She was about to move away when Bond caught hold of her, pulled her close and into a wild kiss. She slid her hands to his shoulders, gently pushing him away. 'Let's see.' She c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at him. 'I thought you'd have got the idea. You said the place was period decor - 1960s. All I've done - and I've spent many happy hours getting it right is add in a 1960s' fantasy: music, lights, the waterbed, scent, and an available bird with very few clothes on. I thought you of all people, James Bond, would have got the message. Fantasies should change with the times. Surely we're all more realistic these days. Particularly about relationships. The word is, I think, maturity.'

Yes, thought Bond, Q'utewasa good name for Ann Reilly, as she scurried around showing off the electronics of her fantasy room. 'It might be an illusion', he said, 'but it still has a lethal effect.'

She turned towards him, 'Well, James, the bed's still there. It usually is. Have some coffee and let's get to know one another.'

In his own flat the next morning, Bond was awake before six-thirty. The biter bit, he thought, with a wry smile. If ever a man's bluff had been called, it was by the ingenious Q'ute. In good humour he exercised, took a hot bath, followed by a cold shower; shaved, dressed and was in his dining room when the faithful May came in with his copy of The Timesand his normal breakfast - the favourite meal: two large cups of black coffee, from De Bry, without sugar; a single 'perfectly boiled' brown egg (Bond still affected to dislike anything but brown eggs, and kept his opinion regarding three and one-third minutes const.i.tuting the perfect boiling time); then two slices of wholewheat toast with Jersey b.u.t.ter and Tiptree 'Little Scarlet' strawberry jam, Cooper's Vintage Oxford Marmalade or Norwegian heather honey.

Governments could come and go; crises could erupt; inflation may spiral, but - when in London - Bond's breakfast routine rarely changed. In this he was the worst thing a man in his profession could be: a man of habit, who enjoyed the day starting in one particular manner, eating from the dark blue egg cup with a gold ring around the top, which matched the rest of his Minton china, and happy to see the Queen Anne silver coffee pot and accessories on his table. Faddish as this quirk certainly was, Bond would have been outraged if anyone told him it smacked of sn.o.bbery. For James Bond, sn.o.bbery was for others, in all walks of life. A man has a right to certain pleasurable idiosyncrasies - more than a right, if they settled his mind and stomach for the day ahead.

Following the Q'ute incident, Bond hardly took any time off during the preparation for what he now thought of as an a.s.signation with Anton Murik on Gold Cup day.

On most evenings lately he had gone straight back to his flat and a book which he kept between his copiesof Scarne's Complete Guide to Gamblingand an 1895 edition of the cla.s.sic Sharps and Flats - A complete revelation of the secrets of cheating at games of chance and skillby John Nevil Maskelyne. The book he read avidly each night had been published privately around the turn of the century. Bond had come across it in Paris several years before, and had it rebound in board and calf by a printer often employed by the Service. It was written by a man using the pseudonym Cutpurse and t.i.tledThe Skills, Arts and Secrets of the Dip.It was, in fact, a comprehensive treatise on the ancient arts of the pickpocket and light-fingered body-thief.

Using furniture, old coats - even a standard lamp - Bond practised various moves in which he was already well skilled. His discussions with M, as to how he should introduce himself to the Laird of Murcaldy and his entourage, had formulated a plan that called for the cleverest possible use of some of the tricks described by Cutpurse. Bond knew that to practise some of these dodges, it was necessary to keep in constant trim - like a card sharp, or even a pract.i.tioner of the harmless, entertaining, business of legerdemain. He therefore began anew, re-learning the b.u.mp, the buzz, the two-fingered lift, the palm-dip (usually used on breast pockets), the jog - in which a small billfold is literally jogged from a man's hip pocket - or the thumb-hitch.

A pickpocket seldom works alone. Gangs of from three to ten are the normal rule, so Bond's own plan was to be made doubly difficult: first he had to do the thing by himself; second, the normal picking of pockets did not apply. He was slowly working up his skill to the most difficult move in the book - the necklace flimp: flimp being a word that went back to the early nineteenth century, when flimping referred, normally, to the removal of a person's fob watch. Towards the end of the period Bond was spending several hours a night perfecting the moves of the necklace flimp. All he could hope for was that M's information, given to him during those long hours of briefing under the Cooper painting of Admiral Jervis's victory, would prove accurate.

Now, a signpost read 'Ascot 4 miles', and Bond joined a queue of Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, Daimlers and the like, all heading towards the race course. He sat calmly at the wheel; his Browning in its holster, locked away in the glove compartment; Q'ute's personalised luggage in the boot of the car, and himself in shirtsleeves, the grey morning coat neatly folded on the rear seat, with the matching topper beside it. Before leaving, Bond had reflected that he would not have put it past Q'ute to arrange some kind of device inside a top hat. She had been very affable, promising any a.s.sistance in the field - 'Just let me know, and I'll be out with whatever you need, 007,' she had said with only the trace of a wink.

Bond allowed her a small twitch of the eyebrow.

Now he looked like any other man out to cut a dash in the Royal Enclosure. In fact his mind was focused on one thing only - Dr Anton Murik, Laird of Murcaldy, and his a.s.sociation with the terrorist, Franco.

The careful, if quickly planned, run-up to the a.s.signment was over. James Bond was on his own, and would only call up help if the situation demanded it.

As he approached the race course, Bond felt slightly elated, though a small twist in his guts told him the scent of danger, maybe even disaster, was in the air.

6.

Pearls before swine

There was only one part of any race course that James Bond really enjoyed - the down-market public area. Alongside the track itself life was colourful: the characters always appearing more alive and real - the day-trip couples out for a quick flutter; tipsters with their sharp patter, and the ebullient, on-course bookies, each with his lookout man watching a partner; the tick-tack sign language being pa.s.sed across the heads of the punters, relaying changes in the betting odds. Here there was laughter, enjoyment and the buzz of pleasure.

For the first couple of races that day, Bond - immaculate in morning suit and topper - strolled in the public crowd, as though reluctant to take his rightful place in the Royal Enclosure, the pa.s.s for which (provided by M) was pinned to the lapel of his morning coat.

He even stayed down near the rails to watch the arrival of Her Majesty, Prince Philip and the Queen Mother - stirred, as ever, by the inspiring sight of tradition as the members of the Royal Family were conveyed down the course in their open carriages: a blaze of colour, with liveried coachmen and postillions - like a ceremony from another age.

His first action, on arrival, had been to check the position of Anton Murik's box in the Grand - or Tattersalls - Stand (another fact gleaned from one of M's expert sources). The Murik box was third along from the left on the second tier.

Leaning against the rails, Bond scanned the tiered boxes with binoculars provided by Q Branch - field gla.s.ses of a particular powerful nature, with Zeiss lenses, made especially for the Service by Bausch & Lomb. The Murik box was empty, but there were signs that it would soon be inhabited. Bond would have to keep his eye on the paddock prior to the Gold Cup; but, before that event, there was an overwhelming desire to have a wager on his target's horse. Dr Anton Murik's entry did not stand much chance. That was patently obvious from the odds being offered.

For the Gold Cup, the Queen's horse was favourite, with Lester Piggott up; and odds at only five-to-four on. Other contenders were very well-tried four-year-olds, most of them with exceptional records. In particular, Francis' Folly, Desmond's Delight and Soft Centre were being heavily tipped. The other ten runners seemed to be there merely for the ride; and the Laird of Murcaldy's China Blue - by Blue Light out of Geisha Girl - appeared to have little opportunity of coming anywhere near the leaders. Bond's race card showed that in his last three outings, the horse had achieved only one placing, the card reading 0-3-0.

The harsh facts were borne out by the betting odds, which stood at twenty-five-to-one. Bond gave a sardonic smile, knowing that M would be furious when he put in his expenses. If you're going to plunge rashly with the firm's money, he thought, do it with a little style. With this in his head, Bond approached a bookmaker whose board showed him to be Honest Tone Snare, and placed a bet of one hundred and ten pounds to win on China Blue. One hundred and ten pounds may be a negligible sum, but, to the Service accountants, even five pounds was a matter of arguable moment.

'You got money to burn, Guv?' Honest Tone gave Bond a toothy grin.

'One hundred and ten to win,' Bond repeated placidly.

'Well, you know yer own mind, Guv; but I reckon you've either got money to burn or you know something the rest of us don't.' Honest Tone took the money in return for a ticket that, if China Blue should - by some chance of fate - win, would yield Bond something in the region of two and a half thousand pounds: taking into account the eight per cent betting tax - hence the extra ten pounds stake.

Once in the Royal Enclosure, Bond felt his dislike for this side of the race meeting descend on him like a dark, depressing cloud. As much as he liked the female form, he was repelled by the idea of so many women, young and old, parading in fashionable dresses and outlandish hats. That was not what racing was about, he considered.

Some of them, he acknowledged, would be there for the sheer pleasure of the day, which had turned out to be warm and cloudless. Yet a fair majority attended only to be seen, attract the attention of the gossip columnists, and out-do one another with bizarre headgear. Maybe this aversion was a sign of maturity. A depressing thought; and to quell it, Bond headed for the main bar where he consumed two rounds of smoked salmon sandwiches and a small bottle of Dom Perignon.

On M's personal instructions, he had come into the Enclosure unarmed - the Browning still snug in the car. In case of trouble, Bond carried only the small pen emergency contact device, and the replica Dunhill cigarette lighter - which contained more dangerous possibilities than Messrs Dunhill would have approved.

Casually he strolled around the Enclosure, finally settling himself under the shade of the trees which surrounded the paddock. Safe in his pocket was M's other piece of cover - a well-forged owner's pa.s.s that would get him inside the paddock, and close to the target. He did not have to wait long. The horses were already entering the paddock, from the end farthest from the stands. Bond watched. Within a few minutes he identified China Blue.

The horse looked an unpromising proposition by any standards. The coat was dull and the animal had about him an odd, lack-l.u.s.tre look - as though it would take dynamite rather than a jockey to make him perform anything more than a sedate canter on this warm afternoon. Bond gave the animal a good looking over and decided that it was just an unpromising-looking horse. This did not mean that the animal could not show unusual form. Stranger things had happened. Looking at the horse being led round by the stable-boy, Bond had one of those sudden instincts - the kind which so often saves lives in his profession - that he would win his money. There was more to China Blue than the eye could tell.

How? He had no idea. Frauds on race courses in England are rare these days. Anton Murik would certainly not resort to unsophisticated risks like doping or subst.i.tution, when competing against the kind of stock running in the Ascot Gold Cup. Yet Bond knew at that moment that China Blue would almost certainly win.

Suddenly the short hairs on the back of his neck tingled, and he experienced a shiver of suspense. A man and two women were approaching China Blue - the trainer turning towards them, hat in hand and a deferential smile of welcome on his face. Bond was getting his first view of Dr Anton Murik.

He shifted position, moving closer to the paddock entrance.

ItwasAnton Murik; the face of the man he had seen in the photograph. What the picture had not captured was the high mane of white hair sweeping back from the bulldog face. It came as a shock, until Bond remembered the photograph had been cut off just above the forehead. Also, no still photograph could ever capture the walk or manner. The Laird of Murcaldy was barely five feet tall, and walked, not as Bond had imagined, with the stride of a Scottish chieftain, but in a series of darting steps. His movements - hands, head, fingers and neck - were of the same quick precision. In a phrase, Dr Anton Murik, Laird of Murcaldy, was possessed with the movements of a grounded bird.

The features, and authoritative way he appeared to address his trainer, however, made up for any other physical deficiency. Even at this distance, the man clearly had a power that overrode physical peculiarities or eccentricities.

A born leader, Bond thought; sometimes the best of men, or the worst; for born leaders usually knew of their power early in life, when they chose either their good or evil angel as a guide to success.

The two women with Murik were easily recognisable. Oddly, Bond considered, they were identically dressed, except in the matter of colour. Each wore a cla.s.sic, V-necked, mid-calf length dress in a knitted boucle. Over the dress was a short, sleeveless gilet.

The elder of the women - obviously Mary-Jane Mashkin - wore the ensemble in navy, with white tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, and a neat, short-brimmed hat in white.

The ward, Lavender Peac.o.c.k, was taller, more slender, and just as stunning as her photograph. Her identical clothes were in white, with navy tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs and hat. Bond wondered if their outfits were originals from Murik's Roussillon Fashions.

The younger girl was laughing, turning towards Murik, the gilet flaring away from her to reveal firm and impertinent b.r.e.a.s.t.s, under the dress, in splendid proportion to the rest of her body. The sight was breathtaking, and Bond could see why the Laird of Murcaldy kept her on what M referred to as a tight rein. Lavender Peac.o.c.k looked like a spirited, healthy and agile girl. To Bond's experienced eye, she also had the nervous tension of a young woman unused, and straining at the leash. Left to her own devices, Lavender Peac.o.c.k might well carve a path of broken hearts - even broken marriages - through Scottish and English society, in a matter of months.

Bond narrowed his eyes, straining and never taking them off the girl. She talked animatedly, constantly glancing at Murik. Concern seemed to pa.s.s over her face each time she looked at the Laird, but Bond only took this in as a kind of side issue. He was looking for something more. Something essential to the whole scheme of insinuating himself into the Laird of Murcaldy's immediate circle. Something M had revealed to him in great detail during their hours of planning.

It was there. No doubt. The triple, heavy rope of matching pearls clearly visible around Lavender's neck. From this distance, under the shade of the paddock trees, it was, of course, impossible to tell if they were the real thing: but they would, undoubtedly, be taken as such. The real thing certainly existed - f500,000 worth ofmoharpearls, graded and strung on three short ropes, all held by a decorated box clasp and safety chain at the back of the neck.

The pearls had been kept in trust for Lavender until her twenty-first birthday, having originally been a wedding present from her father to her mother, during whose lifetime they had been kept mainly in a bank vault.

Lavender - M told Bond - had broken this habit, against Anton Murik's advice, and now wore them on every possible occasion. In the confines of M's office, Bond wondered, aloud, if the Laird of Murcaldy did, in fact, allow the pearls to be worn. Subst.i.tution would, for a man of his resourcefulness, be relatively easy. M had snappily told him this was not the point. The Peac.o.c.k pearls were known to be worn in public. They certainly seemed to be around Lavender's neck this afternoon.

Bond thought they could not be around a prettier neck. If he had been taken with the photograph of the girl, he was certainly dazzled by the real thing. Murik had turned away and was talking to the two women, while the trainer leaned close to the jockey, giving him last instructions. In the background China Blue looked as docile as ever: as spirited as a wooden rocking horse.

It was time for Bond to move. The entrance to the paddock was busy, with people pa.s.sing in and out. Already he had noticed that the Ascot race course officials were only giving cursory glances at proffered owners' pa.s.ses. Within the next few minutes, Anton Murik and his party would be coming through this entrance - which doubled as the main exit - out into the Royal Enclosure, through which they would presumably pa.s.s on their way to the Tattersalls Stand. The whole of the present operation's future depended upon timing, and Bond's skill. With the binocular case over his right shoulder, race card held open, firmly, in his left hand, he made his way into the paddock, flicking the owner's pa.s.s quickly in front of the official who seemed most preoccupied.

Horses were being mounted, and two had already begun to walk towards the exit that would take them down on to the course. Bond circled China Blue and the group around him; staying back, seeming to keep his eyes on another horse near by.

At last, with a final call of good luck from the a.s.sembled party, China Blue's jockey swung into the saddle. Murik, the Mashkin woman, the trainer and Lavender moved back, pausing for a second as the horse walked away, urged forward by the jockey, who, Bond noticed, looked very relaxed and confident.

Murik's party began to move slowly towards the exit through which Bond had just come. It was now becoming crowded with owners, their families and select friends leaving to view the race. Carefully Bond stepped close to Murik's party. The Laird himself was talking to the trainer, with Mary-Jane Mashkin standing to one side. Lavender Peac.o.c.k was to their rear. Bond sidled between her and the Laird with his two companions, staying behind them just long enough for others to press around him, therefore putting several people between Murik's group and Lavender Peac.o.c.k, so that she would be reasonably far behind them when they reached the exit.

Bond sidestepped again, allowing himself to be overtaken until he could push himself in just behind Lavender Peac.o.c.k. They were five or six paces from the exit, now jammed with people trying to get through as quickly and politely as possible. Bond was directly behind the girl, his eyes fixed on the box clasp and safety chain at the back of her neck. It was clearly visible, and, as he was pushed even closer, hemmed in by the crowd, Bond caught the smell of the girl's scent - Mille de Patou, he thought: the limited edition, and the most expensive scent on the market. So exclusive that you received a certificate with your purchase. There were enough people around, and Bond was well screened. Allowing himself to be jostled slightly, he now pushed his shoulders forward for added protection, and b.u.mped full into Lavender Peac.o.c.k's back. The next complicated moves took only a fraction of a second, just as he had practised and planned them during the past few days. Keeping the left hand, which was clutching the open race card, low down by his side, Bond's right hand moved upwards to the nape of the girl's neck. The inside of his first and second fingertips grasped the box clasp which held the pearls, lifting them away, so that no strain would be felt by their owner. At the same time, his thumb pa.s.sed through the safety chain, breaking it off with a deft twist. Now the box clasp fell into position, held tightly by the thumb and forefinger. He pressed hard, tilting, and felt the clasp give way.

The box clasp is constructed, as its name implies, as two metal boxes - in this case decorated by tiny pearls - which fit one inside the other. When released by pressure they fall apart, but there is an added safety feature. The inner box contains a small hook, which slips around a bar in the outer box. Using the thumb and first two fingers, Bond control led both boxes, slipping the hook from its bar. He then withdrew his hand, glancing down and dropping his race card. Silently the pearls fell to the turf. His aim and timing were perfect. The race card followed the pearls, falling flat and open on top of them. Lavender Peac.o.c.k did not feel a thing, though Bond caused a minor clogging of the exit as he bent to retrieve his card, lifting the pearls with it, so that they were securely held inside the card.

Relaxed now, and holding the card and pearls, hidden behind the tail of his morning coat, Bond sauntered towards the Tattersalls Stand, following Anton Murik's party, at a discreet distance, as they moved towards the Tattersalls Stand - just as he hoped they would. Lavender had caught up with them, and Bond prayed she would not discover her loss before reaching the Murik box.

Bond slowed considerably, allowing the Laird's party to get well ahead. He knew there was still the vague possibility that some plainclothes policeman had spotted his moves. Any moment one of two things could happen - a cry from Lavender, announcing the pearls were missing; or the firm hand on his shoulder that would mean, in criminal parlance, that he was having his 'collar felt'. If the latter occurred it would be no use telling them to ring M. Precious time would have been lost.

Murik's party had now disappeared into the stand. Nothing happened, and Bond entered the side door, climbing the stairs to the second tier about two minutes after the Laird's group entered. On reaching the corridor running behind the boxes, Bond transferred the pearls to his right hand and advanced on the Laird of Murcaldy's box.

They all had their backs to him as he knocked and stepped inside. n.o.body noticed, for they seemed intent upon watching the runners canter down to the starting line. Bond coughed. 'Excuse me,' he said. The group turned.

Anton Murik seemed a little put out. The women looked interested.

Bond smiled and held out the pearls. 'I believe someone has been casting pearls before this particular swine,' he said, calmly. 'I found these on the floor outside. Looks like the chain's broken. Do they belong to?..'

With a little cry, Lavender Peac.o.c.k's hand flew to her throat. 'Oh my G.o.d,' she breathed, the voice low and full of melody, even in this moment of stress.

' "My G.o.d" is right,' Murik's voice was almost unnaturally low for his stature, and there was barely a hint of any Scottish accent. 'Thank you very much. I've told my ward often enough that she should not wear such precious baubles in public. Now, perhaps, she'll believe me.'

Lavender had gone chalk white and was fumbling out towards Bond's hand and the pearls. 'I don't know how to...' she began.

Murik broke in, 'The least we can do, sir, is to ask you to stay and watch the race from here.' Bond was looking into dark slate eyes, the colour of cooling lava, and with as much life. This gaze would, no doubt, put the fear of G.o.d into some people, Bond thought: even himself, under certain circ.u.mstances. 'Let me introduce you. I am Anton Murik; my ward, Lavender Peac.o.c.k, and an old friend, Mary-Jane Mashkin.'

Bond shook hands, in turn; introducing himself. 'My name is Bond,' he said. 'James Bond.'

Only one thing surprised him. When she spoke, Mary-Jane Mashkin betrayed in her accent that she was undoubtedly American - something that had not appeared on any of the files in M's office. Originally Southern, Bond thought, but well overlaid with the nasalities of the East Coast.

'You'll stay for the race, then?' Murik asked, speaking quickly. 'Oh yes. Please.' Lavender appeared to have recovered her poise.

Mary-Jane Mashkin smiled. She was a handsome woman, and the smile was much warmer than the subdued malevolence of Anton Murik. 'You must stay. Anton has a horse running.'

'Thank you.' Bond moved closer within the box, trying to place himself between Murik and his ward. 'May I ask which horse?'

Murik had his gla.s.ses up, scanning the course, peering towards the starting gate. 'China Blue. He's down there all right.' He lowered his gla.s.ses, and for a second there was movement within the lava-flow eyes. 'He'll win. Mr Bond.'

'I sincerely hope so. What a coincidence,' Bond laughed, reaching for his own binocular case. 'I have a small bet on your horse. Didn't notice who owned him.'

'Really?' There was a faint trace of appreciation in Murik's voice. Then he gave a small smile. 'Your money's safe. I shall have repaid you in part for finding Lavender's pearls. What made you choose China Blue?'

'Liked the name.' Bond tried to look ingenuous. 'Had an aunt with a cat by that name once. Pedigree Siamese.'

'They're under starter's orders.' Lavender sounded breathless. They turned their gla.s.ses towards the far distance, and the start of the Ascot Gold Cup - two and a half flat miles.

A roar went up from the crowd below them. Bond just had time to refocus his gla.s.ses. The horses were off.

Within half a mile a pattern seemed to emerge. The Queen's horse was bunched with the other favourites - Francis' Folly and Desmond's Delight, with Soft Centre clinging to the group, way out in front of three other horses which stood back a good ten lengths; while the rest of the field straggled out behind.

Bond kept his gla.s.ses trained on the three horses behind the little bunch of four leaders who seemed set to provide the winners. Among this trio was the distinctive yellow and black of Murik's colours on China Blue.

There was a strange tension and silence in the box, contrasting with the excited noise drifting up from the crowds lining the course. The pace was being kept up hard; and the leading bunch did not appear to be drawing away from the three horses some distance behind them. The Queen's horse was ahead, but almost at the half-way mark Desmond's Delight began to challenge, taking the lead so that these two horses, almost imperceptibly, started to pull away, with Francis' Folly and Soft Centre only half a length behind them, running as one animal.

As the field pa.s.sed the half-way mark, Bond shifted his gla.s.ses. Two of the trio following the lead bunch seemed to be dropping back, and it took Bond a second to realise this was an optical illusion. He was aware of Anton Murik muttering something under his breath. China Blue was suddenly being hard ridden, closing the distance between himself and the third and fourth runners among the leaders.

'Blue! Come on, Blue,' Lavender called softly. Glancing along the box rail, Bond saw Mary-Jane Mashkin standing, taut, with her hands clenched.

The crowd was intent on the four horses battling for position at the front of the field. They were past the three-quarter mark by the time people realised the serious challenge China Blue presented as he came up, very fast, on the outside.

The racing China Blue could have been a different animal from the horse Bond had watched in the paddock. He moved with mechanical precision in a steady striding gallop; and now he was reaching a speed far in excess of any of the lead horses. By the time they reached the straight final three furlongs, China Blue was there, scudding past Francis' Folly and Soft Centre - well up and gaining on Desmond's Delight, who had again taken second place to the Queen's horse.

A great burst of sound swept like a wind over the course as China Blue suddenly leaped forward in a tremendous surge of speed, outstripping both Desmond's Delight and the Queen's horse, to come loping home a good length in front of the pair who had made the running from the start.

Lavender was jumping up and down, excitedly clapping her hands. 'He did it. Uncle Anton, he did it.'

Mary-Jane Mashkin laughed - a deep, throaty sound but Dr Anton Murik merely smiled. 'Of course he did it.'

Bond saw that Murik's smile did not light up his eyes.

'Well, Mr Bond, my horse has won for you. I'm pleased.'

'Not as pleased as I am,' said Bond, quickly, as though blurting out something he would rather have kept hidden.

It was just enough to interest Murik - the hint of a man rather in need of hard cash.

'Ah,' the Laird of Murcaldy nodded. 'Well, perhaps we'll meet again.' He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, producing a business card. 'If you're ever in Scotland, look me up. I'd be glad to provide some hospitality.'

Bond looked down at the card bearing Anton Murik's address and again feigned surprise. 'Another coincidence,' he said, smoothly.

'Really?' Murik was ready to go. After all, he had just won the Ascot Gold Cup and wanted his moment of triumph. 'Why another coincidence?'

'I leave for Scotland tonight. I'll be in your area in a couple of days.'

The slate eyes grew even cooler. 'Business or pleasure?'

'Pleasure mostly. But I'm always open for business.' He tried to make it sound desperate.

'What kind of business, Mr Bond?'

Bond hesitated slightly, timing the pause. 'The contracting business.'