Bond set an example, even though he too found it hard to eat. The bacon and eggs stuck in his throat, but he managed to wash it down by consuming cup after cup of coffee, taking in a lot of sugar. At least his body would be provided with something on which to feed; and extra energy was what he needed. Lavender did her best, nibbling on toast and sipping coffee. When they had finished, Bond stretched out on the bed, turning his face away while she completed her toilet and dressed.

He then got himself ready, stripping off and washing from tip to toe. Pity about not being able to shave. If they were to die, he would rather go looking his best. Negative thinking. Bond cursed himself. From now on, it was his duty to be positive and alert; aware of everything going on; ready to take advantage of the smallest c.h.i.n.k that showed in Murik's plan or actions.

There was no way of telling the time, but Bond guessed they had been allowed to sleep late. It must now be after midday, French time. The deadline here was one in the afternoon - noon in England. They would not have to wait much longer.

Five minutes later Caber and the other men reappeared. The trays were swiftly removed, and the two prisoners were ordered from the cell at gunpoint. They were taken through silent pa.s.sages, narrow corridors and finally up steps which led to a metal fire door - Caber striding ahead, opening the door and waving them through.

Bond heard Lavender gasp behind him. They stood in the hangar he had seen on their arrival - a vast structure into which you could have easily fitted a block of houses: huge and echoing, smelling of oil and rubber, its temperature cool from the fans high up among the girders. The most impressive sight, though, was the aircraft standing in the centre, its tail pointing towards the towering roller doors and a yellow tractor already hooked to the nose.

Bond recognised it at once. He also wondered at the sheer size of the aerial monster. It was the ma.s.sive Lockheed-Georgia C-14-the Starlifter: the great American strategic transport aircraft with a wing span of over forty-eight metres and a length of over forty-four metres, towering to a height of nearly forty feet.

Even the hangar seemed dwarfed by this magnificent brute, decked out in standard United States camouflage, but with the added blue, white, red and yellow insignia of the French Armee de l'Air. Towards the rear of the wide fuselage the words Aldan Aeros.p.a.ce had been added. Below, Bond could see the outline of the huge rear ramp which could be hydraulically lowered, even in flight, for loading or dropping men and materials - tanks, vehicles of all kinds: even helicopters.

Murik could get everything he needed into this beast from technicians to all the electronic equipment he needed for his shielded radio beams. Starlifter was a good name for the aeroplane, Bond thought, saying the word aloud.

'Yes, Mr Bond, the Starlifter.' Murik stood at his elbow, dressed casually in jacket and slacks. 'A good name, I think. Specially modified, of course. You will be interested... It's time to go aboard.'

From the front of the hangar came the sound of the roller doors starting to move. Caber prodded Bond with his pistol, and they began to climb the steps up to the forward doorway, low in the fuselage behind the flight deck.

Murik led the way, and Bond caught sight of the crew through the flight deck window, going through the pre-takeoff check. Two of Murik's men remained at the foot of the steps, while another couple who had been standing near by followed behind Bond, Lavender and Caber.

Inside, the fuselage had obviously been altered to Murik's own specifications. The doorway took them into a brightly decorated canteen with a bar, small round tables and seating capacity for a dozen people. A deep pile carpet lay under their feet and Bond, looking forward, could see two men already at work in a galley.

'I'm afraid you'll not be eating here, with the rest of us,' said Murik, looking from Bond to Lavender. 'That is one pleasure I shall, reluctantly, have to forgo. What will happen in the next hours needs great concentration and timing, so we cannot have you roaming around the aircraft. However, I shall see you do not go hungry or thirsty.' He pointed towards the sliding hatchway leading to the rear of the fuselage. 'I should be grateful if you would take care when pa.s.sing through the next section. It contains the intestines of my electronic labours, and is, perhaps, the most important part of the whole project.'

On the far side of this hatchway, the fuselage seemed to narrow and the carpet disappeared. The section ran back down the fuselage for about forty feet, its sides crammed from deck to the upper bulkheads with banks of electronic equipment housed in metal units and high cabinets. Towards the centre there was a recess on either side, with two men in clean white coveralls sitting in each, at complex control consoles. As Murik's party pa.s.sed Bond asked loudly if they could get Beethoven's Fifth. He was rewarded with a jab from Caber, and a filthy look shot at him by Murik.

At the end of this electronic cave there was another sliding hatchway, which was, to Bond's experienced eye, bullet and fireproof. He judged they had covered just over half the length of the aircraft. Murik paused, his hand on the sliding latch. 'My personal preserve,' he announced, tugging the door to one side. They stepped into a circular area lit by shaded lights, giving off a restful greenish glow. 'The nerve centre of my operation.' Murik gave a smug look around him as the door closed with an automatic hiss. 'This is where I shall control Meltdown.'

Two small oval windows, one each side, had their blinds down to keep out any extraneous light. On either side of the door, facing forward, was a pair of wide curved desks, each backed by another complicated array of electronic wizardry.

Three body-moulded swivel seats were bolted to the deck in front of each of the desk consoles and behind them four seats were ranged, as though for spectators. Leading aft, towards the tail of the Starlifter, another hatchway was outlined in scarlet. In large letters on this door a legend had been stencilled: DO NOT ENTER IF RED LIGHT is ON. Near this exit yet another, smaller pa.s.sage was visible to the right. Murik gestured towards it. 'The usual offices, as the estate agents say,' he said smiling. 'We have everything on board for a pleasant day trip over the sea. Now, if you'll just take your seats...'

Bond felt Caber's arms gripping him, and at the same time he saw the two other men close in on Lavender.

'You will sit next to me,' said Murik, turning to Bond. 'On my left, I think.'

Caber manhandled Bond into one of the chairs in front of the console on the right of the door-facing forwards-fastening a normal seat belt around his stomach.

'We have made certain modifications to the safety harnesses for you and my ward.' Murik slid into the seat to Bond's right, and as he did so his jacket rode back slightly, revealing a holster behind his hip and the curved b.u.t.t of a small deadly Colt Python: the four-inch model. Bond could have identified that weapon anywhere. Well, it was something - within reach anyway.

Seconds later, Bond's hopes of the weapon being within reach were dashed.

'Put yer arms behind yer back, Bond,' Caber hissed. He saw a short webbing strap in Caber's paw, then felt his hands being pressed together and the strap encircling his wrists tightly as the big Scot pulled it secure. Then, holding him firmly in the seat, Caber began to fit what Murik called the modified safety harness. Two further webbing belts, anch.o.r.ed to the underside of the seat, were now crossed over Bond's chest and shoulders and pulled hard. He felt them being adjusted and locked somewhere at the back and underneath the seat, holding him immobile.

Murik had clipped on a seat belt, and was already adjusting the console in front of them, his hands moving with professional precision as pin-lights and visual units started to glow. Rising like a snake's head from the centre of the desk was an adjustable microphone, a large 'Speak' b.u.t.ton set into a protective box directly in front of it.

Bond studied the row of digital clocks, each marked with a time zone, covering all six locations of the targets. British time showed at ten minutes to noon.

He glanced over to the other console, where Lavender had been fastened in exactly the same way as himself between two of Murik's men, who were now concentrating on the equipment facing them. These, Bond realised, were not just heavies, but trained technicians. At that moment he felt the deck beneath his feet tremble. The yellow tractor was moving, giving the aircraft a push-back from the hangar. Murik looked up. 'I promised you a ringside seat, Bond,' he said, grinning, 'and here it is. Everything.'

Bond turned to see Caber disappearing through the red-outlined hatchway to their rear. He asked where it led, and Murik gave a loud, mocking laugh. 'The exit,' he almost shouted. 'There's a ramp, you know. Everybody's seen pictures of vehicles being driven up that ramp, in the more conventional Starlifter, or parachute troops hurling themselves down it. I had thought of hurling you down it, Bond. Then a better idea came to mind.'

'You didn't say what?..' Bond began, then the first of the four powerful Pratt & Whitney turbo-fans began to throb. The Starlifter was coming alive. The second started; then the third and fourth.

'No, I didn't say.' Murik glanced at the instruments in front of him. 'But all in good time.'

Caber returned and nodded to Murik, as though pa.s.sing a message.

'Good,' said Murik in acknowledgment. Then, pointing to the seat on his right, he commented that Mary-Jane should have been sitting in it. 'She's here in spirit, though.' He did not smile. 'Sorry about the restraint, Bond, but I felt it necessary. My people were working on those harnesses all night, putting in the locks and releases, well out of anybody's reach under the seats.'

The engines surged, one after another, then synchronised and the aircraft swayed along the taxiway. A metallic click from somewhere in the roof near the main entrance signalled contact being made from the flight deck. 'Captain to all crew and pa.s.sengers of Aldan Five-Six.' The voice was English, with a drawl. One is usually wrong about putting invisible figures to voices, but it immediately made Bond think of a rather slim, tall, louche-looking man with long hair, starting to thin and bald. 'Please fasten your seat belts and extinguish cigarettes. We shall be taking off shortly.'

'And it's going to be a b.u.mpy ride,' muttered Bond.

The British-time digital clock clicked towards 11.54 as the engines settled, then rose into a blasting roar as their combined 84,000 pounds' static thrust pushed the crew and two captives back into their seats.

As the aircraft ceased b.u.mping along the runway, tipping itself smoothly into its natural element, Murik leaned over, placing a pair of foam-padded headphones over Bond's head. 'You will hear everything; and I shall also be able to speak to you through these.' He raised his voice. 'A running commentary, like the Boat Race.' He glanced towards the time displays. British time showed two minutes before noon. 'The witching hour.' Murik's chuckle had begun to irritate Bond. 'Very soon you'll hear the terrorist squads making their reports.'

Less than five minutes before the Starlifter rose from the runway at Perpignan, events were taking their course the world over.

M, having now received information regarding the location of Bond's call, had checked on all possible connections with Anton Murik. His investigation led naturally to Aldan Aeros.p.a.ce (France), Inc. and their headquarters at Perpignan airport.

There had been rapid telephone calls to Paris and through the various police and security networks, to Perpignan itself. It had, however, been slow work, and a van carrying members of the SDECE - the French Secret Service - together with a squad of armed police was only now tearing towards the airport.

They had received further encouraging news at the Regent's Park headquarters. A Mary-Jane Mashkin, close friend of Dr Anton Murik, had died of a heart attack in the middle of a fashion show in Perpignan; while the body of a man - originally thought to be the victim of a gangland shoot-out near the fashion show - had been identified as the much-wanted terrorist known as Franco.

'007's work, sir?' Bill Tanner was not really asking.

'Could be. Two of 'em out of it, anyway.'

'Then there's a very good chance...' Tanner began.

'Don't count your chickens, Chief-of-Staff. Never do that. We could still be too late, fiddling around half the night waiting for information. Time's not with us.' On M's orders, several of his own officers were now on their way, by military aircraft from Northolt. All too late. Just as M had predicted.

A little over sixty miles from Paris, not far from the city of Orleans, deep under the vast complex which makes up the nuclear power stations known as Saint-Laurent-des-Eaux One, Two and Three, certain people were quietly going through a well-rehea.r.s.ed routine.

Two men tending the large turbine of Plant Two left their normal posts at just before twelve-fifty. A maintenance man, whose job was to keep the air conditioning system in good repair, excused himself from the duty room where he had been playing cards with three of his colleagues. The security man at the entrance leading down to the main control room some fifty feet below ground waited anxiously while the other three made their way along the pipe-lined, stark pa.s.sages, picking up pieces of cached equipment as they went. At two minutes before one, French time, they met at the head of the emergency stairs near the elevator shaft and went down one flight to the gallery immediately outside the plant's control room, where they joined their companion, the security guard. It was one minute to one.

Inside the control room, the half a dozen men who watched the dials and controlled the flow of power, keeping an eye open for any unexpected fluctuation or change in the system, went about their work normally. One of them turned, shouting irritably at the security man as he opened the large main door. 'Claude, what are you doing? You know you're not allowed...' He stopped, seeing the automatic pistol pointing at him, and a second man with a folding stock Heckler & Koch sub-machine gun, its barrel sweeping the room.

The security man called Claude was the only one to speak: 'Hands on your heads. Stand away from all equipment. Now. Move, or you will be killed. We mean it.'

The tone of his voice convinced the six men. Fl.u.s.tered, they dropped clipboards and pens, clamped their hands to their heads and stepped clear of any piece of monitoring equipment. So hypnotised were they by the weapons that it is doubtful if they even saw the other two men slip past their comrades, and move quickly and unerringly to two points in the room. In a matter of seconds these two were giving the thumbs-up sign to their armed colleagues. They had cut off all links with the outside world by severing the communications cables and pulling the external control override switches. The reactor operating at Saint-Laurentdes-Eaux Two could be handled only from this room, which now had no contact with the outside world.

The man who had severed the communications link was completing the job by tearing the three telephone leads from their sockets as the gunmen ordered the six technicians to line up, facing the door.

A series of images flashed through the minds of these half dozen unfortunates - pictures of their wives and families crossing bleakly with incidents they had seen on television newsreels: hostages held in terrible conditions for long periods; hostages shot and killed as a warning to others; the drawn and haggard faces of men and women who had lived through ordeals like this. It was therefore with a sense of both great surprise and relief that they heard the gunmen tell them to leave quietly through the main door and get up the stairs.

'It would not be advisable for anyone to take panic action,' the gunman called Claude told them. 'Just report to the authorities and say that a message with certain demands will be coming through from outside within a few minutes. Any sudden move before that and we shut down the cooling system. We cause a China Syndrome. Tell them that, okay?'

The six men nodded, shakily leaving their place of work. The heavy door to the control room slammed behind them and the two gunmen clamped on the interior safety locks, watching through the reinforced gla.s.s which ran the length of the gallery as the released operators slowly filed away.

The other two men had been busy removing their most essential piece of equipment, the transceiver, from a canvas haversack. One of the men now ran out a cable and plugged it into a wall socket. The security guard, Claude, who was the squad leader, switched on the small, box-like, transceiver and watched as the red light glowed, then turned green. Pressing the transmit b.u.t.ton he said loudly and distinctly, 'Number Three. War.'

Similar scenes to these were being enacted in five other nuclear power stations, in Europe and the United States.

James Bond heard the words clearly through the headphones: 'Number Three. War.'

'That's the French one,' Murik said, his voice interrupted by another quick message: 'Number One. War.' 'England.' Murik was ticking off the names of the plants on a clipboard lying in front of the console.

'Number Four. War.'

'Number Five. War.'

'Number Two. War.'

They came in quickly, tumbling into the earphones, as though someone was speaking within Bond's head. Then a long pause. Bond saw Murik's hand clench and unclench. He looked hard at the man who was embarked on an operation from which there could be no turning back. The wait had Murik worried, drumming his fingers on the edge of the console. Then after what seemed an eternity: 'Number Six. War.'

'All in.' Murik grabbed Bond's arm, nodding his head excitedly.

'Now,' he said, his voice strange, almost out of control, 'now formymessage. In a moment I shall activate the ultimatum. You see, everything is ordered, outside human control - except for the reaction of the governments concerned. Throughout Europe and the United States we have a series of hidden powerful micro-transmitters controlled by a signal from this aircraft. The transmitters will relay a translated message to every European country, and a number of Asian and Eastern countries too. The transmission is locked into the normal broadcasting frequencies of the countries concerned and will cut in on any programme already going out.' He adjusted a dial and watched a pair of needles centre themselves on a VU below it. 'You will hear the ultimatum in your own language, Mr Bond. You'll realise the seriousness of the situation, and how it is impossible for me to lose.'

Murik leaned forward, threw two switches and prepared to press a red b.u.t.ton on the console. He added, 'By the way, you will not recognise my voice. But it is me, even though I sound like a woman. There is an ingenious device called in the trade, the Electronic Handkerchief. By using it, you can alter your own voice beyond recognition. I have chosen the voice of a rather seductive lady. Now, listen.'

Without warning, Bond heard the voice in his headphones; sharp and commanding at first, then calmer as it dictated a message. Slowly the full impact, and Murik's sheer ingenuity, came home to Bond, his eyes widened and he felt a sickening lurch in his stomach.

Almost an hour later M sat with members of the government, security services, and chiefs-of-staff who make up the secret crisis committee known as COBRA - in the Cabinet Office Briefing Room deep under Whitehall. They were listening again to a recording of that sudden, audacious and terrifying ultimatum. It was the seventh hearing for M, but the message still had its impact - an impact it had made on people all over Europe, the United States and many other parts of the world.

The only action M had taken was to call the French police back from Perpignan airport. But, by the time he had made contact, M discovered that they had been recalled anyway. They too had heard the message, on the radio in their van.

The voice relaying that message was a woman's. M thought of clandestine propaganda broadcasts during the Second World War, like those of Lord Haw-Haw and Tokyo Rose.

'Stop whatever you are doing. Stop now. Stop and listen. This is an emergency broadcast of extreme urgency to every man, woman and child. Stop. Stand still and listen,' the voice clipped out, sharp and commanding. Then it continued, calm and deliberate. 'This is a message of great urgency. It concerns everyone, but it is mainly directed at the governments of Britain, France, the Federal Republic of Germany, the German Democratic Republic and the United States. This message is being broadcast in all necessary languages throughout Europe and the United States, as well as to some countries not immediately affected. It will be the only message, the only set of instructions to the governments concerned.

'At exactly twelve noon British Summer Time, that is, G.M.T. plus one, today, six nuclear reactor power plants were seized by terrorist groups. These groups now occupy and hold the main control rooms of the following nuclear plants.' The voice went on to list the full names of the plants and their precise locations. The tone rising, it continued, 'I must make two things clear. The men who hold these nuclear power plants are dedicated to a point that some would call fanaticism. They will die if necessary. Second, all lines of communication have been cut between these groups and the outside world. They can make contact with one person only - myself. They are under orders to do the following: if an attempt is made to a.s.sault any one of the six power plants my men will immediately turn off the cooling system to the core of the nuclear reactor. This will cause immense heat to build up. Within a very short time there will be an explosion similar to a mild earthquake and a very large area surrounding the plant will be contaminated by radioactive material. The core of the reactor will proceed to burn its way through the earth. Eventually the core will find an exit point where further, possibly more devastating, radioactive material will be expelled. That is known, to those who have not heard of it, as the China Syndrome.

'These men are under instructions to carry out this same operation exactly twenty-four hours after I stop speaking unless certain demands are met. Let me repeat that the men who have taken over these nuclear plants will not hesitate to follow their orders to the death. If in twenty-four hours this becomes necessary the results will be catastrophic for the whole world. It will mean an end to all life in large areas; certainly an end to the growth of food, the keeping of livestock and fish, in even larger tracts of land. It is no exaggeration to say that it could well mean the end of the world as we know it. There will be no way to stop such a disaster if my demands are not met.

'These are my instructions: I require a ransom payable only in cut gem diamonds to a value of not less than fifty billion dollars, that is, five zero billion, for Bertie, dollars to be paid in cut gem diamonds at their current rate-today's rate. These diamonds - easily obtained through the markets in London, Holland, Belgium and America - are to be placed, packed neatly in one large-sized yellow naval flotation bag. The bag is to be equipped with a normal naval or army recovery hoop. This consignment is to be dropped by aircraft at the following point.' The voice calmly went on to give the lat.i.tude and longitude, repeating it three times so that there could be no error.

'Before the diamonds are delivered, an area of fifty square miles around the dropping point is to be cleared of all shipping, and once its mission is completed the aircraft employed is to fly well out of the zone. I shall not give the order for the nuclear plants to be released until the diamonds have been dropped. Until I have picked them up in safety and have been a.s.sured of the amount, and its lack of contamination. I have experts to hand, and this operation will take me approximately two hours from the moment of dropping. Thus the governments concerned have in reality around twenty-two hours to comply with my demands. If the ransom isnotdropped; if I donotpick it up, and get it away in time, without any action being taken against me, no word of command will go out, and those who control the six nuclear power stations will carry out their threat.

'I stress that this is no hoax. This broadcast is my ultimatum. There will be absolutely no other contact. I repeat that any attempt to communicate with those holding the plants can only result in tragedy. You have exactly twenty-two hours. Message ends.'

The Prime Minister, who had been brought back to London from an engagement in Hampshire - the car being driven at breakneck speed with a police escort - was chairing the meeting.

'I have been in touch with the President of the United States and the heads of all other governments concerned.' The Prime Minister looked worried; but the natural poise was still there. 'We are all agreed that, no matter how difficult, this is one terrorist action in which we have no choice. We are being asked for a very large sum of money, but at this moment all the threatened countries are gathering diamonds of good quality. We have experts working on it in London, and diamonds are being flown by the fastest possible methods to Paris, where a French military aircraft is standing by. A co-ordination unit is being set up there to ensure that there are no hitches, and to check the quality of the stones. As you know, the dropping zone is in the Mediterranean and at the moment we are scheduling a drop to be made at nine o'clock our time tomorrow. The most difficult thing, apparently, is to clear the area of all shipping. There are specialists working on this now. I am, personally, depressed by this action. It is the first time this country has given way to blackmail by terrorist groups, but our combined advisers seem to think there are no options open. Has anybody got any further points to contribute?'

M cleared his throat. 'Yes, on behalf of my Service, Prime Minister: we think we know who is behind this ingenious and horrific act. We also think we know where this person is: in an aircraft over the Med now. With permission of the Chiefs-of-Staff, I am going to ask for this aircraft to be shadowed by the Armee de l'Air, by fighter-borne radar, of course. I know we can take no action until the terrorists have left the nuclear power plants, but it is a lead, and we might just be able to retrieve the diamonds after the event.'

The Prime Minister nodded. 'I read your confidential report on my way here. You mention something about one of your agents?'

'I can't be sure,' - M looked solemn, - 'but there is a possibility that one of my people is on board the aircraft. However, I'm certain he would be the last person to ask for any special consideration.'

'That's not the point.' The Prime Minister looked down at the doc.u.ments on the table. 'Do you think he might be able to do something about the situation?'

'If he can't halt this unG.o.dly mess, Prime Minister, n.o.body can.'

20.

Warlock

Bond sat in front of the console, the facts fighting each other in his mind, as though trying to drag him into despair. He recognised the symptoms: as when, caught in the sea a man decides he can swim no farther; or feels the onset of fatigue in snow, making him lie down exhausted, to be encompa.s.sed by that strange euphoria that comes before death by freezing.

Murik had planned, using his great knowledge and privileged information. He had mustered his forces through the most elusive international terrorist in the world and set up a complicated, and admirable, tactical operation. There was little to stop him at this stage. For his own safety, Murik would have to get rid of both Bond and Lavender. Why Murik had not already killed them was almost beyond Bond's comprehension. After all, the Laird was ruthless enough to set an almost impossible deadline to his ultimatum. Bond could only presume they were still alive because Murik's vanity needed to feed on the applause of doomed witnesses.

Don't let yourself go, Bond told himself. Keep alert. Do anything; try to combat the inevitable. He began by trying to feel the flight pattern being followed by the Starlifter. It appeared to him that the aircraft, having reached its cruising height, was locking into a wide, oval holding pattern, each circuit covering around fifty miles or so. That made sense: maximum alt.i.tude, with the aircraft using the minimum fuel and the Aldan Aeros.p.a.ce technicians in the forward compartment going about their prescribed tests with the equipment.

He glanced towards Lavender and smiled. She returned the look with a twist of her lips, bravely struggling with the horrors that must have been going through her head.

Anton Murik rarely stopped talking. 'You see,' he said, 'we'll descend to the pick-up point some ninety minutes before the deadline runs out. By then we'll know, by our radar, when their aircraft has made its dropping run. I want to keep them on the edge of their seats until the last moment. If the flotation bag is there - as I'm certain it will be - it's a simple matter: my air crew has been well-trained in the art of picking up from the sea. All we need is a couple of low-level pa.s.ses while we trail a cable with grappling hooks from the rear of the aircraft. Once we've hooked on, we just winch up the bag. A rise in the price of diamonds, eh?' He cackled at his weak joke.

'A rise'll be right,' Bond replied. 'You'll get a glut. Could mess up the market.'

'Oh, my dear Bond, why do you always underestimate me? I'm a patient man: waited too long for this. You don't think I'm going to send out a troop of Boy Scouts with the diamonds, and flood the market next week.' He gave an irritated little sigh. 'This has taken too long to set up. I don't mind waiting a little longer - a year or two. Softly, softly. The diamonds'll trickle on to various markets. I've enough money to start work on my own reactor now. I simply wish to recoup from this little h.o.a.rd.' Looking straight at Bond he gave a broad smile. 'All for free. They'll fall over themselves to pay up.'

'And if they stand fast? If theydon'tcome up with your precious fifty billion?' Bond realised this was unlikely. Murik held his gaze coldly.

'Then the world will not be the world any more. Not as we know it.'

'You're really going to let the terrorist teams close down the cooling systems?'

Murik gave a dismissive wave of the hand. 'There'll be no need. The governments will pay up and look happy. They have no option.'