Anton Murik's voice came soft, and close, in his ear. Ч think you have some explaining to do, Mr Bond. Don't you?'
Bond closed his eyes. 'It's getting so a man can't even go out for a night drive without people shooting at him.'
'Very witty.' Murik sounded anything but amused. 'You killed two of my men, Mr Bond. Making off in secret, with the knowledge you have about my current project, is not the way to keep me as a friend and protector. All previous contracts made with you are cancelled. More to the point, I would like to know your real profession; for whom you work; what your present aim in life happens to be. I may add that I know what your immediate future will be: death; because I am going to bring that about unless you tell us the absolute truth.'
Bond's head was almost clear now. He concentrated on what was happening, feeling some bruising on his body, and a dull ache up the right side of his head. Memory flooded back: the night ride, the helicopter and the trap. He also knew what was going to happen, realising he would require all possible reserves of physical and mental strength.
Start concentrating now, Bond thought. Aloud, he said, 'You know who I am. Bond, James, 259057, Major, retired.'
'So,' Murik purred, 'you accept work from me, and then try to blast yourself out of Murik Castle and the glen. It does not add up, Major Bond. If you
'Got windy,' Bond said, trying to sound tired and casual. In fact he was fully aware now, his mind getting sharper every minute, though he knew the stress of that drive would already have played havoc with him. The fatigue had to be just under the surface.
'Windy?' Murik sneered.
'Fear is not an unknown failing in men.' Concentrate, Bond thought; get your head into the right condition now. I got frightened. Just thought I would slip away until it was all over.'
Murik said he really thought they should have the truth.
There is so little time left.' Bond saw him nod towards Mary-Jane, who stepped forward, closer to the table.
I'm a trained psychiatrist,' Mary-Jane Mashkin drawled. 'And I have one or two other specialities.' Like being a nuclear physicist, Bond thought. Anton Murik's partner in nuclear crime. 'Proper little Jill-of-alltrades,' he muttered.
'Don't be frivolous, Bond. She can make it very unpleasant for you.' Murik leered at him. 'And you should know that we've been through your luggage. As a mercenary and retired army man, you carry very sophisticated devices with you. Interesting.' He again nodded towards Mary-Jane Mashkin, who rolled up Bond's sleeve. He tried to move against the restraining straps, but it was no good.
His mind began to panic, casting around for the right point of mental focus, trying to remember the rules for what one did in a situation like this. A thousand bats winged their way around his brain in confusion.
Bond felt the swab being dabbed on his arm, just below the bicep: damp, cool, the hint of its smell reaching his nostrils. The panic died, Bond conquering the immediate fear of what would come. Focus. Focus. Bond; James. 259057, Major, retired. Straight. Now what should he keep in the forefront of his consciousness? Nuclear power: Murik's own subject. Bond had only an elementary knowledge, but he concentrated on the reading M had made him do before going on this mission. Blot out M. See the book. Just the book with its drawings, diagrams and text. Bond, James. 259057, Major, retired. If they were to use the conventional truth drugs on him, Bond had to remain alert. There were desperate mental counter-measures to interrogation by drugs, and 007 had been through the whole unpleasant course at what they called the Sadist School near Camberley. 'A little Mozart, I think,' Murik's voice called, away from the table. Mary-Jane Mashkin moved, and Bond winced slightly as he felt the hypodermic needle slide into his arm. What would they use? In their situation what would he use? Soap – the Service name for Sodium Thiopental? No, they would risk a more toxic substance.
The book: just keep the pages turning. Lazy. The pages. probably a nice mix – Scopolamine with morphine: twilight sleep, like having a baby.
Bond felt his whole body slowly become independent of his mind. The book. See the pages. Far away an orchestra played. Violins, strings and woodwinds, a pleasant sound with a military rhythm to it; then a piano-all far away.
Walking in the park on a summer Sunday, with the band playing. Lavender was there. Holding hands. Children laughing; the ducks and water fowl. People. Yet he felt alone, even in the crowd, with Lavender-with Dilly -as they floated over the grass near the Mall to the sound of music.
Bond heaved his mind back. Bond, James. What was the next bit? The band played on, and he could smell the expensive fragrance of Lavender's scent as she held his hand tightly. No. No. Bond, James. 259057. Major, retired. The book. Nuclear power plants derive their energy from the splitting-or fission-of the uranium isotope U-235.
The music had changed, more gently, like Dilly's touch on his hand. Drag your mind back, James. Back. Don't let go. Then Lavender was asking the questions. 'James, what do you really do for a living?'
'Bond, James. 259057. Major, retired.' He knew that he should not have trusted her.
'Oh, not that rubbish, James, darling. What do you
Fight, James. Fight it. Even from outside his body. The echo in his own ears was odd, the speech blurred as he said,
In a nuclear plant, steam is produced by the heat coming from the controlled chain reaction occurring inside the uranium fuel rods within the reactor core…' then he was laughing; and the band played on.
'You're talking scribble, James. Did your nanny say that when you were little? Talking scribble? You've got something to do with nuclear power, haven't you? Are you from the Atomic Research? The International Commission? Or the International Atomic Energy Agency in Vienna?'
Think, James, there's something very wrong here. Pull yourself up, you're dreaming and it's getting worse. Feel your body; get into your own mind. Be determined. Beat it. 'Nuclear power is a very expensive way to boil water.' That was what the book said; and there was a diagram next. Fight, James. Do everything they taught you at Camberley.
'Come on, who are you really?' asked Lavender.
'My name…' It wasn't Lavender. The other one was asking the questions. Yet he could smell Lavender's scent; but it was the American woman. What was her name? Mary-Jane? That was it, Mary-Jane Mashkin. Maybe Dilly was straight after all.
In a drowning pall of dark smoke, Bond shouted loudly, 'Bond, James. 259057. Major, retired. That what you want to know, Mary-Jane? 'Cause that's the truth.' He fought hard and stopped there, knowing to go on talking in this floating cloud of uncertainty, would lead him into babbling on like a brook. Brook. Babble. Book.
Another voice cut through, loudly. 'He's resisting. Increase the dosage.'
'You'll kill him. Try rewards.'
'Yes.'
Bond's body seemed to tilt forward. He was sliding down an invisible slope, gathering speed. Then something was pressed against his ears. Headphones. Music poured in on him. Beautiful liquid sounds that slowed up his descent, soothing him. Lord, he was tired. Sleep? Why not? The voice again – 'James Bond?'
'Yes.'
'What are your duties?'
'I am…' No, James, fight, you silly bugger. 'I am 259057… Major, retired…'
The soothing music was still there in his head, and the voice snapped back, 'I want the truth, not that rubbish. When you don't speak the truth, this will happen-'
Bond probably screamed aloud. The noise filled his head. The terrifying blinding noise, the screech and wail. NO… No… No… As suddenly as it started, the horrific, bursting blaze of sound stopped. It had been counterproductive, for Bond felt the nerve ends of his body again, and was quite clear for a few seconds about what was happening. If he gave them evasive answers they would pour the sound into his head again. The sound – high frequency white noise: waves of sound; waves on a nonuniform pattern. They brought pain, distress, and worse.
The soft music had returned, then the voice again. Murik. Anton Murik, Laird of Murcaldy. Bond had regained enough sense to know that.
