The journey in the security van lasted for almost six hours. There were no windows in either the sides or the front – connecting with the driver's cab – and it was impossible to see through the small grilled apertures in the rear doors.
All Bond could do was try to calculate speed and mileage. All sense of direction was lost within the first hour though he had some idea they were moving even farther north. When they finally stopped, Bond calculated they had come almost two hundred miles – a slow, uncomfortable journey. It was now nearly three in the afternoon, and when the doors of the truck were unbolted and opened, Bond was surprised to see Caber already waiting for them. A sharp breeze cut into the truck, and Bond felt they were probably on an area of open ground. Again it was impossible to tell, for the rear of the truck had been backed up near to a small concrete building, only a pace or so from a pair of open doors. The view to left and right was screened by the truck's doors, now fully extended. Nobody spoke much, and almost all the orders were given by grunts and sign language – as though Bond was either deaf or mentally deficient. Inside the concrete building they led him along a narrow passage with, he noted, a slight downward slope. Then into a windowless room where, at last, the handcuffs were removed and the freedom of a wash room was allowed; though this too had no windows, only air vents fitted high, near the ceiling. Food was brought-sandwiches and coffee- and one of the guards remained with him, still impassive, but with his jacket drawn back from time to time so the butt of a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson.38 was visible. It looked to Bond like one of his own old favourites, the Centennial Airweight. From the moment of departure from the castle, Bond's mind hardly left the subject of a possible breakaway. This, however, was no time to try anything – locked away in what seemed to be a very solidly built bunker, in an unknown location, kept close with armed men and the giant Caber. He thought about Caber for a moment, realising that, if they had been through all his effects, the huge Scot would know the secret of Bond's success in the wrestling match. Caber was going to be a problem; but at least things were moving, and Bond had been heartened by one item of his clothing they had returned to him – his thick leather belt the secrets of which he had checked, to find they had not been discovered.
In his luggage there were three belts of different design and colour, each containing identical items of invaluable assistance. Q Branch had constructed the belts in a manner which made their contents practically undetectable – even under the most advanced Detectorscope, such as the sophisticated J-200 used extensively by Bond's own service. With everything else-watch, wallet and the rest-removed, he at least had the fall-back.
Bond sat looking at his guard, giving him the occasional smile, but receiving no reaction. At last he asked the young Scot if he could be allowed a cigarette. The man merely nodded, keeping his eyes on Bond as he withdrew a packet of cigarettes and tossed one towards O07's feet. Bond picked it up and asked for a light. The man threw over some book matches, telling him to light up, then drop the book on to the floor and kick it back. There would be no blazing-matches-in-the-face routine.
At around four o'clock there were noises from above – a helicopter very low over the building, chopping down for a landing. Then, a few minutes later, Caber entered with the other guards. 'Ye'll be joining the Laird now,' he was ordering Bond, not telling him. 'It's only a wee walk, so ye'll not be needing the irons. But I warn ye: any funny business, and ye'll be scattered to the four winds.' Caber sounded as if he meant every word, and would be more than happy to do the scattering personally.
Bond was marched up the passage, between his original guards, and through the door. The security truck had gone, and they were standing on the edge of a small airfield. It was clear now that they had come out of the basement of pat must be a control tower. A couple of Piper Cubs and an Aztec stood near by.
Away to the left Bond saw the helicopter, which he presumed was from Murik Castle. In front of them, at the end of a metalled runway, a sleek executive jet shivered as if in anticipation of flight, its motors running on idle. It looked like a very expensive toy -a Grumman Gulfstream, Bond thought – in its glossy cream livery with gold lettering which read Aldan Aerospace, Inc. Bond recalled the company's name in the dossier on Anton Murik which M had shown him. Caber nodded them towards the jet and, as they walked the few yards – at a smart pace – Bond turned his head. The neat board on the side of the control tower read: Aldan Aerospace, Inc. Flying Club: PRIVATE. Anton Murik and Mary-Jane Mashkin were already seated, as was Lavender with her minder, when they climbed into the roomy littlejet. The pair did not even turn around to look at their captive, who was placed with a guard on either side, as before. A young steward passed down the aisle, fussily checking seat belts, and it was at this point that Lavender turned to lock eyes with Bond. During the flight she repeated the action several times, on two occasions adding a wan smile. They had hardly settled down when the door was slammed shut and the aircraft moved, pointing its nose up the runway. Seconds later the twin Rolls-Royce Spey jets growled, then opened their throats, and the aircraft began to roll, rocketing off the runway like a single seat fighter, climbing rapidly into a thin straggle of cloud. Now they were reaching the end of the journey, with the sun low on the horizon. The mountains were above them, seeming to lower over the bucking aircraft. Bond still peered out, trying to place their location. Then, suddenly, he recognised the long, flat breast of the mountain to their left. The Canigou. No wonder he recognised it, knowing the area as well as he did. Roussillon – that plain circled with mountains, and bordering on the sea, hunched against Spain. They were in France, the Pyrenees Orientales, and the old town he had spotted was the ancient, one-time seat of the Kings of Majorca, Perpignan. He should have spotted the towers that remained of the old wall and the vast fortress which had once been the palace set among the clustered terracotta roofs and narrow streets.
Roussillon? Roussillon Fashions. The blurred and sporadic conversation, overheard after the bug had been dislodged from Murik's desk, came back to Bond. It was down there at the ancient palace, dating from medieval times, when the area had been an independent kingdom, ruled over by the Kings of Majorca, that Franco was to administer death: through a high-powered air rifle on Wednesday night – tonight – the day before Operation Meltdown. The target? Bond knew with fair certainty who the target would be. The situation was altered beyond recognition. Whatever the risk, he must take the first chance, without hesitation. More than at any time during the whole business, Bond had to get free.
Of course. They were on the final approach to Perpignan airport, near the village of Rivesaltes, and only three or four miles from the town itself. Bond had even been here in winter, for the skiing, as well as spending many happy summer days in the area.
The engines flamed out and the little jet bustled along the main runway, slowing and turning to taxi away from the airport buildings, out towards the perimeter of the airfield.
The aircraft turned on its own axis and finally came to a halt, the guard next to Bond placing a firm restraining hand on his arm. The top brass were obviously going to disembark first.
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.'