Three body-moulded swivel seats were bolted to the deck in front of each of the desk consoles and behind them four seats were ranged, as though for spectators. Leading aft, towards the tail of the Starlifter, another hatchway was outlined in scarlet. In large letters on this door a legend had been stencilled: DO NOT ENTER IF RED LIGHT is ON. Near this exit yet another, smaller passage was visible to the right. Murik gestured towards it. 'The usual offices, as the estate agents say,' he said smiling. 'We have everything on board for a pleasant day trip over the sea. Now, if you'll just take your seats…'
Bond felt Caber's arms gripping him, and at the same time he saw the two other men close in on Lavender.
'You will sit next to me,' said Murik, turning to Bond.
'On my left, I think.'
Caber manhandled Bond into one of the chairs in front of the console on the right of the door-facing forwards- fastening a normal seat belt around his stomach.
'We have made certain modifications to the safety harnesses for you and my ward.' Murik slid into the seat to Bond's right, and as he did so his jacket rode back slightly, revealing a holster behind his hip and the curved butt of a small deadly Colt Python: the four-inch model. Bond could have identified that weapon anywhere. Well, it was something-within reach anyway.
Seconds later, Bond's hopes of the weapon being within reach were dashed.
'Put yer arms behind yer back, Bond,' Caber hissed. He saw a short webbing strap in Caber's paw, then felt his hands being pressed together and the strap encircling his wrists tightly as the big Scot pulled it secure. Then, holding him firmly in the seat, Caber began to fit what Murik called the modified safety harness. Two further webbing belts, anchored to the underside of the seat, were now crossed over Bond's chest and shoulders and pulled hard. He felt them being adjusted and locked somewhere at the back and underneath the seat, holding him immobile.
Murik had clipped on a seat belt, and was already adjusting the console in front of them, his hands moving with professional precision as pin-lights and visual units started to glow. Rising like a snake's head from the centre of the desk was an adjustable microphone, a large 'Speak' button set into a protective box directly in front of it.
Bond studied the row of digital clocks, each marked with a time zone, covering all six locations of the targets. British time showed at ten minutes to noon.
He glanced over to the other console, where Lavender had been fastened in exactly the same way as himself between two of Murik's men, who were now concentrating on the equipment facing them. These, Bond realised, were not just heavies, but trained technicians. At that moment he felt the deck beneath his feet tremble. The yellow tractor was moving, giving the aircraft a push-back from the hangar. Murik looked up. 'I promised you a ringside seat, Bond,' he said, grinning, 'and here it is. Everything.'
Bond turned to see Caber disappearing through the red-outlined hatchway to their rear. He asked where it led, and Murik gave a loud, mocking laugh. 'The exit,' he almost shouted. 'There's a ramp, you know. Everybody's seen pictures of vehicles being driven up that ramp, in the more conventional Starlifter, or parachute troops hurling themselves down it. I had thought of hurling you down it, Bond. Then a better idea came to mind.'
'You didn't say what…?' Bond began, then the first of the four powerful Pratt & Whitney turbo-fans began to throb. The Starlifter was coming alive. The second started; then the third and fourth.
'No, I didn't say.' Murik glanced at the instruments in front of him. 'But all in good time.'
Caber returned and nodded to Murik, as though passing a message. 'Good,' said Murik in acknowledgment. Then, pointing to the seat on his right, he commented that Mary-Jane should have been sitting in it. 'She's here in spirit, though.' He did not smile. 'Sorry about the restraint, Bond, but I felt it necessary. My people were working on those harnesses all night, putting in the locks and releases, well out of anybody's reach under the seats.'
The engines surged, one after another, then synchronised and the aircraft swayed along the taxiway. A metallic click from somewhere in the roof near the main entrance signalled contact being made from the flight deck. 'Captain to all crew and passengers of Aldan Five-Six.' The voice was English, with a drawl. One is usually wrong about putting invisible figures to voices, but it immediately made Bond think of a rather slim, tall, louche-looking man with long hair, starting to thin and bald. 'Please fasten your seat belts and extinguish cigarettes. We shall be taking off shortly.'
'And it's going to be a bumpy ride,' muttered Bond.
The British-time digital clock clicked towards 11.54 as the engines settled, then rose into a blasting roar as their combined 84,000 pounds ' static thrust pushed the crew and two captives back into their seats.
As the aircraft ceased bumping along the runway, tipping itself smoothly into its natural element, Murik leaned over, placing a pair of foam-padded headphones over Bond's head. 'You will hear everything; and I shall also be able to speak to you through these.' He raised his voice. 'A running commentary, like the Boat Race.' He glanced towards the time displays. British time showed two minutes before noon. 'The witching hour.' Murik's chuckle had begun to irritate Bond. 'Very soon you'll hear the terrorist squads making their reports.'
Less than five minutes before the Starlifter rose from the runway at Perpignan, events were taking their course the world over. M, having now received information regarding the location of Bond's call, had checked on all possible connections with Anton Murik. His investigation led naturally to Aldan Aerospace (France), Inc. and their headquarters at Perpignan airport.
There had been rapid telephone calls to Paris and through the various police and security networks, to Perpignan itself. It had, however, been slow work, and a van carrying members of the SDECE-the French Secret Service-together with a squad of armed police was only now tearing towards the airport.
They had received further encouraging news at the Regent's Park headquarters. A Mary-Jane Mashkin, close friend of Dr Anton Murik, had died of a heart attack in the middle of a fashion show in Perpignan; while the body of a man – originally thought to be the victim of a gangland shoot-out near the fashion show – had been identified as the much-wanted terrorist known as Franco.
'007's work, sir?' Bill Tanner was not really asking.
'Could be. Two of 'em out of it, anyway.'
'Then there's a very good chance…' Tanner began.
'Don't count your chickens, Chief-of-Staff. Never do that. We could still be too late, fiddling around half the night waiting for information. Time's not with us.' On M's orders, several of his own officers were now on their way, by military aircraft from Northolt. All too late. Just as M had predicted.
A little over sixty miles from Paris, not far from the city of Orleans, deep under the vast complex which makes up the nuclear power stations known as Saint-Laurent-des-Eaux One, Two and Three, certain people were quietly going through a well-rehearsed routine.
Two men tending the large turbine of Plant Two left their normal posts at just before twelve-fifty. A maintenance man, whose job was to keep the air conditioning system in good repair, excused himself from the duty room where he had been playing cards with three of his colleagues. The security man at the entrance leading down to the main control room some fifty feet below ground waited anxiously while the other three made their way along the pipe-lined, stark passages, picking up pieces of cached equipment as they went. At two minutes before one, French time, they met at the head of the emergency stairs near the elevator shaft and went down one flight to the gallery immediately outside the plant's control room, where they joined their companion, the security guard. It was one minute to one.
Inside the control room, the half a dozen men who watched the dials and controlled the flow of power, keeping an eye open for any unexpected fluctuation or change in the system, went about their work normally. One of them turned, shouting irritably at the security man as he opened the large main door. 'Claude, what are you doing? You know you're not allowed…' He stopped, seeing the automatic pistol pointing at him, and a second man with a folding stock Heckler & Koch sub-machine gun, its barrel sweeping the room.
The security man called Claude was the only one to speak: 'Hands on your heads. Stand away from all equipment. Now. Move, or you will be killed. We mean it.'
The tone of his voice convinced the six men. Flustered, they dropped clipboards and pens, clamped their hands to their heads and stepped clear of any piece of monitoring equipment. So hypnotised were they by the weapons that it is doubtful if they even saw the other two men slip past their comrades, and move quickly and unerringly to two points in the room. In a matter of seconds these two were giving the thumbs-up sign to their armed colleagues. They had cut off all links with the outside world by severing the communications cables and pulling the external control override switches. The reactor operating at Saint-Laurentdes-Eaux Two could be handled only from this
