Licence Renewed

He glanced towards Lavender and smiled. She returned the look with a twist of her lips, bravely struggling with the horrors that must have been going through her head.

Anton Murik rarely stopped talking. 'You see,' he said, 'we'll descend to the pick-up point some ninety minutes before the deadline runs out. By then we'll know, by our radar, when their aircraft has made its dropping run. I want to keep them on the edge of their seats until the last moment. If the flotation bag is there – as I'm certain it will be – it's a simple matter: my air crew has been well-trained in the art of picking up from the sea. All we need is a couple of low-level passes while we trail a cable with grappling hooks from the rear of the aircraft. Once we've hooked on, we just winch up the bag. A rise in the price of diamonds, eh?' He cackled at his weak joke.

'A rise'll be right,' Bond replied. 'You'll get a glut. Could mess up the market.'

'Oh, my dear Bond, why do you always underestimate me? I'm a patient man: waited too long for this. You don't think I'm going to send out a troop of Boy Scouts with the diamonds, and flood the market next week.' He gave an irritated little sigh. 'This has taken too long to set up. I don't mind waiting a little longer-a year or two. Softly, softly. The diamonds'll trickle on to various markets. I've enough money to start work on my own reactor now. I simply wish to recoup from this little hoard.' Looking straight at Bond he gave a broad smile. 'All for free. They'll fall over themselves to pay up.'

'And if they stand fast? If they don't come up with your precious fifty billion?' Bond realised this was unlikely. Murik held his gaze coldly. 'Then the world will not be the world any more. Not as we know it.' 'You're really going to let the terrorist teams close down the cooling systems?'

Murik gave a dismissive wave of the hand. 'There'll be no need. The governments will pay up and look happy. They have no option.'

'But…' Bond was about to repeat his constant worry that either one of the terrorist squads would lose control, or some idiot security force would try an assault. There was a further possibility: that the governments would give in to the ultimatum, yet would lack time to fulfil Warlock's requirements. But what was the use? There was no point in arguing or even trying to reason with Anton Murik.

If argument would do no good, Bond had to think of some other way. Strapped into his seat, with Lavender in the same situation, he knew chances of survival were slim. He must go on searching for further chinks in the armour. Bond might play on Murik's vanity for a time, yet in the end that could not affect the outcome. To do anything concrete he had to be free and mobile. After that, there was the problem of taking out Murik, Caber and the two heavies sitting with Lavender at the other console.

Bond gazed blankly at the vast array of electronic units before him, particularly those directly in front of Murik. Think logically, he told himself. What would he do if free and unhindered? The earphones had been plugged into a unit bright with pin-lights, VUs, a digital frequency display and half a dozen tuning dials. He had no doubt that this was the most important piece of equipment in Murik's impressive array; in particular the microphone with its transmit button. Press that button, speak, and you would be through to the squads holding the control rooms in the nuclear power plants. This was all too obvious. It was what Murik would do once he was away and safe with the diamonds, plucked from the sea. But what would he say? How would Murik defuse the situation?

Vanity. Use it. Play on the vanity. 'What happens to the terrorist squads?' Bond asked, casually. Murik gave him a sly look. 'What d'you mean, what happens to them?'

'Well, nobody can fault you on anything, Anton.' Bond again chanced the familiarity. 'This is probably the most brilliantly organised terrorist strategy of the century. But, when you've picked up the diamonds and got safe home presumably not Perpignan…' Murik laughed. 'Unfortunately you won't be around to see.

Bond nodded, as though the point was academic. 'I realise that. But I suppose you call off the dogs: radio, on your shielded beam, and give them the word. They give up. So what happens to them?'

Murik shrugged: the sly look again. 'Franco's department.' He lowered his voice. 'And Franco isn't with us any more. Those people have dealt entirely with him. They expect to die in action. A nuclear death from radiation. As far as I can gather, if they're ordered to abort, they simply come out with their hands up. Custody. Interrogation. Trial. A trip to the bridewell.'

'They're willing to die for their various causes; so they're equally willing to serve a term in jail?'

'And, if any of them breaks, he can only point the finger at Franco, who is missing, believed killed in action.' He paused, glancing up at the dials in front of him. 'I imagine they won't be in jail for long. There will be hostages, deaths, demands.'

Bond nodded slowly. 'And you have to call up all six groups? Or does a blanket code cover it?'

For a second, Murik was caught off his guard. 'Same code, but each group enumerated in case I want to leave one active until the others get clear. That was the arrangement. But, naturally, none are going to get clear.'

'You don't think any of them'll be stupid enough to fight their way out?'

Murik shook his head very slowly.

It was enough for Bond. He needed the defusing code word; and, having already heard each of the groups come in with their 'Number One… War; Number Four… War' and the rest, it required only common sense to work out the way in which the occupying groups could be made to stand down. At least that was a logical step in the right direction.

He had a reasonable idea of what to do if he managed to get free. But how to accomplish that part of the trick?

If only he could release his arms. Every time Murik moved, Bond glimpsed the butt of the Python revolver under the jacket. If his arms were free and the right moment could be found… Go on thinking. Work it out. There had to be a way, and there was still time. If he managed anything it would have to be late in Murik's scheme of things. Sometime tomorrow. A message to the terrorist squads now would only alert their suspicions. From what he knew of terrorist operations, Bond was clear about the psychological factors. For the first hours, hijackers or hostage-takers were suspicious of anyone and everything. Better to wait.

As he began to wrestle with the most difficult problem of all, the earphones suddenly came to life. He recognised the pilot's voice: 'Captain to the Laird of Murcaldy, sir. Could you send someone up here for a moment?'

Murik gave a quizzical tilt of the head and beckoned Caber. 'Up to the flight deck with you. See what it's all about.'

Caber left with a nod. Murik glanced at his watch. 'Hope it's nothing too drastic. Time for some food, I think.'

Caber was gone for around ten minutes, returning with a puzzled look. He bent low and muttered in Murik's ear. The Laird's face underwent no change as his hand gently eased Caber away and he swivelled his chair towards the console opposite. 'The captain says they're picking up an intermittent trace on the flight deck radar scope, just on the periphery, to the north. They've tracked other aircraft – commercial stuff- but they appear to have two blips coming up every now and then, as though they were holding station with us. See what you can do.'

The men bent over viewers, through which they were probably looking at radar screens. 'What's your range?'

Bond asked Murik coolly, knowing that if aircraft were shadowing the Starlifter, M had probably succeeded, late in the day, in getting the right answers to some difficult problems.