First, he explained the obvious. With the castle and huge estate, the Laird of Murcaldy had immediate access to manpower. 'He's got gamekeepers, wardens, and every imaginable kind of servant up there, from drivers to guards: so as far as the Laird's concerned, he has no real security problem. There is a central core of family, though. First, the doctor himself.'

The photograph showed a pugnacious face, not unlike that of the late Lord Beaverbrook, but without the crescents of humour bracketing the mouth. A bulldog of a man, with cold eyes that were fixed on somebody, or something certainly not the camera - slightly to his right. The line of the mouth was hard, uncompromising; and the ears, which lay very flat against the head, gave him an odd, symmetrical outline. Photographs can be deceptive - Bond knew that well enough - but this man, captured by a swift click and the activation of a shutter, could have been a son of the Manse. He had that slightly puritanical look about him - a stickler for discipline; one who knew his own mind and would have his own way, no matter what lay in his path. Bond felt vaguely uneasy. He would not admit to anything so grave as fear when confronted by a photograph, but the picture said clearly that the Laird of Murcaldy was a force: a power.

The next print showed a woman, probably in her early forties, very fine-looking, with sharp, cla.s.sic features, and dark, upswept hair. Her eyes were large, but not - Bond thought - innocent. Even in this image they seemed to contain a wealth of worldly knowledge; and the mouth, while generous, was not out of proportion, the edges of the lips tilting slightly upwards, in some ways softening the features.

'Miss Mary-Jane Mashkin,' said M, as though it explained everything.

Bond gave his chief a look of query, the comma of hair connecting with his right eyebrow as though to form a question mark.

'Hiseminence grise,some say.' M puffed at his pipe, as though slightly embarra.s.sed. 'Certainly Murik's mistress. Was his secretary for ten years. Murik's strong right arm and personal adviser. She's a trained physicist. Cambridge University, the same as the Laird, though not his standard it seems. Acts as hostess for him; lives at Murik Castle. Travels with him, eats... and all the rest of it.'

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 circ.u.mflex. Bond allowed himself to relax in an almost inaudible low whistle.

M cut short this reflex reaction. 'Anton Murik's ward. Miss Lavender Peac.o.c.k. 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 Peac.o.c.k when she reaches her twenty-seventh birthday. That is next year.'

Bond observed that Lavender Peac.o.c.k 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 Peac.o.c.k 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 pa.s.sport. We can drum it all up here. A mercenary, I think. You heard what Ross said about Murik's second pa.s.sion 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 const.i.tute 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.

Within a week of her arrival, Q Branch had accorded its new executive the nickname of Q'ute, for even in so short a time she had become the target of many seductive attempts by unmarried officers of all ages. Bond had noticed her, and heard the reports. Word was that the colder side of Q'ute's personality was uppermost in her off-duty hours. Now 007 found himself working close to the girl, for she had been detailed to arrange the equipment he would take into the field, and brief him on its uses.

Throughout this period, James Bond remained professionally distant. Q'ute was a desirable girl, but, like so many of the ladies working within the security services these days, she remained friendly yet at pains to make it plain that she was her own woman and therefore Bond's equal. Only later was 007 to learn that she had done a year in the field before taking the two-year technical course which provided her with promotion to executive status in Q Branch.

At forty-eight hours' notice, Q'ute's team had put together a set of what she called 'personalised matching luggage'. This consisted of a leather suitcase together with a similarly designed, steel-strengthened briefcase. Both items contained cunningly devised compartments, secret and well-nigh undetectable, built to house a whole range of electronic sound-stealing equipment; some sabotage gear, and a few useful survival items. These included a highly sophisticated bugging and listening device; a VL 22H counter-surveillance receiver; a pen alarm, set to a frequency which linked it to a long-range modification of the SAS 900 Alert System. If triggered, the pen alarm would provide Bond with instant signal communication to the Regent's Park headquarters building in order to summon help. The pen also contained micro facilities so that it operated as a homer; therefore, when activated, headquarters could keep track of their man in the field - a personal alarm system in the breast pocket.

As a back-up, there was a small ultrasonic transmitter; while, among the sabotage material, Bond was to carry an exact replica of his own Dunhill cigarette lighter - the facsimile having special properties of its own. There was also a so-called 'security blanket' flashlight, which generates a high-intensity beam strong enough to disorientate any victim caught in its burst of light; and - almost as an afterthought - Q'ute made him sign for a pair of TH70 Nitefinder goggles. Bond did not think it wise to mention that these lightweight goggles were part of the standard fittings Communication Control Systems, Inc. had provided for the Saab. He had tested them himself - on an old, disused, airfield during a particularly dark night - driving the Saab without lights, at high speed, while wearing the Nitefinder set strapped to his head. Through the small projecting lenses, the surrounding countryside and cracked runway down which he took the car could be seen with the same clarity he would have experienced on a summer evening just before twilight.

As well as the time spent with M and Q'ute, Bond found himself in for some long hours with Major Boothroyd, the Service Armourer, discussing weaponry. On M's instructions, 007 was to go armed - something not undertaken lightly these days.

During the years when he had made a special reputation for himself in the old Double-O Section, Bond had used many hand weapons: ranging from the .e25 Beretta - which the Armourer sarcastically dismissed as 'a lady's gun' - to the .38 Colt Police Positive; the Colt .45 automatic; .38 Smith & Wesson Centennial Airweight; and his favourite, the Walther PPK 7.65mm. carried in the famous Berns-Martin triple draw holster.

By now, however, the PPK had been withdrawn from use, following its nasty habit of jamming at crucial moments. The weapon did this once too often, on the night of March 20th, 1974, when a would-be kidnapper with a history of mental illness attempted to abduct Princess Anne and her husband, Captain Mark Phillips. The royal couple's bodyguard, Inspector James Beaton, was wounded, and, in attempting to return fire, his Walther jammed. That, then, was the end of this particular hand gun as far as the British police and security services were concerned.

Since then, Bond had done most of his range work with either the Colt .45 - which was far too heavy and difficult to use in covert field operations - or the old standby .38 Cobra: Colt's long-term favourite snub-nosed revolver for undercover use. Bond, naturally, did not disclose the fact that he carried an unauthorised Ruger Super Blackhawk .44 Magnum in a secret compartment in the Saab.

Now, minds had to be clear, and decisions taken regarding Bond's field armament; so a lengthy, time-consuming, and sometimes caustic battle ensued between Bond and the Armourer concerning the relative merits of weapons.

They had been through the basic arguments a thousand times already: a revolver is always more reliable than an automatic pistol, simply because there is less to go wrong. The revolver, however, has the double drawback of taking longer to reload, usually carrying only six 'rounds of ammunition in its cylinder. Also - unless you go for the bigger, bulky weapon - muzzle velocity, and, therefore, stopping power, is lower.

The automatic pistol, on the other hand, gives you much easier loading facilities (the quick removal and subst.i.tution of a magazine from, and into, the b.u.t.t), allows a larger number of rounds per magazine, and has, in the main, a more effective stopping power. Yet there is more to go wrong in the way of working parts.

Eventually it was Bond who had the last word - with a few grumbles from Major Boothroyd - settling on an old, but well-tried and true friend: the early Browning 9mm originally manufactured by Fabrique Nationale-De Guerre in Belgium from Browning patents. In spite of its age this Browning has accurate stopping power. For Bond, the appeal lay in its reliability - eight inches overall and with a barrel length of five inches. A flat, lethal weapon, the early Browning is really a design similar to the .32 Colt and weighs about thirty-two ounces, having a magazine capacity of seven 9mm. Browning Long cartridges, with the facility to carry one extra round in the breech.

Bond was happy with the weapon, knew its limitations, and had no hesitation in putting aside thoughts of more exotic hand guns of modern manufacture.

Unused weapons of all makes, types and sizes, were contained in the Armourer's amazing treasure trove of a store; and he produced one of the old Brownings, still in its original box, thick with grease and wrapped in yellow waxed paper. No mean feat, as this particular gun has long since ceased to be manufactured.

The Armourer knew 007 well enough not to have the pistol touched by any member of his staff; calling Bond down to the gunsmith's room, so that the weapon could be cleaned off, stripped, checked and thoroughly tested by the man who was to use it. If Bond had been scheduled to make a parachute jump, both the Armourer and Q Branch would have seen to it that 007 packed his own 'chute. In turn, it was the only way Bond would have it done. The same applied to weapons.

Late one afternoon Bond found himself down in the empty gunsmith's room, with the run of the place, plus the underground range, while he went through the exacting ch.o.r.e upon which his life might depend.

He was, therefore, surprised when, just as he started to clean the grease from the Browning, the door opened to reveal Q'ute, dressed in brown velvet and looking exceptionally desirable. Major Boothroyd, she told Bond, had suggested that she come down to watch the cleaning and preparation of the weapon.

'Why should he do that?' Bond hardly glanced up at the girl, conscious for the first time that her cool manner const.i.tuted a direct challenge. He had worked hard over the past days: now a sensual snake stirred in the back of his mind. Q'ute would make a relaxing partner for the evening.

Q'ute swung herself on to the workbench, after making certain she had chosen a clean patch of wood. 'The Armourer's giving me a weapons' course, when I'm off duty,' she told him. For the first time, Bond noticed Q'ute's voice had a throaty quality to it. 'I'm not very good with hand guns, and he says you are. He mentioned that the weapon was of an old type as well. Just thought it would be a good idea, if you didn't mind.'

Bond's strong, firm hands moved expertly, even lovingly, over the pistol as he silently chanted the stripping routine.

'Well, do you?' Q'ute asked.

'Do I what?'

'Mind me watching?'

'Not at all.' He glanced up at the girl, whose pretty face, behind the large spectacles, remained impa.s.sive. 'Always best to handle weapons with care and gentleness,' he smiled, as the movements of his hands over the mechanism became increasingly erotic.

'With care, of course,' Q'ute's voice took on a slight edge of sarcasm. Now she repeated, parrot-fashion, from the Service training manual, ' "Weapons of all description should be treated with great care and respect." Don't you carry it a bit too far, Commander Bond?'

h.e.l.l, he thought. Q'ute was a good nickname for her. Bond even slowed down the movements of his hands, allowing the process of stripping to become more obvious as he silently repeated the instructions: Grasp head of recoil spring guide; push towards muzzle to release the head of the guide from the barrel. Draw out barrel from breech end. Remove stocks, giving access to lockwork. Dismount slide a.s.sembly, starting with firing pin and continue normally...

'Oh come on, Commander Bond. I do know something about weapons. Anyway, n.o.body believes all that stuff about guns being phallic symbols any more.' She tossed her head, giving a little laugh. 'Stop playing strip the lady with that piece of hardware, if you're doing it for my benefit. I don't go for those paperback books with pictures of girls sitting on large guns, or even astride them.'

'What do you go for then, Q'ute?' Bond chuckled.

'My name's Ann Reilly,' she snapped, 'not that d.a.m.n silly nickname they all use around here.' She looked at him, straight in the eyes, for a full twenty seconds. 'As for what I like and dislike - go for, as you put it - maybe one day you'll find out.' She did not smile. 'I'm more interested in the way that automatic works, why you chose it, and how you got that white mark on your hand.'

Bond glanced up sharply, his eyes suddenly losing their humour and turning to ice in a way that almost frightened Q'ute. 'Someone tried to be clever a long time ago,' he said slowly. In the back of his mind, he remembered, quite clearly, all the circ.u.mstances which had led to the plastic surgery, that showed now only as a white blemish, after the Cyrillic letter - standing for SH - had been carved into the back of his hand in an attempt by SMERSH to brand him as a spy. It was long ago, and very far away now; but clear as yesterday. He detected the break he had made in Q'ute's guard with his sharp cruelty. So long ago, he thought: the business with Le Chiffre at Royale-les-Eaux, and a woman called Vesper - about the same age as this girl sitting on the workbench, showing off her shapely knees and calves - lying dead from an overdose, her body under the sheets like a stone effigy in a tomb.

The coldness in Bond's mien faded. He smiled at Q'ute, again looking down at his hand. 'A small accident - carelessness on my part. Needed a bit of surgery, that's all.' Then he went back to removing the packing grease from the Browning. All thoughts of dallying with the Q Branch executive called Ann Reilly were gone. She was relatively young and still learning the ways of the secret world, in spite of her electronic efficiency, he decided.

As though to break the mood, she asked, in a small voice, 'What's it like to kill somebody? They say you've had to kill a lot of people during your time in the Service.'

'Then they shouldn't talk so much.' It was Bond's turn to snap. He was rea.s.sembling the gun now. 'The need-to-know system operates in the Service. You, of all people, should know better than to ask questions like that.'

'But Idoneed to know.' Calmer now, but showing a streak of stubbornness that Bond had detected in her eyes before this. 'After all, I deal with some of the important "gee-whizz" stuff. You must also know what that covers secret death: undetectable. People die in this business. I should know about the end product.'

Bond completed the rea.s.sembly, ran the mechanism back and forth a couple of times, then picked up one of the magazines containing seven Browning Long 9mm. rounds that would shatter a piece of five-inch pine board at twenty feet.

Looking at the slim magazine, he thought of its lethal purpose, and what each of the little jacketed pieces of metal within would do to a man or woman. Yes, he thought, Q'ute - Ann Reilly - had a right to know. 'Give me a hand;' he nodded towards a box on the workbench. 'Bring along a couple of spare magazines. We have to test this little toy on the range, then work's over for the night.'

She picked up the magazines and slid down from her perch as she repeated the question. 'How does it feel to kill a person?'

'While it's happening, you don't think much about it,' Bond answered flatly. 'It's a reflex. You do it and you don't hesitate. If you're wise, and want to go on living, you don't think about it afterwards either. I've known men who've had breakdowns - go for early retirement on half pension - for thinking about it afterwards. There's nothing to tell, my dear Q'u... Ann. I try not to remember. That way I remain detached from its reality.'

'And is that why you clean off your pistol in front of someone like me - stripping it as though it were a woman?' He did not reply to that, and she followed Bond quietly through the corridor that led to the range.

It took Bond nearly an hour, and six extra magazines, before he was completely happy with the Browning. When they finished on the range, he went back to the gunsmith's room, with Q'ute in his wake, and stripped the gun down for cleaning after firing. As he completed this last ch.o.r.e, Bond looked up at her. 'Well, you've seen all there is to see. Show's over. You can go home now.'

'You no longer require my services then?'

She was smiling. Bond had not expected that. 'Well,' he said cautiously. 'If you'd care for dinner...'

'I'd love it,' she grinned.

Bond took her in the Saab. They went into Kensington, to the Trattoo in Abingdon Road, where Carlo was pleased to see his old customer. Bond had not been there for some time and was treated with great respect, ordering for the pair of them - a simple meal: thez.uppa di verdurafollowed byfegato Bacchus,washed down with a light, young, Bardolino (a '79, for Bardolino should always be drunk young and cool, even though it is red, rather as the French imbibe their rose wines young, Bond explained). Afterwards, Carlo made them plain crepes with lemon and sugar, and they had coffee up in the bar, where Alan Clare was at the small piano.

Ann Reilly was enchanted, saying that she could sit and listen to the liquid ease of Clare's playing for ever. But the restaurant soon started to fill up. A couple of actors came in, a well-known movie director with crinkled grey hair, and a famous zany comedian. For Ann, Alan played one last piece - her request, the sentimental oldie fromCasablanca:'As Time Goes By'.

Bond headed the Saab back towards Chelsea, at Ann Reilly's bidding. Between giving him directions, she laughed a lot, and said she had not enjoyed an evening like this for a long time. Finally they pulled up in front of the Georgian terraced house where Q'ute said she had the whole of the second floor as her apartment.

'Like to come in and see my gadgets?' she asked. Bond could not see the smile in the darkness of the car, but knew it was there.

'Well, that's different,' he chuckled. 'I still stick to the etchings.'

She had the pa.s.senger door open. 'Oh, but I have gadgets,' she laughed again. 'I'm a senior executive of Q Branch, remember. I like to take my work home with me.'

Bond locked the doors, followed her up the steps and into the small elevator which had been installed during what estate agents call 'extensive modernisation'.

From the small entrance hall of Q'ute's apartment Bond could see the kitchen and bathroom. She opened the main door and they pa.s.sed into the remainder of the apartment - one huge room - the walls hung with two large matching gilt-framed mirrors, a genuine Hockney and an equally genuine Bratby, of a well-known composer whose musicals had been at their peak fifteen to twenty years ago. The furnishings were mainly late 1960s Biba, and the lighting was to match - Swedish in design, and mounted on battens angled into the corners of the room.

'Ah, period decor,' said Bond with a grin.

Ann Reilly smiled back. 'All is not as it seems,' she giggled, and for a moment Bond wondered if she was not used to drinking: perhaps the wine had gone to her head. Then he saw her hand move to a small console of b.u.t.tons by the light switches. Her fingers stabbed at the b.u.t.tons, and in the next few seconds Bond could only think of transformation scenes at childhood pantomimes.

The lights dimmed and the room became bathed in a soft red glow which came from the skirting boards. The large, circular, smoked gla.s.s table which formed a focal point at the centre of the room seemed to sink into the carpet, and from it there came the sound of splashing water as it gleamed with light to become a small pond with a fountain playing at its centre. The Hockney, Bratby, and both of the mirrors appeared to cloud over, then clear, changed into paintings of a nature that almost shocked Bond by their explicitness.

He sniffed the air: a musky scent had risen around him, while the sound of piano music gently rose in volume - a slow, sensual blues solo, so close and natural that Bond peered about him, thinking the girl was actually sitting at an instrument somewhere. The scent and music began to claw at his senses. Then he took a step back, his eyes moving to the wall on his right. The wall had started to open up, and, from behind it, a large, high, waterbed slid soundlessly into the room - above it a mirrored canopy hanging from crimson silk ropes.

Ann Reilly had disappeared. For a second, Bond was disorientated, his back to the wall, head and eyes moving over the extraordinary sight. Then he saw her, behind the fountain, a small light, dim but growing to illuminate her as she stood naked but for a thin, translucent nightdress; her hair undone and falling to her waist - hair and the thin material moving and blowing as though caught in a silent zephyr.

Then, as suddenly as it all happened, the room started to change again. The lighting returned to normal, the table rose from the fountain, the Hockney, Bratby, and mirrors were there once more, and Q'ute slowly faded from view. Only the bed stayed in place.

There was a chuckle from behind him, and Bond turned to find Q'ute, still in her brown velvet, and with her hair smooth and pleated, as she leaned against the wall laughing. 'You like it?' she asked.

Bond frowned. 'But?..'

'Oh come on, James. The transformation's easy: micro and electronics;son et lumiere.I built it all myself.'

'But you?..'

'Yes,' she frowned, 'that's the most expensive bit, but I put most of that together as well; and the modelisme. Hologram. Very effective, yes? Complete 3D. Come on, I'll show you the gubbins...'