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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
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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, classic 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.
'His minence grise, some say.' M puffed at his pipe, as though slightly
embarrassed. '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
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