Well, ifhe hit the damned thing it was too bad. Bond did not slow down. Again he reached for the Browning, pushed the barrel through the gun port, pointed upwards and fired twice. The helicopter was dangerously low, yet remained directly in front, still backing away. Then, without warning, it lifted and retreated fast. From directly in front ofthe Saab came a massive flash and boom -like a huge version of the SAS 'flash-bang' stun grenade. The Saab shook, and Bond felt the inertia reel harness clamp hold of him. Without it he would have been thrown across the car. He slammed a foot on to the brake as he felt, with the intuition of experience, that another grenade would follow the first. Certainly the helicopter was coming forward, and low, again. Bond prepared to haul the wheel over and put power on the moment he saw the chopper alter attitude.
It came just as he expected -the same manoeuvre, a dipping of the nose, a fast slide up and back. Bond swung the wheel to the right, changed into second, and allowed his foot gently to increase pressure on the accelerator.
The Saab changed course, going off the track to the right as the second large 'flash-bang' exploded. His mind was just starting to grapple with the strategy he would need to use against the chopper when the Saab began to lift its nose.
With the horrific clarity of a dream over which one has no power, Bond realised what had happened. He had been fool enough to do exactly as the helicopter had wanted. The little metal insect had probably been watching his progress – on radar, or by other means -almost from his moment of escape. The sudden appearance of the machine, dropping its large 'flash-bangs' in his path, was a lure. They had wanted him to go to the right, and at speed. Had not Mary-Jane Mashkin told him about the digging? A new drainage system? Had he not seen the evidence of it on his visit to this spot?
All this flashed through Bond's head as he applied the car's brakes too late. The nose ofthe Saab reared up, and he was aware of the Mashkin woman telling him the size and depth of the pit. The wheels clawed at empty air, then the Saab began to drop forward, tipping to one side, bouncing and bumping in a horrible crunching somersault.
In the final moments Bond was buffeted around in his harness, and something, possibly the Blackhawk, caught him on the side of the head. He felt the numbness, but neither fear nor pain as the red mist came in, with ink in its wake, carrying him floating off into its black impenetrable sea.
Out on the track, the lights of the B.M.W. could be seen in the distance as the helicopter slowly settled on the heather. 'Got him,' said Anton Murik with a smile. The pilot removed the Nitefinder goggles taken from Bond the previous night. 'They work well, these,' he said. 'Clear as sunlight up to over five hundred feet.'
14 HIGH FREQUENCY
THERE WAS A blinding white light. James Bond thought he could hear the noise and for a moment imagined that he was still in the Saab, rolling into the ditch.
'The bloody ditch,' Bond muttered. 'I told you it was dug for drainage, James. Fifteen feet deep and over twelve wide. They had to get you out with oxy-acetylene cutters.' Bond screwed up his eyes and looked at the woman now coming into focus. It was Mary-Jane Mashkin, standing above him. 'Nothing much wrong with you, James. Just a little bruising.'
He tried to get up, but the harness held him tightly. Bond smelled the dampness, and turning his head, he saw where he was: in Murik's white-tiled torture chamber.
They had him strapped down on the operating table, and Mary-Jane Mashkin stood beside him wearing a white coat. She smiled comfortably. Behind her, Bond made out the figures of two men; a couple of the Laird's heavies, their faces sculpted out of clay, and no expression in their eyes.
'Well,' Bond tried to sound bright. 'I don't feel too bad. If you say I'm okay, why don't you let me get up?'
Anton Murik's voice came soft, and close, in his ear. Ч think you have some explaining to do, Mr Bond. Don't you?'
Bond closed his eyes. 'It's getting so a man can't even go out for a night drive without people shooting at him.'
'Very witty.' Murik sounded anything but amused. 'You killed two of my men, Mr Bond. Making off in secret, with the knowledge you have about my current project, is not the way to keep me as a friend and protector. All previous contracts made with you are cancelled. More to the point, I would like to know your real profession; for whom you work; what your present aim in life happens to be. I may add that I know what your immediate future will be: death; because I am going to bring that about unless you tell us the absolute truth.'
Bond's head was almost clear now. He concentrated on what was happening, feeling some bruising on his body, and a dull ache up the right side of his head. Memory flooded back: the night ride, the helicopter and the trap. He also knew what was going to happen, realising he would require all possible reserves of physical and mental strength.
Start concentrating now, Bond thought. Aloud, he said, 'You know who I am. Bond, James, 259057, Major, retired.'
'So,' Murik purred, 'you accept work from me, and then try to blast yourself out of Murik Castle and the glen. It does not add up, Major Bond. If you are Major Bond-I have people working on that, but I think we'll probably get to the truth faster than they will.'
'Got windy,' Bond said, trying to sound tired and casual. In fact he was fully aware now, his mind getting sharper every minute, though he knew the stress of that drive would already have played havoc with him. The fatigue had to be just under the surface.
'Windy?' Murik sneered.
'Fear is not an unknown failing in men.' Concentrate, Bond thought; get your head into the right condition now. I got frightened. Just thought I would slip away until it was all over.'
Murik said he really thought they should have the truth.
There is so little time left.' Bond saw him nod towards Mary-Jane, who stepped forward, closer to the table.
I'm a trained psychiatrist,' Mary-Jane Mashkin drawled. 'And I have one or two other specialities.' Like being a nuclear physicist, Bond thought. Anton Murik's partner in nuclear crime. 'Proper little Jill-of-alltrades,' he muttered.
'Don't be frivolous, Bond. She can make it very unpleasant for you.' Murik leered at him. 'And you should know that we've been through your luggage. As a mercenary and retired army man, you carry very sophisticated devices with you. Interesting.' He again nodded towards Mary-Jane Mashkin, who rolled up Bond's sleeve. He tried to move against the restraining straps, but it was no good.
His mind began to panic, casting around for the right point of mental focus, trying to remember the rules for what one did in a situation like this. A thousand bats winged their way around his brain in confusion.
Bond felt the swab being dabbed on his arm, just below the bicep: damp, cool, the hint of its smell reaching his nostrils. The panic died, Bond conquering the immediate fear of what would come. Focus. Focus. Bond; James. 259057, Major, retired. Straight. Now what should he keep in the forefront of his consciousness? Nuclear power: Murik's own subject. Bond had only an elementary knowledge, but he concentrated on the reading M had made him do before going on this mission. Blot out M. See the book. Just the book with its drawings, diagrams and text. Bond, James. 259057, Major, retired. If they were to use the conventional truth drugs on him, Bond had to remain alert. There were desperate mental counter-measures to interrogation by drugs, and 007 had been through the whole unpleasant course at what they called the Sadist School near Camberley. 'A little Mozart, I think,' Murik's voice called, away from the table. Mary-Jane Mashkin moved, and Bond winced slightly as he felt the hypodermic needle slide into his arm. What would they use? In their situation what would he use? Soap – the Service name for Sodium Thiopental? No, they would risk a more toxic substance.
The book: just keep the pages turning. Lazy. The pages. probably a nice mix – Scopolamine with morphine: twilight sleep, like having a baby.
Bond felt his whole body slowly become independent of his mind. The book. See the pages. Far away an orchestra played. Violins, strings and woodwinds, a pleasant sound with a military rhythm to it; then a piano-
all far away.
Walking in the park on a summer Sunday, with the band playing. Lavender was there. Holding hands. Children laughing; the ducks and water fowl. People. Yet he felt alone, even in the crowd, with Lavender-with Dilly -as they floated over the grass near the Mall to the sound of music.
Bond heaved his mind back. Bond, James. What was the next bit? The band played on, and he could smell the expensive fragrance of Lavender's scent as she held his hand tightly. No. No. Bond, James. 259057. Major, retired. The book. Nuclear power plants derive their energy from the splitting-or fission-of the uranium isotope U-235.
The music had changed, more gently, like Dilly's touch on his hand. Drag your mind back, James. Back. Don't let go. Then Lavender was asking the questions. 'James, what do you really do for a living?'
'Bond, James. 259057. Major, retired.' He knew that he should not have trusted her.
'Oh, not that rubbish, James, darling. What do you really get up to?'
Fight, James. Fight it. Even from outside his body. The echo in his own ears was odd, the speech blurred as he said,
In a nuclear plant, steam is produced by the heat coming from the controlled chain reaction occurring inside the uranium fuel rods within the reactor core…' then he was laughing; and the band played on.
'You're talking scribble, James. Did your nanny say that when you were little? Talking scribble? You've got something to do with nuclear power, haven't you? Are you from the Atomic Research? The International Commission? Or the International Atomic Energy Agency in Vienna?'
Think, James, there's something very wrong here. Pull yourself up, you're dreaming and it's getting worse. Feel your body; get into your own mind. Be determined. Beat it. 'Nuclear power is a very expensive way to boil water.' That was what the book said; and there was a diagram next. Fight, James. Do everything they taught you at Camberley.
'Come on, who are you really?' asked Lavender.
'My name…' It wasn't Lavender. The other one was asking the questions. Yet he could smell Lavender's scent; but it was the American woman. What was her name? Mary-Jane? That was it, Mary-Jane Mashkin. Maybe Dilly was straight after all.
In a drowning pall of dark smoke, Bond shouted loudly, 'Bond, James. 259057. Major, retired. That what you want to know, Mary-Jane? 'Cause that's the truth.' He fought hard and stopped there, knowing to go on talking in this floating cloud of uncertainty, would lead him into babbling on like a brook. Brook. Babble. Book.
Another voice cut through, loudly. 'He's resisting. Increase the dosage.'
'You'll kill him. Try rewards.'
'Yes.'
Bond's body seemed to tilt forward. He was sliding down an invisible slope, gathering speed. Then something was pressed against his ears. Headphones. Music poured in on him. Beautiful liquid sounds that slowed up his descent, soothing him. Lord, he was tired. Sleep? Why not? The voice again – 'James Bond?'
'Yes.'
'What are your duties?'
'I am…' No, James, fight, you silly bugger. 'I am 259057… Major, retired…'
The soothing music was still there in his head, and the voice snapped back, 'I want the truth, not that rubbish. When you don't speak the truth, this will happen-'
Bond probably screamed aloud. The noise filled his head. The terrifying blinding noise, the screech and wail. NO… No… No… As suddenly as it started, the horrific, bursting blaze of sound stopped. It had been counterproductive, for Bond felt the nerve ends of his body again, and was quite clear for a few seconds about what was happening. If he gave them evasive answers they would pour the sound into his head again. The sound – high frequency white noise: waves of sound; waves on a nonuniform pattern. They brought pain, distress, and worse.
The soft music had returned, then the voice again. Murik. Anton Murik, Laird of Murcaldy. Bond had regained enough sense to know that.
'You were sent on a mission, weren't you, Bond?'
'I came here. You invited me.' His body started to slip away, the mind floating. 'You made sure I invited you. Who sent you here?' Slipping. Watch it, James. Air brakes; slow up; slow up.
The Saab's wheels clawing at the air and the crashing somersault… Then the agony, the screech of noise filling his head, bursting the brain, red in his eyes and the pain sweeping between his ears: great needles of noise against the screams – which he could not hear – and the faces of evil glaring out from the terrible high-pitched cacophony. His brain would burst; the soundwaves rising higher and higher. Then silence, with only the echoes of pain leaving his head the size of a giant balloon: throbbing.
'Who sent you here, and what were your instructions?'
Sharp. Orders, like the crack of a whip.
No, James. Control. Concentrate. Fight. The book. The page. Bond knew what he was saying, but could not hear it.
'A nuclear plant's reactor core is suspended inside a steel vessel with thick walls like a giant pod…'
The white noise came in – a flood that swept away his cranium; whining, clawing, scratching, screaming into his very soul. This time it seemed to go on in an endless series of red-hot piercing attacks, not falling or letting up, but rising, enveloping him, filling the brain with agony, bursting at his eardrums, inflating him with its evil. When it finally stopped, Bond was still screaming, on the very edge of madness, teetering on the precipice of sanity. 'Who sent you, Bond? What were you supposed to do?'
'The twelve-foot-long fuel rods are inside the core…' The madness covered him again, then stopped. Whatever drug they had used was now ineffective; for the ache in his great, oversized, head had taken pver, and all Bond knew was the terrible aftermath of the noise.
'Tell me!' commanded Anton Murik.
'Sod you, Murik,' Bond shouted.
'No.' He heard Mary-Jane shout, so loudly, close to his ear, that he winced – as though the whole of his hearing and the centre of his brain had been branded by the white noise.
'You'll get nothing now.'
'Then we'll take him along for the ride. Dispose of him after the girl.'
Bond found it hard to understand what Murik was saying. The words were there, clear enough, but his concentration was so bad that he seemed incapable of sorting out the meaning. Each word had to be weighed and understood, then the whole put together. 'Get Caber,' he heard. Then:'Quite extraordinary,' from the woman. 'His mental discipline is amazing. You'd normally expect a man to crack and blurt out everything. He's either for real-an adventurer of some kind who got frightened – or a very clever, tough professional.' 'I want him kept safe; and well away from the girl. Does she suspect anything?' Mary-Jane Mashkin was answering, 'I don't think so. Went a little white when I told her Mr Bond had met with an accident. I think the silly bitch imagines she's in love with him.' 'Love! What's love?' spat Murik. 'Get him out.' 'I'd like tae do it fur permanent.' It was Caber's voice, and they were Caber's tree-like arms that picked Bond from the table. Bond could smell the man close to him. Then the weakness came, suddenly, and he felt the world zoom away from him, as though down the wrong end of a telescope. After that the darkness.
The next time he opened his eyes, Bond seemed to be alone. He lay on a bed that was vaguely familiar, but as soon as he shut his lids, all consciousness withdrew itself from him again.
Some kind of noise woke him the next time, and it was impossible to know for how long he had slept. He heard his own voice, a croak, asking to be left alone, and, louder, 'Just let me rest for a minute and I'll be okay,' before he drifted off again. This time into a real dream – not the nightmare from the torture chamber-with music: the band playing light opera overtures and Lavender close to him among the trees of St James's Park, with a cloudless London sky above them. Then an inbound jet stormed its way overhead, lowering its gear on a final approach to Heathrow; and he woke, clear-headed, with the pain gone.
He was in the East Guest Room, but it had been changed greatly. Everything movable had been taken out – tables, chairs, standard lamps, even the fitments in the Sleep-centre
, on which he was lying, had gone. Bond's final wakening, he realised, had come because of another noise the clunk of the electronic locks coming off. Caber's bulk filled the doorway. 'The Laird's seen fit tae feed ye.' He moved back, allowing his henchman, Hamish, to enter, carrying a tray of cold meats and salads, together with a vacuum flask of what turned out to be coffee.
'Very good of him,' Bond smiled. 'Recovered, have we, Caber?' 'It'll be a gey long time afore ye recover, Bond.' 'Might I ask a couple of questions?' 'Ye may ask; whether I answer'll be up tae me.' 'Is it morning or evening?' 'Ye daftie, it's evening.' 'And what day?'