LATER BOND WAS to learn that the four acres of beautifully kept grass which ran down the far side of Murik Castle bordered with shrubs, gravel paths and topiary work – had been known as the Great Lawn for at least two centuries.
Even at this early hour the estate workmen were out and about, putting the finishing touches to two large marquees, a number of small tents and an oblong arena the size of a small landing strip.
As he jogged past, Bond reflected it would be somewhere in this arena that he would probably face whatever test Anton Murik had devised for him. He used the jogging as an opportunity first to get the lie of the land, and second to settle his mind and concentrate on the numerous problems he had to resolve.
It was obvious, from what he had overheard of the conversation between Murik and Franco the previous night, that they planned at least five terrorist attacks, in Europe and the United States. The two in America, he knew from the names, were connected with nuclear power stations. Logically, the ones in Europe would be similar targets. He also knew that the codename was Meltdown. If his suspicions were correct, Meltdown could mean only one terrifying thing. What intrigued Bond even more was the codename Anton Murik appeared to have adopted for himself-Warlock.
Jogging around the castle, Bond slowly made up his mind. In spite of what he had said to Lavender, there were two clear choices. Either he could get out now and alert M with the information already in his possession, or stay, face the test and glean the full details of the plot. If he could make a good showing, it was possible that Murik would put more trust in him; maybe even reveal everything. That this final course of action was dangerous, Bond did not doubt; yet it was the path he had to take.
Again he thought about Murik's conversation with Franco the night before. Meltdown, the Laird had said, would begin at twelve noon British Summer Time on Thursday. That would be noon in England, one in the afternoon in France and Germany, seven in the morning at the place they called Indian Point Unit Three, and four in the morning at San Onofre Unit One. The operation was to be held strictly to twenty-four hours, and it involved the blackmailing of governments. For the time being he put the other problem, the contract killing by Franco, to one side. In time all things would be made clear.
After eleven circuits Bond returned to his room in the castle. Things now appeared to be stirring throughout the building. The morning noises of a house coming alive.
Bond could smell his own sweat from the harsh exercise, but as he opened the door to his room, his nostrils caught another scent. Somebody else had been there during his absence.
Quickly he checked the cases. They were out of alignment, but the locks showed no sign of having been forced or tampered with in any way. Murik was checking him out-on the spot as well as through his own, possibly dubious, outside sources. Bond made a mental note to look at the Saab at the earliest opportunity – not that anyone would easily be able to penetrate its secrets. The car certainly looked all right as he had jogged past it, parked between Murik's gleaming Rolls and a wicked black B.M.W. Ml, which was probably Mary-Jane Mashkin's speed.
Returning to his toning up, Bond ran through his usual morning press-ups, sit-ups and leg raising. Then he cleared space in the room and started that magic, dance-like series of elegant, deadly, movements which make up the first
After a good rub down and shave, he changed into lightweight slacks with a matching beige shirt and cord anorak. He slipped his feet into comfortable Adidas sports shoes. Normally he would have preferred the soft moccasins, but, as a possible confrontation was imminent, Bond thought it best to choose reliable athletic shoes that would not slide or let him down.
He filled the gunmetal cigarette case – making a resolution that he would not smoke until after the test, whatever it might be -and put it in the jacket, together with his Dunhill lighter. The pen alarm was clipped into the inside of the jacket, while Q'ute's version of the Dunhill was deposited in his right-hand trouser pocket.
Quietly he left the room. Passing through the hall, Bond heard voices from the dining room. Breakfast was obviously in progress, but first he had to take a quick look at the Saab.
The car was locked. Perhaps they had not got around to running a full check on it. Certainly, once he was inside, he saw that nothing seemed to have been moved or touched. Slipping the keys into the ignition, Bond started the motor. It fired straight away, and he allowed it to idle for a few seconds. When he switched off, Bond found Donal standing on one side of the car, and the man he recognised from last night as Hamish on the other.
Removing the keys, he put on the wheel lock and activated a switch under the dashboard, then climbed out with a curt 'Yes?' to Donal.
'Breakfast is being served in the dining room, Mr Bond.' The butler's face showed no emotion, and Bond assumed the man had about as much sensitivity as a block of stone. He replied that he was just going in. Not looking at either of the men, Bond locked the driver's door and stalked into the house.
Lavender and Mary-Jane were both seated at the table when he entered the room, where a sideboard almost groaned with dishes reflecting the old-style expensive life lived by the Laird in his castle. Bond by-passed the eggs- fried and scrambled – bacon, kippers, kedgeree and other delights; choosing only two pieces of dry toast and a large cup of black coffee. Breakfast was his favourite meal, but on this occasion he knew it would be unwise to fill his stomach.
Both Mary-Jane and Lavender greeted him with seeming pleasure, and Bond had only just seated himself when Anton Murik came in, dressed, as befitted a Scottish laird, in kilt and tweed jacket, his pugnacious face all smiles. He also seemed pleased to see Bond, and the talk was easy, Lavender giving no sign of what had passed between them during the night. All three appeared to be excited about the Murcaldy Games, Murik himself particularly bouncy and full of good humour – 'It's my favourite day of the year, Mr Bond. Even tried to get back here for it whenever I was out of the country. Landowners and people like myself have a responsibility to tradition. Traditional values mean anything to you, Mr Bond?'
'Everything.' Bond looked straight into the lava of the eyes. 'I've served my country and abide by its traditions.'
'Even when it lets you down, Mr Bond? Or should I call you Major Bond?' Murik let out a small cackle of laughter.
So the Laird had swallowed the bait: followed up the one clue available – the Saab registration – and got the facts back, as M had arranged. Bond tried to look puzzled.
'We'll talk later, James Bond.' Again the laugh. 'If you're able to talk. I think your breath may be taken away by the Games. It's quite a show.'
'Quite a show,' echoed Mary-Jane, smiling. She had said little during breakfast, but appeared unable to take her eyes off Bond – an experience which he found disconcerting, for the look she gave him lay half-way between one of feminine interest, and that of a Roman empress sizing up a gladiator. There was no hint of the malice she had shown on leaving his room the previous night.
Bond remarked that things seemed to be starting outside. He was rewarded by Murik, who launched into a complete and lengthy programme of events that would take place throughout the day. 'Almost dawn to dusk. I must get going. After all, the Laird is the host. You will excuse me, I trust.' He turned at the door. 'Oh, Mr Bond, I would particularly like to see you at the wrestling. My man Caber is Champion of Glen Murcaldy-that's the equivalent to being the Laird's Champion around here – a singular honour. He takes challengers at noon sharp. Please be there.'
Bond had no time to answer, for the man was gone, almost with a hop, skip and jump. So that was it: a bout with the giant Caber. Bond turned to the ladies, trying to be gallant, asking them if he could be their escort. Lavender said yes, of course; but Mary-Jane gave her enigmatic smile, remarking that she would have to accompany the Laird. He would, she said, have to 'make do' with Lavender. Bond could not decide if the remark was meant to sound belittling, but Lavender hardly seemed to notice, rising and asking Bond if he would give her a few minutes to get ready.
'The child doesn't get much company.' Mary-Jane slid an arm through Bond's, in a surprisingly familiar manner.
