John Gardner - Licence Renewed

'But the baby was baptised Anton and took the title?'

'Baptised Anton Angus, yes; and took the title Laird of Murcaldy, yes,' M said with a slight curl of the lip.

'So, whatever else, we must treat him as a Scottish Laird. I presume he is also a bona fide nuclear scientist? We have to take that part seriously?'

'We take him very seriously indeed,' M looked grave, repeating, 'Very seriously. There is no doubt at all that Anton Murik is a man of great intellect and influence. Just take a glance at the background precis.' He passed the relevant sheet from the dossier across to Bond, who took it in with a quick sweep of the eyes:

Anton Angus Murik. Born Murik Castle, Murcaldy, Ross and Cromarty, Scotland, December 18th, 1920. Educated Harrow and St John's College, Cambridge. First Class Honours in Physics followed by a Fellowship, then a Doctorate. So good that he was reserved for work under Professor Lindemann — later Lord Cherwell — scientific adviser to Winston Churchill; also worked on Manhattan Project (the making and testing of the first atomic bomb); Committee for the Peaceful use of Atomic Energy; International Atomic Energy Commission...

Murik had resigned from this last position just two years ago. There followed a lengthy and impressive list of companies with which Murik was associated. Bond's eyebrows gradually rose higher as he read the list. Among other things, Anton Murik was Chairman of Micro-Modulators Ltd, Eldon Electronics Ltd, Micro Sea Scale Ltd and Aldan Aerospace, Inc. In addition he sat on countless boards, all of which had some direct application to nuclear power or electronics. Bond also saw that the firms included some specialist contractors with great knowledge of design and building in the field of nuclear reactors.

'You spot the odd man out?' M asked from behind a cloud of pipe smoke.

Bond looked down the list again. Yes, there tucked away among all the electronics, nuclear companies and aerospace conglomerates, was a strange entry, Roussillon Fashions. Bond read out the entry.

'Yes. Damned dressmaking firm,' M snorted.

James Bond smiled to himself. 'I think a little more than just a dressmaker, sir. Roussillon is one of the world's leading fashion houses. They have branches in London, Paris, Rome, New York; you name it. Ask any woman with dress sense. I suppose Roussillon would come among the top five fashion houses in the world.'

M grunted, 'And charge top prices as well, I've no doubt. Well, Anton Murik has a majority holding in that firm.'

'Don't suppose he just likes dressing up in high-class ladies' clothes or something like that?' Bond grinned.

'Don't be flippant, 007. You have to look at the financial aspect.'

'Well, he must be a multi-millionaire,' Bond said, almost to himself. He was rarely impressed by such things, but, even from the list in front of him, it was obvious that Dr Anton Murik wielded considerable power. 'How in heaven's name did a man with these qualifications manage to get himself thrown out of the International Atomic Energy Commission, sir?'

M did not hesitate. 'For one thing he's unscrupulous in business matters. Sailed very close to the wind in some dealings with those companies you see listed. At least two of the chairmanships were gained by stepping almost literally, over the bodies of other men.'

'Most good businessmen are inclined to be ruthless...' Bond began; but M held up a hand.

'There was another matter,' he said. 'Anton Murik is a bit of a fanatic, and he tends to take the view of most of those people you see protesting against the use of nuclear power and the dangers of the disposal of nuclear waste. He mounted a stiff campaign against the use of the major types of nuclear reactor already in service, or planned to go into service. Worldwide. You see, 007, the man claims to have designed the ultimate in reactors — one which not only provides the power but safely disposes of the waste, and cannot go wrong. Calls it the Murik Ultra-Safe Reactor.'

'And his colleagues didn't buy it?'

' "Didn't buy" is an understatement. His colleagues say there are grave flaws in the Ultra-Safe design. Some even go as far as claiming the whole thing is potentially a hundred times more dangerous than the current families — the fast-breeders, B.W.R.s, P.W.R.s, gas/graphites and liquid metal fast-breeders. Murik wanted funds from the Commission to prove them wrong, and build his own reactor.'

'So they cut off the money.'

M said they did exactly that, and Bond laughed again, remarking that a little thing like money should not make much difference to a multi-millionaire. 'Surely Murik could go out and build his own — in his back garden: it seems big enough.'

M sighed. 'We're talking in billions of dollars; billions of pounds sterling, James. Anton Murik argued. There were, apparently, some terrific rows, and suggestions that the man's far from stable,' he touched his forehead with an index finger. 'That's really why this whole business of contact with a fellow like Franco worries me. It is also why I will on no account allow you to go charging into the field without preparation. Could be wrong, of course, but I really don't think a week or so is going to make that much difference. Especially if I can turn you into the ideal penetration agent — establish you within the Murik entourage: and to that end,' M began to leaf through his own dossier again, 'I think you'd better meet Anton Murik and his household.' He drew several photographs from the bulky depths of the file.

'You're going to officially deny Duggan's request, then?' Bond's mind had become completely concentrated on the job in hand by now. Having been inactive for a long time made little difference to him. The job was like swimming or driving; once the rudiments had been mastered, professionalism — when something big turned up — came back like the flicking of a switch. Whatever plot was being hatched — either by Franco or Dr Anton Murik — Bond would not, now, rest until every end was tied up; no matter how dangerous or arduous, or even plain dull, it turned out to be.

M grunted. 'Duggan's got two good people in the field. They've already had four tries at keeping tabs on Franco plenty of practice. That should, eventually, make them perfect. I have confidence that they'll discover his port of exit this time. We'll put a tail on Franco when the moment comes. Your job's too important...' he must have seen the quizzical look on Bond's face, 'and don't tell me that I'm putting you in on M.I.5's territory. I know that, and so do you, but my bones tell me it won't be for long. The action's going to move out of Scotland as soon as whatever it is they're cooking comes to the boil. Now for the pretty pictures.'

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.