Gardner, John (29 page)

'A rise'll be right,' Bond replied. 'You'll get a glut. Could mess up the market.'

'Oh, my dear Bond, why do you always underestimate me? I'm a patient man: waited too long for this. You don't think I'm going to send out a troop of Boy Scouts with the diamonds, and flood the market next week.' He gave an irritated little sigh. 'This has taken too long to set up. I don't mind waiting a little longer-a year or two. Softly, softly. The diamonds'll trickle on to various markets. I've enough money to start work on my own reactor now. I simply wish to recoup from this little hoard.' Looking straight at Bond he gave a broad smile. 'All for free. They'll fall over themselves to pay up.'

'And if they stand fast? If they
don't
come up with your precious fifty billion?' Bond realised this was unlikely. Murik held his gaze coldly. 'Then the world will not be the world any more. Not as we know it.' 'You're really going to let the terrorist teams close down the cooling systems?'

Murik gave a dismissive wave of the hand. 'There'll be no need. The governments will pay up and look happy. They have no option.'

'But . . .' Bond was about to repeat his constant worry that either one of the terrorist squads would lose control, or some idiot security force would try an assault. There was a further possibility: that the governments would give in to the ultimatum, yet would lack time to fulfil Warlock's requirements. But what was the use? There was no point in arguing or even trying to reason with Anton Murik.

If argument would do no good, Bond had to think of some other way. Strapped into his seat, with Lavender in the same situation, he knew chances of survival were slim. He must go on searching for further chinks in the armour. Bond might play on Murik's vanity for a time, yet in the end that could not affect the outcome. To do anything concrete he had to be free and mobile. After that, there was the problem of taking out Murik, Caber and the two heavies sitting with Lavender at the other console.

Bond gazed blankly at the vast array of electronic units before him, particularly those directly in front of Murik. Think logically, he told himself. What would he do if free and unhindered? The earphones had been plugged into a unit bright with pin-lights, VUs, a digital frequency display and half a dozen tuning dials. He had no doubt that this was the most important piece of equipment in Murik's impressive array; in particular the microphone with its transmit button. Press that button, speak, and you would be through to the squads holding the control rooms in the nuclear power plants. This was all too obvious. It was what Murik would do once he was away and safe with the diamonds, plucked from the sea. But what would he say? How would Murik defuse the situation?

Vanity. Use it. Play on the vanity. 'What happens to the terrorist squads?' Bond asked, casually. Murik gave him a sly look. 'What d'you mean, what happens to them?'

'Well, nobody can fault you on anything, Anton.' Bond again chanced the familiarity. 'This is probably the most brilliantly organised terrorist strategy of the century. But, when you've picked up the diamonds and got safe home presumably not Perpignan . . .' Murik laughed. 'Unfortunately you won't be around to see.

Bond nodded, as though the point was academic. 'I realise that. But I suppose you call off the dogs: radio, on your shielded beam, and give them the word. They give up. So what happens to them?'

Murik shrugged: the sly look again. 'Franco's department.' He lowered his voice. 'And Franco isn't with us any more. Those people have dealt entirely with him. They expect to die in action. A nuclear death from radiation. As far as I can gather, if they're ordered to abort, they simply come out with their hands up. Custody. Interrogation. Trial. A trip to the bridewell.'

'They're willing to die for their various causes; so they're equally willing to serve a term in jail?'

'And, if any of them breaks, he can only point the finger at Franco, who is missing, believed killed in action.' He paused, glancing up at the dials in front of him. 'I imagine they won't be in jail for long. There will be hostages, deaths, demands.'

Bond nodded slowly. 'And you have to call up all six groups? Or does a blanket code cover it?'

For a second, Murik was caught off his guard. 'Same code, but each group enumerated in case I want to leave one active until the others get clear. That was the arrangement. But, naturally, none are going to get clear.'

'You don't think any of them'll be stupid enough to fight their way out?'

Murik shook his head very slowly.

It was enough for Bond. He needed the defusing code word; and, having already heard each of the groups come in with their 'Number One . . . War; Number Four . . . War' and the rest, it required only common sense to work out the way in which the occupying groups could be made to stand down. At least that was a logical step in the right direction.

He had a reasonable idea of what to do
if
he managed to get free. But how to accomplish that part of the trick?

If only he could release his arms. Every time Murik moved, Bond glimpsed the butt of the Python revolver under the jacket. If his arms were free and the right moment could be found . . . Go on thinking. Work it out. There had to be a way, and there was still time. If he managed anything it would have to be late in Murik's scheme of things. Sometime tomorrow. A message to the terrorist squads now would only alert their suspicions. From what he knew of terrorist operations, Bond was clear about the psychological factors. For the first hours, hijackers or hostage-takers were suspicious of anyone and everything. Better to wait.

As he began to wrestle with the most difficult problem of all, the earphones suddenly came to life. He recognised the pilot's voice: 'Captain to the Laird of Murcaldy, sir. Could you send someone up here for a moment?'

Murik gave a quizzical tilt of the head and beckoned Caber. 'Up to the flight deck with you. See what it's all about.'

Caber left with a nod. Murik glanced at his watch. 'Hope it's nothing too drastic. Time for some food, I think.'

Caber was gone for around ten minutes, returning with a puzzled look. He bent low and muttered in Murik's ear. The Laird's face underwent no change as his hand gently eased Caber away and he swivelled his chair towards the console opposite. 'The captain says they're picking up an intermittent trace on the flight deck radar scope, just on the periphery, to the north. They've tracked other aircraft — commercial stuff— but they appear to have two blips coming up every now and then, as though they were holding station with us. See what you can do.'

The men bent over viewers, through which they were probably looking at radar screens. 'What's your range?'

Bond asked Murik coolly, knowing that if aircraft were shadowing the Starlifter, M had probably succeeded, late in the day, in getting the right answers to some difficult problems.

'On the flight deck? Around a hundred miles.' There was no smile on Murik's face now. 'In here a little more — nearer a hundred and fifty.'

'There it is,' one of Caber's men exclaimed. 'Two of them. In and out of this screen very quickly.'

Nobody spoke. Then, about five minutes later, the same man said they were there again. 'Could be shadow aircraft. Just keeping out of range. Coming in for an occasional look.'

'Well, it won't do them any good,' snapped Murik. 'They can't take action.'

'Not until you've collected your diamonds and given the stand-down order.' Give him the facts now, Bond thought. Murik would come to it soon enough.

'And then?' asked the Laird with a lopsided smirk. Bond sighed. 'Blow you out of the sky. Force you down. Anything. Even shadow you to your lair.'

Murik looked at him gravely for a full minute, then burst out laughing, his white hair ruffling as he threw his head back. 'You think I've not taken precautions against that possibility? After all the planning, you think I've left
that
to chance?'

'A man of your capabilities? I shouldn't think so.' Bond's stomach churned. The bastard. No, of course a man like Anton Murik would not take risks. Of course he had already eliminated any possible gamble from the Melt down operation.

'Let them have their fun.' Murik was still laughing. 'Just keep an eye on them until the time comes.' He spoke to the men at Lavender's console, then turned back to Bond. 'You think I would undertake this without having some radar-jamming gear on board? If they really are shadow aircraft, then we'll fuzz their pictures as soon as we turn in to pick up the loot.'

'And if they are? They'll already know where you're going —for the diamonds, I mean.'

'I'll be away and out of it long before they'll dare come near. I'll hold off on the terrorist squads until, literally, the last moment.' He gnawed his lip, something Bond had not seen him do before. 'Anyway, they may have nothing to do with us. Routine. Coincidence. Could be.'

'Could be. But somehow I don't . . .' Bond left the sentence unfinished.

Far away to the north of the Starlifter, the two Armée de l'Air Super Mirage fighters from the Fourth Fighter Wing turned in unison. Below, the pilots could see another pair of Mirages coming up fast. The leader of the pair which had been keeping station clicked on his transmitter and spoke. 'Watchdog Five,' he said.

Through his headphones came a voice from the approaching aircraft. 'Watchdog Five, this is Watchdog Six on routine patrol. We take over now. Instructions you return to base and refuel. Over.'

'Watchdog Five,' the pilot of the first Super Mirage replied. 'Instructions understood. All quiet. Headings as before. Good luck.'

Watchdog Six acknowledged the message, the pilot turning his head in the shining cockpit to follow the first two Mirages as they peeled away. Then he called up his wing-man and the two new aircraft swung into a long, looping pattern high over the sea. It was good exercise, he thought. But there must be more to it than a routine shadowing. It wouldn't be a Russian they were following; and he had not believed his squadron commandant, who had told them this was a snap defence exercise. For one thing they were armed to the gills - everything from cannon to rockets.

The pilot bent his head to look at his small radar screen. The blip came up at the expected place. The two aircraft turned away, to begin another long circuit. If the blip vanished, they had orders to close until they made contact again.

Away to the south at Perpignan Airport, SEPCAT Jaguars sat, off the main runways, as though waiting to leap into the air for a kill. In the airport's operations' room, senior Armée de 1'Air officers were going over the flight plan filed by Aldan Aerospace for their Starlifter. So far it had not deviated. The aircraft had made a long climb out to sea, and then maintained a holding pattern while testing Aldan's specialised equipment. The holding pattern would continue, at almost 30,000 feet, for the best part of twenty-one hours. After that Aldan planned to descend almost to sea level before turning in to make their return approach to Perpignan at just before one o'clock the following afternoon.

In the building overlooking Regent's Park in London, M examined the latest reports radioed to him from France. Anton Murik's Starlifter was maintaining its filed flight plan. Yes, he thought, it probably will. Right up until the last moment, when he's got the ransom aboard. Unless-M hoped - unless James Bond was on board, and could do something about it.

It was a long and tiring evening: prelude to an even longer night of intense fatigue. Murik had drilled his staff to perfection, so that they followed a prescribed routine. Quite early on he told Bond that he did not expect the ransom aircraft to arrive anywhere near its DZ until around nine or ten the following morning. 'They can manage it by then - or so the computers tell me. That's why I set a minimum deadline. Twenty-four hours is just enough time.' He grinned —a clever pupil showing off. 'And it makes them jump: doesn't give them time to think hard.' Rest and eating periods were staggered, and either Murik or Caber was always left with Bond, just as one of the other two men remained next to Lavender. Caber, in fact, was there most of the time.

As for Bond and Lavender, they were fed - mainly on coffee and sandwiches — where they sat, their wrists being freed only for eating, or when they were taken to the wash room by an armed man, who locked them into the simple closet and stood outside the door, letting them out at a knock from the inside. On returning, they were carefully strapped into their chairs again, always under the wicked eye of at least one pistol. On no occasion during the night would there have been any opportunity to reverse the situation, but Bond had far from given up hope. Already, in the wash room, he had begun to act.

On his last visit, Bond had quickly taken a large wad of tissue from the cardboard packet. This he had rolled into an elongated ball, around three inches in length, and a good three inches thick. On being released, and led back to his seat, Bond placed both hands behind his back, ready for his wrists to be strapped. At the same time he manipulated the wedge of tissue from the palm of his hand, up and between the wrists, which he held tightly together.

It was an old trick, favoured by escapologists. When the wrist strap went on, Bond started to work with his fingers, pulling the tissue down from between his wrists. It was a lengthy business, but when the entire ball of tissue was removed and once more in his palm, the strap was looser around his wrists. There was freedom of an inch or so for him to work the strap around with his fingers and pick away at the fastening. The entire job took over an hour, but at last Bond knew that if he placed his wrists tightly together, then elongated his fingers in an attitude of prayer, the strap would slide away leaving his hands and arms free.

Near dawn, he decided. Near dawn, when they were all tired, and at their lowest ebb. It would be then, if the opportunity came, that he would act, whatever the consequences.

At around five-thirty in the morning, just after Murik had been to the forward part of the aircraft for coffee, Caber asked if he could go to the canteen.

'As long as it's only for coffee, Caber,' Murik said, laughing, while his eyes scanned the equipment in front of him.