Licence Renewed

4 DOSSIER ON A LAIRD

IT WAS OBVIOUSLY going to be a long evening, and Bond thought he should not surprise May, his able and devoted housekeeper, by returning suddenly and late to the flat off the King's Road.

Before M could launch into the details of the dossiers which lay, full of secrets, in front of them, Bond asked permission to leave the office for a moment.

M gave one of his irritated old-fashioned looks, but grudgingly nodded his consent for Bond to make a telephone call from the privacy of his own office.

In the end, it was easier for Bond to dial his own number on Miss Moneypenny's extension. May had given up trying to fathom her employer's working hours long ago, and merely asked if he fancied anything special to eat when he did get in. Bond said he would not be averse to a nice pair of Arbroath Smokies – should she have some tucked away. May, being a strict conservative in matters of kitchen equipment, would never in a thousand years have allowed a freezer in her domain. Bond agreed with her, though it was sometimes nice to be able to have delicacies within reach, so they had compromised. With tact, Bond had talked her round to allowing him to buy a large Bosch refrigerator with a spacious freezing compartment, which May christened the ice box. She thought, now, that there might be a pair of Smokies in 'the ice box', adding, 'So I'll see what I can do, Mr James; but mind you don't get back too late.' May had a habit of treating Bond, when the mood was on her, as a nanny will treat her small charges.

The fact that Bond was only out of his office for a few minutes mollified M, who had refilled his pipe and was poring over the dossiers. Caustically he asked if 007 had managed to arrange matters so that they were not interrupted again.

'Yes, sir,' Bond replied calmly. 'I'm quite ready for the Laird of Murcaldy, Rob Roy and even Bonnie Prince Charlie, if you wish.'

'It's not a matter for levity, 007,' M spoke sharply. 'The Murik family is a noble line. There was a Laird of Murcaldy at Dunbar, and another at Culloden Moor. However, it is possible that the true line died out with the present Laird's grandfather. It has yet to be proven, or even properly tested, but it is a matter which disturbs the Lord Lyon King of Arms greatly.' He shuffled through some of the first dossier. 'Anton Murik's grandfather was well-known as an adventurer -a traveller. In the year 1890 he was missing for more than three months in central Europe – searching, it is said, for his brother who had been disinherited for some offence. Their parents were dead, and the village folk believed that Angus Murik – that was his name – planned to return with his brother, shepherding the black sheep back into the fold. When he did return it was with a wife: a foreign woman, the records say. She was with child, and there are also written documents suggesting that the prodigal Laird was not Angus at all, but the brother, Hamish. It is also suggested that the child, who became Anton's father, was born out of wedlock, for there are no records of a marriage having actually taken place.'

Bond grunted, 'But surely that would only weaken the line, not destroy it altogether.'

'Normally, yes,' M continued. 'But Anton was also born in strange circumstances. His father was a wild lad who, at the age of eighteen, also began to travel. He did not return at all. There is a letter, extant, saying that he had married an English woman of good family in Palermo. But shortly after that a young woman arrived at Murik Castle, in an advanced state of pregnancy, with the news that her husband, the heir to the title, had been killed by bandits during an expedition in Sicily.' 'When was this?' It sounded a confused and odd story to Bond.

'Nineteen-twenty,' M nodded, as though reading Bond's thoughts. 'Yes, and there are newspaper reports of some "English" gentleman having been killed in Sicily. The newspapers, however, claim that this gentleman's wife also perished at the hands of the bandits; though the young woman insisted it was her maid who died. The graves, at Caltanissetta, are so marked; but diaries, and some memories, say that the girl who presented herself as wife of the Laird-presumptive was far from being an English lady of good breeding. It's difficult to sort out fact from fiction, or even bigotry. What is certain is the fact that some of the older people on the Murik estate maintain Anton is not the true Laird – though, knowing which side their bread is buttered, they only whisper it privately, and will not commit themselves to either strangers or authority.'

'But the baby was baptised Anton and took the title?' 'Baptised Anton Angus, yes; and took the title Laird of Murcaldy, yes,' M said with a slight curl of the lip.

'So, whatever else, we must treat him as a Scottish Laird. I presume he is also a bona fide nuclear scientist? We have to take that part seriously?'

'We take him very seriously indeed,' M looked grave, repeating, 'Very seriously. There is no doubt at all that Anton Murik is a man of great intellect and influence. Just take a glance at the background précis.' He passed the relevant sheet from the dossier across to Bond, who took it in with a quick sweep of the eyes:

Anton Angus Murik. Born Murik Castle, Murcaldy, Ross and Cromarty, Scotland, December 18th, 1920. Educated Harrow and St John's College, Cambridge. First Class Honours in Physics followed by a Fellowship, then a Doctorate. So good that he was reserved for work under Professor Lindemann – later Lord Cherwell – scientific adviser to Winston Churchill; also worked on Manhattan Project (the making and testing of the first atomic bomb); Committee for the Peaceful use of Atomic Energy; International Atomic Energy Commission…

Murik had resigned from this last position just two years ago. There followed a lengthy and impressive list of companies with which Murik was associated. Bond's eyebrows gradually rose higher as he read the list. Among other things, Anton Murik was Chairman of Micro-Modulators Ltd, Eldon Electronics Ltd, Micro Sea Scale Ltd and Aldan Aerospace, Inc. In addition he sat on countless boards, all of which had some direct application to nuclear power or electronics. Bond also saw that the firms included some specialist contractors with great knowledge of design and building in the field of nuclear reactors.

'You spot the odd man out?' M asked from behind a cloud of pipe smoke.

Bond looked down the list again. Yes, there tucked away among all the electronics, nuclear companies and aerospace conglomerates, was a strange entry, Roussillon Fashions. Bond read out the entry.

'Yes. Damned dressmaking firm,' M snorted.

James Bond smiled to himself. 'I think a little more than just a dressmaker, sir. Roussillon is one of the world's leading fashion houses. They have branches in London, Paris, Rome, New York; you name it. Ask any woman with dress sense. I suppose Roussillon would come among the top five fashion houses in the world.'

M grunted, 'And charge top prices as well, I've no doubt. Well, Anton Murik has a majority holding in that firm.' 'Don't suppose he just likes dressing up in high-class ladies' clothes or something like that?' Bond grinned. 'Don't be flippant, 007. You have to look at the financial aspect.' 'Well, he must be a multi-millionaire,' Bond said, almost to himself. He was rarely impressed by such things, but, even from the list in front of him, it was obvious that Dr Anton Murik wielded considerable power. 'How in heaven's name did a man with these qualifications manage to get himself thrown out of the International Atomic Energy Commission, sir?'

M did not hesitate. 'For one thing he's unscrupulous in business matters. Sailed very close to the wind in some dealings with those companies you see listed. At least two of the chairmanships were gained by stepping almost literally, over the bodies of other men.'

'Most good businessmen are inclined to be ruthless…' Bond began; but M held up a hand.

'There was another matter,' he said. 'Anton Murik is a bit of a fanatic, and he tends to take the view of most of those people you see protesting against the use of nuclear power and the dangers of the disposal of nuclear waste. He mounted a stiff campaign against the use of the major types of nuclear reactor already in service, or planned to go into service. Worldwide. You see, 007, the man claims to have designed the ultimate in reactors -one which not only provides the power but safely disposes of the waste, and cannot go wrong. Calls it the Murik Ultra-Safe Reactor.'

'And his colleagues didn't buy it?' "Didn't buy" is an understatement. His colleagues say there are grave flaws in the Ultra-Safe design. Some even go as far as claiming the whole thing is potentially a hundred times more dangerous than the current families – the fast- breeders, B.W.R.s, P.W.R.s, gas/graphites and liquid metal fast-breeders. Murik wanted funds from the Commission to prove them wrong, and build his own reactor.'

'So they cut off the money.'

M said they did exactly that, and Bond laughed again, remarking that a little thing like money should not make much difference to a multi-millionaire. 'Surely Murik could go out and build his own -in his back garden: it seems big enough.'

M sighed. 'We're talking in billions of dollars; billions of pounds sterling, James. Anton Murik argued. There were, apparently, some terrific rows, and suggestions that the man's far from stable,' he touched his forehead with an index finger. 'That's really why this whole business of contact with a fellow like Franco worries me. It is also why I will on no account allow you to go charging into the field without preparation. Could be wrong, of course, but I really don't think a week or so is going to make that much difference. Especially if I can turn you into the ideal penetration agent – establish you within the Murik entourage: and to that end,' M began to leaf through his own dossier again, 'I think you'd better meet Anton Murik and his household.' He drew several photographs from the bulky depths of the file.

'You're going to officially deny Duggan's request, then?' Bond's mind had become completely concentrated on the job in hand by now. Having been inactive for a long time made little difference to him. The job was like swimming or driving; once the rudiments had been mastered, professionalism – when something big turned up – came back like the flicking of a switch. Whatever plot was being hatched – either by Franco or Dr Anton Murik-Bond would not, now, rest until every end was tied up; no matter how dangerous or arduous, or even plain dull, it turned out to be.

M grunted. 'Duggan's got two good people in the field. They've already had four tries at keeping tabs on Franco plenty of practice. That should, eventually, make them perfect. I have confidence that they'll discover his port of exit this time. We'll put a tail on Franco when the moment comes. Your job's too important…' he must have seen the quizzical look on Bond's face, 'and don't tell me that I'm putting you in on M.I.5's territory. I know that, and so do you, but my bones tell me it won't be for long. The action's going to move out of Scotland as soon as whatever it is they're cooking comes to the boil. Now for the pretty pictures.'

First, he explained the obvious. With the castle and huge estate, the Laird of Murcaldy had immediate access to manpower. 'He's got gamekeepers, wardens, and every imaginable kind of servant up there, from drivers to guards: so as far as the Laird's concerned, he has no real security problem. There is a central core of family, though. First, the doctor himself.

The photograph showed a pugnacious face, not unlike that of the late Lord Beaverbrook, but without the crescents of humour bracketing the mouth. A bulldog of a man, with cold eyes that were fixed on somebody, or something certainly not the camera – slightly to his right. The line of the mouth was hard, uncompromising; and the ears, which lay very flat against the head, gave him an odd, symmetrical outline. Photographs can be deceptive – Bond knew that well enough- but this man, captured by a swift click and the activation of a shutter, could have been a son of the Manse. He had that slightly puritanical look about him – a stickler for discipline; one who knew his own mind and would have his own way, no matter what lay in his path. Bond felt vaguely uneasy. He would not admit to anything so grave as fear when confronted by a photograph, but the picture said clearly that the Laird of Murcaldy was a force: a power.

The next print showed a woman, probably in her early forties, very fine-looking, with sharp, classic features, and dark, upswept hair. Her eyes were large, but not – Bond thought – innocent. Even in this image they seemed to contain a wealth of worldly knowledge; and the mouth, while generous, was not out of proportion, the edges of the lips tilting slightly upwards, in some ways softening the features.

'Miss Mary-Jane Mashkin,' said M, as though it explained everything.

Bond gave his chief a look of query, the comma of hair connecting with his right eyebrow as though to form a question mark.

'His éminence grise, some say.' M puffed at his pipe, as though slightly embarrassed. 'Certainly Murik's mistress. Was his secretary for ten years. Murik's strong right arm and personal adviser. She's a trained physicist. Cambridge University, the same as the Laird, though not his standard it seems. Acts as hostess for him; lives at Murik Castle. Travels with him, eats… and all the rest of it.'

Bond reflected that he could have been wrong about the puritanism, but then amended his thoughts. It was quite possible for Anton Murik to have strong moral feelings about what everybody else did while excepting himself from similar restrictions. It happened all the time: like the people who campaigned against certain television programmes and films, yet imagined they were themselves immune to moral danger.

'I should think he takes her advice in a lot of matters; but I doubt he would be swayed by her on very large issues.' M pushed a third photograph towards Bond.

This time it was another woman, much younger, and certainly, if the picture was really accurate, a stunning girl. Blonde hair fell around the sides of her face in a smooth, thick sheen; while the face itself was reminiscent of Lauren Bacall as a young woman. This one had the same high cheek bones, the promise of some smoulder in the dark eyes, and a mouth made striking by the sensuality of her lower lip. Above the eyes, her brows were shaped naturally, in a kind of elongated circumflex. Bond allowed himself to relax in an almost inaudible low whistle.

M cut short this reflex reaction. 'Anton Murik's ward. Miss Lavender Peacock. The relationship is not known. She became his ward in 1970, all legal – daughter of some second cousin, the court report says. Father and mother both killed in an air crash. There's a little money – several thousand – which comes to Miss Peacock when she reaches her twenty-seventh birthday. That is next year.'

Bond observed that Lavender Peacock was quite a girl, though he somehow thought he recognised her – not just from her resemblance to the young Bacall.

'Possible, 007. The girl's kept on a tight rein, though. In some matters the Laird is very old-fashioned. Lavender Peacock is treated like a fragile piece of china. Private tutors when she was a kid, trips abroad only when accompanied by Murik and trusted watchdogs. The Mashkin woman's toted her around a bit, and you may have seen her picture in connection with that dressmaking business. From time to time the Laird allows her to model – but only at very special functions, and always with the watchdogs around.'

'Watchdogs?' Bond picked on the expression.

M rose and strode to the window, looking out across the park, now hazy as the sun dropped slowly and the lights began to come on over the city. 'Watchdogs?' M queried. 'Oh yes, mainly women around the Mashkin lady and the dressmaking firm.' He did not turn back towards Bond. 'Murik always has a few young Scottish toughs around. A kind of bodyguard: you know what these people are like. Not just for the ward, but the whole family. There's one in particular: sort of chief heavy. We haven't got a photograph of him, but I've had a description and that certainly matches his name. He's called Caber.'

There was a long silence. At last Bond took a deep breath. He had been looking at the triptych of photographs in front of him. 'So you want me to ingratiate myself with this little lot; find out why Franco's paying so much attention; and generally make myself indispensable?'

'I think that's the way to go.' M turned from the window.

'We have to play the game long, 007. Very long indeed. I have great reservations about Dr Anton Murik. He'd kill without a second thought if it meant the success of some plan with which he's obsessed; and we all know he's obsessed, at this moment, with the business of his Ultra-Safe Nuclear Reactor. Maybe there's some hairbrained scheme of investing in one of Franco's endeavours, and raking in a rich profit -a quick return: enough money to prove the Atomic Energy Commission wrong. Who knows? It'll be your job to find out, James. Your job, and my responsibility.'

'Suggestions on how to do it would be welcome,' Bond began, but, as M was about to reply, the red telephone purred on his desk.

For a few minutes, Bond sat silently listening to M's side of a conversation with Sir Richard Duggan. When the call was completed, M sat back with a thin smile. 'That settled it then. I've told M.I.5 that you're ready to move in and follow up any information they care to give. Duggan's left details of his surveillance people here,' he tapped the M.I.5 file with his knuckles. 'All the usual cloak and dagger stuff they seem to like.'

'And Franco?'

'Is definitely at Castle Murik. They've confirmed. Don't worry, James, if he leaves suddenly I'll put someone on his back to cover you with M.I.5.'

'Talking of cover…' Bond started.

'I was coming to that. How you get into the family circle, eh? Well, I think you go under your own name, but with a slightly different passport. We can drum it all up here. A mercenary, I think. You heard what Ross said about Murik's second passion in life – racing. Well, as you know, he's got horses running at Ascot next week. In fact the one he's entered in the Gold Cup has only been in the first three once in its life. Name of China Blue. Our friend, the Laird of Murcaldy, merely seems to like watching them train and run -enjoys all the business of race tracks and trainers.'

'Just for the kicks,' Bond stated, and M looked at him curiously for a moment.

'I suppose so,' M replied at last. 'But Murik's visit to Ascot next week should give us the opportunity. Unless there's any sudden change of plan, I think you should be able to make contact on Gold Cup day. That'll give us time to see you're well briefed and properly equipped, eh?'