Licence Renewed

by John Gardner

  The bonfires in the Place went up, other groups of girls having jogged down the far side of the canal to do their work. Another roar from the crowd, and the band started up again. Before he knew what was happening, Bond was seized by both hands, a girl clinging to each, giggling and laughing at him. In a second, Bond was locked into part of the large circle ofsardana dancers which was forming spontaneously. Desperately, and with much help from the girls he tried to follow the steps so as not to draw attention to himself, now an easy target for Caber and his men.

  Then, just as suddenly as it started, the sardana stopped, all eyes turning towards the Castillet, where the girls, with their blazing brands, occupied the spaces on the battlements, holding the torches high. A rocket sped into the air, showering the sky with clusters of brilliant fire. There followed three more muted explosions, and a great flood of light appeared to rise from the battlements on which the girls stood, their brands flickering, making a breathtaking spectacle. The effect was as though the whole of the Castillet was on fire, gouts of crimson smoke rising from the turrets, battlements, even the minaret; and from this, more rockets pierced the darkness of the night, exploding with shattering sound and shooting stars.

  Bond at last freed himself from the two girls, looked around carefully, and set off again, pushing and shoving through the wall of people whose eyes could not leave the dazzling spectacle of starshells, rockets and Roman candles.

  The entire area around the Castillet was tightly packed with shining faces-old men and women, who probably could remember this fete when it was not done on such a grand scale; children getting their first view of something magical; tourists trying to capture the experience for their home movies; and locals who entered into the spirit of the fete.

  Bond saw all these faces-even teenagers aglow and delighted, not blase, as they might have been in Paris, London or New York. He saw none of the enemy faces and finally pushed through the crowds, walking fast towards the less-populated streets and in the direction he remembered the post office to be.

  The noise, music and fireworks were behind him now, and the streets darker. Within a few minutes he recognised the landmark of the Place Arago with its palm trees, shops and attractive bars. On his last visit Bond had often sat at the large cafe occupying the centre. The post office was only a minute away, in a street straight ahead to the left of the canal.

  The street was narrow – buildings to his left and trees bordering the canal to the right. At last Bond saw the line of open telephone booths, each dimly lit and empty – a row of grey electronic sentries beside the post office steps. He drove his hand into his pocket, counting out the one franc pieces from his change. Six in all. Just enough to make the call, if the duty officer allowed him to speak without interruption.

  Swiftly he dialled the 19-44-1 London prefix, then the number of the Regent's Park building. He had already inserted one of the franc pieces into the slot from which it would be swallowed when contact was made. In the far distance he was aware of the whoosh and crackle of the fireworks, while the music was still audible through the noise. His left ear was filled with clicks and whirrs from the automatic dialling system. Almost holding his breath, Bond heard the sequence complete itself, then the ringing tone and the receiver being lifted.

  'Duty watchman. Transworld Exports,' came the voice, very clear, on the line.

  '007 for M…' Bond began, then stopped as he felt the hard steel against his ribs, and a voice say quietly, 'Oot fast, or I'll put a bullet into ye.'

  It was the watcher who had been standing near the Castillet. Bond sighed. 'Fast,' the voice repeated. 'Put down yon telephone.' The man was standing very close, pushed up behind Bond.

  Primary rule: never approach a man too close with pistol. Always keep at least the length of his leg away. Bond felt a twinge of regret for the man as he first turned slowly, his right hand lowering the telephone receiver, then fast, swinging around to the left, away from the pistol barrel, as he brought the handset of the telephone smashing into the Scot's face. Murik's man actually had time to get one shot away before he went down. The bullet tore through Bond's jacket before ricochetting its way through the telephone booths.

  Bond's right foot connected hard with his attacker's face as the man fell. There was a groan, then silence from the figure spreadeagled on the pavement outside the open booth. The blood was quite visible on his face. A telephone, Bond reflected, should be classified as a dangerous weapon. He had probably broken the fellow's nose.

  The handset was wrecked. Bond swore as he rammed it back on to the rests. He bent over the unconscious figure to pick up the weapon. Cheeky devil, he thought. The gun was Bond's own Browning, obviously retrieved from the Saab.

  In the distance, among the noises of the fete, there came the sound of a klaxon. It could well be a fire engine, but someone might have heard the shot or seen the scuffle.

  There had to be another place from which to get a message to M. The last people Bond wished to argue with tonight were the flics. He pushed the Browning into his waistband, turning the butt hard so that the barrel pointed to the side and not downwards, and then set off at a brisk walk crossing the road and returning in the direction from which he had come.

  At the Place Arago he stopped for traffic, looking across the road at an elegant poster prominently displayed on the wall of the large cafe. It took several seconds for the poster to register: ROUSSILLON HAUTE COUTURE. GRAND SHOW OF THE NEW ROUSSILLON COLLECTION ON THE NIGHT OF THE FESTIVAL OF OLD ST JOHN. PALACE OF THE KINGS OF MAJORCA. ELEVEN P.M. There followed a list of impressive prices of admission which made even Bond wince. Eleven – eleven o'clock tonight. He gazed wildly around him. A clock over a jeweller's shop showed it was five minutes past eleven already.

  Franco… the cat-walk… air rifle… death with a gelatine capsule… Now. M would have to wait. Bond took a deep breath and started to run, trying to recall from his previous visits the quickest way to the ancient Palace, and the easiest clandestine way into it. If he was right, the girl would die very soon. If he was right; and if he did not get there in time to prevent it.

  17 DEATH IN MANY FASHIONS

  THE PALAIS DES Rois DE MAJORQUE stands on the higher ground at the southern part of Perpignan, and is approached through narrow sloping streets. The original Palace was built on a vast knoll, in the eleventh century, and was later walled in with the citadel-which rises to a height of almost three hundred feet and is wide enough at the top to accommodate a two-lane highway. On the inside, the walls dip to what was once the moat, making the whole a near-impregnable fortress.

  Bond had visited the Palace several times before, and knew that the approach is made from the Street of the Archers, up flights of zig-zagging steps, which take the normal sightseer underground, to the main entrance, and then into the large cobbled courtyard. Above the entrance is the King's Gallery, while to the left are apartments closed to the casual visitor. On the right stands the great and impressive Throne Hall, while opposite the entrance runs a cloister with a gallery above it. Behind the cloister stands the lower Queen's Chapel, and above that, off the gallery, the magnificent Royal Chapel, with its series of lancet, equilateral and drop arches.

  Above the two chapels the keep climbs upwards to a small bell-tower. This is the extent of the Palace usually on view to the public. Bond knew, however, that there was a further courtyard behind the cloister, gallery, chapels and keep. This area was still used: the yard itself as a depot for military vehicles and the surrounding buildings as billets for some of the local garrison; the bulk of whom lived below the citadel, in the Caserne Maréchal Joffre.

  On his last visit to the area – some three years before on a skiing holiday in the nearby mountains, Bond had fallen in with a French army captain from the garrison. One night, after a particularly lively après ski session, the gallant captain had suggested drinks in his quarters, which lay within the second courtyard of the Palace. They had driven to Perpignan, and the Frenchman had shown Bond how easy it wa
s to penetrate the barracks by entering through a narrow alley off the Rue Waldeck-Rousseau, and from there follow the transport road which climbed steeply to the top of the citadel. It was not possible to enter the rear courtyard through the main transport gates, but you could squeeze through a tiny gap in the long terrace of living quarters forming the rear side of the courtyard. It was on that night Bond also learned of the archway through the rear courtyard, which leads straight into the main Palace area.

  So it was to the barracks, the Caserne Maréchal Joffre, that he was now running as if the plague was at his heels. He knew there was little chance of gaining admittance to the main courtyard by following the normal route. Concerts were held there, and he had few doubts that this was where the Roussillon fashion show was being staged- under bright illuminations, and with the audience seated in the cobbled yard-or occupying the windows in the old royal apartments, the King's Gallery, and the gallery in front of the Royal Chapel.

  It took nearly fifteen minutes for Bond to find the alley that led into the barracks, then another five before he could start the gruelling climb up the dusty, wide transport track.

  Bond forced himself on – heart pumping, lungs strained and thigh muscles aching from the effort required to move swiftly up the steep gradient.

  Above, he could see the burst of light from the main courtyard; while music and applause floated sporadically down on the still air. The fashion show was in full swing.

  At last he reached the rear of the buildings that formed the very far end of the second courtyard. It took a few minutes to find the gap and, as he searched Bond was conscious of the height at which he now stood above the town. Far away fireworks still lit up the night in great starbursts of colour, shooting comets of blue, gold and red against the clear sky. Squeezing through the gap, he hoped that the bulk of the garrison would be away, down in the town celebrating with the locals on this feast of feasts.

  At last Bond stood inside the dimly lit courtyard. Already his eyes were adjusted to the darkness, and he easily took in the simple layout. The large gateway was to his left, with a row of six heavy military trucks standing in line to its right. Facing the gates in single file and closed up, front to rear, were four armoured Creusot-Loire VAB, transports de troupes, as though in a readiness position. Few lights came from the barrack blocks which made up three sides of the yard. But Bond had few doubts that the transport de troupe crews would be in duty rooms near by.

  Keeping to the shadow of the walls, he moved quickly around two sides of the square, to bring himself close to the final dividing wall which backed on to the main palace. He found the archway, with its passage and, stepping into it, he was able to see up the wide tunnel, the darkness giving way to a picture of colour and activity.

  If his memory was correct, a small doorway lay to the right of the tunnel. This would take him up a short flight of steps and out on to the gallery in front of the Royal Chapel. He was amazed at the lack of security so far, and could only suppose that Murik had his men posted around the main courtyard or still in the town searching for him. Suddenly, from the shadows, stepped a gendarme, holding up a white-gloved hand and murmuring, 'Monsieur, c'est privé. Avez-vous un billet?'

  'Ah, le billet; oui.' Bond's hand went to his pocket, then swung upwards, catching the policeman neatly on the side of the jaw. The man reeled against the wall, a look of surprise in his already glazing eyes, before collapsing in a small heap.

  It took a further minute for Bond to remove the officer's pistol, throwing it into the darkness of the tunnel, then to find, and use, the handcuffs, and, finally, gag the man with his own tie. As he left, Bond patted the gendarme's head. 'Bon soir,' he whispered, 'Dormez bien.'

  Within seconds he found the doorway and the short flight of steps leading to the gallery. It was not until he reached the elegantly arched passage that the full realisation of his mission's urgency penetrated Bond's consciousness. So far, he had pushed himself on, thinking only of speed and access. Now the lethal nature of matters hit him hard. He was there to save a life and deal with the shadowy Franco – terrorist organiser and unscrupulous killer.

  The gallery was lined with people who had obviously paid well for the privilege of viewing the fashion show from this vantage point – even though it allowed standing room only. People stood at the high arched windows of the Throne Hall to his left and at those of the former royal apartments on the right of the courtyard. Across the yard, the King's Gallery was also crowded; and below, in the great yard itself, the show was in full swing. The main entrance, below the King's Gallery, led to a scaffold of carpeted steps, arranged to accommodate a small orchestra. A similarly carpeted cat-walk stretched out from directly below where Bond stood, probably starting at the edge of the cloister in front of the Queen's chapel. It ran the length of the courtyard, to end only a short distance from the orchestra, and was flanked by tiered scaffolding rising in wide steps on either side, to give the best paying customers a good close view – each step being arranged with those small gilt chairs so beloved by the organisers of major fashion shows the world over.

  Murik's organisation had certainly drawn a full house, all well-heeled and immaculately dressed. Bond caught sight of Murik himself on the first step to the left of the cat-walk, sitting, resplendent in a white dinner jacket and maroon bow tie. Next to him was Mary-Jane Mashkin, swathed in white silk, a necklace sparkling at her throat.

  The setting for the Roussillon show was undoubtedly magnificent: brilliantly lit by huge arc lights, and the ancient arches and cobbles glowed soft and warm in tones of grey and red, sandstone and terracotta. The place was almost tangibly steeped in the history of eight hundred years.

  The fashion show which Bond was now watching had an ambience that did not match others Bond had attended. It was a minute or so before he realised that the difference lay in the music. Looking closer, he saw that the musicians comprised a consort, a kind of chamber ensemble, using copies of early, probably fifteenth- or sixteenth-century instruments. James Bond knew little about old instruments, having been a devotee of popular music during his schooldays; yet, as he looked, the shapes and sounds began to take on names, slipping into his mind from long-forgotten lessons. He recognised instruments such as the lute, the viol, the cittern, an early flute, pipes and the tambour. The noise they produced was pleasing enough: simple, dance-like, romantic, with strong texture and melody.

  Bond did not have to look further than the cat-walk to understand the choice of music for this show. There were six models: three gorgeous black girls and a trio of equally delicious white ones, following each other on to and off the cat-walk with amazing speed and precision. As he looked down, Bond saw Lavender just prancing off as another girl reached the far end of the cat-walk, and yet another was stepping on, to take Lavender's place. The music was provided to match the dress designs. This year's Roussillon collection had undoubtedly been created to reflect medieval costume and patterns.

  The materials were silks, brocades, chiffons and cords: the designs ranging from long-waisted dresses, with wide drooping sleeves; to elaborate costumes incorporating trains and surcoats. There was also a monastic look, with heavy circular collars, wimples and cowls; and off-beat little suits, made up of tunic and tight hose, with long decorated pallia which fell to the ground from the neck, or trailed behind the wearer. The colours were dazzling, the varied cuts and shapes enchanting, as they flared, rustled and floated around the models. Bond reflected that these clothes were, like so many collections of haute couture, the stuff that dreams were made of, rather than the clothing of everyday life.

  Lavender reappeared, whirling to a slow dance, clad in a loose gold creation of multi-layered chiffon, with a short embroidered surcoat dropping ecclesiastically in front and behind. Bond had, to use a surge of will-power to drag himself from his reverie: before the sights and sounds below took control and plunged him into a kind of hypnotic trance. It must be well after eleven thirty by now. Somewhere, above or below him, Franco was
waiting with a pellet of death, which he intended to use before the fashion show had ended.

  Bond's eyes moved carefully over the crowds, up to the roofs, and any other possible vantage point for a marksman. There seemed to be no place for a man to hide. Unless… the answer came to him, and he glanced upwards, towards the gallery ceiling. Directly behind him lay the Royal Chapel. Above that, the keep rose, topped with the small bell-tower. Above the keep, he knew, there was a loft that had once served as the ringing chamber and store room. The ringing chamber had at least three unglazed windows, or openings. All these looked straight down into the courtyard.

  The door to the keep was set into the wall, to the right of the Royal Chapel door, not more than a dozen paces from where he stood. Behind that, a tight stone staircase coiled upwards to various landings in the keep; and finally to the ringing chamber itself.

  Bond whirled around, striding towards the Norman arched door, with its long iron hinge-plates and great ring latch. He tried the ring and it moved smoothly, soundless and well oiled. Gently he pulled the door open and stepped through. He was aware of a smell in the darkness – not mustiness, but the scent of oil mixed with an after-shave lotion, possibly Yves Saint Laurent. The stone spiral of stairs was narrow and slippery from hundreds of years' usage. Bond started to climb as quietly and quickly as he dared in the darkness. His thigh muscles felt weak now, after the exertions of the last half hour or so; but he plodded on silently, cheered by occasional shafts of light at the wider turns in the spiral and on the landings.

  Three times he stopped to control his breathing. The last thing he could afford was to reveal his presence by any noise. Even through the thick walls, the sounds from the courtyard floated upwards. If the ringing chamber was indeed Franco's hideout, the killer would have to be invested with an extra sense to detect him, unless Bond made some unnecessary sound.

  As he neared the top of the climb, Bond felt the sweat trickling from his hairline and down the insides of his arms. Slowly he took out the Browning and slipped off the safety catch.