Bond continued to play innocent. Anton Murik nodded. 'A nuclear reactor produces its enormous heat from a core – a controlled chain reaction, and as long as it's controlled all is well. However, if there is a failure in the cooling system – a ruptured pipe, a shattered vessel, the coolant lost – that's it. The core is just left to generate more and more heat; create more and more radioactivity…' 'Until it goes off like a bomb?' Despite Anton Murik's fanaticism, Bond found himself absorbed in what the man was saying. Murik shook his head. 'No, not quite like the big bang, but the results are fairly spectacular. One of the great American-born poets wrote, 'This is the way the world ends; not with a bang but a whimper.' The whimper would be a kind of tremor, a rumble, with the earth moving, and one hell of a lot of radioactive particles being released. The core itself would become so hot that nothing could stop it, right through the earth – rock, earth, metal – nothing could stand in its way. Right through to China, Mr Bond; the Pekin Express – and that could happen in any one of the nuclear reactors operating in the world today. The trouble is that
Bond shook his head. 'No, I wouldn't blame you for doing that if your system
'What do you mean?' Murik screamed. 'What do
During the long speeches about nuclear reactors, Bond had managed to steal two more glances at the large map.
The American targets were ringed in red chinagraph. Now he had managed to identify the English and French locations. Heysham One and Saint-Laurent-des-Eaux Two.
What was this man going to do? Was his brilliance so unhinged that he was prepared to expose governments or organisations he hated by sending suicide terrorists into nuclear reactor sites to manufacture disaster that might affect the entire world? Would his madness carry him that far? Meltdown -of course.
Murik was speaking again. 'I have prepared a master plan that will do both of the things I require.' He gestured towards the map, giving Bond the opportunity to take another look, his eyes moving unerringly to Germany.
There it was, marked in red like the others.
Bond experienced a sinking deep in his stomach when he realised that there were two targets marked in the German area,
'I don't know what you mean,' Bond said flatly. Inside, there was a mild sensation of elation. Anton Murik had been fed the entire cover story. 'I mean, you know nothing about me…'
'No?' Murik's eyes clouded, the old dangerous lava flow hot in their depths. 'I think you will find I know far more than is comfortable for you.'
'How…?' 'There are ways, Mr Bond.
'And you used to call him Desperate Dan, yes?'
Bond allowed his face to take on a puzzled expression, 'Yes, but…?' 'And you went into the Guards, like your father before you, like the late Colonel Archie Bond? Correct?'
Bond nodded silently.
'You see, James Bond, I have my informants. I know about your career. I also know about your heroism. I have details of the great courage you displayed while assigned to the SAS…'
'That's confidential information,' Bond blurted out, 'highly classified.'
Murik nodded, unconcerned. 'Like the name of all officers seconded to the Special Air Service – yes. But
Bond allowed his shoulders to slump forward, as though he had been defeated by some clever policeman. 'Okay,' he said softly, 'but how do you know all this about me?'
'By wits and weapons, James Bond: that's how you've lived since the Army let you go,' Murik went on, ignoring the question. 'Apart from mercenary engagements, I can make an informed guess concerning the contract killings you've performed.' M had certainly placed the information well. Bond wondered exactly how Murik's informants had been manipulated as channels for Bond's mythical past. He sat up, his face impassive, as though Murik's knowledge of his supposed profession as mercenary and contract artist was something with which he could deal. 'Okay,' he said again. 'I won't deny any of it. Nor am I going to deny that I'm good at my job. It's not a profession of which a man can be proud, but at least I do it very well. How's Caber?' There was a tinge of malice in his voice. Bond had to show Murik he was unafraid. The Laird of Murcaldy was not smiling. 'Bewildered,' he said coldly. 'Nobody's ever really beaten Caber until today. Yes, you are good, Mr Bond. If you were not, I wouldn't be offering you a sum of ?50,000 for a contract killing now.' 'Who's the lucky client?' Bond assumed a straightforward, professional manner.
'A man called Franco Oliveiro Quesocriado.'
'I don't think I've had the pleasure.'
'No. Probably not. But at least you'll have heard of him. Hijackings, bombings, hostage-taking: his name is often in the papers – his first name, that is. He is said by the media to be the most wanted international terrorist on the books.' 'Ah.' Bond opened his mouth, allowing a flicker of recognition to cross his face.
Murik nodded.
'How do I find him?'
'By staying close to me. There will be no problems. I shall point you in the right direction. All you have to do is remove him – but not until you're told. You will also do it in prescribed way. The moment will come, in the operation I am about to set in motion, for Franco to disappear. Vanish. Cease to exist, leaving no trace.'
'For that kind of money I might even throw in his birth certificate.'
Murik shook his head. In a chilling voice he said, 'That has already been taken care of.
'And the money? How shall I receive it?' he enquired firmly.