Her lips tightened into a petulant grimace that changed her expression into one of acid, unpleasant hardness. A lip curled upwards. 'I've made a fool of myself. Men used to flock…'

'It isn't like that,' Bond began.

'No? I've been around, James Bond. You think I don't know the signs by now?' 'But I'm Anton Murik's guest. A man can't abuse hospitality like…'

She laughed: a derisive single note. 'Since when did a man like you stand on that kind of ceremony?' She stood up. 'No, I just misread the signals; got my wires crossed. You should know by now, James, that a woman can always tell when a man finds her -well, I guess, unattractive.'

'I told you. It's not like that.'

'Well, I know it is. Just like that.'

She was at the door now, turning, her mood changing to one of anger. 'I could've saved you an awful lot of hassle, James. You could've avoided much unpleasantness with me on your side. But I could make you regret the last few minutes. You'll see, my friend.'

It all sounded very melodramatic, and Bond was becoming more and more convinced that Mary-Jane's presence in his room – her thrusting, unsophisticated attempt to seduce him -was an act designed for some other purpose. Her hand reached out to the door.

'Shouldn't I ring the switchboard?' he asked, trying to sound suitably subdued.

'No need. They have warning lights that go on and off when the bolts move; but I have arrangements with them. There's also a way out for the members of this household.' From the folds of her robe she produced a small oblong piece of metal the size of a credit card and slipped it into a tiny slot that Bond had not noticed, to the right of the lock. The bolts shot back, and Mary-Jane Mashkin opened the door. 'I'm sorry to have troubled you,' she said, and was gone in a rustle of black silk.

Bond sat down on the bed and looked at the door.

Possible friend or eternal enemy? he wondered. The whole business had been so bizarre that he found it difficult to take seriously. Then he remembered the receiver and

Murik's conversation with Franco.

The cassette was not turning when he retrieved the apparatus from under the pillow. He put the headphones over his ears and started to wind back the tape. The conversation had finished only a few minutes before. Now he rewound it to the point at which he had left them talking. The voices, through the 'phones, were as clear as though the two men were with him in the room.

'Now, Franco,' Murik was saying, 'we are on schedule for Thursday, which is ideal. If you can really finish everything in America within twenty-four hours, it means you will be in a position to carry out the other assignment for me on Wednesday night. You think you can make that location?'

'There is time enough. Better I should do it than someone else.' 'It would give me greater confidence to know that it is you.' 'And I shall be required to be in the appointed place at…'

'At the time we've already talked about. What I need to know, for my own peace of mind, is how you will do it. Will she suffer? What reaction should I expect?'

'No suffering, Warlock, I promise you. She feels nothing; and the onlookers, they imagine she has fainted. The weapon will be high-powered, an air rifle, and the projectile, it has a gelatine coating. She feels a little pinprick but no more. I shall use a…'

There was a thud in the earphones, and the conversation became blurred. It took Bond a few seconds to realise what had happened. Either the adhesive on the micro-bug under Murik's desk had given way or one of the men had accidentally dislodged it with his knee. Gently he wound the tape back, but the whole conversation was now muffled, and he could pick up only a few words. It was not even possible to separate the voices of the two men-'… very fast… cat-walk… below… neck… bare flesh… Warlock… steps… point… palace… Majorca… coma… death… two hours… heart attack… time…' and so on. It meant little, except the obvious fact that someone -a woman-was being set up to be killed, probably just before this operation that Murik referred to as Meltdown.

The whole thing was deadly, and Bond knew that M's worst fears were proved. This was no ordinary little plan but a full-scale, worldwide conspiracy of great danger. As for the contract killing, he could not even start to think how that fitted in. The weapon would be an air rifle, undoubtedly firing a capsule containing some quick-acting poison. As for the place and target, it was anybody's guess. The word palace had been mentioned, and the victim was a woman. Bond immediately thought of royalty. The Queen, even. Then there was the word Majorca. A meeting place, perhaps? These were things he would have to pass on to M as soon as possible. It even crossed his mind, as he carefully packed away the receiver, to trigger the pen alarm now, inside the house. But that could prove more dangerous than helpful. Murik had him neatly stowed away, and the place was a fortress. Stay with it for the time being, Bond decided.

He was just returning the headset to the closet, packed away in the case, when he heard the click of the door bolts again. His stomach turned over. Surely Mary-Jane would not have the nerve – even at Murik's instigation – to return to his room for a second visit? The handle was turning, and for the second time that night Bond moved quickly to the door and yanked it open.

THERE WAS A LITTLE squeal as Lavender Peacock half fell into the room, and James Bond's arms. She quickly recovered, snatching at the door, but was too late to stop it closing behind her, with its ominous electronic click.

'Blast,' she said loudly, shaking out her long sheen of hair. 'Now I'm locked in with you.'

'I can think of worse fates,' Bond said, smiling, for Lavender was also dressed in her night clothes, making a distinctly more desirable picture than Mary-Jane Mashkin. 'Anyway,' he asked, 'haven't you got one of those neat little metal things that opens the door from inside?'

She leaned against the wall, pulling her wrap around her, one hand brushing back her hair. 'How do you know about those?' she started. Then: 'Oh Lord, has Mary-Jane been up here? I can smell her scent.'

'Miss Mashkin did play a scene of some ardour, but I fear she didn't go away contented.'

Lavender shook her head. 'She wouldn't expect that. I thought I might get here before they started to play tricks with you. Anton has a warped sense of humour. I've seen him put her on offer before now, just to test people. Have you got a cigarette?'

Bond took out his case and lit one for each of them. His mind had gone into a kind of overdrive. Quite suddenly he had recognised two of the things overheard in Murik's conversation with Franco, via the bug: two names that were familiar-Indian Point Unit Three and San Onofre Unit One. He was beginning to come to some conclusions.

Lavender inhaled deeply, then shook her head again. 'No, I haven't the privilege of being allowed to carry electronic keys. In this place I'm usually just as much a prisoner as yourself.' She gave a little smile. 'Don't doubt that you're a prisoner, Mr Bond.'

'James.'

'Okay; James.'

Bond gestured towards the bed, 'Make yourself comfortable now you're here, Lavender; and you might as well tell me why you are here.' He did not doubt that this might be yet another test.

She moved away from the wall, heading for one of the armchairs. 'I think I'd better sit over here. That bed's too much. Oh, and call me Dilly, would you? Not Lavender.'

'Dilly?'

'Silly old song-"Lavender blue, dilly-dilly"-but I prefer it to Lavender. You're honoured, incidentally. Only real friends call me Dilly. Nobody here would dream of it.'

Bond settled himself on the Sleepcentre, where he had a good view of his latest visitor. 'You still haven't told me why you're here, Dilly.'