Anton Murik looked shaken – if anything a shade shrunken in height – as he waved Caber away. 'I think not.' He looked hard at the huge Scot. 'You did as you were bidden: brought him back alive. A quick breaking of the neck or an accurate bullet's really too good for him now, Caber. When the time comes…' He gave a thin smile.
They were in a comfortable room, fitted simply with what Bond considered to be Scandinavian furniture stripped pine desk, table and chairs. There was only one padded and comfortable swivel chair, which was Murik's own preserve.
This time they had taken no chances. In the car, Bond had been immediately handcuffed. Now he sat shackled by wrists and ankles. He knew they were inside the Aldan Aerospace offices at the airport, but there were no windows to this room, which Murik had described as 'Spartan, but suitable for our needs'. He added that they had at least one very secure room in the place, 'from which the great Houdini himself could not escape'.
The Laird dismissed Caber and sat, looking at Bond, for a long time. Then he passed a hand over his forehead wearily. 'You must forgive me, Mr Bond. I have been at the hospital, and with the police for some time. Everybody has been most kind.'
'The Franco business?' Bond asked. 'In a way.' Murik gave a bitter little laugh and repeated, 'In a way. You did it then, Bond. Finished off Franco.' 'There was no option. Even though you had cancelled my contract.'
'Yes.' The Laird gave a small sigh, almost of regret. 'Unhappily you have not only interfered a little early, but caused me great grief. Franco's death is, I gather, being treated simply as some gangland vendetta. They have yet to identify him.' He sighed again. 'The common flatworm,' he muttered.
Bond asked coolly if Murik would have mourned greatly had the death been that of his intended victim.
'Not in the least,' Murik flared. 'She is a useless little strumpet. Unnecessary. Mary-Jane was a brilliant scientist…' He lapsed into silence, as though the death of his mistress and its repercussions had only just made themselves felt. Then he repeated, 'The common flatworm.'
Bond pressed home on the man's emotional disadvantage, asking what he meant by the common flatworm.
'Killed her.' The Laird became matter-of-fact now. 'There's no getting away from it, Franco was a clever devil: an organiser of ingenuity and a killer of even greater skill. He explained it to me, Bond, after I had arranged things.'
Franco, it appeared, had access to scientific work on untraceable poisons. In great detail, as if talking to himself, Murik explained. 'For years we've known that a poison produced by the epidermal skin glands of the flatworm brings about cardiac arrest in animals. Very quick. A heart attack. It is only in the last year that an extract removed from the flatworm's skin has been made strong enough to bring about the same reaction in humans. A very small amount will bring on a perfectly natural heart attack in a matter of minutes, or seconds.'
Franco had arranged with his tame scientists to prepare a delivery system for the poison: a gelatine capsule of just the right thickness, fired over a specific distance, through a specific weapon, in this case the powerful Anschutz -22 air rifle. The passage of the projectile, both through the barrel and, at its maximum velocity during its trajectory, would strip some of the gelatine away, leaving only a very thin layer. 'In fact it overshot the calculated distance.' For the first time Murik smiled. 'Yet still worked. A tiny sting-hardly felt by the recipient-but strong enough to just break the skin and inject the poison into the wound. Enough to produce a heart attack -and death.'
Bond asked if the authorities suspected anything. No, not a thing Murik told him. As far as everyone was concerned, Mary-Jane Mashkin had suffered cardiac arrest. 'I have the certificate.' He patted his pocket. 'We shall bury her when Meltdown is complete.' As he said it, the Laird's mood changed, as though he had become his old self again. 'She was a soldier, killed in action for my cause. It would be wrong to mourn. Now, there are more important things to be done. Really, Mr Bond, it is a pity we cannot work together. I have to admit some admiration for you. The play-acting after our arrival at Perpignan airport was worthy of a professional. But, then, it appears that you are a professional of some kind, aren't you?'
'If you say so.' Bond was tight-lipped. It must now be well after one in the morning. Already two attempts to beat Anton Murik had failed. Third time lucky – if there was to be a third time; for the sands were trickling out fast. Less than twelve hours to go before the sinister Laird's Meltdown project went into action, with Warlock leading the way.
Murik leaned forward with one of his little pecking movements. Strange, Bond thought, how the man could look so distinguished, with that mane of white hair, yet give the impression of being a bulldog and a bird at one and the same time.
'The man whose face you smashed up in the telephone booth, Mr Bond.' Murik smiled again. 'He heard the words you used. I can only presume that you are 007 – a code of some kind. Who is M?'
Bond shook his head. 'Haven't the foggiest.'
'Well, I have.' The Laird of Murcaldy leant further across the desk. 'In my time as a nuclear physicist, I too have signed the Official Secrets Act. I have been privy to what the novelists call the secret world. M, if I am correct, is the designation used for the person romantics like to call the head of the British Secret Service.'
'Really?' Bond raised his eyebrows. Put your mind into overdrive, he told himself; knowing that, at the very least, the London headquarters would be able to identify the general locality of his telephone call. If they had already done so, Murik and his crew would have been flushed out by now-a depressing thought. He consoled himself with the fact that M would eventually put his finger on Aldan Aerospace. Yet there was no use pretending. It was going to be a damned close run thing.
Murik was speaking again, and Bond had to pull his attention back to the little man's words. '… not much of a message to M, was it? I don't think we can expect too much trouble from that source.' He gave a little cough, clearing his throat. 'In any case, I am anxious to get Meltdown underway; there's no chance of stopping that chain of events now. Our late, unlamented Franco has seen to that. And my demands will go out the moment I receive information that certain nuclear power stations are in the hands of the departed Franco's fanatical, so-called terrorists.'
'Six nuclear reactions, I believe,' Bond said smoothly. He must do everything possible to ruffle the calm surface of Murik's confidence.
The bulldog face broke into a radiant smile. 'Yes. Six.' He sounded pleased, as though he had pulled off a clever trick.
Push him, thought Bond. 'Six: one in England, one here in France, one in the Federal Republic of Germany, one in East Germany and two in the United States.'
Murik spread his hands. 'Clever, James Bond. So you know the locations; just as I know you cannot have passed them on to anyone who matters.'
The wretched little man refused to be rattled. But Bond would not give up that easily. Quickly he recited the names of the nuclear plants: 'Heysham One; Saint-Laurent-des-
Eaux Two; Nord Two-Two; Esenshamm; Indian Point Three, and San Onofre One.'
'Excellent. Yes, by the time we leave here, just before one o'clock local time, tomorrow afternoon-noon in England- Franco's hardboiled suicide squads will be preparing their individual assaults…'
'Which could go wrong.' Bond wanted to say something about Murik's statement that they were leaving, but held his tongue. Maybe the Laird would spill everything without being pressed. Leaving for where? And how would they leave?
'I very much doubt that,' Murik chuckled. 'Meltdown has been a long time in the making.'
'Good preparation or not, the security on those places just about precludes any serious terrorist activity.' The conversation had become bizarre. Like a pair of wargamers discussing moves. It had about it a distinct air of unreality.
'From within?' Murik asked with mock surprise. 'My dear Bond, you don't think something as important as this has been left to chance. Originally I provided poor Franco with a long list of possible targets. The ones we're going for were chosen because they were the easiest to infiltrate.' He slapped the pine desk with the flat of his hand. 'They were infiltrated about a year ago. We've had to be very patient. A year can seem a long time; but patience pays off. There are four of Franco's contacts working at each of the targets, four trusted people, there now, at each reactor. They all have skills, and they've proved their loyalty, worked hard, done their jobs. Over the year, each person has managed to reach a position where he or she is beyond reproach, his face is known to the security men;
