Licence Renewed

down yon telephone.' The man was standing very close, pushed up behind Bond.

Primary rule: never approach a man too close with pistol. Always keep at least the length of his leg away. Bond felt a twinge of regret for the man as he first turned slowly, his right hand lowering the telephone receiver, then fast, swinging around to the left, away from the pistol barrel, as he brought the handset of the telephone smashing into the Scot's face. Murik's man actually had time to get one shot away before he went down. The bullet tore through Bond's jacket before ricochetting its way through the telephone booths.

Bond's right foot connected hard with his attacker's face as the man fell. There was a groan, then silence from the figure spreadeagled on the pavement outside the open booth. The blood was quite visible on his face. A telephone, Bond reflected, should be classified as a dangerous weapon. He had probably broken the fellow's nose.

The handset was wrecked. Bond swore as he rammed it back on to the rests. He bent over the unconscious figure to pick up the weapon. Cheeky devil, he thought. The gun was Bond's own Browning, obviously retrieved from the Saab.

In the distance, among the noises of the fete, there came the sound of a klaxon. It could well be a fire engine, but someone might have heard the shot or seen the scuffle.

There had to be another place from which to get a message to M. The last people Bond wished to argue with tonight were the flics. He pushed the Browning into his waistband, turning the butt hard so that the barrel pointed to the side and not downwards, and then set off at a brisk walk crossing the road and returning in the direction from which he had come.

At the Place Arago he stopped for traffic, looking across the road at an elegant poster prominently displayed on the wall of the large cafe. It took several seconds for the poster to register: ROUSSILLON HAUTE COUTURE. GRAND SHOW OF THE NEW ROUSSILLON COLLECTION ON THE NIGHT OF THE FESTIVAL OF OLD ST JOHN. PALACE OF THE KINGS OF MAJORCA. ELEVEN P.M. There followed a list of impressive prices of admission which made even Bond wince. Eleven – eleven o'clock tonight. He gazed wildly around him. A clock over a jeweller's shop showed it was five minutes past eleven already.

Franco… the cat-walk… air rifle… death with a gelatine capsule… Now. M would have to wait. Bond took a deep breath and started to run, trying to recall from his previous visits the quickest way to the ancient Palace, and the easiest clandestine way into it. If he was right, the girl would die very soon. If he was right; and if he did not get there in time to prevent it.

17 DEATH IN MANY FASHIONS

THE PALAIS DES Rois DE MAJORQUE stands on the higher ground at the southern part of Perpignan, and is approached through narrow sloping streets. The original Palace was built on a vast knoll, in the eleventh century, and was later walled in with the citadel-which rises to a height of almost three hundred feet and is wide enough at the top to accommodate a two-lane highway. On the inside, the walls dip to what was once the moat, making the whole a near-impregnable fortress.

Bond had visited the Palace several times before, and knew that the approach is made from the Street of the Archers, up flights of zig-zagging steps, which take the normal sightseer underground, to the main entrance, and then into the large cobbled courtyard. Above the entrance is the King's Gallery, while to the left are apartments closed to the casual visitor. On the right stands the great and impressive Throne Hall, while opposite the entrance runs a cloister with a gallery above it. Behind the cloister stands the lower Queen's Chapel, and above that, off the gallery, the magnificent Royal Chapel, with its series of lancet, equilateral and drop arches.

Above the two chapels the keep climbs upwards to a small bell-tower. This is the extent of the Palace usually on view to the public. Bond knew, however, that there was a further courtyard behind the cloister, gallery, chapels and keep. This area was still used: the yard itself as a depot for military vehicles and the surrounding buildings as billets for some of the local garrison; the bulk of whom lived below the citadel, in the Caserne Marechal Joffre.

On his last visit to the area – some three years before on a skiing holiday in the nearby mountains, Bond had fallen in with a French army captain from the garrison. One night, after a particularly lively apres ski session, the gallant captain had suggested drinks in his quarters, which lay within the second courtyard of the Palace. They had driven to Perpignan, and the Frenchman had shown Bond how easy it was to penetrate the barracks by entering through a narrow alley off the Rue Waldeck-Rousseau, and from there follow the transport road which climbed steeply to the top of the citadel. It was not possible to enter the rear courtyard through the main transport gates, but you could squeeze through a tiny gap in the long terrace of living quarters forming the rear side of the courtyard. It was on that night Bond also learned of the archway through the rear courtyard, which leads straight into the main Palace area.

So it was to the barracks, the Caserne Marechal Joffre, that he was now running as if the plague was at his heels. He knew there was little chance of gaining admittance to the main courtyard by following the normal route. Concerts were held there, and he had few doubts that this was where the Roussillon fashion show was being staged- under bright illuminations, and with the audience seated in the cobbled yard-or occupying the windows in the old royal apartments, the King's Gallery, and the gallery in front of the Royal Chapel.

It took nearly fifteen minutes for Bond to find the alley that led into the barracks, then another five before he could start the gruelling climb up the dusty, wide transport track.

Bond forced himself on – heart pumping, lungs strained and thigh muscles aching from the effort required to move swiftly up the steep gradient.

Above, he could see the burst of light from the main courtyard; while music and applause floated sporadically down on the still air. The fashion show was in full swing.

At last he reached the rear of the buildings that formed the very far end of the second courtyard. It took a few minutes to find the gap and, as he searched Bond was conscious of the height at which he now stood above the town. Far away fireworks still lit up the night in great starbursts of colour, shooting comets of blue, gold and red against the clear sky. Squeezing through the gap, he hoped that the bulk of the garrison would be away, down in the town celebrating with the locals on this feast of feasts.

At last Bond stood inside the dimly lit courtyard. Already his eyes were adjusted to the darkness, and he easily took in the simple layout. The large gateway was to his left, with a row of six heavy military trucks standing in line to its right. Facing the gates in single file and closed up, front to rear, were four armoured Creusot-Loire VAB, transports de troupes, as though in a readiness position. Few lights came from the barrack blocks which made up three sides of the yard. But Bond had few doubts that the transport de troupe crews would be in duty rooms near by.

Keeping to the shadow of the walls, he moved quickly around two sides of the square, to bring himself close to the final dividing wall which backed on to the main palace. He found the archway, with its passage and, stepping into it, he was able to see up the wide tunnel, the darkness giving way to a picture of colour and activity.

If his memory was correct, a small doorway lay to the right of the tunnel. This would take him up a short flight of steps and out on to the gallery in front of the Royal Chapel. He was amazed at the lack of security so far, and could only suppose that Murik had his men posted around the main courtyard or still in the town searching for him. Suddenly, from the shadows, stepped a gendarme, holding up a white-gloved hand and murmuring, 'Monsieur, c'est prive. Avez-vous un billet?'

'Ah, le billet; oui.' Bond's hand went to his pocket, then swung upwards, catching the policeman neatly on the side of the jaw. The man reeled against the wall, a look of surprise in his already glazing eyes, before collapsing in a small heap.

It took a further minute for Bond to remove the officer's pistol, throwing it into the darkness of the tunnel, then to find, and use, the handcuffs, and, finally, gag the man with his own tie. As he left, Bond patted the gendarme's head. 'Bon soir,' he whispered, 'Dormez bien.'

Within seconds he found the doorway and the short flight of steps leading to the gallery. It was not until he reached the elegantly arched passage that the full realisation of his mission's urgency penetrated Bond's consciousness. So far, he had pushed himself on, thinking only of speed and access. Now the lethal nature of matters hit him hard. He was there to save a life and deal with the shadowy Franco – terrorist organiser and unscrupulous killer.