Licence Renewed

'There aren't many of the right sort around here, and she's impressionable.'

'You make her sound very young and unsophisticated.'

Bond spoke quietly.

'In many ways she is. I've tried-for Anton's sake of course-but I fear unless a good and understanding man arrives in the area, she'll have to go to London or Paris. She needs a good course in sophistication.' She giggled, 'Perhaps if you please the Laird he'll present her to you as a prize.'

Bond gave her a cool, humourless, look.

'Oh come on, I was only joking.' She laughed again.

'Look,' said Bond, trying to change the subject, 'I wonder – do you have a library? I realised last night that I came without any reading matter.'

'Of course. I'll take you there before I go out to join the Laird. But what a pity, James, that you won't allow other things to occupy your nights. No hard feeling about last night, by the way.'

'None for my part,' said Bond, puzzled by her friendliness.

'Pity,' she giggled. Then her expression changed, and he glimpsed the face behind the mask. 'For my part there are a lot of feelings. I said you could avoid trouble, but you refused, James, and you'll be sorry. I have suggested a small test at the Games. Anton agrees. In fact he thought it amusing. You will be matched with Caber at the wrestling, and Caber has his blood up. Given his head, he'd kill you.' Another laugh. 'And just for giving him a bloody nose. How vain men are. But come, I'll show you the library. You may need it, and a lot of bed-rest, when Caber's finished with you.'

The library backed on to the drawing room, and was decorated in light colours. Three of the high walls were covered with books, and there were library steps on fitted rollers for each wall. The fourth wall contained three large, bay windows, each provided with a padded surrounding seat.

It took Bond a few moments to get his bearings and work out how the books were graded – moving the high steps along each wall until he found what he wanted. First, he quickly chose a book to cover his story – snatching one of his old favourites, Eric Ambler's The Mask of Dimitrios, from its place among the novels. Then he made for his real quarry: a thick, beautifully bound copy of Webster's Dictionary, which he dragged out and placed on a large lectern.

Thumbing the volume to the letter W, Bond ran his finger down the lines of words until he came to Warlock. Rapidly he scanned the entry. It gave the usual definition 1: 'One given to black magic: SORCERER, WIZARD. 2: CONJURER.' Then Bond's eyes slid up to the derivations, and his heart skipped a beat. 'Old English - w?loga one that breaks faith, scoundrel, the Devil.'

One that breaks faith? Bond wondered. Could that be it? Was Murik having his own unholy joke in choosing Warlock as his name for the direction of a terrorist operation he had planned? Was he, in turn, scheming to break faith with the international terrorists he had hired through Franco? A man so obsessed by his own brilliance as a nuclear physicist, and feeling snubbed and cheated of his triumph, might well be forced to such lengths.

He was replacing the heavy copy of Webster, when a sound made him whirl around, his hand moving naturally to the hip, where he would normally be carrying a pistol, in the field; realising a fraction of a second later that there was no weapon there.

Lavender stood just inside the library door, wearing a pink creation which gave her a cool, poised look. In one hand she carried a large matching hat. As Bond approached, he saw she was pale under the smoothly applied make-up.

She put her finger to her lips. 'James, he's putting you up against Caber in the wrestling.'

Bond grinned. 'I know, the Mashkin told me with great relish, Dilly.'

'It's not funny. He's asked me to take you out there. He wants us to mingle. Caber knows, and he's after you. The business last night: apparently some of the lads have been pulling his leg. Did you really nearly break his nose?'

'Gave it a butt in the right place. Made it bleed a bit.'

'He'll pound all hell out of you, James. I've seen him in action. He's a rough fighter – knows a lot of tricks. He's got the weight and tremendous strength as well. Making Caber look stupid with a nosebleed could drive him wild with anger.'

'Let me worry about Caber, Dilly darling.' Bond took hold of her hand and squeezed it. 'If you get no other message from me, can you come to my room tonight?'

'I can try.'

'With a way to let me through the main gates?'

'You're going to run?'

'Only if I've got the full story, and it's bad enough to take some definite action. I'll do my damnedest to have enough on your guardian and his crew to bring the law – or worse – into this place. If not, then we'll just have to do some more bundling.'

'You'll be lucky if you're not just a bundle yourself by the end of the morning.'

'I told you -just work out a way for me to get through the gates, and leave Caber to me. If not tonight, then tomorrow night will have to do. Okay?'

She replied with a worried nod; and he could feel her body trembling close to his as they went out through the hall and into the sunlight.

The band of a well-known Scottish regiment was playing on the Great Lawn and already the Games were in full swing. Bond thought the village of Murcaldy would be a ghost hamlet today; and certainly there were many people who had obviously made more lengthy journeys to the Murcaldy Games. Murik did not stint his guests on this occasion: there was free food and drink for all, and plenty of entertainment. Bond was cynical enough to wonder what price the local people had to pay in service – and silence to the Laird for this one day of blatantly feudal fun.

Groups of men and women in Highland costume were preparing to dance, while brawny young men were at the far end of the arena indulging in the incredible sports of tossing the caber and hammer throwing.

Several people doffed their bonnets or bowed to Lavender, showing great respect. Bond also noticed that they glanced at him with undisguised suspicion. Out of long habit and caution, he tried to pick out the more dangerous of the Laird's private army-the big young men with watchful eyes, quiet and careful, silent and alert as loyal mafiosi. Of one thing he was sure: there were a lot of them. For the next couple of hours he remained with Lavender, watching with interest the traditional sports and dancing.

Eventually a crowd started to gather around an area at the castle end of the arena, and Bond allowed himself to be led towards it by Lavender, who whispered that this was where her guardian wanted him.

Mats had been laid down, and he saw the little figure of Murik talking to a group of men on the far side, his mane of hair slightly ruffled, but a smile permanently set on the bulldog face. He spotted Bond and waved cheerfully before making his way towards the pair.

'Well, Mr Bond. My champion is almost ready to take on all comers. Do you feel like facing up to him?'

Bond smiled, pretending the Laird was joking. 'I mean it, Bond.' The trickling deadly lava was back, deep in the eyes. Т want to see what you're made of. If you do well, there may be much in it for you. Can I announce you as the first competitor?'

Now Bond laughed aloud. 'I hardly think I'm his weight, Laird. He'd lay me out with one finger.'

Anton Murik's face was set, grim as a tombstone. 'That's not the point, Bond. I want to see what stuff you're made of-if you've got the guts to go into a wrestling bout with someone as dangerous as Caber. It's not a question of beating him, but standing up to the man, even avoiding him. Guts, Mr Bond, that's what I'm looking for. Guts.'

Bond smiled once more, 'Oh, well,' he spoke casually, 'that puts a different complexion on it. Yes, Laird, I'll take a bout with your champion.'

He heard Lavender's sudden quick intake of breath as Murik gave a tough little grin: 'Good man. Good man,' and disappeared over the mats to the far side of the arena.

In a moment he was back, this time in the centre of the mats, holding up his arms for silence. A hush came over the crowd. The pipes and drums played on in the distance, but for a man of his size the Laird of Murcaldy had a strong, carrying voice. 'Friends,' he shouted. 'As you all know, it's time for the unquestioned Champion of Murcaldy – Champion of the Laird of Murcaldy – to offer himself to anyone who wishes to challenge his right. Give your hands to my Champion, Caber.'