James Bond - Licence Renewed Part 11

15.

Gone away

As he was sitting towards the rear of the aircraft, it was impossible for Bond even to attempt to follow a flight path. Most of the time they had been above layers of cloud; though he was fairly certain that he had caught a glimpse of Paris through a wide gap among the c.u.mulus about an hour after takeoff.

Now, hunched between two of Murik's muscular young men, he watched the wing tilt and saw that it seemed to be resting on sea. Craning forward, Bond tried to get a better view from the executive jet's small window: the horizon tipping over, and the sight of a coastline far away. A flat plain, circled by mountains; pleasure beaches, and a string of white holiday buildings; then, inland, knots of houses, threading roads, a sprawl of marshy-looking land and, for a second only, a larger, old town. Memories flicked through the card index of his mind. He knew that view. He had been here before. Where? They were losing alt.i.tude, turning against the mountains, inland. The jagged peaks seemed to wobble too close for comfort. Then the note of the engines changed as the pilot increased their rate of descent.

Lavender sat at a window, forward, hemmed in by one of Murik's private army. The Laird had brought four of his men on board, plus Caber acting as their leader. At this moment Caber's bulk seemed to fill the aisle as he bent forward, taking some instructions from Murik, who had spent the entire flight in a comfortable office area with Mary-Jane, situated just behind the flight deck door. Bond had watched them, and there seemed to have been much poring over maps and making of notes. As for Lavender, he had been allowed no contact, though she had looked at him with eyes that seemed to cry out for help; or beg forgiveness Bond could not make up his mind which.

The journey had started on the dot of eight o'clock, when Caber and his men arrived at the East Guest Room. They were reasonably civil as they led Bond down into the main building, through the servants' quarters to the rear door where Caber gave instructions for him to be handcuffed shackled between two men. Outside what was obviously the tradesman's entrance a small man loitered near a van, which looked as if it had been in service since the 1930s. Faded gold lettering along the sides proclaimed the van belonged to Eric MacKenzie, Baker and Confectioner, Murcaldy. So. Anton Murik was taking no chances. The baker's van; a cla.s.sic ploy, for the baker would, presumably, call daily at the castle. Any watchers would regard the visit as normal. Routine was the biggest enemy of surveillance. Simple and effective; the ideal way to remove Bond without drawing any attention. He was dragged quickly to the rear of the van, which was empty, smelling of freshly baked bread, the floor covered with a fine patina of flour. Caber was the last of Bond's guards to climb in, pulling the doors behind him and locking the catch from the inside. The giant of a man gave a quick order for Bond to stay silent, and the van started up. So the journey began uncomfortably, with Bond squatting on the floor, the flour dust forming patches on his clothes. It was not difficult to detect that they were making a straightforward journey from the castle to the village, for the direction was plain, and the changes in road surface could be felt in the b.u.mping of the van. Finally it started to slow down, then made a painful right-hand turn as though negotiating a difficult entrance. Eric MacKenzie, if it was he, had problems with the gearbox, and the turn was orchestrated by many grinds and judders. Then the van crawled to a stop and the doors were opened.

Caber jumped down, ordering everybody out with a harp flick of his ma.s.sive head. The van was parked in a small yard, behind wooden gates. The tell-tale smell of bread pervaded the atmosphere outside, just as it had done in the van. Bond thought you did not have to be a genius, or Sherlock Holmes, to know they were in MacKenzie's yard, somewhere in the middle of Murcaldy village.

Parked beside them, facing the wooden gates, was a dark blue Commer security truck with the words Security International stencilled in white on both sides. The Commer looked solid and most secure, with its grilled windows around the driver's cab, the thick doors, reinforced b.u.mpers and heavy panels along the most vulnerable points.

Bond was now bundled into the back of the security truck, Caber and his men moving very quickly, so that he only just caught sight of a driver already in the cab, with a man next to him, riding shotgun.

This time Caber did not get in. The doors closed with a heavy thud, and one of the men to whom Bond was handcuffed operated the bolts on the inside.

There were uncomfortable wooden benches battened to either side of the interior, and Bond was forced on to one of these, still flanked by the personal guards. These well-built, stone-faced young men did not seem inclined to talk, indicating they were under orders to remain silent. Bond admitted to himself that Murik really was good on his security, even ruling out the possibility of their prisoner starting to build up some kind of relations.h.i.+p with the guards. When he tried to speak, the young heavy on his left simply slammed an elbow into his ribs, telling him to shut up. There would be no talking.

The journey in the security van lasted for almost six hours. There were no windows in either the sides or the front - connecting with the driver's cab - and it was impossible to see through the small grilled apertures in the rear doors.

All Bond could do was try to calculate speed and mileage. All sense of direction was lost within the first hour though he had some idea they were moving even farther north. When they finally stopped, Bond calculated they had come almost two hundred miles - a slow, uncomfortable journey. It was now nearly three in the afternoon, and when the doors of the truck were unbolted and opened, Bond was surprised to see Caber already waiting for them. A sharp breeze cut into the truck, and Bond felt they were probably on an area of open ground. Again it was impossible to tell, for the rear of the truck had been backed up near to a small concrete building, only a pace or so from a pair of open doors. The view to left and right was screened by the truck's doors, now fully extended. n.o.body spoke much, and almost all the orders were given by grunts and sign language - as though Bond was either deaf or mentally deficient. Inside the concrete building they led him along a narrow pa.s.sage with, he noted, a slight downward slope. Then into a windowless room where, at last, the handcuffs were removed and the freedom of a wash room was allowed; though this too had no windows, only air vents fitted high, near the ceiling. Food was brought - sandwiches and coffee - and one of the guards remained with him, still impa.s.sive, but with his jacket drawn back from time to time so the b.u.t.t of a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38 was visible. It looked to Bond like one of his own old favourites, the Centennial Airweight. From the moment of departure from the castle, Bond's mind hardly left the subject of a possible breakaway. This, however, was no time to try anything - locked away in what seemed to be a very solidly built bunker, in an unknown location, kept close with armed men and the giant Caber. He thought about Caber for a moment, realising that, if they had been through all his effects, the huge Scot would know the secret of Bond's success in the wrestling match. Caber was going to be a problem; but at least things were moving, and Bond had been heartened by one item of his clothing they had returned to him - his thick leather belt the secrets of which he had checked, to find they had not been discovered.

In his luggage there were three belts of different design and colour, each containing identical items of invaluable a.s.sistance. Q Branch had constructed the belts in a manner which made their contents practically undetectable - even under the most advanced Detectorscope, such as the sophisticated J-200 used extensively by Bond's own service. With everything else - watch, wallet and the rest-removed, he at least had the fall-back.

Bond sat looking at his guard, giving him the occasional smile, but receiving no reaction. At last he asked the young Scot if he could be allowed a cigarette. The man merely nodded, keeping his eyes on Bond as he withdrew a packet of cigarettes and tossed one towards O07's feet. Bond picked it up and asked for a light. The man threw over some book matches, telling him to light up, then drop the book on to the floor and kick it back. There would be no blazing-matches-in-the-face routine.

At around four o'clock there were noises from above - a helicopter very low over the building, chopping down for a landing. Then, a few minutes later, Caber entered with the other guards. 'Ye'll be joining the Laird now,' he was ordering Bond, not telling him. 'It's only a wee walk, so ye'll not be needing the irons. But I warn ye: any funny business, and ye'll be scattered to the four winds.' Caber sounded as if he meant every word, and would be more than happy to do the scattering personally.

Bond was marched up the pa.s.sage, between his original guards, and through the door. The security truck had gone, and they were standing on the edge of a small airfield. It was clear now that they had come out of the bas.e.m.e.nt of pat must be a control tower. A couple of Piper Cubs and an Aztec stood near by.

Away to the left Bond saw the helicopter, which he presumed was from Murik Castle. In front of them, at the end of a metalled runway, a sleek executive jet s.h.i.+vered as if in antic.i.p.ation of flight, its motors running on idle. It looked like a very expensive toy - a Grumman Gulfstream, Bond thought - in its glossy cream livery with gold lettering which read Aldan Aeros.p.a.ce, Inc. Bond recalled the company's name in the dossier on Anton Murik which M had shown him. Caber nodded them towards the jet and, as they walked the few yards - at a smart pace - Bond turned his head. The neat board on the side of the control tower read: Aldan Aeros.p.a.ce, Inc. Flying Club: PRIVATE. Anton Murik and Mary-Jane Mashkin were already seated, as was Lavender with her minder, when they climbed into the roomy littlejet. The pair did not even turn around to look at their captive, who was placed with a guard on either side, as before. A young steward pa.s.sed down the aisle, fussily checking seat belts, and it was at this point that Lavender turned to lock eyes with Bond. During the flight she repeated the action several times, on two occasions adding a wan smile. They had hardly settled down when the door was slammed shut and the aircraft moved, pointing its nose up the runway. Seconds later the twin Rolls-Royce Spey jets growled, then opened their throats, and the aircraft began to roll, rocketing off the runway like a single seat fighter, climbing rapidly into a thin straggle of cloud. Now they were reaching the end of the journey, with the sun low on the horizon. The mountains were above them, seeming to lower over the bucking aircraft. Bond still peered out, trying to place their location. Then, suddenly, he recognised the long, flat breast of the mountain to their left. The Canigou. No wonder he recognised it, knowing the area as well as he did. Roussillon - that plain circled with mountains, and bordering on the sea, hunched against Spain. They were in France, the Pyrenees Orientales, and the old town he had spotted was the ancient, one-time seat of the Kings of Majorca, Perpignan. He should have spotted the towers that remained of the old wall and the vast fortress which had once been the palace set among the cl.u.s.tered terracotta roofs and narrow streets.

Roussillon? Roussillon Fas.h.i.+ons. The blurred and sporadic conversation, overheard after the bug had been dislodged from Murik's desk, came back to Bond. It was down there at the ancient palace, dating from medieval times, when the area had been an independent kingdom, ruled over by the Kings of Majorca, that Franco was to administer death: through a high-powered air rifle on Wednesday night - tonight - the day before Operation Meltdown. The target? Bond knew with fair certainty who the target would be. The situation was altered beyond recognition. Whatever the risk, he must take the first chance, without hesitation. More than at any time during the whole business, Bond had to get free.

Of course. They were on the final approach to Perpignan airport, near the village of Rivesaltes, and only three or four miles from the town itself. Bond had even been here in winter, for the skiing, as well as spending many happy summer days in the area.

The engines flamed out and the little jet bustled along the main runway, slowing and turning to taxi away from the airport buildings, out towards the perimeter of the airfield.

The aircraft turned on its own axis and finally came to a halt, the guard next to Bond placing a firm restraining hand on his arm. The top bra.s.s were obviously going to disembark first.

As Murik came level with Bond, he gave a little swooping movement and his bulldog face split into a grin. 'I hope you enjoyed the flight, Mr Bond. We thought it better to have you with us, where we can keep an eye on you during this most important phase. You will be well looked after, and I'll see that you get a ringside seat tomorrow.'

Bond did not smile. 'A hearty breakfast for the condemned man?' he asked.

'Something like that, Mr Bond. But what a way to go!'

Mary-Jane, following hard on Murik's heels, gave a twisted little smirk. 'Should've taken up my offer when the going was good, James.' She laughed, not unpleasantly.

Murik gave a chirpy smile. 'We shall see you anon, then ' and he was off, doing his little bird hop down to the door.

For the first time Bond was one hundred per cent certain about Lavender. He looked up, giving her a broad, encouraging grin as she pa.s.sed down the aircraft, her brawny escort's hand clamped hard on to her arm. A flicker of nervousness showed in her eyes, then the warmth returned, as though Bond was willing courage and strength into the girl.

They were parked alongside a huge hangar, with adjacent office buildings, topped by a neon sign that read Aldan Aeros.p.a.ce (France), Inc. Bond wondered what had prompted Murik to choose this Catalan area - the Roussillon - as his headquarters for this part of Europe. Roussillon Fas.h.i.+ons, for sure, but there had to be some other reason. Bond wondered how much of it concerned Meltdown.

The guards acted like sheepdogs, closing in around Bond, trying to make the walk from the aircraft look as natural as possible. The hangar and offices were no more than a few yards from the perimeter fence of the airport, where a gaggle of ancient Britannias rested, herded together like stuffed geese, each with the legend European Air Services running above the long row of oval windows. The fence was low, and broken in a couple of places. Beyond, a railway track with overhead wiring ran straight past; behind that, a major road - the Route Nationale slashed with cars, moving fast. Going to, or coming from Perpignan, Bond thought; for in this area all roads led to that town. At full stretch he could be away and through that fence in a matter of thirty seconds. Thirty seconds: he actually considered it as they neared the offices. The muscular Scots around him would be prompt in their reaction. Yet Bond was almost hypnotised by the idea of escaping this way through the fence, should the opportunity present itself.

It was to happen sooner than he expected. They were within a few paces of the office doors when, from around the corner, in a flurry of conversation and laughter, there appeared a small group of men - four in the dark blue uniforms of a commercial air line. They were close enough for Bond to make out the letters E.A.S. entwined in gold on their caps. European Air Services. A fragment of English floated from the conversation, then a quick response in French, for the aircrew were accompanied by two young French customs officers - the whole group strolling lazily towards the Britannias.

Murik and Mary-Jane were almost at the office door, accompanied by one of the guards; behind them, Lavender was being led firmly by her minder, and Caber walked alone between her and Bond, still flanked by his two men.

It would be one of his biggest gambles. The odds flashed through his mind: putting everything you owned on the turn of a card; on one number at the roulette table; on the nose of a horse. This time itwouldbe everything he owned: life itself. If Murik's men could be so shocked into holding fire or chase, even for a few seconds, he might just do it. In this fraction of time, Bond weighed the chances. Would Murik wish to call attention to himself and his party? Would they risk other people being hurt, killed even? It was a matter of audacity and nerve.

Later, Bond thought the appearance of the train probably made up his mind; the sound of a horn in the distance, and the sight of a long railway train snaking its way along the tracks, about a mile off.

He slowed, dropping back a couple of paces, causing one of the guards to nudge him on. Angrily, Bond shoved the man. 'You can stop that,' he said very loudly. 'I'm not interested in your b.l.o.o.d.y meeting.' Then, looking towards the group of aircrew and customs men, he raised his voice and shouted 'Good grief', already taking one step away from the nearest guard, who moved a hand to grab him Bond was quick. The bet was laid.Le maximum: faites vos jeux.

Bond had stepped away, and was moving in great long strides, his hand up, towards the group of uniformed men. 'Johnny,' he shouted. 'Johnny Manderson: what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?' The uniformed men paused, turning towards him. One smiled broadly; the others looked puzzled.

'Get back here.' Caber tried to keep his voice low as he started forward; and Bond heard Murik hiss, 'Get him. For G.o.d's sake. Take care.'

But, by this time, Bond had reached the group, his hand stretched out to one of the aircrew, who in turn put out his hand in a reflex action of cordiality, while beginning to say something about a mistake. 'It's good to see you, Johnny.' Bond pumped his hand wildly, still talking loudly. Then he pulled the man towards him, spinning around to put him, as a s.h.i.+eld, between Murik's people and himself. Caber and two of the guards were advancing warily, hands inside their jackets and, doubtless, on the b.u.t.ts of their weapons. Behind them the others were moving slowly into the building, Murik glancing up, his face a mask. Bond dropped his voice. 'Terribly sorry,' he said, grinning. 'A little problem about non-payment of dues. I should watch out for those blokes. Hoods, the lot of them. Must dash.' Using the group of uniformed men for cover, he was off, going flat out in a low crouch, weaving towards one of the jagged gaps in the fence. There were shouts from behind him, but no shots. Only the sound of pounding feet, and argument of sorts, between Caber's men and the aircrew and customs officers. Bond dived through the gap, sliding down the small embankment on to the railway track - the train now bearing down on him, its roar shaking the gravel, the sound covering everything else. If there was going to be shooting, it would happen in the next few seconds, before the train reached them.

The big engine was coming from his right - from the direction of Perpignan, he thought. There was no time for further reflection. It was now or never, in front of the train looming above him. Bond chanced it, leaping in two long strides across the track, and doubling his body into a ball, rolling as he reached the far side; the engine almost brus.h.i.+ng his back as it pa.s.sed with a greatparpof its horn.

The horn sounded nothing like that unmistakable too-too-too-too-tootof the hunting field; but, for a second, Bond was transported, hearing the noise of hooves heavy on gra.s.s, the baying of hounds and the huntsman's horn, 'Gone away'. He had never cared much for foxhunting, and now - casting himself in the role of the fox - he liked it even less. How the h.e.l.l did you go to earth in a foreign country with Murik's hounds at your heels?

In an instant Bond was on his feet running down the far bank towards the Route Nationale, his thumb already up in the hitch-hiker's position. But luck was still with him. As he reached the edge of the road he saw a small, battered pickup truck pulled into the side. Two men were being dropped off, and there were four others in the back, shouting farewells to their comrades. They looked like farm-workers going home after a long backbreaking day in the vineyards.

'Going into Perpignan?' Bond shouted in French. The driver, a cigarette stuck unlit in the corner of his mouth, nodded from the window. 'A lift?' Bond asked. The driver shrugged, and one of the men in the back called for him to jump up. Within seconds they were edging into the traffic, Bond crouched down with the other men - thanking providence for his own facility with the French language. He sneaked a peep towards the airport side of the railway tracks. There was no sign of Caber or the others.

No, Bond thought, they would be running for cars - Murik would be well organised here - his men would already be taking short cuts into Perpignan to head Bond off.

Cars already had their headlights on, as the dusk gathered quickly around them. Bond asked the time, and one of the workmen told him it was after nine, holding out his wrist with pride, to show off a brand new digital watch, explaining it was a gift from his son. 'On my saint's day,' he said. The digits showed four minutes past nine, and Bond realised that they were in a different time zone, an hour later than British time. 'We'll have to move if we're going to see the fun,' the man said.

Fun? Bond shrugged, explaining he had just come in on a flight, 'with freight'. He was very late, and had to meet a man in Perpignan.

'All men are in Perpignan tonight. If you can find them,' laughed one of the workers.

Bond scowled, asking why. 'Something special?'

'Special?' the man laughed. It was Perpignan's night of nights.

'Fete,' one explained.

'Vieux Saint Jean,'said another.

A third gave a bellow, lifting his arms histrionically,'La Flamme arrive en Perpignan.'

They all laughed. Bond suddenly remembered that he had been here before for the fete. Every town in the Mediterranean had its own rituals, its battle of flowers, processions, carnivals - usually religious. In Perpignan it was the great feast of St John; when the whole town was crammed to the gills, and there was dancing in the streets singing, fireworks, spectacle. The festivities started when bonfires were lit by a flame, brought, with Olympian ceremony, by runners from a high point in the Canigou mountain itself. He could not have arrived in this ancient place at better time. There would be crowd cover until the early hours; and with luck, enough breathing s.p.a.ce to find a way of making contact with London and M.

16.

Fete and fate

They dropped him off on the corner of the Place de la Resistance, which was already full of people standing shoulder to shoulder, pus.h.i.+ng along the pavements. There were plenty of police in evidence, directing traffic, closing off streets, and - presumably - keeping an eye open for troublemakers.

Bond stepped back into the crowd. It was some years since he had been here, and first he had to get his bearings. In the middle of the crush of people, Bond realised, with a sudden stab of fear, that his legs were shaking. Directly in front of him there were three great bonfires ready to be lit. To the left he saw a bridge spanning the well-kept ca.n.a.l, banked here by green lawns and flowers, which runs, above and below ground, through the town: a tributary of the river Tet.

A platform had been built over the bridge and was even now crowded with musicians. A master of ceremonies spoke into an uncertain microphone, telling the crowds about the nextsardanathey would be playing, keeping things going until the flame arrived to ignite both bonfires and excitement. The musicians burst into that music, known to anyone who has pa.s.sed even briefly through either the French or Spanish Catalan lands: the steady bray of pipe, drum and bra.s.s in 6/8 time to which thesardanais danced. The groups of dancers, some in traditional costume, others in business suits or jeans and s.h.i.+rts, formed their circles, clasping hands held high, and launched into the light, intricate, foot movements: a dance of peace and joy; a symbol of Catalonia.

On the far side of the bridge, other circles had taken up the dance in front of the towering red Castillet - the old city gateway, still intact, glowing russet in the light from the street lamps; its circular tower and battlements topped by what looked like a minaret.

The crowds began to thicken, and the music thumped on with its hypnotic beat and lilting melodies, the circles of dancers growing wider, or reforming into smaller groups young and old, impeccable in their timing, and dancing as though in a trance. It was as if these people were reaching back through the years, linking hands with their past.

Bond thought that if there were to be any future for them - or at least a chance of one - he had better move fast. Telephone London. Which was the best way? Call from a telephone box on the direct dialling international system? For that he would need money. It would have to be quick, for telephone booths - particularly on the Continent - are highly unsafe, and Bond had no desire to be trapped in a gla.s.s coffin, or one of those smaller, triangular affairs which would preclude keeping an eye on his rear.

The first move was to lose himself in the swelling throng, which rose and fell like a sea. Above all else, he had to be watchful, for Murik's men could be already among the crowds, their eyes peeled for him; and if they saw him Bond knew what he could expect. Most likely they would use dirks, sliding the instruments of death through his ribs, covered by the crowd, in the middle of the celebrations. There was no point in going to the police - not on a night like this, without identification. They would simply lock him up and perhaps tomorrow, when it was too late, telephone the British Consul.

Bond took a deep breath and began to move through the crowd. It would be best to keep to the fringes, then disappear into a side street.

He had just started to move when a large black Mercedes swept into the Place, only to be halted by a gendarme, who signalled that it should turn back. The road was about to be closed. The driver spoke to the policeman in French, then turned to the occupants of the car. Bond's heart missed a beat. Next to the driver sat Caber, while the three other big Scotsmen were crammed into the rear.

Caber got out, two of the men joining him, while the gendarme made noises suggesting they get the car out of the way as soon as possible.

Bond tried to shrink back into the crowd as he watched Caber giving orders. The men dispersed - Caber and two of them crossing the Place, the last diving into the crowd a little to Bond's right. The hounds were there, trying to spot him or sniff him into the open. Bond watched the big lad shouldering himself away. Then he moved, taking his time, along the fringe of the crowd, going slowly out of necessity, and because of the density of the shouting, laughing, chattering people. Bond kept looking back and then scanning the way ahead and across the road. The band had stopped and the master of ceremonies was saying that the Flame, carried from near the summit of the Canigou by teams of young people, was now only a few minutes from its destination. A few minutes, James Bond knew, could mean anything up to half an hour. The band started up again and the dancers responded. Bond kept to the edge of the crowd, slowly making his way across the now sealed-off road, towards the towering Castillet. He was looking for a street he recalled from previous visits: an ancient square almost entirely covered by tables from the cafes. They should be doing a roaring trade tonight. He reached the Castillet and saw another bonfire ready and waiting to be lit. A great circle of dancers around it was going through the intricate patterns, slightly out of time to the music, which was distorted on the night air. On the far side of the circle he spotted one of Caber's men turning constantly and searching faces in the throng. Bond held back, waiting until he was certain the man was looking away from him; then he dodged nimbly through the crowd, sidestepping and pus.h.i.+ng, until he found a clear path through the archway of the Castillet itself. He had just pa.s.sed the cafe on the far side, and was about to cross the road, when he had to leap into a shop doorway. There, walking slowly, scanning both sides of the street, head tilted, as though trying to catch his quarry's scent, was the giant Caber. Bond shrank back into the doorway, holding his breath, willing the Scot not to see him.

After what seemed an age, the giant walked on, still constantly scanning faces with his eyes. Bond edged out of the doorway and continued up the street. He could already see the intersection for which he was searching, marked by the bronze statue of a nude woman who looked unseeing down the wide road to his right. Crossing over through the thinning crowd, Bond arrived at his goal - Perpignan's Loge de Mer, once the great financial centre of the town: its Rialto. Indeed, many people felt the street contained many an echo of the glories of Venice - particularly the old Bourse with its grey stone walls, high arched windows and intricate carving. Right on the corner of this building the original weathervane - a beautifully executed galleon still swung gently, but the Bourse itself, like the buildings opposite, had been given over to a different kind of financial transaction, for it was now a cafe. Here it was hard cash for hard liquor, coffee, soft drinks or beer. The old marble pavement was a litter of tables and chairs and people taking refreshment before joining in the festivities.

Bond walked straight into the corner Bar Tabac and asked for thetoilette.The bartender, busy filling orders and being hara.s.sed by waiters, nodded to the back of the bar where Bond found the door marked with the small male symbol. It was empty, and he went into the firstcabinet, locking the door behind him and starting work almost before the bolt slid home.

Quickly his hands moved to his belt clasp - a solid, wide U-shaped buckle with a single thick bra.s.s spike, normal enough until you twisted hard. The spike moved on a metal screw thread. Six turns released it, revealing a small steel knife blade, razor sharp, within the sheath of the spike Bond removed the blade, handling it with care, and inserted the cutting edge into an almost invisible hairline crack in the wide U-buckle. With hard downwards pressure the buckle came apart, opening on a pair of tiny hinges set at the points where it joined the leather. This was also a casing - for a tiny handle, complete with a thread into which the blade could be screwed. Equipped with this small but finely honed weapon, Bond pulled the belt from his waistband and began to measure the length. Each section of the double-st.i.tched leather contained a small amount of emergency foreign currency in notes. German in the first two inches, Italian in the next, Dutch in the third - the whole belt containing most currencies he might need in Europe. The fourth section was what Bond needed: French francs.

The small toughened steel blade went through the st.i.tching like a hot knife laid against b.u.t.ter, opening up the two-inch section to reveal a couple of thousand francs in various denominations. Not a fortune - just under two hundred pounds sterling, the way the market was running - but ample for Bond's needs.

He dismantled the knife, fitted it away again, and rea.s.sembled the buckle, thrusting the money into his pocket. In the bar he bought a packet of Disque Bleu and a book of matches, for change; then sauntered out into the Place, back along the way he had already come. His target was the post office, where he knew there would be telephone booths. A fast alert to M, then on with the other business as quickly as possible.

Music still thumped out from the other side of the Castillet. He continued to mingle with the crowd, keeping to the right of the circlingsardanadancers. He crouched slightly for Murik's man was still in place, his head and eyes roving, pausing from time, to take in every face in the ever-changing pattern. Bond prepared to push himself into the middle of a group heading in his direction. Then, suddenly, the music stopped. The crowd stilled in antic.i.p.ation and the amplifier system crackled into life, the voice of the French announcer coming clear and loud from the horn-like speakers, bunched in little trios on the sides of buildings and in trees.

'My friend' - the announcer could not disguise the great emotion which already cut in waves through the gathered crowds - 'the Flame, carried by the brave young people of Perpignan, has arrived. The Flame has arrived in Perpignan.'

A great cheer rose from the crowds. Bond looked in the direction of the watcher by the Castillet, who was now searching wildly for signs, not of Bond, but of this great Flame. The fever pitch of excitement had got to everyone.

The loudspeakers rumbled again, and with that odd mixture of farce and sense of occasion which besets local feasts - from the Mediterranean to English country villages - the opening bars of Richard Strauss'sAlso sprach Zarathustraclimbed into the air, shattering and brilliant, a.s.sociated as it was with the great events of the conquest of s.p.a.ce.

As the opening bars died away, so another cheer went up. A group of young girls in short white skirts came running, the crowds parting at their approach. About eight of them, each with an unlit brand held aloft, flanked the girl who carried a great blazing torch. Taking up their positions, the girls waited until the torch was set to a spot in the middle of the bonfire. The tinder took hold, and flames began to shoot from the fire, rising on the mild breeze. The girls lowered their own torches, to take flame from the fire before jogging away in the direction of the Castillet entrance.

The crowd started to move, backing off to get a better view. Bond moved with them. It was only a matter of turning to his left and he would be at the post office within minutes.

The bonfires in the Place went up, other groups of girls having jogged down the far side of the ca.n.a.l to do their work. Another roar from the crowd, and the band started up again. Before he knew what was happening, Bond was seized by both hands, a girl clinging to each, giggling and laughing at him. In a second, Bond was locked into part of the large circle of sardanadancers which was forming spontaneously. Desperately, and with much help from the girls he tried to follow the steps so as not to draw attention to himself, now an easy target for Caber and his men.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, thesardanastopped, all eyes turning towards the Castillet, where the girls, with their blazing brands, occupied the s.p.a.ces on the battlements, holding the torches high. A rocket sped into the air, showering the sky with cl.u.s.ters of brilliant fire. There followed three more muted explosions, and a great flood of light appeared to rise from the battlements on which the girls stood, their brands flickering, making a breathtaking spectacle. The effect was as though the whole of the Castillet was on fire, gouts of crimson smoke rising from the turrets, battlements, even the minaret; and from this, more rockets pierced the darkness of the night, exploding with shattering sound and shooting stars.

Bond at last freed himself from the two girls, looked around carefully, and set off again, pus.h.i.+ng and shoving through the wall of people whose eyes could not leave the dazzling spectacle of starsh.e.l.ls, rockets and Roman candles.

The entire area around the Castillet was tightly packed with s.h.i.+ning faces - old men and women, who probably could remember this fete when it was not done on such a grand scale; children getting their first view of something magical; tourists trying to capture the experience for their home movies; and locals who entered into the spirit of the fete.

Bond saw all these faces - even teenagers aglow and delighted, not blase, as they might have been in Paris, London or New York. He saw none of the enemy faces and finally pushed through the crowds, walking fast towards the less-populated streets and in the direction he remembered the post office to be.

The noise, music and fireworks were behind him now, and the streets darker. Within a few minutes he recognised the landmark of the Place Arago with its palm trees, shops and attractive bars. On his last visit Bond had often sat at the large cafe occupying the centre. The post office was only a minute away, in a street straight ahead to the left of the ca.n.a.l.

The street was narrow - buildings to his left and trees bordering the ca.n.a.l to the right. At last Bond saw the line of open telephone booths, each dimly lit and empty - a row of grey electronic sentries beside the post office steps. He drove his hand into his pocket, counting out the one franc pieces from his change. Six in all. Just enough to make the call, if the duty officer allowed him to speak without interruption.

Swiftly he dialled the 19-44-1 London prefix, then the number of the Regent's Park building. He had already inserted one of the franc pieces into the slot from which it would be swallowed when contact was made. In the far distance he was aware of the whoosh and crackle of the fireworks, while the music was still audible through the noise. His left ear was filled with clicks and whirrs from the automatic dialling system. Almost holding his breath, Bond heard the sequence complete itself, then the ringing tone and the receiver being lifted.

'Duty watchman. Transworld Exports,' came the voice, very clear, on the line.

'007 for M...' Bond began, then stopped as he felt the hard steel against his ribs, and a voice say quietly, 'Oot fast, or I'll put a bullet into ye.'

It was the watcher who had been standing near the Castillet. Bond sighed.

'Fast,' the voice repeated. 'Put 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 smas.h.i.+ng 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 cla.s.sified 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 theflics.He pushed the Browning into his waistband, turning the b.u.t.t 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.