Now he had to find his way down to the Laird's control room and collection of weapons; for Bond was certainly not going to face Anton Murik without some kind of defence. For a while they blundered around by torchlight, until Bond finally led the way down to the long weapon-adorned room in the cellars. Even Bill Tanner gasped as they swung the torches around the walls replete with swords, thrusting weapons, pistols, muskets and rifles.
'Must be worth a fortune by itself,' whispered Tanner.
Bond nodded. They had, for some unaccountable reason, whispered throughout the journey down from the tradesmen's entrance, as though Murik and his henchmen might come upon them unawares at any moment. Outside dawn would just be breaking, streaking the sky. If Murik was going to make his dash for freedom he would either arrive soon, or they would still be waiting for him to come under the cover of nightfall. Bond was running his torch over the weapons when Tanner suddenly clutched at his arm. They stood, motionless, ears straining for a moment, then relaxed.
'Nothing,' said Tanner. Then, just as suddenly, he silenced Bond once more.
This time they could both hear the noise: from a long way off, up through the brick, stone and earth, the faint buzz of an engine.
'He's arrived.' Bond grabbed at the first thing he could lay hands on: a sporting crossbow, heavily decorated, but refurbished, with a thick taut cord bound securely to a metal bow, the well-oiled mechanism including acranequin to pull back and latch the cord into place. Taking this and three sharp bolts which were arranged next to it, Bond motioned Tanner out of the room.
'Up to the hall,' he whispered. 'The light's not in his favour. He'll want to get hold of the stuff and be away fast. Pray God he'll take it all with him, and we can catch the bastard outside.'
There would be more chance in the open. Bond was sure of that. As they reached the hall, the noise of the descending helicopter became louder. It would be the little Bell Ranger, hovering and fluttering down behind the keep. Standing in the shadows, Bond strained his ears. If the pilot kept his engines running, 007 knew his theory would be right that Murik planned to remain in the castle for only a short time, leaving quickly with whatever documents he had cached there. But if the engine was stopped, they would have to take him inside the building.
Somewhere towards the back of the house, there was the scratch and squeak of a door. Murik was entering the same way that Bond and the Chief-of-Staff had come, by the tradesmen's entrance. Thank heaven for Tanner, whose wisdom had cautioned the locking of the door behind them. There was a click and then the sound of footsteps moving surely, as a man will move in complete darkness when he knows his house with the deep intimacy of years. The steps were short and quick: unmistakable to Bond. Murik Warlock was home again.
From far away outside came the gentle buzz of the Bell Ranger's engine, which meant the pilot was almost certainly waiting, seated in his cockpit. Bond signalled with the crossbow, and they set off silently in the direction of the door through which the Laird had returned. Outside it was almost fully light now, with only faint traces of cloud, pink from the reflected rising sun. The noise of the helicopter engine was loud, coming from behind the keep, to which Bond now pointed. Side by side, Tanner and Bond sought the edge of the old stone tower, black and bruised with age, to shelter behind one angled corner, from which they had a view of the castle's rear.
Bond bent to the task of turning the heavycranequin, panting at each twist of the wheel, as the steel bow drew back and its thick cord finally clicked into place. Raising the weapon skywards for safety, Bond slid one of the bolts into place. He had no idea of its accuracy, though there was no doubt of it being a lethal weapon.
The seven or eight minutes' wait seemed like a couple of hours. Then, with surprising suddenness, they heard footsteps fast on the gravel. Bond stepped from the cover, lifting the crossbow to his shoulder. Anton Murik was running hard, to their right, heading for the far side of the keep. In the left hand he held a thick and bulky oilskin package, while in his right he clutched at something Bond could not quite see. Squinting down the primitive crossbow sights, Bond shouted, 'Far enough, Murik. It's over now.'
The Laird of Murcaldy hardly paused, seeming to turn slightly towards Bond's voice, his right hand rising. There was a sharp crack followed by a high-pitched screaming hiss. A long spurt of fire streaked from Murik's hand, leaving a comet trail behind it, passing so close between Bond and Tanner that they felt the heat from the projectile which hit the side of the keep with the thud of a sledgehammer. A whole block of the old stone cracked and splattered away, sending great shards flying. Tanner gave a little cry, clutching his cheek, where a section of sharp stone sliced through.
Bond knew immediately what Murik was using: a collector's item now, from the early 1950s, the M.B.A. Gyrojet Rocket pistol. This hand-held launcher fired high velocity mini-rockets, propelling payloads of heat-resistant steel like bright polished chrome. The 13mm. bullets, with their rocket propellant, were capable of penetrating thick steel plates. Bond had handled one, and recalled wondering what they would do to a man. He did not think twice about their efficiency. The Gyrojet pistol contained a magazine holding five rockets. He had a one-shot crossbow and no margin for error.
Bond did not hesitate. Before Murik still running could hurl another rocket from his Gyrojet, he squeezed the trigger of the crossbow. The mechanism slammed forward, its power taking Bond by surprise. The solid noise of the mechanism drowned any hiss the bolt might have made through the air and was, in its turn, blotted out by Murik's cry as the heavy bolt speared the upper part of his chest.
Murik continued to run, as both Bond and Tanner started after him. Then he staggered and the Gyrojet pistol dropped on to the gravel. Swaying and weaving, Murik doggedly ran on, whimpering with pain, still clutching at the oilskin package. He had by now almost reached the rising ground behind the keep, above the helicopter pad.
Bond ran hard, pausing only to sweep up the Gyrojet, and check that there was a rocket in place. Grunting with pain and anguish, Anton Murik was gasping his way up the bank as Bond shouted to him for the second time. 'Stop. Stop, Anton. I don't want to kill you; but I'll fire if you don't stop now.'
Murik continued, as though he could hear nothing, and, as he reached the top of the mound, Bond and Tanner heard the noise of the helicopter engine rise as lift power was applied. The target was outlined against the now red morning sky: Murik teetering on top of the mound, ready to make a last dash down the other side to the Bell Ranger lying just out of sight.
Bond shouted 'Stop' once more. But for Murik there was no turning back. Carefully Bond levelled the Gyrojet pistol and squeezed the trigger. There was a crack from the primer, then he felt the butt push back into his hand as the rocket left the barrel, gathering speed with a shower of flame a long trace of fire getting faster and faster until it struck Murik's back, with over a thousand foot-pounds of energy behind it.
Only then did Bond know what such a projectile did to a man. It was as though someone had taken a blowlamp to the rear of a cardboard cut-out target; for the centre of Murik's back disintegrated. For a second, Bond could have sworn that he was able to see right through the gaping hole in the man, as he was lifted from his feet, rising into the air before falling forwards out of sight.
Tanner was beside Bond, his face streaked scarlet with blood, as they paced each other up the bank. Below, the helicopter pilot was revving his motor for takeoff. One glance towards Bond and the levelled Gyrojet pistol changed his mind. The pilot shut down the engine and slowly climbed from the cockpit, placing his hands over his head.