Bond heaved his mind back. Bond, James. What was the next bit? The band played on, and he could smell the expensive fragrance of Lavender's scent as she held his hand tightly. No. No. Bond, James. 259057. Major, retired. The book. Nuclear power plants derive their energy from the splitting or fission of the uranium isotope U-235.
The music had changed, more gently, like Dilly's touch on his hand. Drag your mind back, James. Back. Don't let go. Then Lavender was asking the questions. 'James, what do you really do for a living?'
'Bond, James. 259057. Major, retired.' He knew that he should not have trusted her.
'Oh, not that rubbish, James, darling. What do youreally get up to?'
Fight, James. Fight it. Even from outside his body. The echo in his own ears was odd, the speech blurred as he said, 'In a nuclear plant, steam is produced by the heat coming from the controlled chain reaction occurring inside the uranium fuel rods within the reactor core...' then he was laughing; and the band played on.
'You're talking scribble, James. Did your nanny say that when you were little? Talking scribble? You've got something to do with nuclear power, haven't you? Are you from the Atomic Research? The International Commission? Or the International Atomic Energy Agency in Vienna?'
Think, James, there's something very wrong here. Pull yourself up, you're dreaming and it's getting worse. Feel your body; get into your own mind. Be determined. Beat it. 'Nuclear power is a very expensive way to boil water.' That was what the book said; and there was a diagram next. Fight, James. Do everything they taught you at Camberley.
'Come on, who are you really?' asked Lavender.
'My name...' It wasn't Lavender. The other one was asking the questions. Yet he could smell Lavender's scent; but it was the American woman. What was her name? Mary-Jane? That was it, Mary-Jane Mashkin. Maybe Dilly was straight after all.
In a drowning pall of dark smoke, Bond shouted loudly, 'Bond, James. 259057. Major, retired. That what you want to know, Mary-Jane? 'Cause that's the truth.' He fought hard and stopped there, knowing to go on talking in this floating cloud of uncertainty, would lead him into babbling on like a brook. Brook. Babble. Book.
Another voice cut through, loudly. 'He's resisting. Increase the dosage.'
'You'll kill him. Try rewards.'
'Yes.'
Bond's body seemed to tilt forward. He was sliding down an invisible slope, gathering speed. Then something was pressed against his ears. Headphones. Music poured in on him. Beautiful liquid sounds that slowed up his descent, soothing him. Lord, he was tired. Sleep? Why not? The voice again 'James Bond?'
'Yes.'
'What are your duties?'
'I am...' No, James, fight, you silly bugger. 'I am 259057... Major, retired...'
The soothing music was still there in his head, and the voice snapped back, 'I want the truth, not that rubbish. When you don't speak the truth, this will happen...'
Bond probably screamed aloud. The noise filled his head. The terrifying blinding noise, the screech and wail. No... No... No... As suddenly as it started, the horrific, bursting blaze of sound stopped. It had been counterproductive, for Bond felt the nerve ends of his body again, and was quite clear for a few seconds about what was happening. If he gave them evasive answers they would pour the sound into his head again. The sound high frequency white noise: waves of sound; waves on a nonuniform pattern. They brought pain, distress, and worse.
The soft music had returned, then the voice again. Murik. Anton Murik, Laird of Murcaldy. Bond had regained enough sense to know that.
'You were sent on a mission, weren't you, Bond?'
'I came here. You invited me.' His body started to slip away, the mind floating.
'You made sure I invited you. Who sent you here?'
Slipping. Watch it, James. Air brakes; slow up; slow up.
The Saab's wheels clawing at the air and the crashing somersault... Then the agony, the screech of noise filling his head, bursting the brain, red in his eyes and the pain sweeping between his ears: great needles of noise against the screams which he could not hear and the faces of evil glaring out from the terrible high-pitched cacophony. His brain would burst; the soundwaves rising higher and higher. Then silence, with only the echoes of pain leaving his head the size of a giant balloon: throbbing.
'Who sent you here, and what were your instructions?'
Sharp. Orders, like the crack of a whip.
No, James. Control. Concentrate. Fight. The book. The page. Bond knew what he was saying, but could not hear it.
'A nuclear plant's reactor core is suspended inside a steel vessel with thick walls like a giant pod...'
The white noise came in a flood that swept away his cranium; whining, clawing, scratching, screaming into his very soul. This time it seemed to go on in an endless series of red-hot piercing attacks, not falling or letting up, but rising, enveloping him, filling the brain with agony, bursting at his eardrums, inflating him with its evil. When it finally stopped, Bond was still screaming, on the very edge of madness, teetering on the precipice of sanity.
'Who sent you, Bond? What were you supposed to do?'
'The twelve-foot-long fuel rods are inside the core...' The madness covered him again, then stopped. Whatever drug they had used was now ineffective; for the ache in his great, oversized, head had taken over, and all Bond knew was the terrible aftermath of the noise.
'Tell me!' commanded Anton Murik.
'Sod you, Murik,' Bond shouted.
'No.' He heard Mary-Jane shout, so loudly, close to his ear, that he winced as though the whole of his hearing and the centre of his brain had been branded by the white noise.
'You'll get nothing now.'
'Then we'll take him along for the ride. Dispose of him after the girl.'
Bond found it hard to understand what Murik was saying. The words were there, clear enough, but his concentration was so bad that he seemed incapable of sorting out the meaning. Each word had to be weighed and understood, then the whole put together.
'Get Caber,' he heard. Then: 'Quite extraordinary,' from the woman. 'His mental discipline is amazing. You'd normally expect a man to crack and blurt out everything. He's either for real an adventurer of some kind who got frightened or a very clever, tough professional.'
'I want him kept safe; and well away from the girl. Does she suspect anything?'
Mary-Jane Mashkin was answering, 'I don't think so. Went a little white when I told her Mr Bond had met with an accident. I think the silly bitch imagines she's in love with him.'
'Love! What's love?' spat Murik. 'Get him out.'
'I'd like tae do it fur permanent.' It was Caber's voice, and they were Caber's tree-like arms that picked Bond from the table. Bond could smell the man close to him. Then the weakness came, suddenly, and he felt the world zoom away from him, as though down the wrong end of a telescope. After that the darkness.
The next time he opened his eyes, Bond seemed to be alone. He lay on a bed that was vaguely familiar, but as soon as he shut his lids, all consciousness withdrew itself from him again.
Some kind of noise woke him the next time, and it was impossible to know for how long he had slept. He heard his own voice, a croak, asking to be left alone, and, louder, 'Just let me rest for a minute and I'll be okay,' before he drifted off again. This time into a real dream not the nightmare from the torture chamber with music: the band playing light opera overtures and Lavender close to him among the trees of St James's Park, with a cloudless London sky above them. Then an inbound jet stormed its way overhead, lowering its gear on a final approach to Heathrow; and he woke, clear-headed, with the pain gone.