakfast in half an hour and he should be ready to leave by eight.

High up in the building overlooking Regent's Park, M sat at his desk, looking grave and concerned. Bill Tanner was in the room, and 'The Opposition' had come calling again in the shape of Sir Richard Duggan.

'When was this?' M had just asked.

'Last night —or early this morning, really. About one thirty according to our people.' Duggan reported some kind of firefight, a car chase and a couple of explosions-very large form of 'flash-bangs', near Murik Castle. 'They say your man's car was taken back to the castle this afternoon, and that it looked like a write-off.'

M asked if they were still keeping the place under watch.

'Difficult.' Duggan looked concerned. 'The Laird's got a lot of his staff out - beaters, people like that. They're making it look like some routine job, but they're obviously combing the area.'

'And Franco?'

'F.B.I. lost him. Yesterday in New York. Gone to ground.' M allowed himself a few moments' thought, then got up and went to the window, looking down on the evening scene as dusk closed in around them. 007 had been in tight corners before; worse than this. If it were really desperate there would have been some word. 'Your man hasn't made contact; that's what I'm worried about. He was supposed to be in touch with my people. I hope you're not letting him operate on our patch, M.'

'You're absolutely certain he didn't follow Franco?'

'Pretty sure.'

'Well, that can only mean he's being detained against his will.' M allowed for a little harsh logic. 007 knew the score. He would make some kind of contact as soon as it was humanly possible.

'Do you think Special Branch should go in with a warrant?' Duggan was probing.

M whirled around. 'On what grounds? That an officer of my Service is missing? That he was sent to take a look at what was going on between the Laird of Murcaldy and an international terrorist? That your boys and girls have been watching his place? That's no way. If Anton Murik is involved in something shady, then it'll come to light soon enough. I would suggest that you try to keep your own teams on watch. I'll deal with the F.B.I.-tell 'em to redouble their efforts, and keep a lookout for my man as well. I may even talk to the C.I.A. Bond has a special relationship with one of their men. No,' M said with a note of finality, 'no, Duggan, let things lie. I have a lot of confidence in the man I've sent in and I can assure you that if he does start to operate, it will either be to warn your surveillance team or take action out of the country.'

When Duggan had gone, M turned to his Chief-of-Staff.

'Didn't like the sound of the car being smashed up.'

'007's smashed up cars before, sir. All we can do is wait.

I'm sure he'll come up with something.' 'Well, he's taking his time about it,' M snorted. 'Just -15юре he's not loafing around enjoying himself, that's all.'

As HE WAS sitting towards the rear of the aircraft, it was impossible for Bond even to attempt to follow a flight path. Most of the time they had been above layers of cloud; though he was fairly certain that he had caught a glimpse of Paris through a wide gap among the cumulus about an hour after takeoff.

Now, hunched between two of Murik's muscular young men, he watched the wing tilt and saw that it seemed to be resting on sea. Craning forward, Bond tried to get a better view from the executive jet's small window: the horizon tipping over, and the sight of a coastline far away. A flat plain, circled by mountains; pleasure beaches, and a string of white holiday buildings; then, inland, knots of houses, threading roads, a sprawl of marshy-looking land and, for a second only, a larger, old town. Memories flicked through the card index of his mind. He knew that view. He had been here before. Where? They were losing altitude, turning against the mountains, inland. The jagged peaks seemed to wobble too close for comfort. Then the note of the engines changed as the pilot increased their rate of descent.

Lavender sat at a window, forward, hemmed in by one of Murik's private army. The Laird had brought four of his men on board, plus Caber acting as their leader. At this moment Caber's bulk seemed to fill the aisle as he bent forward, taking some instructions from Murik, who had spent the entire flight in a comfortable office area with Mary-Jane, situated just behind the flight deck door. Bond had watched them, and there seemed to have been much poring over maps and making of notes. As for Lavender, he had been allowed no contact, though she had looked at him with eyes that seemed to cry out for help; or beg forgiveness Bond could not make up his mind which.

The journey had started on the dot of eight o'clock, when Caber and his men arrived at the East Guest Room. They were reasonably civil as they led Bond down into the main building, through the servants' quarters to the rear door where Caber gave instructions for him to be handcuffed shackled between two men. Outside what was obviously the tradesman's entrance a small man loitered near a van, which looked as if it had been in service since the 1930s. Faded gold lettering along the sides proclaimed the van belonged to Eric MacKenzie, Baker and Confectioner,

Murcaldy. So. Anton Murik was taking no chances. The baker's van; a classic ploy, for the baker would, presumably, call daily at the castle. Any watchers would regard the visit as normal. Routine was the biggest enemy of surveillance. Simple and effective; the ideal way to remove Bond without drawing any attention. He was dragged quickly to the rear of the van, which was empty, smelling of freshly baked bread, the floor covered with a fine patina of flour. Caber was the last of Bond's guards to climb in, pulling the doors behind him and locking the catch from the inside. The giant of a man gave a quick order for Bond to stay silent, and the van started up. So the journey began uncomfortably, with Bond squatting on the floor, the flour dust forming patches on his clothes. It was not difficult to detect that they were making a straightforward journey from the castle to the village, for the direction was plain, and the changes in road surface could be felt in the bumping of the van. Finally it started to slow down, then made a painful right-hand turn as though negotiating a difficult entrance. Eric MacKenzie, if it was he, had problems with the gearbox, and the turn was orchestrated by many grinds and judders. Then the van crawled to a stop and the doors were opened.

Caber jumped down, ordering everybody out with a harp flick of his massive head. The van was parked in a small yard, behind wooden gates. The tell-tale smell of bread pervaded the atmosphere outside, just as it had done in the van. Bond thought you did not have to be a genius, or Sherlock Holmes, to know they were in MacKenzie's yard, somewhere in the middle of Murcaldy village.

Parked beside them, facing the wooden gates, was a dark blue Commer security truck with the words Security International stencilled in white on both sides. The Commer looked solid and most secure, with its grilled windows around the driver's cab, the thick doors, reinforced bumpers and heavy panels along the most vulnerable points.

Bond was now bundled into the back of the security truck, Caber and his men moving very quickly, so that he only just caught sight of a driver already in the cab, with a man next to him, riding shotgun.

This time Caber did not get in. The doors closed with a heavy thud, and one of the men to whom Bond was handcuffed operated the bolts on the inside.

There were uncomfortable wooden benches battened to either side of the interior, and Bond was forced on to one of these, still flanked by the personal guards. These well-built, stone-faced young men did not seem inclined to talk, indicating they were under orders to remain silent. Bond admitted to himself that Murik really was good on his security, even ruling out the possibility of their prisoner starting to build up some kind of relationship with the guards. When he tried to speak, the young heavy on his left simply slammed an elbow into his ribs, telling him to shut up. There would be no talking.

The journey in the security van lasted for almost six hours. There were no windows in either the sides or the front - connecting with the driver's cab - and it was impossible to see through the small grilled apertures in the rear doors.

All Bond could do was try to calculate speed and mileage. All sense of direction was lost within the first hour though he had some idea they were moving even farther north. When they finally stopped, Bond calculated they had come almost two hundred miles - a slow, uncomfortable journey. It was now nearly three in the afternoon, and when the doors of the truck were unbolted and opened, Bond was surprised to see Caber already waiting for them. A sharp breeze cut into the truck, and Bond felt they were probably on an area of open ground. Again it was impossible to tell, for the rear of the truck had been backed up near to a small concrete building, only a pace or so from a pair of open doors. The view to left and right was screened by the truck's doors, now fully extended. Nobody spoke much, and almost all the orders were given by grunts and sign language - as though Bond was either deaf or mentally deficient. Inside the concrete building they led him along a narrow passage with, he noted, a slight downward slope. Then into a windowless room where, at last, the handcuffs were removed and the freedom of a wash room was allowed; though this too had no windows, only air vents fitted high, near the ceiling. Food was brought—sandwiches and coffee— and one of the guards remained with him, still impassive, but with his jacket drawn back from time to time so the butt of a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38 was visible. It looked to Bond like one of his own old favourites, the Centennial Airweight. From the moment of departure from the castle, Bond's mind hardly left the subject of a possible breakaway. This, however, was no time to try anything - locked away in what seemed to be a very solidly built bunker, in an unknown location, kept close with armed men and the giant Caber. He thought about Caber for a moment, realising that, if they had been through all his effects, the huge Scot would know the secret of Bond's success in the wrestling match. Caber was going to be a problem; but at least things were moving, and Bond had been heartened by one item of his clothing they had returned to him - his thick leather belt the secrets of which he had checked, to find they had not been discovered.