Three cars stood in front of what was obviously the main door -a wide structure with a pillared portico. The castle seemed to be set in the midst of large formal gardens, and the whole aspect produced a half-sinister, half-Disneyland quality. Craning forward, Bond could just make out the edge of a vast lawn to the right of his view. He thought he could glimpse the corner of a marquee. For tomorrow's Games, he presumed. Well, Dr Anton Murik certainly had a castle and, no doubt, acted like a king in it.

Bond was just about to get to his feet, return to the car, drive back and present himself at King Murik's court, when he realised, too late, that he was not alone.

They had come upon him with the craft and experience of professional hunters, materialising from the ground like spirits of the night. But these were not spirits – particularly their leader who now loomed huge above him.

'Spyin' on Murik Castle, eh?' the giant accused him in a broad Scots accent.

'Now wait a minute…' Bond began, raising a hand to remove the Nitefinder kit; but, as he moved, so two hands, the size of large hams, grasped him by the lapels, and he was lifted bodily into the air.

'Ye'll come guy quiet wi' us. Right?' the giant said.

Bond was in no mood for going quietly with anybody. He brought his head down hard, catching the big man on the forward part of his nose bridge. The man grunted, letting go of Bond, who could see the butt had been well placed. A small trickle of blood had begun to flow from the man's nostrils.

'I'll kill ye for – ' The man was stopped by another voice from behind them.

'Caber? Hamish? Malcolm? What is it?'

Bond instantly recognised the slight nasal twang of Mary-Jane Mashkin. 'It's Bond,' he shouted. 'You remember, Miss Mashkin. We met at Ascot. James Bond.'

She appeared, like the others, suddenly as though from the ground. 'My God, Mr Bond, what're you doing here?' She peered at the giant. 'And what's happened to you, Caber?'

'Yon man gied me a butt to the neb,' he muttered, surly. Mary-Jane Mashkin laughed. 'A brave man, doing something like that to Caber.'

'I fear your man thought I was a poacher. He-well, he lifted me up, and became generally aggressive. I'm sorry. Am I trespassing?'

Caber muttered something which sounded belligerent, as Mary-Jane Mashkin spoke again, 'Not really. This track is a right-of-way through the Laird's land. We've been, doing a little night hunting, and looking at the digging.' She inclined her head towards the other side of the track where Bond had seen the low earth piles. 'We've just started working on a new drainage system. Just as well you didn't wander that way. You could've stumbled into a pretty deep pit. They've dug down a good fifteen feet, and it's over twelve feet wide.' She paused, coming closer to him so that he caught the scent of Madame Rochas in his nostrils. 'You didn't say why you were here, Mr Bond.'

'Lost,' Bond raised his hands in a gesture of innocence.

He had already slipped the Nitefinder set from his head, as though it was the most natural thing to be wearing. 'Lost and looking for the castle.'

'Which I guess you found.'

'Found, and was observing.'

She put a hand on his arm, 'Then I think you'd better take a closer look, don't you? I presume you were coming to visit.'

'Quite,' Bond nodded. In the darkness the men shuffled and Mary-Jane Mashkin gave some quick orders. There was, apparently, a Land Rover up the track a little way. 'I'll guide Mr Bond down and you follow,' she told Caber, who had calmly relieved Bond of the Nitefinder set.

'You should have taken the track straight ahead at the village,' she said when they were settled in the Saab and moving.

'I gathered that.'

The Land Rover was close behind as they swept up to the gates. A figure appeared to open up for them, and Mary-Jane Mashkin told Bond they kept the gates closed at night, and on special locks. 'You can never tell. Even in an out-ofthe-way place like this, where we know everybody, some stranger might…'

'Come in and ravage you all?' Bond grinned.

'Could be fun,' she laughed. 'Anyhow, it's nice to know we have a guest like yourself, Mr Bond – or can I call you James?'

'No need for formality here, I suppose,' said Bond as they came up to the main door with its great pillared porchway.

Behind them, Caber and the men called Hamish and Malcolm were climbing down from the Land Rover. Mary-Jane Mashkin called out for Hamish to inform the Laird, then turned to Bond, 'If you let Caber have your keys he'll take your luggage in, James.'

But Bond had carefully locked the door. 'I think the luggage can wait.' He made a courteous gesture towards the door of the castle. 'After being taken for a poacher, or a spy, the Laird might not want me…' He stopped, for the small, birdlike figure of Dr Anton Murik was emerging from the castle. He peered forward for a moment. Then his face lit up.

'Why, it's Mr Bond. You've come as promised – Good heavens, what happened to your nose, Caber?'

The big man was still dabbing blood away with his handkerchief. 'My fault, I'm afraid,' said Bond. 'Sorry, Caber, but you were a little over-enthusiastic.'

'I thocht yon man was some kindo' spy, or a poacher, Laird. I didna ken he was a visitor. Mind, he acted strange.'

'Get him to bring your luggage in, Mr Bond,' Murik smiled, and Bond repeated that it could wait. He had no desire for Caber to be messing about with the car.

'Fine,' beamed Murik. 'No need to lock anything here. We'll collect the bags later. Come in and have a dram,' and, with a sharp order to Caber and his henchman to look after the Saab, Murik ushered Bond through the gloomy porch-way.Mary-Jane Mashkin had already gone ahead, and as they crossed the threshold, Murik gave a small cackle of laughter. 'May have made an enemy there, Bond. Caber doesn't take kindly to being bested. You gave him a little nose bleed as well. Not good. Have to be careful.'

LATER BOND CONSIDERED that, in all probability, he had expected the Victorian Gothic gloom of the porchway to be reflected in the interior of Murik Castle-Landseer and deer antlers. He was, therefore, greatly surprised by the dazzling sight that met his eyes.

From the brooding exterior he was suddenly transported into another world. The hall, with its vast circular staircase and surrounding gallery, was decorated in shimmering white, the doors being picked out in black, and the matching white carpet underfoot giving Bond the impression that he was sinking into a soft, well-kept lawn.

The lower part of the walls was decorated, with elegant sparseness, by a series of highly polished, mint-condition halberds, ronchas, bat's wing corsèques, war forks and other thrusting weapons of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, which gleamed under the light thrown from a huge steel candelabra of intricate modern design. The arrangement was in no way cluttered or overdressed.

Murik spread out an arm, The raw materials of war,' he said. 'I'm a bit of a collector, though the best pieces are kept in other parts of the house-except, possibly, these.' He pointed to a gilded console table on which rested a glass case covering an open pistol box – a pair of duelling pistols, with tell-tale octagonal barrels, the case fitted out with all necessary accessories, brass powder measure and the like. 'Last known English duel,' Murik said proudly. 'Monro and Fawcett, 1843.' He indicated the nearest pistol. 'Monro's weapon. Did the killing.'

Bond stepped back to view the hallway again. There were other illuminations, placed strategically over modern pictures which hung higher up the walls. He recognised at least two from Picasso's Blue Period, and what looked like the original of Matisse's 'Pink Nude'.