The door to the keep was set into the wall, to the right of the Royal Chapel door, not more than a dozen paces from where he stood. Behind that, a tight stone staircase coiled upwards to various landings in the keep; and finally to the ringing chamber itself.
Bond whirled around, striding towards the Norman arched door, with its long iron hinge-plates and great ring latch. He tried the ring and it moved smoothly, soundless and well oiled. Gently he pulled the door open and stepped through. He was aware of a smell in the darkness not mustiness, but the scent of oil mixed with an after-shave lotion, possibly Yves Saint Laurent. The stone spiral of stairs was narrow and slippery from hundreds of years' usage. Bond started to climb as quietly and quickly as he dared in the darkness. His thigh muscles felt weak now, after the exertions of the last half hour or so; but he plodded on silently, cheered by occasional shafts of light at the wider turns in the spiral and on the landings.
Three times he stopped to control his breathing. The last thing he could afford was to reveal his presence by any noise. Even through the thick walls, the sounds from the courtyard floated upwards. If the ringing chamber was indeed Franco's hideout, the killer would have to be invested with an extra sense to detect him, unless Bond made some unnecessary sound.
As he neared the top of the climb, Bond felt the sweat trickling from his hairline and down the insides of his arms. Slowly he took out the Browning and slipped off the safety catch.
Holding his breath, Bond reached the topmost steps, his head just below the aged wooden-planked floor of the chamber. There were five more steps to negotiate to bring his feet level with the floor. Putting all his weight on the right foot, Bond slowly lifted his body so that his eyes came just above floor level.
Franco was at right angles to him, lying in the classic prone position of a marksman. The killer's concentration seemed to be centred completely on the scene below, his eyes close to a sniperscope fitted on top of the powerful Anschutz .22 air rifle. The butt was tucked against his cheek and pressed hard into his shoulder. Franco's finger was on the trigger, ready to fire. Bond could not afford to miss if he fired the Browning. And anyway the rifle could still go off on a reflex action. If Bond jumped the man, he might only precipitate the marksman's deadly shot.
There was no time for further appraisal of the situation. Bond let up the remaining steps, calling out softly but sharply, 'Franco! Don't shoot!'
The marksman's head swivelled round as Bond heard the dull plop from the air rifle, a sound inaudible to anyone but Franco and Bond, high in the keep. In the same second, on an impulse, Bond flung himself on to the prone figure of Franco, landing with a bone-shattering crash across the marksman's shoulders. In a flash, lying spread-eagled across the terrorist's shoulders, James Bond took in the scene below, looking from Franco's viewpoint down through the rough square opening.
Lavender Peacock was alone in the centre of the cat-walk, pirouetting in magnificent scarlet which drooped in long folds, like a crimson waterfall, around her body. Her arms were outstretched, her feet moving to a haunting jig played by the consort. Slightly to her left and behind her, Anton Murik sat partly turned in his chair, frozen for a moment, looking towards Mary-Jane Mashkin who had half-risen, one hand at her throat, the other like a claw to her chest. Almost exactly in line with Lavender, she was doubling forward, and, in what seemed like slow motion, she teetered, hovered, and then pitched headlong among the chairs.
Underneath Bond, Franco was cursing and struggling to free himself from 007's grip on the back of his neck, 'Mierda! I hit the wrong one. You'll...' His voice evaporated in a hiss of air as he let his muscles relax, then arched his back and jerked his legs to dislodge his assailant. Bond was taken by surprise and thrown off, his shoulder thudding against the wall on the far side of the chamber. Franco was on his feet in a second, his hand dropping to his hip and coming away with a small revolver. Bond, winded from the throw, levered himself from the wall and kicked wildly at the terrorist's hand, loosening his hold on the gun. It was enough to send Franco weaving and ducking down the narrow spiral stairs.
The staircase would be a deathtrap for either of them, and no place for a shooting match. Taking air in through his mouth, Bond regained his lost balance and started after the terrorist, glancing quickly down into the courtyard as he went. The music had stopped, and a small huddle of people were gathered around where he had seen Mary-Jane fall. He could see Lavender, who had come off the cat-walk, and one of Murik's guard, who stood very close to her. Caber was also there, with Murik apparently shouting orders to him. From the main entrance, two white-clad figures came running with a stretcher.
Bond waited at the top of the stairs until he was certain Franco had passed the first landing. Then he began the difficult descent, the Browning held in front of him, ready to fire back, even if one of Franco's bullets caught him in the confined space.
But Franco was being just as careful. He had a head start. Bond could hear him, cautiously going down, pausing at each landing, then quickly negotiating the next spiral.
At last Bond heard the door close below, and took the last section of stairs in a dangerous rush, grabbing at the door, pushing the Browning out of sight and stepping out into the gallery, where a great many people were craning over, or leaving to get down into the courtyard. Franco was just ahead, making for the small flight of steps that would bring him into the archway through which Bond had made his entrance into the Palace. Taking little notice of people around him, Bond went after his quarry. By the time he reached the archway, there was no one to be seen, except the huddled figure of the gendarme, still out cold.
At the far side of the archway, the noise came only from behind. Nothing in front, from the rear courtyard: just silence and the shapes of the heavy trucks lined up along the wall near the gate to his far right.
Franco was there though. Bond could almost smell him, lurking in the shadows, or behind the line oftransports de troupes,maybe taking aim at this very moment. The thought quickly sent Bond into the shadow of the wall to his right. Now he must out-think Franco. This man was clever, a survivor, a terrorist who, in his career, had passed through whole dragnets. Did he know of the narrow gap between the buildings on the far side, through which Bond had come? Or did he have another way? Would he wait among the shadows or by the vehicles, sweating it out, knowing that only Murik and his present assailant were aware of his presence?
Slowly, Bond began to crab his way along the wall, edging to the right, deciding that Franco would most likely have made for the cover of the vehicles. Eventually the man would have to run a long way, for his contract had gone awry in the most deadly manner. A gelatine capsule, Bond thought. That had been the missile, which reached a low velocity as it hit, and had some thin coating which burst on impact, leaving little or no mark but injecting something probably untraceable into the victim's bloodstream. It would have to be very fast-acting, for Mary-Jane had collapsed within seconds.
It had been meant for Lavender. Bond had no doubt about that. Now Franco would know that the full might of Murik's private forces would be out to hunt him down, just as they were already in full cry after Bond.
He was getting close to the first truck. If Franco was hidden there he would certainly keep his nerve, holding back a natural desire to be rid of his pursuer by chancing a shot which could only call attention to his position.