But Bond had misread the hunted man. Maybe Franco had been rattled by what had occurred in the ringing chamber. The shot came directly from beside the rearmost transport de troupes,a single round, passing like an angry hornet, almost clipping Bond's ear.
Dropping to the ground, Bond rolled towards the trucks parked against the wall, bunching himself up to present only the smallest target and coming to a stop beside the great, heavy rear offside wheel of the first truck. He had the Browning up, held in the two-handed grip, pointing towards the flash from the shot.
Once more Bond set himself the task of out-thinking his enemy. Franco would have moved after firing, just as Bond rolled towards the truck, which was only a few yards from the rear armouredtransport de troupes.
What would he Bond do in that situation? The trucks were at right angles to the little line of armoured troop carriers facing the gate. Bond thought he would have moved down to the secondtransport,protected by its armour, and then skipped across the gap between the line of transports de troupesand the truck behind which Bond was sheltering. If he was right Franco should at this moment be coming around this very truck and trying to take Bond from the rear.
Moving on tiptoe, crouched low, Bond silently crossed the few yards' gap between his truck and the reartransport de troupes.Whirling around, he dropped on to one knee and waited for Franco's figure to emerge from the cover which he had just relinquished.
This time, his thinking was right. Bond heard nothing but saw the shape of the hunted man, pressed hard against the bonnet of the big truck, as he carefully felt his way around it, hoping to come upon his opponent from behind.
Bond remained like a statue, the Browning an extension of his arms, held in a vice with both hands, and pointing directly towards the shadow that was Franco.
Still Franco's reputation held up. Bond was staking his life on his own stillness, yet the terrorist detected something. With a sudden move, the man dived to the ground, firing twice as he did so, the bullets screeching off the armour plating of thetransport de troupes.
Bond held his ground. Franco's shots had gone wide, and the target remained in line with the Browning's barrel. Bond fired with steady care: two pairs of shots in quick succession, a count of three between the pairs.
There was no cry or moan. Franco simply reared up like an animal, the head and trunk of his body arching into a bow from the ground then bending right back as the force of all four shots slewed him in a complete circle, then pushed him back along the ground as though wrenched by an invisible wire: arms, legs and what was left of his head flailing and flopping as a child's doll will bounce when dragged along the floor.
Bond could smell the death in his head rather than nostrils. Then he became aware of lights coming on, running feet, shouts and activity. He moved, faster and even more silently than before, sprinting towards the minute gap between the far buildings, and so down the sandy track to the Caserne Marechal Joffre. When he reached the Caserne, Bond slowed down. He was breathing hard. Never run away from an incident, they taught you just as you should never run after lighting an explosive fuse. Always walk with purpose, as though it was your right to be where you were.
He saw nobody on the way back to the private entrance shown him by the French captain; stepping with a smile into the Rue Waldeck Rousseau. He was home and dry: the street was empty.
Bond had walked four paces when the piercing whistle came from near by. For a second he thought it was a police whistle. Then he recognised the human sound: the whistle of a man who has been brought up in the country, the kind of noise one makes to call in hounds, or dogs, or other beasts. Now it brought in the Mercedes, bearing down on him, lights blazing. A pair of steel-like bands took him from the rear, pinioning his arms to his sides and pressing so that pain shot down to his hands and fingers. The Browning dropped to the pavement.
'I suppose ye got Franco, then. But it'll do ye nae bluddy guid for yersel, Bond,' Caber whispered in his ear. 'The Laird's mor'n a mite upset and wi' good reason. Ocht man, he's longing tae set his eyes on ye. Just longing for it. I doubt he has some grand plans for ye.'
The car came alongside and Caber propelled Bond into the back seat as soon as the door was opened.
18
A watched plot
M sat grey-faced, listening to the tape for the sixth time. 'It's him all right.' He looked up and Bill Tanner nodded in agreement. M turned to the Duty Officer. 'And the number?' he asked.
The telephone equipment at the Regent's Park building was the most sophisticated in the country. Not only were all incoming calls monitored and taped, but a selective printout was immediately available. The print-out included both the words spoken and the number from which the call had been dialled.
The Duty Officer shifted in his chair. 'It's French. We're sure of that because of the code.' He was a young man, in his first year of duty following the four-year training period. He sighed. 'As to its origin... well...'
'Well?' M's eyes flashed angrily.
'You know what it's like, sir. They're co-operating, of course, but at this time of night...'
'I know,' Bill Tanner cut in. 'It is tricky, sir. But I'll go off, with your permission, and try to ginger them up.'
'You do that, Tanner.' M's grey eyes showed no emotion. 'At least we're certain it was France?'
The Duty Officer nodded.
'Right.' M picked up his red telephone. 'Then it's time Duggan's people did something positive. Time for them to go into that damned castle on suspicion of dirty work, or however they want to put it. It's safe enough now.'
'I shoulda finished yon man off long ago, Laird.' Caber spoke softly. Everyone around the Laird of Murcaldy had become quiet, almost reverent. A death in the family, Bond thought grimly. Would it have been like this if the real target had been hit?
Anton Murik looked shaken if anything a shade shrunken in height as he waved Caber away. 'I think not.' He looked hard at the huge Scot. 'You did as you were bidden: brought him back alive. A quick breaking of the neck or an accurate bullet's really too good for him now, Caber. When the time comes...' He gave a thin smile.
They were in a comfortable room, fitted simply with what Bond considered to be Scandinavian furniture stripped pine desk, table and chairs. There was only one padded and comfortable swivel chair, which was Murik's own preserve.
This time they had taken no chances. In the car, Bond had been immediately handcuffed. Now he sat shackled by wrists and ankles. He knew they were inside the Aldan Aerospace offices at the airport, but there were no windows to this room, which Murik had described as 'Spartan, but suitable for our needs'. He added that they had at least one very secure room in the place, 'from which the great Houdini himself could not escape'.
The Laird dismissed Caber and sat, looking at Bond, for a long time. Then he passed a hand over his forehead wearily. 'You must forgive me, Mr Bond. I have been at the hospital, and with the police for some time. Everybody has been most kind.'
'The Franco business?' Bond asked.
'In a way.' Murik gave a bitter little laugh and repeated, 'In a way. You did it then, Bond. Finished off Franco.'
'There was no option. Even though you had cancelled my contract.'
'Yes.' The Laird gave a small sigh, almost of regret. 'Unhappily you have not only interfered a little early, but caused me great grief. Franco's death is, I gather, being treated simply as some gangland vendetta. They have yet to identify him.' He sighed again. 'The common flatworm,' he muttered.'Leptoplana tremellaris.It seems strange that my dear Mary-Jane has perished at the hands of the common flatworm. We've spent many years together, Mr Bond. Now you have been the cause of her death.'