'And, in the meantime, it's unguarded?'
M nodded. 'Now the requests, eh, Bond?'
Bond swallowed. 'Sir, can you hold my report for about forty-eight hours? Particularly the facts about the Aldan Aerospace Flying Club – the place we took off from en route for Perpignan.'
'Why?'
'Because I don't want Special Branch thumping around there. If Anton Murik's escaped by hiding in the Starlifter, I believe he'll be on his way back to that flying club now. He has a lot of contacts, and his helicopter's there.'
'Then we should have Special Branch waiting for him…'
'No, sir. There are legal documents hidden at the castle, and – as I've said – probably some mad money as a backup. Anton Murik will be heading for the castle. He'll know the time's come to destroy the evidence of Miss Peacock's claim to the title and estates of Murcaldy. I want him caught in the act, alive if possible.'
'Then we should send in Duggan's men with Special Branch.' 'Sir, he should be mine.' Bond's voice was like the cutting edge of a sabre.
'You're asking me to bend the rules, 007. That's Duggan's territory, and I've no right…' He trailed into silent thought. 'What exactly were you thinking of?'
'That the Chief-of-Staff comes with me, sir. That you give us forty-eight hours' freedom, and the use of a helicopter.'
'Helicopter?' 'To get us up there quickly. Oh yes, and just before we go in, I'd like some kind of overflight.' 'Overflight,' M came near to snouting. 'Overflight? Who do you think I am, 007? President of the United States? What do you mean, overflight?'
Bond tried to look sheepish. Bill Tanner was grinning. 'Well, sir, haven't we got a couple of old Chipmunks, fitted with infra-red, and the odd Gazelle helicopter? Aren't they under your command?'
M gave a heavy cough, as though clearing his throat.
'If the Chief-of-Staff and I went up in the helicopter, we'd need an overflight about five minutes before landing. Just to make certain the coast is clear, that Murik hasn't arrived first.'
M fiddled with his pipe.
'Just for safety, sir.'
'You sure you wouldn't like a squadron of fighter-bombers to strafe the place?' Bond grinned. 'I don't think that'll be necessary, sir.' There was an even longer pause before M spoke. 'On one condition, Bond – providing the Chief-of-Staff agrees to this foolhardiness.' He looked towards Bill Tanner, who nodded. 'You do not go armed. In all conscience I cannot, at this stage, allow you to move into Duggan's area of operations carrying arms.'
'You did say the Laird's collection of antique weapons had been left intact, sir?'
M nodded, with a sly smile. 'I know nothing about any of this, James. But good luck.' Then, sarcastically, he added,
'nothing else?'
'Well…' Bond looked away. 'I wonder if Sir Richard's people could be persuaded to let us have the keys to the castle for a while? P.D.Q., sir. Just so that I can recover clothes left there, or some such excuse.'
M sighed, made a grumbling noise, and reached for the telephone again.
It was almost four o'clock in the morning when the Gazelle helicopter carrying James Bond and Bill Tanner reached Glen Murcaldy.
Bond had already been through the landing pattern with the young pilot. He wanted to be put down on the track near to the point where the Saab had gone into the large ditch. Most of all, he was concerned that the Gazelle should be kept well out of sight, though he had armed himself with two sets of hand-held flares – a red and a green – to call up the chopper if there was trouble.
Exactly five minutes before reaching touchdown, they heard the code word 'Excelsior' through their headphones. The Chipmunk had overflown the glen and castle, giving them the all clear. There was no sign of any vehicle or other helicopter in the vicinity.
The rotor blades of the Gazelle had not stopped turning by the time Bond and Tanner were making their way through the gorse and bracken towards the grim mass of Murik Castle below. The early morning air was chill and clear, while the scents brought vivid memories back into Bond's head-of his first sight of the castle and of its deceptive interior, of the attempted escape, Murik's control room with its array of weapons, the East Guest Room and its luxurious decor, and the more unpleasant dankness of the twin torture chambers.
They carried no weapons, as instructed, though Bill Tanner had, rightly, managed to get hold of a pair of powerful torches. M had experienced difficulty with the keys, managing only to obtain those to the rear tradesmen's entrance, which, Duggan told him, was the only door left for access, the rest having been left with the electronic locks on.
It took over half an hour for the pair to get as far as the Great Lawn. Bond, silently making signals, took Tanner alongside the rear of the castle, the old keep rising above them like a dark brooding warning against the skyline. If Bond was right it would be from the helicopter pad behind the keep that Anton Murik would make his final visit to his castle; Warlock's Castle, as Bond now thought of it.
In spite of the place only having been empty for a short time, the air smelled musty and damp once they got inside the small tradesmen's door. Again, recent memories stirred. It was only a few days ago that Bond had been led through this very door and into MacKenzie's van, at the start of the long journey which had ended with a deadly rendezvous over the Mediterranean.
Now he had to find his way down to the Laird's control room and collection of weapons; for Bond was certainly not going to face Anton Murik without some kind of defence. For a while they blundered around by torchlight, until Bond finally led the way down to the long weapon-adorned room in the cellars. Even Bill Tanner gasped as they swung the torches around the walls replete with swords, thrusting weapons, pistols, muskets and rifles.
'Must be worth a fortune by itself,' whispered Tanner.
Bond nodded. They had, for some unaccountable reason, whispered throughout the journey down from the tradesmen's entrance, as though Murik and his henchmen might come upon them unawares at any moment. Outside dawn would just be breaking, streaking the sky. If Murik was going to make his dash for freedom he would either arrive soon, or they would still be waiting for him to come under the cover of nightfall. Bond was running his torch over the weapons when Tanner suddenly clutched at his arm. They stood, motionless, ears straining for a moment, then relaxed.
'Nothing,' said Tanner. Then, just as suddenly, he silenced Bond once more.
This time they could both hear the noise: from a long way off, up through the brick, stone and earth, the faint buzz of an engine.
'He's arrived.' Bond grabbed at the first thing he could lay hands on: a sporting crossbow, heavily decorated, but refurbished, with a thick taut cord bound securely to a metal bow, the well-oiled mechanism including a cranequin to pull back and latch the cord into place. Taking this and three sharp bolts which were arranged next to it, Bond motioned Tanner out of the room.
'Up to the hall,' he whispered. 'The light's not in his favour. He'll want to get hold of the stuff and be away fast. Pray God he'll take it all with him, and we can catch the bastard outside.'
There would be more chance in the open. Bond was sure of that. As they reached the hall, the noise of the descending helicopter became louder. It would be the little Bell Ranger, hovering and fluttering down behind the keep. Standing in the shadows, Bond strained his ears. If the pilot kept his engines running, 007 knew his theory would be right – that Murik planned to remain in the castle for only a short time, leaving quickly with whatever documents he had cached there. But if the engine was stopped, they would have to take him inside the building.
Somewhere towards the back of the house, there was the scratch and squeak of a door. Murik was entering the same way that Bond and the Chief-of-Staff had come, by the tradesmen's entrance. Thank heaven for Tanner, whose wisdom had cautioned the locking of the door behind them. There was a click and then the sound of footsteps moving surely, as a man will move in complete darkness when he knows his house with the deep intimacy of years. The steps were sh
ort and quick: unmistakable to Bond. Murik Warlock -was home again.
From far away outside came the gentle buzz of the Bell Ranger's engine, which meant the pilot was almost certainly waiting, seated in his cockpit. Bond signalled with the crossbow, and they set off silently in the direction of the door through which the Laird had returned. Outside it was almost fully light now, with only faint traces of cloud, pink from the reflected rising sun. The noise of the helicopter engine was loud, coming from behind the keep, to which Bond now pointed. Side by side, Tanner and Bond sought the edge of the old stone tower, black and bruised with age, to shelter behind one angled corner, from which they had a view of the castle's rear.
Bond bent to the task of turning the heavy cranequin, panting at each twist of the wheel, as the steel bow drew back and its thick cord finally clicked into place. Raising the weapon skywards for safety, Bond slid one of the bolts into place. He had no idea of its accuracy, though there was no doubt of it being a lethal weapon.
The seven or eight minutes' wait seemed like a couple of hours. Then, with surprising suddenness, they heard footsteps fast on the gravel. Bond stepped from the cover, lifting the crossbow to his shoulder. Anton Murik was running hard, to their right, heading for the far side of the keep. In the left hand he held a thick and bulky oilskin package, while in his right he clutched at something Bond could not quite see. Squinting down the primitive crossbow sights, Bond shouted, 'Far enough, Murik. It's over now.'
The Laird of Murcaldy hardly paused, seeming to turn slightly towards Bond's voice, his right hand rising. There was a sharp crack followed by a high-pitched screaming hiss. A long spurt of fire streaked from Murik's hand, leaving a comet trail behind it, passing so close between Bond and Tanner that they felt the heat from the projectile which hit the side of the keep with the thud of a sledgehammer. A whole block of the old stone cracked and splattered away, sending great shards flying. Tanner gave a little cry, clutching his cheek, where a section of sharp stone sliced through.
Bond knew immediately what Murik was using: a collector's item now, from the early 1950s, the M.B.A. Gyrojet Rocket pistol. This hand-held launcher fired high velocity mini-rockets, propelling payloads of heat-resistant steel like bright polished chrome. The 13mm. bullets, with their rocket propellant, were capable of penetrating thick steel plates. Bond had handled one, and recalled wondering what they would do to a man. He did not think twice about their efficiency. The Gyrojet pistol contained a magazine holding five rockets. He had a one-shot crossbow and no margin for error.
Bond did not hesitate. Before Murik – still running could hurl another rocket from his Gyrojet, he squeezed the trigger of the crossbow. The mechanism slammed forward, its power taking Bond by surprise. The solid noise of the mechanism drowned any hiss the bolt might have made through the air and was, in its turn, blotted out by Murik's cry as the heavy bolt speared the upper part of his chest.
Murik continued to run, as both Bond and Tanner started after him. Then he staggered and the Gyrojet pistol dropped on to the gravel. Swaying and weaving, Murik doggedly ran on, whimpering with pain, still clutching at the oilskin package. He had by now almost reached the rising ground behind the keep, above the helicopter pad.
Bond ran hard, pausing only to sweep up the Gyrojet, and check that there was a rocket in place. Grunting with pain and anguish, Anton Murik was gasping his way up the bank as Bond shouted to him for the second time. 'Stop. Stop, Anton. I don't want to kill you; but I'll fire if you don't stop now.'
Murik continued, as though he could hear nothing, and, as he reached the top of the mound, Bond and Tanner heard the noise of the helicopter engine rise as lift power was applied. The target was outlined against the now red morning sky: Murik teetering on top of the mound, ready to make a last dash down the other side to the Bell Ranger lying just out of sight.
Bond shouted 'Stop' once more. But for Murik there was no turning back. Carefully Bond levelled the Gyrojet pistol and squeezed the trigger. There was a crack from the primer, then he felt the butt push back into his hand as the rocket left the barrel, gathering speed with a shower of flame-a long trace of fire getting faster and faster until it struck Murik's back, with over a thousand foot-pounds of energy behind it.
Only then did Bond know what such a projectile did to a man. It was as though someone had taken a blowlamp to the rear of a cardboard cut-out target; for the centre of Murik's back disintegrated. For a second, Bond could have sworn that he was able to see right through the gaping hole in the man, as he was lifted from his feet, rising into the air before falling forwards out of sight.
Tanner was beside Bond, his face streaked scarlet with blood, as they paced each other up the bank. Below, the helicopter pilot was revving his motor for takeoff. One glance towards Bond and the levelled Gyrojet pistol changed his mind. The pilot shut down the engine and slowly climbed from the cockpit, placing his hands over his head.
Bond handed the weapon to Bill Tanner and descended towards the mangled remains of Anton Murik, lying just inside the pad. He hardly looked at the body. What he wanted lay a short way off- a heavy, thick oilskin package, which he picked up with care, tucking it under his arm before turning to walk slowly up the rise towards the old keep. There Bond stood for a good two minutes, taking a final long look at the castle. Warlock's Castle.
23 QUITE A LADY
JAMES BOND STOOD on the station platform, looking up into Lavender Peacock's bright eyes. It had been one of the best summers in a life which held memories of many long and eventful holiday months. Though he felt a tinge of sadness, Bond knew that all good things must end sometime. Now, the moment had come.
The oilskin packet, recovered at Murik's death, contained a whole folio of interesting items, many of which would take months to unravel. Most important of all was the irrefutable documentation concerning Murik's real parenthood and Lavender Peacock's claim to the estates and title. These also proved her real name to be Lavender Murik, Peacock being a name assumed, quite illegally, by her father before he returned to make the claim which had ended in death.
Bond had been allowed to extract these documents, and M saw to it that they were placed in the hands of the best possible solicitors in Scotland. He was optimistic that there would be a quick ruling on the matter. In a few months Lavender would gain her inheritance.
In the meantime, Bond had been given a long leave to recuperate; though Bill Tanner had stayed on duty, his cheek decorated with sticking plaster for over a month.
A few days after his return from Murcaldy, Bond had left with Lavender, by car, for the French Riviera. To begin with, things had gone according to plan. Thinking it would be a great treat, Bond had taken the girl to the best hotels; but she was unsettled, and did not like the fuss.
On one occasion, while staying at the Negresco in Nice, Lavender wakened Bond in the night, crying out and screaming in the clutches of a nightmare. Later she told him she had dreamed of them both trapped in the Starlifter, which was on fire. James Bond gently cradled her in his arms, soothed her as one comforts a child, and held her close until the sun came up. Then they sat and breakfasted on the balcony, watching the early strollers along the Promenade des Anglais and the white triangles of yacht sails against the Mediterranean.
After a few days of this, they decided on more simple pleasures – motoring into the mountains, staying in small villages far away from the crowded resorts; or at little-known seaside places, basking in the sun, lazing, eating, talking and loving.
Bond explained the new responsibilities that would soon be thrust upon her, and Lavender slowly became more serious and withdrawn. She was still fun to be with, but, as the weeks passed Bond noticed she was spending more time writing letters, making telephone calls, sending and receiving cables. Then one morning, out of the blue, she announced that they must return to England.
So it turned out that, a week after their return to London, Lavender visited a solicitor in Gray's Inn-acting for a firm in Edinburgh-to be told that the S
cottish courts had upheld her claim to the Murik estates and title. There was even an imposing document from the Lord Lyon King of Arms, stating that she had inherited the title Lady Murik of Murcaldy.
Two days later, Lavender visited Bond with the news that she had managed to obtain a place at one of the major agricultural colleges, where she was going to study estate management. In fact, she would be leaving on the sleeper that night, to tie up matters in Edinburgh.
'I want to get the place running properly again,' she told him. 'It needs a new broom and a blast of cold air blowing through it. I think that's what my father would have wanted – for me to give the estate, and the title, its good name again.
Bond, due back from leave the following day, would not have tried to stop her. She was right, and he felt proud of having had some part in what looked like a glowing future. He took her out to dinner, then drove to collect her things and get her to the station.
'You'll come and stay, James, won't you? When I've got it all going again, I mean.' She leaned down out of the train window, the last-minute bustle going on around them.
'You try and stop me,' he said with a smile. 'Just try. But you might have to hold my hand at night – to lay the ghosts.'
'The ghosts? Really? It'll be a pleasure, James.' Lady Murik leaned forward and kissed him hard on the mouth, just as the whistle blew and the train started to move. 'Goodbye, James. See you again soon. Goodbye, my dear James.'
'Yes, Dilly, you'll see me again soon.' He stepped back, raising a hand. Quite a Lady, thought James Bond, as the train snaked from the platform. Quite a Lady.
John Gardner
John Gardner is one of the world's premier thriller writers, and has published more than forty novels, many of which have been bestsellers. Among Gardner's works are sixteen books in the legendary James Bond series, including Win, Lose, or Die and Never Send Flowers; he has also written six books featuring Big Herbie Kruger, most recently Confessor and Maestro, which was a New York Times Book of the Year. A graduate of CambridgeUniversity who did his postgraduate work at Oxford, he has variously been a stage magician, an officer in the Royal Marines, a theatrical journalist, a lecturer in Shakespearean production and a priest in the Church of England.