by John Gardner
Returning the counter-surveillance unit to its hiding place, he pulled out the larger piece of luggage. Checking the locks, he once more used his keys to open the lid, throwing the clothes out in a manner that would have made the sinister and fastidious Donal wince. When the case was empty, Bond returned to the locks, turning the keys a further three times in each. At the final click of the right lock, a minute panel slid back in the far left-hand corner of the case bottom, revealing a small numbered dial.
Bond spun the dial, selecting the code arranged between Q'ute and himself only a few days previously.
Another click and he was able to slide a larger portion of the case bottom to one side, disclosing some of Q Branch's special hardware, packed neatly in velvet-lined trays.
Removing the tiny receiver/recorder – based on the STR 440, and only eighty-four by fifty-five millimetres in size, complete with a specialised tape cassette and foam-padded minute headset -Bond switched on, set the control dial to the figure 1, and saw a small light glow like a red-hot pinhead. The bug placed in Murik's study was now active. A cassette lay ready attached to the machine. Now, any conversation or movement in Murik's room would be recorded on Bond's receiver. He looked around and decided that, for the moment at least, it was safe to leave the receiver on the long dressing table that took up the bulk of one wall. He put the small piece of apparatus carefully on the dressing table and started to unpack, first sliding the hidden compartment in the case back to its locked position.
Long experience had taught Bond to pack and unpack with speed and efficiency. In less than five minutes he had shirts, underwear, socks and other necessities packed neatly in the drawers which ran down the outer ends of the long dressing table, and his other clothes hung in the closets built into the walls on either side of the archway leading to the bathroom. He left one or two special items in the cases, which, after locking, he placed at the bottom of one of the closets. Only then did Bond allow himself an examination of the room, which had all the makings of an expensive movie set.
The centrepiece of the main room was a vast bed, made up with white silk sheets and pillows. The visible edges of the bed glowed with light, and the whole was partially enclosed by two high, padded semi-circular panels. Bond slid on to the bed, and found himself in what was almost another bedroom within the main room. The inside of the panels was softly lit; a large console took up the whole of one section to his left, while a television screen was set into one of the panelled sections which made up the semi-circle at the bed's foot.
After a few experiments with the console, Bond found that each section of the two semi-circles could be moved by remote control; that the bed could be slowly rotated; and even raised or lowered at will. The console also had facilities for complete quadrophonic sound, television video-recording, the Ceefax system, a telephone and intercommunication sets. Behind him, in a rack sunk into the black padding of the panel was a whole range of music and video cassettes, plus a pair of expensive Koss headphones. Bond glanced briefly at the cassettes, seeing that Anton Murik appeared to provide for all tastes – from Bach to Bartok, the Beatles to the latest avant-garde rock bands; while the video cassettes were of movies only recently released in cinemas.
Bond recognised the bed as the famous and exclusive Slumberland 2002 Sleepcentre, with some modifications, made probably on Murik's own instructions. He noted that the console provided sound and light programmes marked 'Peace Mood', 'Wake', 'Sleep' and 'Love'. Something Q'ute would have appreciated, he thought with wry amusement.
It took a lot of will-power for Bond to leave the so-called Sleepcentre and investigate the bathroom which also had several intriguing gadgets, including a sunken whirlpool bath, and even a blood-warm lavatory seat. 'All mod cons,' he said aloud.
With a short chuckle, Bond returned to the bedroom. He would try out the communications system and complain that his door seemed to be jammed. As he headed towards the bed, a glance at the receiver on the dressing table showed the tape revolve for a second and then stop. The bug placed in Murik's study was picking up noises. Grabbing the receiver and headset, Bond dived into the Sleepcentre, slipping the 'phones over his ears.
Someone was in Murik's study. He heard a distinctive cough, then Murik's voice: 'Come in, the door's open. Close it and shoot the bolt. We don't want to be disturbed.'
The sounds came clearly through the headphones: the door closing, and then the rustle as someone sat down.
'I'm sorry about dinner,' Anton Murik said. 'It was unavoidable, and I didn't think it wise for you to show yourself to my visitor, even though he probably wouldn't recognise you from Adam.'
'The message was understood. Who is the man?' The other voice was heavily accented. Franco, Bond thought.
'Harmless, but could be useful. I can always do with a little intelligent muscle. Caber is good, but rarely puts his brain into gear before working. You have to give him orders like a dog.'
'This man…?'
'A mercenary out for hire. I shouldn't think he has many scruples. We met by accident at Ascot…' 'You have him checked out?' 'You think I'm that much of a fool? He says his name's Bond. I have the number and details of the car – very smart. It'll give us an address and by tomorrow night I shall know everything I need about Mr James Bond.'
Bond smiled, knowing that M had him very well covered. Any enquiries coming from passport number, driving licence, car registration, or other means, would be nicely blocked off. All Murik could learn would come from the cover dossier – the service record of one Major James Bond, a Guards officer who had probably served with the SAS, and performed certain dubious duties since leaving the armed forces – under a slight cloud – six years previously.
Murik was still speaking. '… but I smell the need for money. Mercenaries are good earners, if they live, yet they all have that tendency to spend as though tomorrow did not exist. Or they turn to crime.'
'You must keep sights on all strangers until they are proved.'
'Oh, I'm testing him. He'll give us some interesting sport.' The laugh was unpleasant. 'At least we'll see what he's made of. But, my dear Franco, you're leaving shortly, and I want to get things finalised.'
'Everything in my head. Clear as day. You know me well now, Warlock. The teams ready in England, France and Germany. No trouble. They are on call. Listening the whole time. There is only America, and my people wait there for me.'
'And you'll be in the States by tomorrow night?'
'Afternoon.'
There was a long pause and a rustling of paper before Murik spoke again. 'You're quite certain of your American people?'
'The same as the others.'
'Willing to expend themselves in the cause?'
'Absolutely. They expect death. I have said it is not likely for them to survive. This is good psychology. Yes?'
'I agree. Though as long as they do exactly as they're told, there'll be no risk. That's the beauty of it. First, the fact that we only need to place four men in each station – to secure themselves within the control rooms – and take orders from me alone. Second, that they refuse to maintain contact with anyone outside-no hostage-taking, nothing to distract them. Third, that I make it plain to the governments concerned that they have twenty-four hours only, from the moment of takeover. The twenty-four hours runs out… then Boom: England, France, Germany and the United States have big problems on their hands for many years to come – problems, if all the scientists are correct, that will not be confined to the four countries concerned. The death toll and damage could cover almost half of the world. This is the one time that governments will have no choice but to give in to blackmail.'
'Unless they do not believe you.'
'Oh, they'll believe me,' Murik chuckled. They'll believe me because of the facts. That's why it's all-important that your people go in at the same moment. Now, your Americans. How long will it take to brief them?'
There was another pause, as though Franco was trying to make up his mind. 'Twenty-four hours.
One day at the most.'
'For both lots? For Indian Point Unit Three, and San Onofre Unit One?'
'Both. No problems.'
'It's the San Onofre that's going to scare the wits out of them.'
'Yes, I've studied papers. Still active, even though the authorities know how close it is to a fault. A seismic fault – is that how you say it?'
'Yes. America will press Europe. They just won't be able to take the risk. As long as your American people know what is expected and do only what I tell them. You must stress – as you have done in Europe – that if they obey orders, nobody can get at them for a minimum of twenty-four hours. By that time Meltdown will all be over anyway. So I see no reason why Meltdown cannot go ahead at twelve noon British Summer Time on Thursday, as planned.'
'There's one thing…'
'Yes?' Murik's voice, sharp.
'How are you to give the signals-pass on the instructions – without detection?'
A slight chuckle, subdued and humourless. 'Your people have the receivers. You have a receiver, Franco. Just use them, and let me worry about the rest.'
'But with radio signals of that strength – covering Europe and the United States – they'll pinpoint you faster than you can do your Times crossword; which is fast.'
'I told you, Franco. Let me worry. All is arranged, and I shall be quite safe. Nobody'll have the slightest idea where any instructions are coming from. Now, Franco, we are on schedule for Thursday, which is ideal. If you can really finish everything in America within twenty-four hours, it means you will be in a position to carry out the other assignment for me on Wednesday night. You think you can make that location?' 'There is time enough. Better I should do it than someone else…'
Even with the headphones on, Bond was suddenly distracted by a click from the door. His head whipped around, and he saw the handle turn a fraction. In one movement he grabbed the 'phones from his head, stuffing the receiver under the pillow before launching himself out of the Sleepcentre towards the door.
His hand shot out, grasping the door and pulling it sharply towards him.
'It's okay,' whispered Mary-Jane Mashkin, 'only me.' She slipped inside, the door swung to heavily, and Bond heard the locks thud into place again. His heart sank. Mary-Jane Mashkin was a handsome woman, but not Bond's fancy at all. Yet here she was, dressed a shade too obviously in a heavy silk Reger nightdress and wrap, her dark hair hanging around her face; a flush to her cheeks. 'I thought I should come and see that you're comfortable,' she murmured coyly. 'Have you got everything you need?'
Bond indicated the door. When Donal had closed it,
Bond had realised there was some kind of automatic locking system. The noise following Mary-Jane's entrance had confirmed his fear. 'How do you get through that system? It's electronic, isn't it?' he asked.
She pushed herself towards him, smiling in a faraway manner. 'Some of the rooms – like this – have electronic locks for safety. The doors can always be opened from the outside; and allyou have to do is dial "one" on the 'phone.
That puts you through to the switchboard. They'll open it up for you. If Anton agrees, of course.'
Bond backed away. 'And that's what you'll do? To get out, I mean.'
'Oh, James. Are you telling me to leave?'
'I…'
She slid her arms around his neck. 'I thought you needed company. It must be lonely up here.'
Bond's mind scrabbled around for the right actions and words. There was something decidedly wrong here. A carefully orchestrated seduction scene by this American woman: an intellectual, mistress to Anton Murik, and almost certainly in on whatever villainy was being planned at this moment by the doctor and Franco.
'James,' she whispered, her lips so close that he could feel her breath, 'wouldn't you like me to stay for a while?' Mary-Jane Mashkin, fully dressed, made up, and with her hair beautifully coiffured, seemed a handsome and attractive woman. Now, close to, with her body unfettered from corset or girdle, and the face cleaned off, she was a very different person.
'Look, Mary-Jane. It's a nice thought, but…' He wrenched himself free. 'What about the Laird?'
'What about him? It's you I've come to see.'
'But isn't this risky? After all, you're his… trusted confidante.'
'And I thought you were a man who was used to taking risks. The moment I set eyes on you, I… James, don't make me humiliate myself…'
She was a good actress, Bond would say that for her. The whole thing smelled of either a set-up or a special reconnaissance. Had he not just heard Anton Murik talk about testing him? Women involved with men like Murik did not offer themselves to others without good reason. Bond took the woman by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. The situation was delicate. A false move now might undo all the good work which had got him into Murik Castle. 'Mary-Jane, don't think I'm not appreciative, but…'
Her lips tightened into a petulant grimace that changed her expression into one of acid, unpleasant hardness. A lip curled upwards. 'I've made a fool of myself. Men used to flock…'
'It isn't like that,' Bond began.
'No? I've been around, James Bond. You think I don't know the signs by now?' 'But I'm Anton Murik's guest. A man can't abuse hospitality like…'
She laughed: a derisive single note. 'Since when did a man like you stand on that kind of ceremony?' She stood up. 'No, I just misread the signals; got my wires crossed. You should know by now, James, that a woman can always tell when a man finds her -well, I guess, unattractive.'
'I told you. It's not like that.'
'Well, I know it is. Just like that.'
She was at the door now, turning, her mood changing to one of anger. 'I could've saved you an awful lot of hassle, James. You could've avoided much unpleasantness with me on your side. But I could make you regret the last few minutes. You'll see, my friend.'
It all sounded very melodramatic, and Bond was becoming more and more convinced that Mary-Jane's presence in his room – her thrusting, unsophisticated attempt to seduce him -was an act designed for some other purpose. Her hand reached out to the door.
'Shouldn't I ring the switchboard?' he asked, trying to sound suitably subdued.
'No need. They have warning lights that go on and off when the bolts move; but I have arrangements with them. There's also a way out for the members of this household.' From the folds of her robe she produced a small oblong piece of metal the size of a credit card and slipped it into a tiny slot that Bond had not noticed, to the right of the lock. The bolts shot back, and Mary-Jane Mashkin opened the door. 'I'm sorry to have troubled you,' she said, and was gone in a rustle of black silk.
Bond sat down on the bed and looked at the door.
Possible friend or eternal enemy? he wondered. The whole business had been so bizarre that he found it difficult to take seriously. Then he remembered the receiver and
Murik's conversation with Franco.
The cassette was not turning when he retrieved the apparatus from under the pillow. He put the headphones over his ears and started to wind back the tape. The conversation had finished only a few minutes before. Now he rewound it to the point at which he had left them talking. The voices, through the 'phones, were as clear as though the two men were with him in the room.
'Now, Franco,' Murik was saying, 'we are on schedule for Thursday, which is ideal. If you can really finish everything in America within twenty-four hours, it means you will be in a position to carry out the other assignment for me on Wednesday night. You think you can make that location?'
'There is time enough. Better I should do it than someone else.' 'It would give me greater confidence to know that it is you.' 'And I shall be required to be in the appointed place at…'
'At the time we've already talked about. What I need to know, for my own peace of mind, is how you will do it. Will she suffer? What reaction should I expect?'
'No suffering, Warlock, I promise you. She feels nothing; and the onlookers, they imagine she h
as fainted. The weapon will be high-powered, an air rifle, and the projectile, it has a gelatine coating. She feels a little pinprick but no more. I shall use a…'
There was a thud in the earphones, and the conversation became blurred. It took Bond a few seconds to realise what had happened. Either the adhesive on the micro-bug under Murik's desk had given way or one of the men had accidentally dislodged it with his knee. Gently he wound the tape back, but the whole conversation was now muffled, and he could pick up only a few words. It was not even possible to separate the voices of the two men-'… very fast… cat-walk… below… neck… bare flesh… Warlock… steps… point… palace… Majorca… coma… death… two hours… heart attack… time…' and so on. It meant little, except the obvious fact that someone -a woman-was being set up to be killed, probably just before this operation that Murik referred to as Meltdown.
The whole thing was deadly, and Bond knew that M's worst fears were proved. This was no ordinary little plan but a full-scale, worldwide conspiracy of great danger. As for the contract killing, he could not even start to think how that fitted in. The weapon would be an air rifle, undoubtedly firing a capsule containing some quick-acting poison. As for the place and target, it was anybody's guess. The word palace had been mentioned, and the victim was a woman. Bond immediately thought of royalty. The Queen, even. Then there was the word Majorca. A meeting place, perhaps? These were things he would have to pass on to M as soon as possible. It even crossed his mind, as he carefully packed away the receiver, to trigger the pen alarm now, inside the house. But that could prove more dangerous than helpful. Murik had him neatly stowed away, and the place was a fortress. Stay with it for the time being, Bond decided.
He was just returning the headset to the closet, packed away in the case, when he heard the click of the door bolts again. His stomach turned over. Surely Mary-Jane would not have the nerve – even at Murik's instigation – to return to his room for a second visit? The handle was turning, and for the second time that night Bond moved quickly to the door and yanked it open.