As Murik came level with Bond, he gave a little swooping movement and his bulldog face split into a grin. Т hope you enjoyed the flight, Mr Bond. We thought it better to have you with us, where we can keep an eye on you during this most important phase. You will be well looked after, and I'll see that you get a ringside seat tomorrow.'
Bond did not smile. 'A hearty breakfast for the condemned man?' he asked. 'Something like that, Mr Bond. But what a way to go!' Mary-Jane, following hard on Murik's heels, gave a twisted little smirk. 'Should've taken up my offer when the going was good, James.' She laughed, not unpleasantly. Murik gave a chirpy smile. 'We shall see you anon, then ' and he was off, doing his little bird hop down to the door. For the first time Bond was one hundred per cent certain about Lavender. He looked up, giving her a broad, encouraging grin as she passed down the aircraft, her brawny escort's hand clamped hard on to her arm. A flicker of nervousness showed in her eyes, then the warmth returned, as though Bond was willing courage and strength into thegirl.
They were parked alongside a huge hangar, with adjacent office buildings, topped by a neon sign that read Aldan Aerospace (France), Inc. Bond wondered what had prompted Murik to choose this Catalan area – the Roussillon – as his headquarters for this part of Europe. Roussillon Fashions, for sure, but there had to be some other reason. Bond wondered how much of it concerned Meltdown.
The guards acted like sheepdogs, closing in around Bond, trying to make the walk from the aircraft look as natural as possible. The hangar and offices were no more than a few yards from the perimeter fence of the airport, where a gaggle of ancient Britannias rested, herded together like stuffed geese, each with the legend European Air Services running above the long row of oval windows. The fence was low, and broken in a couple of places. Beyond, a railway track with overhead wiring ran straight past; behind that, a major road-the Route Nationaleslashed with cars, moving fast. Going to, or coming from Perpignan, Bond thought; for in this area all roads led to that town. At full stretch he could be away and through that fence и a matter of thirty seconds. Thirty seconds: he actually considered it as they neared the offices. The muscular Scots around him would be prompt in their reaction. Yet Bond was almost hypnotised by the idea of escaping this way through the fence, should the opportunity present itself.
It was to happen sooner than he expected. They were within a few paces of the office doors when, from around the corner, in a flurry of conversation and laughter, there appeared a small group of men – four in the dark blue uniforms of a commercial air line. They were close enough for Bond to make out the letters E.A.S. entwined in gold on their caps. European Air Services. A fragment of English floated from the conversation, then a quick response in French, for the aircrew were accompanied by two young French customs officers – the whole group strolling lazily towards the Britannias.
Murik and Mary-Jane were almost at the office door, accompanied by one of the guards; behind them, Lavender was being led firmly by her minder, and Caber walked alone between her and Bond, still flanked by his two men.
It would be one of his biggest gambles. The odds flashed through his mind: putting everything you owned on the turn of a card; on one number at the roulette table; on the nose of a horse. This time it would be everything he owned: life itself. If Murik's men could be so shocked into holding fire or chase, even for a few seconds, he might just do it. In this fraction of time, Bond weighed the chances. Would Murik wish to call attention to himself and his party? Would they risk other people being hurt, killed even? It was a matter of audacity and nerve.
Later, Bond thought the appearance of the train probably made up his mind; the sound of a horn in the distance, and the sight of a long railway train snaking its way along the tracks, about a mile off.
He slowed, dropping back a couple of paces, causing one of the guards to nudge him on. Angrily, Bond shoved the man. 'You can stop that,' he said very loudly. 'I'm not interested in your bloody meeting.' Then, looking towards the group of aircrew and customs men, he raised his voice and shouted 'Good grief, already taking one step away from the nearest guard, who moved a hand to grab him Bond was quick. The bet was laid. Le maximum: faites vos jeux.
Bond had stepped away, and was moving in great long strides, his hand up, towards the group of uniformed men. 'Johnny,' he shouted. 'Johnny Manderson: what the hell are you doing here?' The uniformed men paused, turning towards him. One smiled broadly; the others looked puzzled. 'Get back here.' Caber tried to keep his voice low as he started forward; and Bond heard Murik hiss, 'Get him. For God's sake. Take care.' But, by this time, Bond had reached the group, his hand stretched out to one of the aircrew, who in turn put out his hand in a reflex action of cordiality, while beginning to say something about a mistake. 'It's good to see you, Johnny.' Bond pumped his hand wildly, still talking loudly. Then he pulled the man towards him, spinning around to put him, as a shield, between Murik's people and himself. Caber and two of the guards were advancing warily, hands inside their jackets and, doubtless, on the butts of their weapons. Behind them the others were moving slowly into the building, Murik glancing up, his face a mask. Bond dropped his voice. 'Terribly sorry,' he said, grinning. 'A little problem about non-payment of dues. I should watch out for those blokes. Hoods, the lot of them. Must dash.' Using the group of uniformed men for cover, he was off, going flat out in a low crouch, weaving towards one of the jagged gaps in the fence. There were shouts from behind him, but no shots. Only the sound of pounding feet, and г argument of sorts, between Caber's men and the aircrew and customs officers. Bond dived through the gap, sliding down the small embankment on to the railway track- the train now bearing down on him, its roar shaking the gravel, the sound covering everything else. If there was going to be shooting, it would happen in the next few seconds, before the train reached them.
The big engine was coming from his right-from the direction of Perpignan, he thought. There was no time for further reflection. It was now or never, in front of the train looming above him. Bond chanced it, leaping in two long strides across the track, and doubling his body into a ball, rolling as he reached the far side; the engine almost brushing his back as it passed with a great parp of its horn.
The horn sounded nothing like that unmistakabletoo-tootoo-too-toot of the hunting field; but, for a second, Bond was transported, hearing the noise of hooves heavy on grass, the baying of hounds and the huntsman's horn, 'Gone away'. He had never cared much for foxhunting, and now – casting himself in the role of the fox – he liked it even less. How the hell did you go to earth in a foreign country with Murik's hounds at your heels?
In an instant Bond was on his feet running down the far bank towards the Route Nationale, his thumb already up in the hitch-hiker's position. But luck was still with him. As he reached the edge of the road he saw a small, battered pickup truck pulled into the side. Two men were being dropped off, and there were four others in the back, shouting farewells to their comrades. They looked like farm-workers going home after a long backbreaking day in the vineyards.
'Going into Perpignan?' Bond shouted in French.
The driver, a cigarette stuck unlit in the corner of his mouth, nodded from the window. 'A lift?' Bond asked. The driver shrugged, and one of the men in the back called for him to jump up. Within seconds they were edging into the traffic, Bond crouched down with the other men -thanking providence for his own facility with the French language. He sneaked a peep towards the airport side of the railway tracks. There was no sign of Caber or the others.