Gardner, John (13 page)

'I might get hurt then. It wouldn't be the first time.'

'No, but . . . Another cigarette?'

'Smoking damages your health, Dilly. It says so on the packets.' 'It's not just smoking that can damage you here, James. Give.'

He went over to her, lit her cigarette, then bent down and kissed her lightly on the forehead. She drew back fractionally, putting a hand up to his shoulder. 'That wasn't what I came for, James.'

'No?'

Firmly she moved her head. 'No. People've already got into a lot of trouble because of me. I just came as a kind of Cassandra, uttering warnings.'

'Just uttering warnings? I wonder, Dilly. You said you were taking a risk to trust me; that you were virtually a prisoner like me. I wonder if you came hoping that I'd get you away; that I'd take fright and run, carrying you off on the pommel of my saddle.'

'That's not on, I'm afraid. But I think you should get out, and I'm willing to help you.' 'So that I can ride back with the Fifth Cavalry and save you?'

'Maybe I'm beyond salvation.'

Bond squeezed her shoulder and went back to the bed. For a time they were silent. Did she, he asked himself, have any inkling of what was really going on? Already his mind had latched hard on to the locations of Indian Point Unit Three and San Onofre Unit One. He knew exactly what they were, and the possibilities of Murik's involvement with them carried things into a nightmare world.

He returned to Lavender's last words, 'Why beyond salvation, Dilly?'

'Because I am who I am - the Laird's ward, a distant relative, trapped in the outmoded traditions of this place, and by my guardian's intrigues.'

'Yet you're willing to get me out?'

'I think you should. Not just you, James. I'd probably say it to any stranger who came here and took the Laird's fancy.'

'I can't go yet, Dilly. You've whetted my appetite about what's going on here. If I find that it's something really dangerous, or even criminal, then I'll take you up on your offer. I'll let you give me a hand. If it comes to that, will you ride off for help with me?'

Once more she slowly shook her head. 'I was brought up here. It's all I know. Prisoner or not, there are certain responsibilities . . .' Bond showed surprise. 'Brought up here? I thought you had only been his ward . . .' he stopped, realising he had already given away too much. 'Legally only for a short time. But I've lived here—well— for ever.' 'And you don't like it, and yet don't want to leave?' She said that if she ran away now and something went wrong, things could be very bad for her. 'At least you can get out now, while the going's good.'

Bond said that was the last thing he wanted to do. Privately he also knew that it might be the only thing he
could
do. Triggering off the pen alarm from the castle roof—if he discovered the full extent of Murik's plans-might put a spoke into the Laird's wheel; but spokes can easily be mended. No, he told Lavender, if he discovered something really criminal going on, then he would get out and bring help. He added that he would be happier if she came as well, but she gave a stubborn shake of her head. Bond found it difficult to believe that a girl of her spirit would allow herself to remain in these circumstances. She really was a virgin on the rocks; or a damned good actress.

'Well, for your sake, I hope you find out something quickly.' Lavender rose, went over to the door, realised there was no way out, and turned to walk back to her chair. 'It'll break this week, I'm pretty certain. We're off to do a fashion show and if he is up to something, that could be perfect cover for him.'

Bond tried to sound surprised at the mention of the fashion show, and Lavender explained what he already knew, that Anton Murik owned the controlling interest in one of the world's leading fashion houses. 'Roussillon. I am lent out to them for major shows. A clothes' horse with legs, that's me, James; but I can tell you, those shows are the high spots of my year.'

'You slip the leash, eh?' She almost blushed, and Bond slid from the bed, walked over to her chair, sat on the arm and put a hand across her shoulders, drawing her close. She looked up at him, her eyes cold.

'James. No. I only cause trouble.'

'What kind of trouble?'

'The kind I wouldn't want to bring on you.' She hesitated, indecisive for a moment. 'Okay. The first time was years ago. A boy. Worked here on the estate. I was about sixteen or seventeen. Mary-Jane Mashkin caught us and sent for Anton. The boy-David-disappeared, and his family were moved. I'm pretty certain Anton had him killed.'

'And, if I touched you? What would he do to me?'

'You'd end up the same way. David was just the first.

After I began to model for Roussillon there was a guy in Paris. I didn't know anyone had discovered, but he was found in an alley with his throat cut. Yes, I think he would kill you, James. He was once forced to buy someone off, but that was in Rome —one of the modelling jaunts again.

The man was from a wealthy Italian family. One day things were fine, the next I had a letter saying he had to go away and wouldn't be seeing me any more. A year later I heard my guardian talking to Mary-Jane. He said it had cost almost a quarter of a million dollars, but it was money well spent.'

Bond bent down and kissed her on the lips. 'I'm willing to chance it, Dilly. You're . . .'

She pulled away again. 'I mean it, James.' Then she smiled, putting a hand up to his cheek. 'Not that I ...

Well, perhaps I'm being selfish. If something sinister really
is
going on here, you're my one hope —if they don't do for you at the Games tomorrow. I'll get you out, and you can bring in the stormtroopers: rescue the damsel in distress.'

'Some damsel,' Bond laughed. 'How do you get out of this room, then? Or are we forced to spend the night together in separate corners?'

Lavender said she would have to stay now —until early morning, at least, when Bond could ring down and get the locks taken off. 'You can say you want to go for a walk or something, when it's light. They'll let you do that because they can keep an eye on you then.' She giggled: 'We could bundle.'

'Aye, we could do that an' all,' Bond laughed, thinking of the old custom of courtship by sharing a bed, fully dressed, with a bolster to separate the couple.

'I'm for that. I'm bloody tired as well.' Lavender stood up. 'I hope there's a spare bolster in that mobile gin-palace the Laird's provided you with.'

They made do with pillows, and Bond found it a frustrating experience, being so near and yet so far from this delightful girl. When they were settled, she asked if he really would go for help if anything came to light.

'I'd be happier if you came as well. But I understand your wanting to stay. In the long run you'll be safer. But, yes, if there is something that means taking urgent action, I'll get the hell out as quickly as possible —with your help - and be back to bring your precious guardian to book.' Then, trying to make it sound like an afterthought, Bond asked if he was the only stranger in the castle.

She did not hesitate. 'There's someone else here, but he's become a regular visitor. Anton calls him Franco, and we're all under instructions not to talk about him. When you turned up he was pushed out of sight; but I think he's due to leave early in the morning.'

'You think he's got something to do with what's going on?'

'I'm certain of it. He spends a lot of time closeted with Anton when he's here.'

'How does he come and go?'

'In the helicopter. My guardian has a helicopter pad tucked away behind the old part of the castle.' 'Thank you, Dilly. You just hang on and we'll sort it out; and thanks for the warning,' he reached over the pillows and squeezed her hand.

'If we get out of here, James . . .'

'Yes?'

'Oh, nothing. There might be no need to get out at all. Sleep, eh?'

For a few moments Bond's mind was in a turmoil of anger, the eye of his personal hurricane centred on Anton Murik: cheat, fraud; a man willing, and ruthless enough, either to kill or buy off his ward's lovers. He was like some Victorian millionaire martinet. Slowly Bond pushed down the anger. It was no good becoming emotionally outraged. Coolness would be the only way to deal with Murik, and he would have to establish himself quickly to gain the man's trust and get him to fill in some of the details of Meltdown. Then he must get word out fast to M —who would have his own problems explaining the source of his information to M.I.5 and the Special Branch.

With this in mind, Bond set his own mental alarm, which seldom failed to work, and drifted into restful sleep, waking accurately at five in the morning, just before dawn.

He roused Lavender and asked about the electronic locks. She told him the door locks on rooms in the castle were made up of three cylindrical bolts, activated by an electro-magnet. When the locks went on, the bolts slid into tightly fitting housings. At the end of each housing the bolt completed an electric circuit, activating an 'on' light in the castle's switchboard room.

Would they notice the light flickering? Probably not,

Lavender said. They had experienced cases of momentary malfunction: lights going out completely, then coming on again within a few seconds. She had only intended to stay for a minute of whispered warning on the previous night.

'And there's no way in which you can get hold of one of the inside keys —the oblong strips?'

She told him that was impossible. The castle gates were another matter; but the electronic keys were held only by certain people, and there was never any chance with them. Bond nodded. He now had to turn his mind to gaining Murik's confidence.

He went into the bathroom and changed into slacks and a sweatshirt, then dialled the castle switchboard to tell his story about the door being jammed. A detached voice asked why he wanted to leave his room, and he said it was his habit to exercise each morning. The voice told him to wait for a moment.

Within a minute they heard the locks fall back. Bond tried the door, and it opened easily. He kissed Lavender on the cheek, and to his surprise she reached up and kissed him quickly but firmly on the mouth. Then she was gone.

Within a few minutes he had checked the room to make certain nothing incriminating was left lying around. With a final cautious look, he left.

The first hint of dawn was touching the sides of the glen as James Bond went along the corridor, down the stairs and out into the castle grounds. As he emerged, the sound of a helicopter came throbbing in from the west. He waited until the machine — a small Bell JetRanger — came up the glen, turned, hovered, and slowly dropped out of sight behind what had once been the keep of the old castle.

Hunching his shoulders, Bond began to jog around the house, heading for the wide lawns where, only last night, he thought he had glimpsed a marquee set up for the day's Games. He wanted to give his body the best possible work-out. He knew all his reserves of stamina would be needed that day.

LATER BOND WAS to learn that the four acres of beautifully kept grass which ran down the far side of Murik Castle bordered with shrubs, gravel paths and topiary work - had been known as the Great Lawn for at least two centuries.

Even at this early hour the estate workmen were out and about, putting the finishing touches to two large marquees, a number of small tents and an oblong arena the size of a small landing strip.

As he jogged past, Bond reflected it would be somewhere in this arena that he would probably face whatever test Anton Murik had devised for him. He used the jogging as an opportunity first to get the lie of the land, and second to settle his mind and concentrate on the numerous problems he had to resolve.

It was obvious, from what he had overheard of the conversation between Murik and Franco the previous night, that they planned at least five terrorist attacks, in Europe and the United States. The two in America, he knew from the names, were connected with nuclear power stations. Logically, the ones in Europe would be similar targets. He also knew that the codename was Meltdown. If his suspicions were correct, Meltdown could mean only one terrifying thing. What intrigued Bond even more was the codename Anton Murik appeared to have adopted for himself-Warlock.

Jogging around the castle, Bond slowly made up his mind. In spite of what he had said to Lavender, there were two clear choices. Either he could get out now and alert M with the information already in his possession, or stay, face the test and glean the full details of the plot. If he could make a good showing, it was possible that Murik would put more trust in him; maybe even reveal everything. That this final course of action was dangerous, Bond did not doubt; yet it was the path he had to take.

Again he thought about Murik's conversation with Franco the night before. Meltdown, the Laird had said, would begin at twelve noon British Summer Time on Thursday. That would be noon in England, one in the afternoon in France and Germany, seven in the morning at the place they called Indian Point Unit Three, and four in the morning at San Onofre Unit One. The operation was to be held strictly to twenty-four hours, and it involved the blackmailing of governments. For the time being he put the other problem, the contract killing by Franco, to one side. In time all things would be made clear.

After eleven circuits Bond returned to his room in the castle. Things now appeared to be stirring throughout the building. The morning noises of a house coming alive.

Bond could smell his own sweat from the harsh exercise, but as he opened the door to his room, his nostrils caught another scent. Somebody else had been there during his absence.

Quickly he checked the cases. They were out of alignment, but the locks showed no sign of having been forced or tampered with in any way. Murik was checking him out-on the spot as well as through his own, possibly dubious, outside sources. Bond made a mental note to look at the Saab at the earliest opportunity - not that anyone would easily be able to penetrate its secrets. The car certainly looked all right as he had jogged past it, parked between Murik's gleaming Rolls and a wicked black B.M.W. Ml, which was probably Mary-Jane Mashkin's speed.