'I told you, Franco. Let me worry. All is arranged, and I shall be quite safe. Nobody'll have the slightest idea where any instructions are coming from. Now, Franco, we are on schedule for Thursday, which is ideal. If you can really finish everything in America within twenty-four hours, it means you will be in a position to carry out the other assignment for me on Wednesday night. You think you can make that location?' 'There is time enough. Better I should do it than someone else…'
Even with the headphones on, Bond was suddenly distracted by a click from the door. His head whipped around, and he saw the handle turn a fraction. In one movement he grabbed the 'phones from his head, stuffing the receiver under the pillow before launching himself out of the Sleepcentre towards the door.
His hand shot out, grasping the door and pulling it sharply towards him.
'It's okay,' whispered Mary-Jane Mashkin, 'only me.' She slipped inside, the door swung to heavily, and Bond heard the locks thud into place again. His heart sank. Mary-Jane Mashkin was a handsome woman, but not Bond's fancy at all. Yet here she was, dressed a shade too obviously in a heavy silk Reger nightdress and wrap, her dark hair hanging around her face; a flush to her cheeks. 'I thought I should come and see that you're comfortable,' she murmured coyly. 'Have you got everything you need?'
Bond indicated the door. When Donal had closed it,
Bond had realised there was some kind of automatic locking system. The noise following Mary-Jane's entrance had confirmed his fear. 'How do you get through that system? It's electronic, isn't it?' he asked.
She pushed herself towards him, smiling in a faraway manner. 'Some of the rooms – like this – have electronic locks for safety. The doors can always be opened from the outside; and all
That puts you through to the switchboard. They'll open it up for you. If Anton agrees, of course.'
Bond backed away. 'And that's what you'll do? To get out, I mean.'
'Oh, James. Are you telling me to leave?'
'I…'
She slid her arms around his neck. 'I thought you needed company. It must be lonely up here.'
Bond's mind scrabbled around for the right actions and words. There was something decidedly wrong here. A carefully orchestrated seduction scene by this American woman: an intellectual, mistress to Anton Murik, and almost certainly in on whatever villainy was being planned at this moment by the doctor and Franco.
'James,' she whispered, her lips so close that he could feel her breath, 'wouldn't you like me to stay for a while?' Mary-Jane Mashkin, fully dressed, made up, and with her hair beautifully coiffured, seemed a handsome and attractive woman. Now, close to, with her body unfettered from corset or girdle, and the face cleaned off, she was a very different person.
'Look, Mary-Jane. It's a nice thought, but…' He wrenched himself free. 'What about the Laird?'
'What about him? It's you I've come to see.'
'But isn't this risky? After all, you're his… trusted confidante.'
'And I thought you were a man who was used to taking risks. The moment I set eyes on you, I… James, don't make me humiliate myself…'
She was a good actress, Bond would say that for her. The whole thing smelled of either a set-up or a special reconnaissance. Had he not just heard Anton Murik talk about testing him? Women involved with men like Murik did not offer themselves to others without good reason. Bond took the woman by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. The situation was delicate. A false move now might undo all the good work which had got him into Murik Castle. 'Mary-Jane, don't think I'm not appreciative, but…'
Her lips tightened into a petulant grimace that changed her expression into one of acid, unpleasant hardness. A lip curled upwards. 'I've made a fool of myself. Men used to flock…'
'It isn't like that,' Bond began.
'No? I've been around, James Bond. You think I don't know the signs by now?' 'But I'm Anton Murik's guest. A man can't abuse hospitality like…'
She laughed: a derisive single note. 'Since when did a man like you stand on that kind of ceremony?' She stood up. 'No, I just misread the signals; got my wires crossed. You should know by now, James, that a woman can always tell when a man finds her -well, I guess, unattractive.'
'I told you. It's not like that.'
'Well, I know it is. Just like that.'
She was at the door now, turning, her mood changing to one of anger. 'I could've saved you an awful lot of hassle, James. You could've avoided much unpleasantness with me on your side. But I could make you regret the last few minutes. You'll see, my friend.'
It all sounded very melodramatic, and Bond was becoming more and more convinced that Mary-Jane's presence in his room – her thrusting, unsophisticated attempt to seduce him -was an act designed for some other purpose. Her hand reached out to the door.
'Shouldn't I ring the switchboard?' he asked, trying to sound suitably subdued.
'No need. They have warning lights that go on and off when the bolts move; but I have arrangements with them. There's also a way out for the members of this household.' From the folds of her robe she produced a small oblong piece of metal the size of a credit card and slipped it into a tiny slot that Bond had not noticed, to the right of the lock. The bolts shot back, and Mary-Jane Mashkin opened the door. 'I'm sorry to have troubled you,' she said, and was gone in a rustle of black silk.
Bond sat down on the bed and looked at the door.
Possible friend or eternal enemy? he wondered. The whole business had been so bizarre that he found it difficult to take seriously. Then he remembered the receiver and
Murik's conversation with Franco.
The cassette was not turning when he retrieved the apparatus from under the pillow. He put the headphones over his ears and started to wind back the tape. The conversation had finished only a few minutes before. Now he rewound it to the point at which he had left them talking. The voices, through the 'phones, were as clear as though the two men were with him in the room.
'Now, Franco,' Murik was saying, 'we are on schedule for Thursday, which is ideal. If you can really finish everything in America within twenty-four hours, it means you will be in a position to carry out the other assignment for me on Wednesday night. You think you can make that location?'
'There is time enough. Better I should do it than someone else.' 'It would give me greater confidence to know that it is you.' 'And I shall be required to be in the appointed place at…'
'At the time we've already talked about. What I need to know, for my own peace of mind, is how you will do it. Will she suffer? What reaction should I expect?'
'No suffering, Warlock, I promise you. She feels nothing; and the onlookers, they imagine she has fainted. The weapon will be high-powered, an air rifle, and the projectile, it has a gelatine coating. She feels a little pinprick but no more. I shall use a…'
There was a thud in the earphones, and the conversation became blurred. It took Bond a few seconds to realise what had happened. Either the adhesive on the micro-bug under Murik's desk had given way or one of the men had accidentally dislodged it with his knee. Gently he wound the tape back, but the whole conversation was now muffled, and he could pick up only a few words. It was not even possible to separate the voices of the two men-'… very fast… cat-walk… below… neck… bare flesh… Warlock… steps… point… palace… Majorca… coma… death… two hours… heart attack… time…' and so on. It meant little, except the obvious fact that someone -a woman-was being set up to be killed, probably just before this operation that Murik referred to as Meltdown.
The whole thing was deadly, and Bond knew that M's worst fears were proved. This was no ordinary little plan but a full-scale, worldwide conspiracy of great danger. As for the contract killing, he could not even start to think how that fitted in. The weapon would be an air rifle, undoubtedly firing a capsule containing some quick-acting poison. As for the place and target, it was anybody's guess. The word palace had been mentioned, and the victim was a woman. Bond immediately thought of royalty. The Queen, even. Then there was the word Majorca. A meeting place, perhaps? These were things he would have to pass on to M as soon as possible. It even crossed his mind, as he carefully packed away the receiver, to trigger the pen alarm now, inside the house. But that could prove more dangerous than helpful. Murik had him neatly stowed away, and the place was a fortress. Stay with it for the time being, Bond decided.
He was just returning the headset to the closet, packed away in the case, when he heard the click of the door
