by John Gardner
'They'll have it for you before nine o'clock,' he said wearily.
M looked washed out, his skin like parchment and deep creases of worry around discoloured eyes. 'Nobody seems to know the meaning of urgency any more,' he growled. Deep inside, M had a nasty feeling that they were close to something terrible; even catastrophic. Logic told him that Anton Murik's disappearance, Bond's telephone call, and the fact of the F.B.I, having no trace on Franco, were all linked. Maybe they now stood on the edge of a precipice, constructed during all those meetings between the international terrorist and the former nuclear physicist.
'Duggan's the same,' he snorted. 'Got shirty with me when I reversed my views about him going into Murik Castle. But the issue's been forced now. They had to get some magistrate out of bed to sign the search warrant. Anyway, they've all buzzed off like a swarm of daft bees – Duggan, his men, and a load of Special Branch to lead the way.' He gave a sigh. 'Even so, they won't be able to do anything much before nine either.'
Bill Tanner, worried as he was, tried to make light of it, 'Should've sent a gunboat in the first place, sir.'
M grunted. 'Send some coffee, that's more like it. Get some coffee up now, Chief-of-Staff. Black, hot, sweet and strong. I've got a feeling it's going to be a long hard day.'
19 ULTIMATUM
THEY CAME ARMED, and in strength. Caber and three of the hoods; Caber carrying an automatic pistol, two of the hoods with trays.
'It's a special breakfast the Laird's been pleased to order for ye. He said ye'd understand.' Caber motioned for the trays to be set down, and Bond vividly recalled his conversation with Murik just after their arrival at Perpignan the previous day: about the condemned man eating a hearty breakfast.
The hoods disappeared and Caber backed into the doorway. 'And ye'll no try coming for us wi' them knives and forks when we collect the trays. All of us have got the wee shooters. Naebody's gonna get away this time.'
One of the hoods brayed with laughter from behind him: 'There's only the one way they'll be gettin' oot, eh Caber?'
'Shut yer gob, cretin.' Caber stepped back, swinging the door. Before he could close it, Bond called, 'What about washing and things?'
'Och aye.' Caber pressed something outside the door before slamming it. The great panel of metal thumped home and at the same time a small section of the wall slid back to reveal a little alcove containing the bare necessities- a washbasin, towels and lavatory. Bond examined it, but the alcove was as solid as the rest of the cell. 'I can't shave,' he said, trying to sound bright, 'but at least we'll both be clean.'
The trays contained steaming plates of bacon, eggs, sausages, two large silver pots of coffee, plenty of toast, butter and marmalade-laid out under ornate covers on the Laird of Murcaldy's personal china. Even the glass butter dishes were engraved. 'Butter in a lordly dish,' said Bond, realising that the Biblical quote had sinister undertones – murder of some kind, he seemed to remember: an Old Testament character smiting someone with a tent peg after bringing in his butter. Caber came with guns, not tent pegs.
Lavender pushed her tray away. 'It's no good, James. I can't eat it. I couldn't swallow.'
Bond went over, catching her by the shoulders. 'Dilly, where's your faith, girl? We'll find a way out - I'll find a way out: cling on to that. Murik'll be only too happy if you're frightened and show your fear. You have to fight with strength. Come on.' He had no idea how they could possibly escape, or even stop the events which were now, he knew, rolling inevitably towards what could be a holocaust of tragic and catastrophic proportions. Yet all Bond's experience told him Murik would only be beaten by some show of character.
Lavender swallowed and took in a deep gulp of air. 'Okay,' she nodded.
'At least have some coffee,' Bond said, more kindly.
She gave a little shiver. 'Of course, James. I've come a long way with Anton as well. Let's try and get the bastard.'
Bond set an example, even though he too found it hard to eat. The bacon and eggs stuck in his throat, but he managed to wash it down by consuming cup after cup of coffee, taking in a lot of sugar. At least his body would be provided with something on which to feed; and extra energy was what he needed. Lavender did her best, nibbling on toast and sipping coffee. When they had finished, Bond stretched out on the bed, turning his face away while she completed her toilet and dressed.
He then got himself ready, stripping off and washing from tip to toe. Pity about not being able to shave. If they were to die, he would rather go looking his best. Negative thinking. Bond cursed himself. From now on, it was his duty to be positive and alert; aware of everything going on; ready to take advantage of the smallest chink that showed in Murik's plan or actions.
There was no way of telling the time, but Bond guessed they had been allowed to sleep late. It must now be after midday, French time. The deadline here was one in the afternoon – noon in England. They would not have to wait much longer.
Five minutes later Caber and the other men reappeared. The trays were swiftly removed, and the two prisoners were ordered from the cell at gunpoint. They were taken through silent passages, narrow corridors and finally up steps which led to a metal fire door – Caber striding ahead, opening the door and waving them through.
Bond heard Lavender gasp behind him. They stood in the hangar he had seen on their arrival – a vast structure into which you could have easily fitted a block of houses: huge and echoing, smelling of oil and rubber, its temperature cool from the fans high up among the girders. The most impressive sight, though, was the aircraft standing in the centre, its tail pointing towards the towering roller doors and a yellow tractor already hooked to the nose.
Bond recognised it at once. He also wondered at the sheer size of the aerial monster. It was the massive Lockheed-Georgia C-14-the Starlifter: the great American strategic transport aircraft with a wing span of over forty-eight metres and a length of over forty-four metres, towering to a height of nearly forty feet.
Even the hangar seemed dwarfed by this magnificent brute, decked out in standard United States camouflage, but with the added blue, white, red and yellow insignia of the French Armée de l'Air. Towards the rear of the wide fuselage the words Aldan Aerospace had been added. Below, Bond could see the outline of the huge rear ramp which could be hydraulically lowered, even in flight, for loading or dropping men and materials – tanks, vehicles of all kinds: even helicopters.
Murik could get everything he needed into this beast from technicians to all the electronic equipment he needed for his shielded radio beams. Starlifter was a good name for the aeroplane, Bond thought, saying the word aloud.
'Yes, Mr Bond, the Starlifter.' Murik stood at his elbow, dressed casually in jacket and slacks. 'A good name, I think. Specially modified, of course. You will be interested… It's time to go aboard.'
From the front of the hangar came the sound of the roller doors starting to move. Caber prodded Bond with his pistol, and they began to climb the steps up to the forward doorway, low in the fuselage behind the flight deck.
Murik led the way, and Bond caught sight of the crew through the flight deck window, going through the pre-takeoff check. Two of Murik's men remained at the foot of the steps, while another couple who had been standing near by followed behind Bond, Lavender and Caber.
Inside, the fuselage had obviously been altered to Murik's own specifications. The doorway took them into a brightly decorated canteen with a bar, small round tables and seating capacity for a dozen people. A deep pile carpet lay under their feet and Bond, looking forward, could see two men already at work in a galley.
'I'm afraid you'll not be eating here, with the rest of us,' said Murik, looking from Bond to Lavender. 'That is one pleasure I shall, reluctantly, have to forgo. What will happen in the next hours needs great concentration and timing, so we cannot have you roaming around the aircraft. However, I shall see you do not go hungry or thirsty.' He pointed towards the sliding hatchway leading to the rear of the fuselage. 'I should be grateful
if you would take care when passing through the next section. It contains the intestines of my electronic labours, and is, perhaps, the most important part of the whole project.'
On the far side of this hatchway, the fuselage seemed to narrow and the carpet disappeared. The section ran back down the fuselage for about forty feet, its sides crammed from deck to the upper bulkheads with banks of electronic equipment housed in metal units and high cabinets. Towards the centre there was a recess on either side, with two men in clean white coveralls sitting in each, at complex control consoles. As Murik's party passed Bond asked loudly if they could get Beethoven's Fifth. He was rewarded with a jab from Caber, and a filthy look shot at him by Murik.
At the end of this electronic cave there was another sliding hatchway, which was, to Bond's experienced eye, bullet and fireproof. He judged they had covered just over half the length of the aircraft. Murik paused, his hand on the sliding latch. 'My personal preserve,' he announced, tugging the door to one side. They stepped into a circular area lit by shaded lights, giving off a restful greenish glow. 'The nerve centre of my operation.' Murik gave a smug look around him as the door closed with an automatic hiss. 'This is where I shall control Meltdown.'
Two small oval windows, one each side, had their blinds down to keep out any extraneous light. On either side of the door, facing forward, was a pair of wide curved desks, each backed by another complicated array of electronic wizardry.
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 room, which now had no contact with the outside world.
