Gardner, John (15 page)

Caber emerged from the crowd, among which he had been sitting, hidden from public view.

Bond had only really caught a glimpse of the man on the previous night. Now he seemed even larger and more formidable-well over normal height, his chest roughly the size of a standard barrel, and the biceps standing out like miniature rugby footballs. Yet like many big men in peak condition, the Scot moved with a sure-footed, almost silent grace, nodding his large, but fine-looking head in answer to the appreciative applause of the crowd.

The Laird was motioning for silence. 'Friends, there is one who has come to take up the challenge,' he announced. Then, with a dramatic pause, 'One from over the border.'

A buzz went around the crowd. Even though he had not yet been singled out, Bond could sense the hostility. He felt in his right hand trouser pocket to be certain that what he needed was there. Then he quickly slipped out of his anorak, handing it to Lavender.

'Look after this please, Dilly,' he said, grinning.

'James, take care. Last night ... I wish we . . .' she whispered. Her sentence trailed off as the Laird called his name:

'From over the border. A Mr James Bond.'

Bond sprang on to the mats, holding up his hands against the now angry mutterings of the crowd. 'Not altogether from over the border,' he cried out. 'I'll grant my mother did not come from here, but neither was she a Sassenach; and my father had good blood in his veins - a true Highlander-and I take up the challenge, Caber.'

'Well done!' The Laird thrust his head forward in his birdish manner. 'Well done, James Bond.' Then, quietly to Bond, 'I didn't know you had Scottish blood. How splendid.'

Bond, well-built and tall as he was, felt like a pygmy next to Caber, who merely smiled at him with the confidence of one who knows he has never been bested. There was only one way to deal with the situation, and Bond knew it — keep away from those hands for as long as possible; stop Caber from getting a deadly lock on him: then move at just the right moment.

The two men squared up, and the Laird asked each one if he was ready. Bond nodded and Caber said, 'Aye, Laird, it'll no tak' long.'

'Then . . . Wrestle,' Murik shouted, ducking out of the way.

Caber came straight at Bond, who sidestepped, attempting a trip with his ankle as he did so; but the huge Caber was very quick. Before he knew what was happening, Bond felt the man's hands grasp his forearms and he was lifted into the air and unceremoniously thrown, hitting the mats square on his back, the wind knocked from his body.

Caber made a dive for him, but this time Bond fractionally beat him to it - rolling clear so that Caber was forced to handspring back to his feet. He rounded on Bond, coming in fast again. Bond weaved, but it was no good; Caber performed a quick cross-ankle pick-up, sending Bond sprawling again.

This time there was no rolling free, for Caber had one arm and a good deal of weight on Bond's right shoulder. At the same time, the giant of a man drew back his right arm. Bond saw the motion and in a split second realised that Caber was playing for keeps. The Scot's fist was balled ready to strike hard into Bond's face. It was time to use science in all its forms.

Bond's left arm was free, and he just managed to roll his head to one side as Caber's blow came hurtling towards him. The fist grazed his ear and thudded hard, and painfully, into the matting beside his head.

Caber was slightly off-balance, but still holding down Bond's right shoulder. Time to use the left arm; and use it on the area of greatest weakness in all men - even a wrestler as strong as Caber. An instructor had once pointed out to Bond that you do not have to hit hard on what he called 'the golden target' to be effective. The little nutbrown instructor's voice was ringing in Bond's ears as he brought the left hand up, fingers pointed in a sharp jab at Caber's groin. As he heard the big man grunt with pain, Bond remembered that the move used to be called the 'Ganges Groin Gouge'. It worked, particularly when followed up by another, slightly stronger attack at the same target.

Caber grunted again, and Bond felt his shoulder freed as the Scot fell forward, rolling as he did so. Bond backed away. Caber was rising quickly, the pain of those two blows showing in his eyes. It was the moment for Bond to be most alert. He had hurt Caber who, like a wounded animal, was now enraged. That he had been willing to maim and mutilate at the start of the bout was clear to Bond. Now the big man would kill if he had to.

Bond let his right hand drop to the level of his trouser pocket, and, as Caber came in for the attack, Bond launched himself forward in a leg dive, the movement covering his right hand, which slid quickly in and out of the pocket.

He hit Caber's legs, though it was like diving into a wall. The big man hardly wavered, but Bond now had Q'ute's special Dunhill firmly clasped in his hand. He twisted, trying to bring Caber down, but the man just laughed and kicked hard, throwing Bond aside, stretching his arms out and diving for Bond again.

This time Bond's right hand came up as though to ward off the certain pinioning by the giant. His right hand moved across the face of his target, and, as Caber's tree-trunk arms caught his shoulders, so Bond readied the Dunhill.

Q Branch's version of the Dunhill lighter was cunning and efficient. It contained no flint or electronic mechanism to spark a light. Neither was it filled with inflammable liquid, though its contents could be expelled, in four specially measured bursts, by activating the flip-top.

The Dunhill was loaded, under pressure, with a liquid containing a high base of the anaesthetic Halothane. One burst of Halothane near the mouth or nose should have the desired effect, for the drug-first produced in the early 1950s - is quick-acting, highly potent, and yet produces no nausea or irritation of the mucous membranes. In Q'ute's own words, 'They won't know what hit 'em — before, during or after.'

Bond's hand was in exactly the right place to deliver the primary burst, Caber's mouth and nose being less than two inches from the hidden Dunhill as he flicked the flip-top. As he moved his fingers, so Bond prepared to roll clear. He had seen the lighter demonstrated and did not particularly want to get a whiff of the Halothane himself.

Caber simply kept on coming, like an aircraft landing heavily with its undercarriage down but not locked. Bond was just able to glimpse the look of surprise, then the glazing of the big Scot's eyes as he collapsed — Bond rolling clear just in time. As he rolled he grabbed at Caber's now inert arm. To the crowd, the whole thing would look like a clever, or lucky, jab to the face, and Bond had to leave some kind of mark. Twisting Caber's arm he turned the man over, though it was like trying to move a ton of lead. Once Caber was on his back, Bond dived at the shoulders, and delivered two swift blows, using the cutting edge of his hand to the jaw. Caber did not move. Even his head remained rigid.

As he sprang back and away Bond returned Q'ute's useful little toy to his pocket. There were three more shots in that if he needed them.

A hush had come over the crowd. Then Murik, looking shaken, was by his side, and two men were leaning over the prostrate Caber. One of them - Malcolm this time - looked up at the Laird. 'Yon's oot cold, Laird. Oot cold.'

Murik swallowed hard, glancing uncertainly at Bond, who smiled pleasantly. 'Shouldn't you announce, or proclaim, or whatever you have to do?' he whispered. 'I think I'm your new Champion.'

There was a pause lasting only a few seconds. Then the Laird of Murcaldy gave a watery smirk, took a deep breath, and announced, 'Ladies. Gentlemen. Friends. People of Murcaldy. You've seen the result of this match. We have a new Champion - I have a new Champion - and you'll treat him with the respect and honour always afforded to the Champions of Murcaldy. I give you, Champion of Murcaldy, Champion of the Laird of Murcaldy—Mr James Bond.'

There was an uncertain silence, then the cheers began, and Bond was lifted shoulder-high to be carried around the Great Lawn with drums beating and the pipes skirling the strains of 'Highland Laddie'.

David and Goliath, Bond thought, knowing that it would be a good idea to keep out of Caber's way once the former Champion had regained consciousness. He had successfully played David to Caber's Goliath, and Q'ute had provided him with the ultimate in the slingshot syndrome.

Through the crowd he saw Lavender Peacock looking at him with warm admiration in her eyes. Well, if he worked on Murik with speed, Bond might even have all the information he needed, to get away before the next morning. Then, once M was alerted, there could even be time to get to know Dilly Peacock really well.

THOUGH ANTON MURIK had presented the major trophies for the Murcaldy Games, people seemed reluctant to leave. On the Great Lawn, groups still performed reels and strathspeys, while those who had not been good enough to enter the major competitions were now availing themselves of the equipment, and space, to practise or emulate their superiors in the arts.

The marquees and tents remained thronged; there would be many a sore head or upset stomach in the glen by the following morning. It was now just past six in the evening, and after an enthusiastic speech amidst much applause and cheers, the Laird had set off in the direction of the castle, motioning Bond to follow him.

Lavender was left with Mary-Jane Mashkin, who, Bond noted, was never short of young and well-built male company-a fact that seemed not to upset the Laird. The previous night's experiences still puzzled Bond, who had begun to wonder how genuine the two women were. It could be a case of playing the hard and soft roles, as in a classic interrogation. Yet of the two, he would rather have Lavender on his side.

Murik led Bond through the hall, past the main staircase, pushing open a set of swing doors that led to a corridor, blocked at the far end by the great dividing line between old-style servants and their masters - the green baize door.

The Laird stopped half-way down the corridor, bringing out the ever-present keys - this time from his sporran - to unlock a solid oak door strengthened with steel grilles.

Bond followed him down a wide flight of stone stairs. Tiny guide lights gleamed, throwing vague shadows in the darkness. Half-way down, Murik turned towards him. With his mane of white hair, against the face in darkness, the visage took on the appearance of a negative. When he spoke the Laird's voice echoed eerily. 'You've already seen my inner sanctum. We're going to the most interesting part of the castle this time. The oldest remaining relic of my heritage. Now you are my Champion, Mr Bond, you should know of it.' The air smelled dank, and the stone stairs seemed endless, descending deeper and deeper underground until they came out into a flagged open space. Murik reached out to a switch hidden in the wall and the place was suddenly flooded with light. Huge arches supported the vaulted ceiling, which Bond thought must be as old as the original castle. There were two more doors, one on each side of the flagged space, while ahead of them another narrower passage continued. Murik nodded, 'That way leads to the old dungeons.' His jowl moved in a twitching smile. 'They are occasionally useful. To our right, a room which I do not like using. The old torture chamber.' He pushed open the door and Bond followed him in. At one end of the room Bond identified a rack, bolts and chains set into the walls, a flogging frame, brazier, and all the old and sinister instruments — from whips and branding irons to pincers and gouges. Murik pointed out other devices: 'You see, Mr Bond, all the old Scottish pleasures-the thumbikins and pilniewinks, and, of course, the boots. Very nasty things, the boots. Having your feet gradually crushed with wedges is not the way to ward off fallen arches.' 'Nor deal with your corns.' Bond shuddered in spite of the light-heartedness. In his time, he had suffered much physical torture, and its instruments were not unknown to him. Yet when he looked towards the far end of the room his blood ran cold. The walls there were tiled in white, and in the centre was an operating table. Cabinets along the far wall were of modern design, and Bond guessed they would contain more terrifying instruments than the brutal weapons of pain - hypodermics and drugs to send the mind reeling to the very edge of madness, and possibly even the means of inflicting agony through electrodes attached to the most sensitive areas of a man or woman. A man, well-trained, might withstand the exquisite pain that could be inflicted by the crude implements of torture; but few would keep truth or secrets for long in the more sophisticated part of this, Murik Castle's chamber of horrors.

'Very occasionally this room is put to use, Mr Bond. Have care. All who serve me are given a guided tour. It usually does the trick, as a salutary warning. You defeated the good Caber, so you automatically serve me. Let your glimpse of this place act as a warning. I demand complete loyalty.'

Murik led the way out and across the flagged area to the door facing that of the torture chamber. He turned, smiling before he opened the door. 'My operations' room.'

The contrast was staggering. They were in a long, low, vaulted chamber. Its grey walls were covered with weapons: ranging, at the end nearest the door, from artistic and obviously valuable broadswords, rapiers, dirks and knives, through magnificently engraved crossbows decorated with inset stones, to wheel-lock, snaphance and flintlock pistols and muskets; and finally, on the far wall, there were modern rifles, carbines, pistols and automatic weapons.

'The most valuable part of your collection?' Bond recalled that Murik had already told him the best pieces were elsewhere in the castle.

Murik smiled, and Bond could not resist one gibe. 'No thermonuclear devices to bring it right up to date?'

The Laird's face darkened, then cleared into a seraphic smile. 'We have no need. The world provides them. They are all around us, sitting there ready and waiting to wreak disaster at the right moment.' Murik reached up, touching a large broadsword, 'A
claidheamh mor,'
he said. 'A two-handed sword that once belonged to an ancestor of mine.' Bond nodded. He was certainly impressed, but his gaze had moved beyond this unique collection of weapons to the far end of the vault which, indeed, looked like some kind of operations' room, with its long console desk, computer monitors, radio equipment and a large transparent map of the world covered in chinagraph markings. Murik motioned him to the console table, gesturing to one of the comfortable leather swivel chairs behind it. He took the other chair himself and gave a throaty laugh. 'From here, Mr Bond, I control the destiny of the world.' Bond, uncertain whether Murik was joking or not, laughed with him. There was an uneasy silence for a moment, giving Bond the opportunity to glance up at the map. Quickly he took in the fact that Indian Point Unit Three and San Onofre Unit One were both plainly marked on the American map. As he turned his gaze back to Anton Murik he knew that another couple of glances would probably give him the names of the targets in Europe. At the moment, however, it took all his will-power to drag his eyes back to the Laird. Don't seem too eager, he told himself, willing relaxation-even disinterest-into his brain. 'You know who I am?' Anton Murik was asking, and Bond replied that he was Dr Anton Murik, Laird of Murcaldy. Murik laughed. There was far more to him than that. 'I am probably the greatest nuclear physicist who has ever lived,' he said in an alarmingly matter-of-fact way. Nothing like modesty, Bond thought. Aloud he tried to say 'Really?' with a convincing gasp. 'Let me tell you . . .' Murik launched into his own version of his brilliant career. Most of what he said corresponded with what Bond already knew, deviating only when the Laird started to talk about his final disagreements with the International Commission. In Murik's version, he had resigned out of protest. 'Those who fight for the abolition of nuclear power stations in their present form are right,' he said in a voice that had slowly been rising in agitation. 'Note, Mr Bond, I say in
their present form.
They are unsafe. Governments are keeping the truth concerning their potential dangers from the general public. Government agencies have tried, again and again, to muzzle people like me. Now they deserve a lesson. They say that the only way out of the energy crisis is to use nuclear power. They are right: but that power must be made safe. How is electricity made, Mr Bond?'