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 i

'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?'