Gardner, John (12 page)

'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 all
you
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 has 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.

THERE WAS A LITTLE squeal as Lavender Peacock half fell into the room, and James Bond's arms. She quickly recovered, snatching at the door, but was too late to stop it closing behind her, with its ominous electronic click.

'Blast,' she said loudly, shaking out her long sheen of hair. 'Now I'm locked in with you.'

'I can think of worse fates,' Bond said, smiling, for Lavender was also dressed in her night clothes, making a distinctly more desirable picture than Mary-Jane Mashkin. 'Anyway,' he asked, 'haven't you got one of those neat little metal things that opens the door from inside?'

She leaned against the wall, pulling her wrap around her, one hand brushing back her hair. 'How do you know about those?' she started. Then: 'Oh Lord, has Mary-Jane been up here? I can smell her scent.'

'Miss Mashkin did play a scene of some ardour, but I fear she didn't go away contented.'

Lavender shook her head. 'She wouldn't expect that. I thought I might get here before they started to play tricks with you. Anton has a warped sense of humour. I've seen him put her on offer before now, just to test people. Have you got a cigarette?'

Bond took out his case and lit one for each of them. His mind had gone into a kind of overdrive. Quite suddenly he had recognised two of the things overheard in Murik's conversation with Franco, via the bug: two names that were familiar—Indian Point Unit Three and San Onofre Unit One. He was beginning to come to some conclusions.

Lavender inhaled deeply, then shook her head again. 'No, I haven't the privilege of being allowed to carry electronic keys. In this place I'm usually just as much a prisoner as yourself.' She gave a little smile. 'Don't doubt that you're a prisoner, Mr Bond.'

'James.'

'Okay; James.'

Bond gestured towards the bed, 'Make yourself comfortable now you're here, Lavender; and you might as well tell me why you
are
here.' He did not doubt that this might be yet another test.

She moved away from the wall, heading for one of the armchairs. 'I think I'd better sit over here. That bed's too much. Oh, and call me Dilly, would you? Not Lavender.'

'Dilly?'

'Silly old song-"Lavender blue, dilly-dilly"-but I prefer it to Lavender. You're honoured, incidentally. Only real friends call me Dilly. Nobody here would dream of it.'

Bond settled himself on the Sleepcentre, where he had a good view of his latest visitor. 'You still haven't told me why you're here, Dilly.'

She paused for a moment, taking another long pull at the cigarette. 'Well, I shouldn't be. Here, I mean. I suppose I'm taking a chance. Don't know if I should even trust you, James. But you've come out of the blue, and I've got to talk to someone.'

'Talk away.'

'There's something very strange going on. Mind you, that's not unusual for this place. My guardian is not like other men: but you know that already. I should ask you what you know about him, I suppose.'

Bond told her that he gathered Anton Murik was wealthy; that he was a nuclear physicist of some note; and had half promised him a job.

'I should be careful about the job.' She smiled-a knowing, somewhat foxy smile. 'Anton Murik hires people to do the dirty work. It's a terrible thing to say, but when he fires them, he does it in a literal sense,' she lifted her hand, holding the fingers as a child will play at using its hand as a gun. 'Bang!' she said.

Bond looked straight into her eyes. She was the kind of woman who had an immediate appeal for him. 'You sure you wouldn't be more comfortable over here?' There was a challenge in her eyes, and Bond thought he detected that familiar charge of static pass across the room between them.

'Probably
too
comfortable. No, James, I came to give you some advice. I said something strange is going on. It's more than that. It could even be something terrible, disastrous.'

'Yes? What sort of thing?'

'Don't ask what it is because I just don't know. All I can gather is that it has something to do with the Laird's plans for building a new kind of nuclear reactor. He left the International Atomic Research Commission because they wouldn't fund his idea. He calls it an Ultra-Safe Reactor. There's a mountain of money needed, and I think he plans to use you in some way. But first - apart from the danger of being involved with him - he's going to put you at risk. Tomorrow. I heard him talking to Mary-Jane.'

'Tomorrow? But he has his Games tomorrow.'

She stubbed her cigarette out in one of the large glass ashtrays. 'Quite. It probably has something to do with the Games. I really don't know.'