Bond reflected that he could have been wrong about the puritanism, but then amended his thoughts. It was quite possible for Anton Murik to have strong moral feelings about what everybody else did while excepting himself from similar restrictions. It happened all the time: like the people who campaigned against certain television programmes and films, yet imagined they were themselves immune to moral danger.
'I should think he takes her advice in a lot of matters; but I doubt he would be swayed by her on very large issues.' M pushed a third photograph towards Bond.
This time it was another woman, much younger, and certainly, if the picture was really accurate, a stunning girl. Blonde hair fell around the sides of her face in a smooth, thick sheen; while the face itself was reminiscent of Lauren Bacall as a young woman. This one had the same high cheek bones, the promise of some smoulder in the dark eyes, and a mouth made striking by the sensuality of her lower lip. Above the eyes, her brows were shaped naturally, in a kind of elongated circumflex. Bond allowed himself to relax in an almost inaudible low whistle.
M cut short this reflex reaction. 'Anton Murik's ward. Miss Lavender Peacock. The relationship is not known. She became his ward in 1970, all legal daughter of some second cousin, the court report says. Father and mother both killed in an air crash. There's a little money several thousand which comes to Miss Peacock when she reaches her twenty-seventh birthday. That is next year.'
Bond observed that Lavender Peacock was quite a girl, though he somehow thought he recognised her not just from her resemblance to the young Bacall.
'Possible, 007. The girl's kept on a tight rein, though. In some matters the Laird is very old-fashioned. Lavender Peacock is treated like a fragile piece of china. Private tutors when she was a kid, trips abroad only when accompanied by Murik and trusted watchdogs. The Mashkin woman's toted her around a bit, and you may have seen her picture in connection with that dressmaking business. From time to time the Laird allows her to model but only at very special functions, and always with the watchdogs around.'
'Watchdogs?' Bond picked on the expression.
M rose and strode to the window, looking out across the park, now hazy as the sun dropped slowly and the lights began to come on over the city. 'Watchdogs?' M queried. 'Oh yes, mainly women around the Mashkin lady and the dressmaking firm.' He did not turn back towards Bond. 'Murik always has a few young Scottish toughs around. A kind of bodyguard: you know what these people are like. Not just for the ward, but the whole family. There's one in particular: sort of chief heavy. We haven't got a photograph of him, but I've had a description and that certainly matches his name. He's called Caber.'
There was a long silence. At last Bond took a deep breath. He had been looking at the triptych of photographs in front of him. 'So you want me to ingratiate myself with this little lot; find out why Franco's paying so much attention; and generally make myself indispensable?'
'I think that's the way to go.' M turned from the window.
'We have to play the game long, 007. Very long indeed. I have great reservations about Dr Anton Murik. He'd kill without a second thought if it meant the success of some plan with which he's obsessed; and we all know he's obsessed, at this moment, with the business of his Ultra-Safe Nuclear Reactor. Maybe there's some hairbrained scheme of investing in one of Franco's endeavours, and raking in a rich profit a quick return: enough money to prove the Atomic Energy Commission wrong. Who knows? It'll be your job to find out, James. Your job, and my responsibility.'
'Suggestions on how to do it would be welcome,' Bond began, but, as M was about to reply, the red telephone purred on his desk.
For a few minutes, Bond sat silently listening to M's side of a conversation with Sir Richard Duggan. When the call was completed, M sat back with a thin smile. 'That settled it then. I've told M.I.5 that you're ready to move in and follow up any information they care to give. Duggan's left details of his surveillance people here,' he tapped the M.I.5 file with his knuckles. 'All the usual cloak and dagger stuff they seem to like.'
'And Franco?'
'Is definitely at Castle Murik. They've confirmed. Don't worry, James, if he leaves suddenly I'll put someone on his back to cover you with M.I.5.'
'Talking of cover...' Bond started.
'I was coming to that. How you get into the family circle, eh? Well, I think you go under your own name, but with a slightly different passport. We can drum it all up here. A mercenary, I think. You heard what Ross said about Murik's second passion in life racing. Well, as you know, he's got horses running at Ascot next week. In fact the one he's entered in the Gold Cup has only been in the first three once in its life. Name of China Blue. Our friend, the Laird of Murcaldy, merely seems to like watching them train and run enjoys all the business of race tracks and trainers.'
'Just for the kicks,' Bond stated, and M looked at him curiously for a moment.
'I suppose so,' M replied at last. 'But Murik's visit to Ascot next week should give us the opportunity. Unless there's any sudden change of plan, I think you should be able to make contact on Gold Cup day. That'll give us time to see you're well briefed and properly equipped, eh?'
5
The road to Ascot
Apart from the great golf tournaments, James Bond did not care much for those events which still constitute what the gossip columnists and the drones who pay lip-service and provide morsels for them call 'the Season'. He was not naturally drawn to Wimbledon, the Henley Regatta, or, indeed, to Royal Ascot. The fact that Bond was a staunch monarchist did not prevent the grave misgivings he felt when turning the Saab in the direction of Ascot on Gold Cup day.
Life had been very full since the Friday evening of the previous week, when M had taken the decision to place Bond within the heart of the Laird of Murcaldy's world.
Inside the building overlooking Regent's Park, people did not ask questions when a sudden personal disappearance, or a flurry of activity, altered the pattern of days. Though Bond was occasionally spotted, hurrying to or from meetings, he did not go near his office.
In fact, Bond worked a full seventeen-hour day during this time of preparation. To begin with, there were long briefings with M, in his big office, recently redecorated and now dominated by Cooper's painting of Admiral Jervis's fleet triumphing over the Spanish off Cape St Vincent in 1797 the picture having been lent to the Service by the National Maritime Museum.
During the following weeks, Bond was to recall the battle scene, with its background of lowering skies and the British men-of-war, trailing ensigns and streamers, ploughing through choppy seas, tinted with the glow of fire and smoke of action.
It was under this painting that M quietly took Bond through all the logical possibilities of the situation ahead; revealed the extent to which Anton Murik had recently invested in businesses all connected, one way or another, with nuclear energy; together with his worst private fears about possible plots now being hatched by the Laird of Murcaldy.
'The devil of it is, James,' M told him one evening, 'this fellow Murik has a finger in a dozen market places in Europe, the Middle East, and even America.' As yet, M had not alerted the C.I.A., but was resigned to the fact that this would be necessary if Bond found himself forced by the job he hoped to secure with Anton Murik to operate within the jealously guarded spheres of American influence.
Primarily, the idea was to put Bond into the Murik menage as a walking listening device. It was natural, then, for him to spend much time with Q Branch, the experts of 'gee-whizz' technology. In the past, he had often found himself bored by the earnest young men who inhabited the workshops and testing areas of Q Branch; but times were changing. Within the last year, everyone at headquarters had been brightened and delighted by the appearance of a new face among the senior executives of Q Branch: a tall, elegant, leggy young woman with sleek and shining strawcoloured hair which she wore in an immaculate, if severe, French pleat. This, together with her large spectacles, gave her a commanding manner and a paradoxical personality combining warm nubility with cool efficiency.