Licence Renewed

12 A CONTRACT, MR BOND

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?'

'By turning a generator.' 'Quite; and the generator is operated usually by a turbine, in turn operated how, Mr Bond?' 'Water, in hydro-electric plants; boiling water producing steam in other types of plant.'

'Good; and the steam is produced through boiling the water, using coal, oil, gas – or the core of a nuclear reactor.' He gave another little laugh. 'An expensive way to boil water, don't you think? Using nuclear power?'

'I hadn't thought of it like that. It's always struck me as being one of the few sure ways to produce energy and power without using dwindling supplies of oil and fossil fuels.'

Murik nodded, 'In many ways I agree. I do not go along with Professor Lovins when he says that using nuclear power to boil water is like using a chainsaw to cut butter though he does have something on his side: wasted heat. No, the problem, Mr Bond, is one of safety and control. Nuclear reactors, as they now stand throughout the world, put our planet and its people at risk… '

'You mean the problem of radioactive waste?'

'No. I'm talking about unavoidable accident. There have already been incidents galore. If you're an intelligent man you must know that: 1952, Chalk River, Ontario;

!955, Idaho Falls; 1957, Windscale, England; '58, Chalk River, Canada; '61, Idaho Falls; 1970, Illinois; '71, Minnesota; '75, Alabama; '76, Vermont. Need I go on? Or should I mention the Kyshtym catastrophe in the U.S.S.R. when an atomic waste dump exploded in the Urals? Spillage, partial fuel meltdown. One day, with the kind of reactors we have at the moment, there will be catastrophe. Yet governments remain silent. The Carter Administration almost admitted it…' He rummaged among some papers. There. 1977 – "Between now and the year 2000 there will be a serious core meltdown of a nuclear reactor; but with proper siting such accidents can be contained". Contained? Proper siting? Do you realise what a core meltdown means,

Mr Bond?' 'Is that something to do with what they call the China Syndrome? I saw a movie with Jane Fonda…' Bond continued to play innocent. Anton Murik nodded. 'A nuclear reactor produces its enormous heat from a core – a controlled chain reaction, and as long as it's controlled all is well. However, if there is a failure in the cooling system – a ruptured pipe, a shattered vessel, the coolant lost – that's it. The core is just left to generate more and more heat; create more and more radioactivity…' 'Until it goes off like a bomb?' Despite Anton Murik's fanaticism, Bond found himself absorbed in what the man was saying. Murik shook his head. 'No, not quite like the big bang, but the results are fairly spectacular. One of the great American-born poets wrote, "This is the way the world ends; not with a bang but a whimper." The whimper would be a kind of tremor, a rumble, with the earth moving, and one hell of a lot of radioactive particles being released. The core itself would become so hot that nothing could stop it, right through the earth – rock, earth, metal – nothing could stand in its way. Right through to China, Mr Bond; the Pekin Express – and that could happen in any one of the nuclear reactors operating in the world today. The trouble is that I could make it safe for them.' He gave a long slow smile, then a shrug. 'But, of course, as usual, the money men won't play. My system is foolproof, but they won't allow me to build it, or show them how.' He paused again, looking hard at Bond, 'Can you blame me, Mr Bond? I'm going to demonstrate how unsafe the present systems are and at the same time show them just how safe they could be.'

Bond shook his head. 'No, I wouldn't blame you for doing that if your system is as safe as you say.' For a second he thought the Laird of Murcaldy was going to lash out at him.

'What do you mean?' Murik screamed. 'What do you know, Bond? If my system is safe? If my system is as safe as I say? I'm telling you, I have the only positively one hundred per cent safe nuclear reactor system; and because of grasping economists, because of contracts and profits, because of self-seeking politicians, they've tried to make a laughing stock of me.' He seemed to relax, drawing back into his chair.

During the long speeches about nuclear reactors, Bond had managed to steal two more glances at the large map.

The American targets were ringed in red chinagraph. Now he had managed to identify the English and French locations. Heysham One and Saint-Laurent-des-Eaux Two.

What was this man going to do? Was his brilliance so unhinged that he was prepared to expose governments or organisations he hated by sending suicide terrorists into nuclear reactor sites to manufacture disaster that might affect the entire world? Would his madness carry him that far? Meltdown -of course.

Murik was speaking again. 'I have prepared a master plan that will do both of the things I require.' He gestured towards the map, giving Bond the opportunity to take another look, his eyes moving unerringly to Germany.

There it was, marked in red like the others.

Bond experienced a sinking deep in his stomach when he realised that there were two targets marked in the German area, one in the Federal Republic, the other in the East-in the DDR. So, even the Eastern Bloc had not been left оut of Anton Murik's plans. In the East it was Nord Two-Two. The site in West Germany could be identified as Esenshamm. Now Bond had them all locked in his brain. The job would be to lead Murik on to reveal the bulk of his Operation Meltdown; though, even without further information, Bond considered the mission complete. If he could get out that night, M.I.5 would be able to track down and isolate Murik and with luck collar Franco through the American security agencies. Meltdown could be blown, and with it the instigator, Warlock: Anton Murik. 'My little plan will alert the world to the horrific danger that exists through the nuclear plants already built and working.' Murik gave another of his chuckles, rising to a full-throated laugh, 'It will also provide me with the necessary capital to build my own safe plant, and demonstrate to those cretins and profit-seekers that it is possible to use nuclear energy without putting the human race at risk.' 'How?' Bond asked, convinced that a straightforward question would produce a reflex answer. But Anton Murik, in spite of the hysterical outbursts was not easily trapped. 'It's a complicated business. But you will play your part, Mr Bond. Ours was a happy meeting; a pleasant coincidence.' 'What sort of part?' Bond dropped his voice, sounding wary. 'There is one essential piece of the operation: to ensure no legal action will be taken against me. It is something that has to be done so that nobody ever knows I have had a part in what will happen. Your job is to kill one man. A contract, Mr Bond. I am giving you a contract – that's the right terminology, I believe?' 'You think I'll just go out and kill someone?' 'I see no reason for you to be squeamish. From what I gather, you are not a man who values human life very highly. Also, the job pays well. According to my information you need around £20,000 quite soon. I'm offering £50 000, which I'm certain is more than your usual basic fee. It should also serve to keep you silent.'

'I don't know what you mean,' Bond said flatly. Inside, there was a mild sensation of elation. Anton Murik had been fed the entire cover story. 'I mean, you know nothing about me…'

'No?' Murik's eyes clouded, the old dangerous lava flow hot in their depths. 'I think you will find I know far more than is comfortable for you.'

'How…?' 'There are ways, Mr Bond. Major Bond. Who won the Sword of Honour for your year at Sandhurst?' 'Fellow called Danvers…' Bond tried to make it sound spontaneous.

'And you used to call him Desperate Dan, yes?'

Bond allowed his face to take on a puzzled expression, 'Yes, but…?' 'And you went into the Guards, like your father before you, like the late Colonel Archie Bond? Correct?'

Bond nodded silently.

'You see, James Bond, I have my informants. I know about your career. I also know about your heroism. I have details of the great courage you displayed while assigned to the SAS…'

'That's confidential information,' Bond blurted out, 'highly classified.'

Murik nodded, unconcerned. 'Like the name of all officers seconded to the Special Air Service – yes. But I know. Just as I am up to date with your failures: how they allowed you to resign rather than face a court martial after that unfortunate business with the Mess funds; how you have lived by your wits and skill ever since. I have details of the small jobs you have performed in Third World countries, and I also have a record of the unpleasant gambling gentlemen who would like to get their hands on either you or the £20,000 you owe them.'

Bond allowed his shoulders to slump forward, as though he had been defeated by some clever policeman. 'Okay,' he said softly, 'but how do you know all this about me?'

'By wits and weapons, James Bond: that's how you've lived since the Army let you go,' Murik went on, ignoring the question. 'Apart from mercenary engagements, I can make an informed guess concerning the contract killings you've performed.' M had certainly placed the information well. Bond wondered exactly how Murik's informants had been manipulated as channels for Bond's mythical past. He sat up, his face impassive, as though Murik's knowledge of his supposed profession as mercenary and contract artist was something with which he could deal. 'Okay,' he said again. 'I won't deny any of it. Nor am I going to deny that I'm good at my job. It's not a profession of which a man can be proud, but at least I do it very well. How's Caber?' There was a tinge of malice in his voice. Bond had to show Murik he was unafraid. The Laird of Murcaldy was not smiling. 'Bewildered,' he said coldly. 'Nobody's ever really beaten Caber until today. Yes, you are good, Mr Bond. If you were not, I wouldn't be offering you a sum of £50,000 for a contract killing now.' 'Who's the lucky client?' Bond assumed a straightforward, professional manner.

'A man called Franco Oliveiro Quesocriado.'

'I don't think I've had the pleasure.'

'No. Probably not. But at least you'll have heard of him. Hijackings, bombings, hostage-taking: his name is often in the papers – his first name, that is. He is said by the media to be the most wanted international terrorist on the books.' 'Ah.' Bond opened his mouth, allowing a flicker of recognition to cross his face. ''That Franco. You're putting out a contract on him?'

Murik nodded.

'How do I find him?'

'By staying close to me. There will be no problems. I shall point you in the right direction. All you have to do is remove him – but not until you're told. You will also do it in prescribed way. The moment will come, in the operation I am about to set in motion, for Franco to disappear. Vanish. Cease to exist, leaving no trace.'

'For that kind of money I might even throw in his birth certificate.'

Murik shook his head. In a chilling voice he said, 'That has already been taken care of. You will be his death certificate.' Both men were silent for a moment. Bond looked down and absently fingered a knob on the console in front of him. Then he looked Murik straight in the eye.

'And the money? How shall I receive it?' he enquired firmly.

'You will be free to collect £50,000 in bank notes of any currency of your choosing a week from today at my bank in Zurich. I assure you it is the most respectable bank in Europe. I shall arrange for you to call them from here tomorrow – on the public telephone system, of course. I have no private connection. I shall leave you alone to ascertain the number from the Swiss telephone directory and verify the arrangement personally. But I can allow you only one call to Switzerland.'

'Sounds fair enough,' Bond said, wildly thinking that here was a heaven-sent opportunity for getting word out to M. But he knew full well the call would be monitored and intercepted the moment he tried any sort of bluff. It was on Bond's lips to ask what would happen should he fail and Franco escape, but he remained silent.

Murik stood up and began to walk calmly down the long room. 'I think we should get ready for dinner now, Mr Bond. Then I would suggest a good rest. It is likely to be an active and taxing week.' There was no suggestion that Bond might like to consider the proposal, no polite enquiry even as to whether he would accept. Murik had already assumed the terms were agreed and the contract sealed.

Bond started to follow Murik towards the door and as he did so, caught sight of one of the weapons on display in the Laird's collection. On a small shelf among grenades and other devices stood a cutaway German S-Mine, from the Second World War -a metal cylinder with its long protruding rod housing the trigger. Bond knew the type well and the display version showed clearly how deadly the mine could be. You buried the thing until only the tip of the slender trigger showed above the ground. An unlucky foot touching the trigger activated the mine, which then leaped about seven feet into the air before exploding to scatter fragments of its steel casing, together with ball-bearings loaded into the sides of the device.

The cutaway S-Mine had been so arranged as to show the ball bearings in position, and also separately. A small pile of these steel balls, each about a centimetre in diameter, lay beside the weapon. They looked just the right size for Bond's purpose. Loudly he asked – 'You're tied up with this Franco fellow? In this scheme of yours?'

Before Murik had time to stop and reply, Bond had quietly reached out his hand and scooped three of the ball bearings from the display, slipping them into his pocket, out of sight, as Murik turned.

'I am not going into the finer points, Mr Bond.' Murik stood by the exit as Bond caught up with him. 'There are some things you should know, I suppose.' Murik's voice was low, with a rasp like the cutting edge of a buzz saw. 'Yes, friend Franco has contacts among all the major terrorist organisations in the world. He has provided me with six suicide squads to infiltrate half-a-dozen major nuclear power stations. They are fanatics: willing to die for their respective causes if need be. For them, if my plan works, it will mean vast sums of money set at the disposal of their several societies and organisations. Terrorists always need money, Mr Bond, and if the plan does not work, it is of no consequence – to the suicide squads, at least.' He gave another of his unpleasant chuckles, before continuing.

'All these men are willing to sit in nuclear control rooms and if necessary, produce what you have called the China Syndrome. If they have to do that, a very large part of the world will be contaminated, and millions will die from radioactive fallout. I personally do not think it will happen -but that is up to me. I have provided Franco with the means to get these squads into the reactor control rooms. I have, through Franco, trained them so they can carry out destructive actions at my command. At the end of the day there will be a huge ransom. Franco is to get half of the final ransom money, which he will split with the groups according to his prior arrangements. It is up to Franco to come to me in order to collect his share. He has even tried to tell me that the terrorist groups are pressing for assurances that the money will reach them. Lies, of course. It is Franco himself who needs the assurances. He will get none.'

They were now back in the main flagged hall. Murik quietly closed the door to the armoury.

'You will understand, Mr Bond, that I do not intend Franco to collect anything. For one thing, he is the only living person who would be able to tie me into this operation-identify me-when the security forces of several countries begin to question the terrorist squads. For the other' – he shrugged lightly -'I need all the money myself in order to build my own reactor, to prove that I am right. It is all for the benefit of mankind, you understand.'

Bond fought down the desire to point out the terrible risk that Murik would be taking. The facts of Operation Melt down were like a kaleidoscope in his mind; but of one thing he was certain: hired and fanatical terrorists are unstable in conditions of stress. However strongly Anton Murik felt about the ultimate threat, the situation might well be out of his control once the terrorist squads were in place.

More than ever, Bond realised that he must make a bid for freedom. They made their way slowly, side by side, to the foot of the stone stairway.

'There is one thing,' Bond said calmly, hands clasped behind his back.

'Go on,' Murik encouraged him. The two men might have been discussing new staffing arrangements at a respectable City company.

'If you want Franco removed,' Bond continued politely, 'to – ah – protect your little secret and to save on expenses why should I suppose you'll not have Caber and his men similarly dispose of me as soon as I've done the job? And why not anyway simply put something in Franco's nightcap and get Caber to dump him in the loch?'

Murik stopped in mid-stride and turned to beam at Bond.

'Very good, Mr Bond. You show yourself to be the man of wits I'd hoped for. You are right to question my trustworthiness. It would be all too easy for me to arrange matters as you prognosticate. Except, of course, your last suggestion. I would not wish Franco's remains to be discovered on my doorstep.'

Murik said this in a tone of mild parental shock. They resumed strolling back to the stairs.

'As to your own wellbeing,' Murik continued, 'it is by no means assured by my proposal. One false move would certainly bring about Caber's longed-for revenge. He is a savage man, Mr Bond, but I can control him. All the same, I should point out that neither could you be sure, had you declined my offer, that I would not be able to make your future life -or death -very unpleasant. The choice remains yours. Even now you can walk out of here freely, without a penny, and spend every minute of the days to come wondering where and when I might catch up with you. No one would believe the cock-and-bull story you might think of imparting to the police, or anyone else. So you have only my word for good faith. But remember, much greater risks lie on my side of the contract.'

'You mean,' Bond interjected, 'that you are gambling on my not taking up with Franco at the last minute, instead of killing him, so as to aid him in collecting a much larger sum even than the generous fee you have suggested for me?'

'Precisely ' Murik flicked the switch and the vault was once again plunged in gloom. They mounted the stairs in silence.