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.
Returning to his toning up, Bond ran through his usual morning press-ups, sit-ups and leg raising. Then he cleared space in the room and started that magic, dance-like series of elegant, deadly, movements which make up the first kata - or formal exercises – of Uechi's style of karate: the Sanchin which you see men and women performing in parks and gardens, during the early morning or evening, in the East. Bond's body moved in a smooth, prearranged pattern as he went twice through the routine. By the time he had completed the physical and mental exercises, Bond's body was soaked in perspiration. He stripped off, padded through to the bathroom and showered – first under scalding water, then with an ice-cold spray.
After a good rub down and shave, he changed into lightweight slacks with a matching beige shirt and cord anorak. He slipped his feet into comfortable Adidas sports shoes. Normally he would have preferred the soft moccasins, but, as a possible confrontation was imminent, Bond thought it best to choose reliable athletic shoes that would not slide or let him down.
He filled the gunmetal cigarette case – making a resolution that he would not smoke until after the test, whatever it might be -and put it in the jacket, together with his Dunhill lighter. The pen alarm was clipped into the inside of the jacket, while Q'ute's version of the Dunhill was deposited in his right-hand trouser pocket.
Quietly he left the room. Passing through the hall, Bond heard voices from the dining room. Breakfast was obviously in progress, but first he had to take a quick look at the Saab.
The car was locked. Perhaps they had not got around to running a full check on it. Certainly, once he was inside, he saw that nothing seemed to have been moved or touched. Slipping the keys into the ignition, Bond started the motor. It fired straight away, and he allowed it to idle for a few seconds. When he switched off, Bond found Donal standing on one side of the car, and the man he recognised from last night as Hamish on the other.
Removing the keys, he put on the wheel lock and activated a switch under the dashboard, then climbed out with a curt 'Yes?' to Donal.
'Breakfast is being served in the dining room, Mr Bond.' The butler's face showed no emotion, and Bond assumed the man had about as much sensitivity as a block of stone. He replied that he was just going in. Not looking at either of the men, Bond locked the driver's door and stalked into the house.
Lavender and Mary-Jane were both seated at the table when he entered the room, where a sideboard almost groaned with dishes reflecting the old-style expensive life lived by the Laird in his castle. Bond by-passed the eggs-fried and scrambled – bacon, kippers, kedgeree and other delights; choosing only two pieces of dry toast and a large cup of black coffee. Breakfast was his favourite meal, but on this occasion he knew it would be unwise to fill his stomach.
Both Mary-Jane and Lavender greeted him with seeming pleasure, and Bond had only just seated himself when Anton Murik came in, dressed, as befitted a Scottish laird, in kilt and tweed jacket, his pugnacious face all smiles. He also seemed pleased to see Bond, and the talk was easy, Lavender giving no sign of what had passed between them during the night. All three appeared to be excited about the Murcaldy Games, Murik himself particularly bouncy and full of good humour – 'It's my favourite day of the year, Mr Bond. Even tried to get back here for it whenever I was out of the country. Landowners and people like myself have a responsibility to tradition. Traditional values mean anything to you, Mr Bond?'
'Everything.' Bond looked straight into the lava of the eyes. 'I've served my country and abide by its traditions.'
'Even when it lets you down, Mr Bond? Or should I call you Major Bond?' Murik let out a small cackle of laughter.
So the Laird had swallowed the bait: followed up the one clue available – the Saab registration – and got the facts back, as M had arranged. Bond tried to look puzzled.
'We'll talk later, James Bond.' Again the laugh. 'If you're able to talk. I think your breath may be taken away by the Games. It's quite a show.'
'Quite a show,' echoed Mary-Jane, smiling. She had said little during breakfast, but appeared unable to take her eyes off Bond – an experience which he found disconcerting, for the look she gave him lay half-way between one of feminine interest, and that of a Roman empress sizing up a gladiator. There was no hint of the malice she had shown on leaving his room the previous night.
Bond remarked that things seemed to be starting outside. He was rewarded by Murik, who launched into a complete and lengthy programme of events that would take place throughout the day. 'Almost dawn to dusk. I must get going. After all, the Laird is the host. You will excuse me, I trust.' He turned at the door. 'Oh, Mr Bond, I would particularly like to see you at the wrestling. My man Caber is Champion of Glen Murcaldy-that's the equivalent to being the Laird's Champion around here – a singular honour. He takes challengers at noon sharp. Please be there.'
Bond had no time to answer, for the man was gone, almost with a hop, skip and jump. So that was it: a bout with the giant Caber. Bond turned to the ladies, trying to be gallant, asking them if he could be their escort. Lavender said yes, of course; but Mary-Jane gave her enigmatic smile, remarking that she would have to accompany the Laird. He would, she said, have to 'make do' with Lavender. Bond could not decide if the remark was meant to sound belittling, but Lavender hardly seemed to notice, rising and asking Bond if he would give her a few minutes to get ready.
'The child doesn't get much company.' Mary-Jane slid an arm through Bond's, in a surprisingly familiar manner.
'There aren't many of the right sort around here, and she's impressionable.'
'You make her sound very young and unsophisticated.'
Bond spoke quietly.
'In many ways she is. I've tried-for Anton's sake of course-but I fear unless a good and understanding man arrives in the area, she'll have to go to London or Paris. She needs a good course in sophistication.' She giggled, 'Perhaps if you please the Laird he'll present her to you as a prize.'
Bond gave her a cool, humourless, look.
'Oh come on, I was only joking.' She laughed again.
'Look,' said Bond, trying to change the subject, 'I wonder – do you have a library? I realised last night that I came without any reading matter.'
'Of course. I'll take you there before I go out to join the Laird. But what a pity, James, that you won't allow other things to occupy your nights. No hard feeling about last night, by the way.'
'None for my part,' said Bond, puzzled by her friendliness.
'Pity,' she giggled. Then her expression changed, and he glimpsed the face behind the mask. 'For my part there are a lot of feelings. I said you could avoid trouble, but you refused, James, and you'll be sorry. I have suggested a small test at the Games. Anton agrees. In fact he thought it amusing. You will be matched with Caber at the wrestling, and Caber has his blood up. Given his head, he'd kill you.' Another laugh. 'And just for giving him a bloody nose. How vain men are. But come, I'll show you the library. You may need it, and a lot of bed-rest, when Caber's finished with you.'
The library backed on to the drawing room, and was decorated in light colours. Three of the high walls were covered with books, and there were library steps on fitted rollers for each wall. The fourth wall contained three large, bay windows, each provided with a padded surrounding seat.
It took Bond a few moments to get his bearings and work out how the books were graded – moving the high steps along each wall until he found what he wanted. First, he quickly chose a book to cover his story – sna
tching one of his old favourites, Eric Ambler's The Mask of Dimitrios, from its place among the novels. Then he made for his real quarry: a thick, beautifully bound copy of Webster's Dictionary, which he dragged out and placed on a large lectern.
Thumbing the volume to the letter W, Bond ran his finger down the lines of words until he came to Warlock. Rapidly he scanned the entry. It gave the usual definition 1: 'One given to black magic: SORCERER, WIZARD. 2: CONJURER.' Then Bond's eyes slid up to the derivations, and his heart skipped a beat. 'Old English - wæloga one that breaks faith, scoundrel, the Devil.'
One that breaks faith? Bond wondered. Could that be it? Was Murik having his own unholy joke in choosing Warlock as his name for the direction of a terrorist operation he had planned? Was he, in turn, scheming to break faith with the international terrorists he had hired through Franco? A man so obsessed by his own brilliance as a nuclear physicist, and feeling snubbed and cheated of his triumph, might well be forced to such lengths.
He was replacing the heavy copy of Webster, when a sound made him whirl around, his hand moving naturally to the hip, where he would normally be carrying a pistol, in the field; realising a fraction of a second later that there was no weapon there.
Lavender stood just inside the library door, wearing a pink creation which gave her a cool, poised look. In one hand she carried a large matching hat. As Bond approached, he saw she was pale under the smoothly applied make-up.
She put her finger to her lips. 'James, he's putting you up against Caber in the wrestling.'
Bond grinned. 'I know, the Mashkin told me with great relish, Dilly.'
'It's not funny. He's asked me to take you out there. He wants us to mingle. Caber knows, and he's after you. The business last night: apparently some of the lads have been pulling his leg. Did you really nearly break his nose?'
'Gave it a butt in the right place. Made it bleed a bit.'
'He'll pound all hell out of you, James. I've seen him in action. He's a rough fighter – knows a lot of tricks. He's got the weight and tremendous strength as well. Making Caber look stupid with a nosebleed could drive him wild with anger.'
'Let me worry about Caber, Dilly darling.' Bond took hold of her hand and squeezed it. 'If you get no other message from me, can you come to my room tonight?'
'I can try.'
'With a way to let me through the main gates?'
'You're going to run?'
'Only if I've got the full story, and it's bad enough to take some definite action. I'll do my damnedest to have enough on your guardian and his crew to bring the law – or worse – into this place. If not, then we'll just have to do some more bundling.'
'You'll be lucky if you're not just a bundle yourself by the end of the morning.'
'I told you -just work out a way for me to get through the gates, and leave Caber to me. If not tonight, then tomorrow night will have to do. Okay?'
She replied with a worried nod; and he could feel her body trembling close to his as they went out through the hall and into the sunlight.
The band of a well-known Scottish regiment was playing on the Great Lawn and already the Games were in full swing. Bond thought the village of Murcaldy would be a ghost hamlet today; and certainly there were many people who had obviously made more lengthy journeys to the Murcaldy Games. Murik did not stint his guests on this occasion: there was free food and drink for all, and plenty of entertainment. Bond was cynical enough to wonder what price the local people had to pay in service – and silence to the Laird for this one day of blatantly feudal fun.
Groups of men and women in Highland costume were preparing to dance, while brawny young men were at the far end of the arena indulging in the incredible sports of tossing the caber and hammer throwing.
Several people doffed their bonnets or bowed to Lavender, showing great respect. Bond also noticed that they glanced at him with undisguised suspicion. Out of long habit and caution, he tried to pick out the more dangerous of the Laird's private army-the big young men with watchful eyes, quiet and careful, silent and alert as loyal mafiosi. Of one thing he was sure: there were a lot of them. For the next couple of hours he remained with Lavender, watching with interest the traditional sports and dancing.
Eventually a crowd started to gather around an area at the castle end of the arena, and Bond allowed himself to be led towards it by Lavender, who whispered that this was where her guardian wanted him.
Mats had been laid down, and he saw the little figure of Murik talking to a group of men on the far side, his mane of hair slightly ruffled, but a smile permanently set on the bulldog face. He spotted Bond and waved cheerfully before making his way towards the pair.
'Well, Mr Bond. My champion is almost ready to take on all comers. Do you feel like facing up to him?'
Bond smiled, pretending the Laird was joking. 'I mean it, Bond.' The trickling deadly lava was back, deep in the eyes. Т want to see what you're made of. If you do well, there may be much in it for you. Can I announce you as the first competitor?'
Now Bond laughed aloud. 'I hardly think I'm his weight, Laird. He'd lay me out with one finger.'
Anton Murik's face was set, grim as a tombstone. 'That's not the point, Bond. I want to see what stuff you're made of-if you've got the guts to go into a wrestling bout with someone as dangerous as Caber. It's not a question of beating him, but standing up to the man, even avoiding him. Guts, Mr Bond, that's what I'm looking for. Guts.'
Bond smiled once more, 'Oh, well,' he spoke casually, 'that puts a different complexion on it. Yes, Laird, I'll take a bout with your champion.'
He heard Lavender's sudden quick intake of breath as Murik gave a tough little grin: 'Good man. Good man,' and disappeared over the mats to the far side of the arena.
In a moment he was back, this time in the centre of the mats, holding up his arms for silence. A hush came over the crowd. The pipes and drums played on in the distance, but for a man of his size the Laird of Murcaldy had a strong, carrying voice. 'Friends,' he shouted. 'As you all know, it's time for the unquestioned Champion of Murcaldy – Champion of the Laird of Murcaldy – to offer himself to anyone who wishes to challenge his right. Give your hands to my Champion, Caber.'
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 w
as 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.