by John Gardner
Mary-Jane Mashkin laughed – a deep, throaty sound but Dr Anton Murik merely smiled. 'Of course he did it.'
Bond saw that Murik's smile did not light up his eyes.
'Well, Mr Bond, my horse has won for you. I'm pleased.'
'Not as pleased as I am,' said Bond, quickly, as though blurting out something he would rather have kept hidden.
It was just enough to interest Murik-the hint of a man rather in need of hard cash.
'Ah,' the Laird of Murcaldy nodded. 'Well, perhaps we'll meet again.' He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, producing a business card. 'If you're ever in Scotland, look me up. I'd be glad to provide some hospitality.'
Bond looked down at the card bearing Anton Murik's address and again feigned surprise. 'Another coincidence,' he said, smoothly.
'Really?' Murik was ready to go. After all, he had just won the Ascot Gold Cup and wanted his moment of triumph. 'Why another coincidence?'
'I leave for Scotland tonight. I'll be in your area in a couple of days.'
The slate eyes grew even cooler. 'Business or pleasure?'
'Pleasure mostly. But I'm always open for business.' He tried to make it sound desperate. 'What kind of business, Mr Bond?' Bond hesitated slightly, timing the pause. 'The contracting business.'
'And what do you contract?'
Bond looked at him levelly. 'Myself as a rule. I'm a soldier. A mercenary – up to the highest bidder. There, that'll be the end of our acquaintance, I expect. We're a j dying breed.' He gave a short laugh at his grim little joke. 'People don't take too kindly to mercenaries these days.'
Anton Murik's hand closed around Bond's forearm, pulling him to one side, away from the two women. 'I am not averse to your profession, Mr Bond. In fact I have been known to employ mercenaries in a way – gamekeepers, people on my estates. Who knows, I may even have a place for a man like yourself. To me, you look tough enough. Come to Murik Castle. On Monday we have a little annual fun. Most of the land and the nearby village – Murcaldy – is mine. So each year we hold our own version of the Highland Games. You know the kind of thing- the caber, the hammer, shot-putting, a little dancing, wrestling. You will enjoy it.' This last sentence was almost an order.
Bond nodded, as Murik turned towards the ladies. 'We must go down, greet China Blue, and accept our just rewards. Mary-Jane, Lavender, you will be seeing Mr Bond again soon. He's kindly consented to come and stay-for the Games.'
As they left the box, Bond was aware of a mildly sardonic look in Mary-Jane Mashkin's eyes.
'Thank you again-for the pearls, I mean, Mr Bond,' Lavender said. 'I look forward to seeing you soon.' There was something odd about the way she phrased the parting sentence, as though she meant what she said but was hinting some warning. Lavender, Bond thought, appeared at first meeting to be a woman with some hidden fear below the charming, easy and poised exterior.
The Laird of Murcaldy did not even look at Bond again -leaving the box in his quick, birdlike manner without a word or backward glance.
Bond stood, looking after them for a moment, wondering about Murik's personal version of the Highland Games, and the part he might be expected to play in them. Then he went down to collect his winnings from a suitably impressed Honest Tone Snare, before making a short doubletalk telephone call to Bill Tanner; and another to the Central Hotel in Glasgow, booking himself a room for the following morning: stressing that he would need to use it immediately on arrival, which he hoped, would be in the early hours.
The Laird of Murcaldy would doubtless be flying his party back to Scotland. Bond did not want to be far behind them. Neither did he wish to arrive at Murik Castle without rest and time for reflection.
Slipping the leather strap of his glasses' case over one shoulder, James Bond walked as casually as he could towards the car park.
7 KING OF THE CASTLE
DURING THE FURIOUS night drive north Bond had plenty of time to puzzle over Anton Murik's win with China Blue. Horses for courses, he thought. But that horse had not looked fit enough for any course. How, then, had it romped home at Ascot? The only possible explanation lay in the old trick of having China Blue pulled back by his jockey in earlier races-not displaying his true form until the strategic moment. But perhaps the real answer would be found, with the others he sought, at Murik Castle.
The journey to Glasgow was without incident. Bond went flat-out on the motorway sections, managing to avoid police speed traps, and stopping to refuel at a couple of all-night motorway service areas.
He was parked, settled into his room at the Central Hotel, and eating a breakfast of porridge, scrambled eggs, toast and coffee, by nine in the morning. He then hung out the 'Do not disturb' sign and slept like a baby, not waking until seven that evening.
After a lengthy study of the Ordnance Survey maps to plan the route, Bond went down and dined in the hotel's Malmaison Restaurant – named after Napoleon and Josephine's retreat, and one of the best French restaurants in Scotland. Bond, however, had no desire for rich food that evening, and settled for a simple meal of smoked salmon followed by a fillet steak with a green salad. He drank only Perrier water. He was determined to do most of the journey by night- travelling like one crossing a desert in secrecy.
He was on the road, with the bill paid, by ten thirty, heading north on the A82, which took him right alongside the waters of Loch Lomond. Early on the following morning, Bond stopped for a day's rest, at a village just short of Loch Garry – having switched to the A87 that would eventually lead him as far as the coastal lochs, and those narrow roads with frequent passing places, around the western seaboard.
He reached a wooded area just to the east of Loch Carron early the next morning, and having parked the Saab well out of sight among trees, remained at rest through a day of pale blue skies and the scent of pine and heather, knowing that as soon as dusk set in, the village of Murcaldy, and from there Murik Castle, would only be a matter of seventy or eighty minutes' drive. He had brought pies and some fruit, together with more Perrier water, not wanting to chance anything stronger at this stage of the operation.
Having concentrated on making the journey in good and safe time, Bond so far had not been able to savour the views or delight in the beauties of Scotland. Indeed, there had been no opportunity while doing most of his travelling by night. So now he lay back, adjusted the driving seat, dozing and eating as the sun slid across the sky and began to settle behind the trees and hills.
While there was still light, Bond began to make his emergency preparations, unlocking the boot and transferring a packet of cigarettes from Q Branch's prepared briefcase to his pocket. Only six of the cigarettes were of any use to a smoker, the remainder being cut short to hide an easily accessible compartment into which four pre-set electronic microbugs nestled comfortably. If Bond was to be a walking surveillance unit within the Murik household, he might well need assistance; and the small receiver for these bugs – complete with tape and minute headset -remained in one of Q'ute's ingenious hiding places in the luggage.
He also made certain that the pen alarm was still in his pocket, and that the fake Dunhill lighter- dangerous to the point of immobilising any grown man for the best part of an hour-was well separate from his own, real lighter.
The rest of his weaponry remained locked away in the safety compartments of the car. The only other tools he required were to hand – the Bausch & Lomb field glasses and the strap-on Nitefinder headset.
As the last traces of daylight vanished and the first stars began to show in the wide sky, Bond started the Saab, turning the car in the direction of Applecross, skirting Loch Carron in the knowledge that his destination was not far away and there was cause for him to be alert. He made good time, and seventy minutes later the Saab was crossing the small bridge at Murcaldy, leading directly into the one village street with its quaint, neat rows of cottages, the two shops, inn and kirk.
Murcaldy was situated on a small river at one end of a wide glen, the sides of which, Bond could see by
the now risen and bright moon, were devoid of trees. Ahead, at the far end of the glen and above the village, the castle stood against the sky like a large outcrop of rock.
The village appeared to be deserted except for occasional lights from the cottages, and Bond calculated that it took him less than forty-five seconds to travel through this little cluster of buildings. At the far end, near the kirk, the narrow road divided, a signpost pointing its two fingers in a V. Murik Castle lay directly ahead, up the glen; the other sign showed an equally narrow track leading back towards the road to Shieldaig, though Bond considered the track would eventually meet yet another narrow road, with its inevitable passing places, before one was really on the main A896 to that small town. The track thus marked, however, would have to follow the line of the glen to the east, so would probably lead him to a vantage point from which he could gain a view of the castle.
Pausing for a second, Bond slipped the infra-red Nitefinder kit over his head so that the little protruding glasses sat comfortably on his nose. Immediately the moonlit night became as clear as day, making the drive along the dry track a simple matter. He switched off the headlights and began to move steadily forward. The track dipped behind the eastern side of the glen, but the upper storeys of the castle were still visible above the skyline.
Both village and castle had been built with an eye to strategy, and Bond had little doubt that his passage through Murcaldy had already been noted. He wondered if it had also been reported to the Laird.
At last Bond reached a point which he considered to be parallel to the castle. Stopping the car, he picked up the binoculars and, with the Nitefinder headset still in place, got out and surveyed the area. To his right he could clearly see low mounds of earth, just off the track and running for about a hundred yards, as though somebody had been doing some fresh digging.
He paused, thinking he should investigate, but decided the castle must be his first concern. Turning left, Bond walked off the track and made his way silently towards the rolling eastern slope of the glen.
The air was sweet with night scents and clear air. Bond moved as quietly as possible, almost knee-deep in gorse, bracken and heather. Far away a dog barked, and there came the call of some predatory night bird beginning its long dark hunt.
On reaching the top of the rise, Bond stretched himself out and looked around. He could see clearly down the glen to the village, but it was impossible to gain any vantage point above the castle, which lay about a mile away in a direct line, having been built on a wide plateau. Far away behind the castle he could just make out the jutting peak of Beinn Bhan breasting itself almost three thousand feet above sea level.
Taking up the binoculars, Bond adjusted them against the Nitefinders and began to focus on the Murik Castle. He could see that half-way along the glen the track from the village became a metalled road, which ended at a pair of wide gates. These appeared to be the only means of access to the castle, which otherwise was surrounded by high granite walls, some apparently original, other sections built by later hands. Indeed, most of the present castle seemed to have undergone vast reconstruction. To the rear Bond could just make out what could well be the ruins of the original keep; but the remainder looked more like a great Gothic-style heap, beloved of Victorians – all gables and turrets.
Three cars stood in front of what was obviously the main door -a wide structure with a pillared portico. The castle seemed to be set in the midst of large formal gardens, and the whole aspect produced a half-sinister, half-Disneyland quality. Craning forward, Bond could just make out the edge of a vast lawn to the right of his view. He thought he could glimpse the corner of a marquee. For tomorrow's Games, he presumed. Well, Dr Anton Murik certainly had a castle and, no doubt, acted like a king in it.
Bond was just about to get to his feet, return to the car, drive back and present himself at King Murik's court, when he realised, too late, that he was not alone.
They had come upon him with the craft and experience of professional hunters, materialising from the ground like spirits of the night. But these were not spirits – particularly their leader who now loomed huge above him.
'Spyin' on Murik Castle, eh?' the giant accused him in a broad Scots accent.
'Now wait a minute…' Bond began, raising a hand to remove the Nitefinder kit; but, as he moved, so two hands, the size of large hams, grasped him by the lapels, and he was lifted bodily into the air.
'Ye'll come guy quiet wi' us. Right?' the giant said.
Bond was in no mood for going quietly with anybody. He brought his head down hard, catching the big man on the forward part of his nose bridge. The man grunted, letting go of Bond, who could see the butt had been well placed. A small trickle of blood had begun to flow from the man's nostrils.
'I'll kill ye for – ' The man was stopped by another voice from behind them.
'Caber? Hamish? Malcolm? What is it?'
Bond instantly recognised the slight nasal twang of Mary-Jane Mashkin. 'It's Bond,' he shouted. 'You remember, Miss Mashkin. We met at Ascot. James Bond.'
She appeared, like the others, suddenly as though from the ground. 'My God, Mr Bond, what're you doing here?' She peered at the giant. 'And what's happened to you, Caber?'
'Yon man gied me a butt to the neb,' he muttered, surly. Mary-Jane Mashkin laughed. 'A brave man, doing something like that to Caber.'
'I fear your man thought I was a poacher. He-well, he lifted me up, and became generally aggressive. I'm sorry. Am I trespassing?'
Caber muttered something which sounded belligerent, as Mary-Jane Mashkin spoke again, 'Not really. This track is a right-of-way through the Laird's land. We've been, doing a little night hunting, and looking at the digging.' She inclined her head towards the other side of the track where Bond had seen the low earth piles. 'We've just started working on a new drainage system. Just as well you didn't wander that way. You could've stumbled into a pretty deep pit. They've dug down a good fifteen feet, and it's over twelve feet wide.' She paused, coming closer to him so that he caught the scent of Madame Rochas in his nostrils. 'You didn't say why you were here, Mr Bond.'
'Lost,' Bond raised his hands in a gesture of innocence.
He had already slipped the Nitefinder set from his head, as though it was the most natural thing to be wearing. 'Lost and looking for the castle.'
'Which I guess you found.'
'Found, and was observing.'
She put a hand on his arm, 'Then I think you'd better take a closer look, don't you? I presume you were coming to visit.'
'Quite,' Bond nodded. In the darkness the men shuffled and Mary-Jane Mashkin gave some quick orders. There was, apparently, a Land Rover up the track a little way. 'I'll guide Mr Bond down and you follow,' she told Caber, who had calmly relieved Bond of the Nitefinder set.
'You should have taken the track straight ahead at the village,' she said when they were settled in the Saab and moving.
'I gathered that.'
The Land Rover was close behind as they swept up to the gates. A figure appeared to open up for them, and Mary-Jane Mashkin told Bond they kept the gates closed at night, and on special locks. 'You can never tell. Even in an out-ofthe-way place like this, where we know everybody, some stranger might…'
'Come in and ravage you all?' Bond grinned.
'Could be fun,' she laughed. 'Anyhow, it's nice to know we have a guest like yourself, Mr Bond – or can I call you James?'
'No need for formality here, I suppose,' said Bond as they came up to the main door with its great pillared porchway.
Behind them, Caber and the men called Hamish and Malcolm were climbing down from the Land Rover. Mary-Jane Mashkin called out for Hamish to inform the Laird, then turned to Bond, 'If you let Caber have your keys he'll take your luggage in, James.'
But Bond had carefully locked the door. 'I think the luggage can wait.' He made a courteous gesture towards the door of the castle. 'After being taken for a poacher, or a spy, the Laird might not want me…' He stopped,
for the small, birdlike figure of Dr Anton Murik was emerging from the castle. He peered forward for a moment. Then his face lit up.
'Why, it's Mr Bond. You've come as promised – Good heavens, what happened to your nose, Caber?'
The big man was still dabbing blood away with his handkerchief. 'My fault, I'm afraid,' said Bond. 'Sorry, Caber, but you were a little over-enthusiastic.'
'I thocht yon man was some kindo' spy, or a poacher, Laird. I didna ken he was a visitor. Mind, he acted strange.'
'Get him to bring your luggage in, Mr Bond,' Murik smiled, and Bond repeated that it could wait. He had no desire for Caber to be messing about with the car.
'Fine,' beamed Murik. 'No need to lock anything here. We'll collect the bags later. Come in and have a dram,' and, with a sharp order to Caber and his henchman to look after the Saab, Murik ushered Bond through the gloomy porch-way.Mary-Jane Mashkin had already gone ahead, and as they crossed the threshold, Murik gave a small cackle of laughter. 'May have made an enemy there, Bond. Caber doesn't take kindly to being bested. You gave him a little nose bleed as well. Not good. Have to be careful.'
8 VIRGIN ON THE ROCKS
LATER BOND CONSIDERED that, in all probability, he had expected the Victorian Gothic gloom of the porchway to be reflected in the interior of Murik Castle-Landseer and deer antlers. He was, therefore, greatly surprised by the dazzling sight that met his eyes.
From the brooding exterior he was suddenly transported into another world. The hall, with its vast circular staircase and surrounding gallery, was decorated in shimmering white, the doors being picked out in black, and the matching white carpet underfoot giving Bond the impression that he was sinking into a soft, well-kept lawn.
The lower part of the walls was decorated, with elegant sparseness, by a series of highly polished, mint-condition halberds, ronchas, bat's wing corsèques, war forks and other thrusting weapons of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, which gleamed under the light thrown from a huge steel candelabra of intricate modern design. The arrangement was in no way cluttered or overdressed.
