This time, his thinking was right. Bond heard nothing but saw the shape of the hunted man, pressed hard against the bonnet of the big truck, as he carefully felt his way around it, hoping to come upon his opponent from behind.

Bond remained like a statue, the Browning an extension of his arms, held in a vice with both hands, and pointing directly towards the shadow that was Franco.

Still Franco's reputation held up. Bond was staking his life on his own stillness, yet the terrorist detected something. With a sudden move, the man dived to the ground, firing twice as he did so, the bullets screeching off the armour plating of the transport de troupes.

Bond held his ground. Franco's shots had gone wide, and the target remained in line with the Browning's barrel. Bond fired with steady care: two pairs of shots in quick succession, a count of three between the pairs.

There was no cry or moan. Franco simply reared up like an animal, the head and trunk of his body arching into a bow from the ground then bending right back as the force of all four shots slewed him in a complete circle, then pushed him back along the ground as though wrenched by an invisible wire: arms, legs and what was left of his head flailing and flopping as a child's doll will bounce when dragged along the floor.

Bond could smell the death – in his head rather than nostrils. Then he became aware of lights coming on, running feet, shouts and activity. He moved, faster and even more silently than before, sprinting towards the minute gap between the far buildings, and so down the sandy track to the Caserne Maréchal Joffre. When he reached the Caserne, Bond slowed down. He was breathing hard. Never run away from an incident, they taught you -just as you should never run after lighting an explosive fuse. Always walk with purpose, as though it was your right to be where you were.

He saw nobody on the way back to the private entrance shown him by the French captain; stepping with a smile into the Rue Waldeck Rousseau. He was home and dry: the street was empty.

Bond had walked four paces when the piercing whistle came from near by. For a second he thought it was a police whistle. Then he recognised the human sound: the whistle of a man who has been brought up in the country, the kind of noise one makes to call in hounds, or dogs, or other beasts. Now it brought in the Mercedes, bearing down on him, lights blazing. A pair of steel-like bands took him from the rear, pinioning his arms to his sides and pressing so that pain shot down to his hands and fingers. The Browning dropped to the pavement.

'I suppose ye got Franco, then. But it'll do ye пае bluddy guid for yersel, Bond,' Caber whispered in his ear. 'The Laird's mor'n a mite upset -and wi' good reason. Ocht man, he's longing tae set his eyes on ye. Just longing for it. I doubt he has some grand plans for ye.'

The car came alongside and Caber propelled Bond into the back seat as soon as the door was opened.

M SAT GREY-FACED, listening to the tape for the sixth time. 'It's him all right.' He looked up and Bill Tanner nodded in agreement. M turned to the Duty Officer. 'And the number?' he asked.

The telephone equipment at the Regent's Park building was the most sophisticated in the country. Not only were all incoming calls monitored and taped, but a selective printout was immediately available. The print-out included both the words spoken and the number from which the call had been dialled.

The Duty Officer shifted in his chair. 'It's French. We're sure of that because of the code.' He was a young man, in his first year of duty following the four-year training period. He sighed. 'As to its origin… well…'

'Well?' M's eyes flashed angrily. 'You know what it's like, sir. They're co-operating, of course, but at this time of night…' 'I know,' Bill Tanner cut in. 'It is tricky, sir. But I'll go off, with your permission, and try to ginger them up.' 'You do that, Tanner.' M's grey eyes showed no emotion. 'At least we're certain it was France?'

The Duty Officer nodded.

'Right.' M picked up his red telephone. 'Then it's time Duggan's people did something positive. Time for them to go into that damned castle – on suspicion of dirty work, or however they want to put it. It's safe enough now.'

'I shoulda finished yon man off long ago, Laird.' Caber spoke softly. Everyone around the Laird of Murcaldy had become quiet, almost reverent. A death in the family, Bond thought grimly. Would it have been like this if the real target had been hit?

Anton Murik looked shaken – if anything a shade shrunken in height – as he waved Caber away. 'I think not.' He looked hard at the huge Scot. 'You did as you were bidden: brought him back alive. A quick breaking of the neck or an accurate bullet's really too good for him now, Caber. When the time comes…' He gave a thin smile.

They were in a comfortable room, fitted simply with what Bond considered to be Scandinavian furniture stripped pine desk, table and chairs. There was only one padded and comfortable swivel chair, which was Murik's own preserve.

This time they had taken no chances. In the car, Bond had been immediately handcuffed. Now he sat shackled by wrists and ankles. He knew they were inside the Aldan Aerospace offices at the airport, but there were no windows to this room, which Murik had described as 'Spartan, but suitable for our needs'. He added that they had at least one very secure room in the place, 'from which the great Houdini himself could not escape'.

The Laird dismissed Caber and sat, looking at Bond, for a long time. Then he passed a hand over his forehead wearily. 'You must forgive me, Mr Bond. I have been at the hospital, and with the police for some time. Everybody has been most kind.'

'The Franco business?' Bond asked. 'In a way.' Murik gave a bitter little laugh and repeated, 'In a way. You did it then, Bond. Finished off Franco.' 'There was no option. Even though you had cancelled my contract.'

'Yes.' The Laird gave a small sigh, almost of regret. 'Unhappily you have not only interfered a little early, but caused me great grief. Franco's death is, I gather, being treated simply as some gangland vendetta. They have yet to identify him.' He sighed again. 'The common flatworm,' he muttered. 'Leptoplana tremellaris. It seems strange that my dear Mary-Jane has perished at the hands of the common flatworm. We've spent many years together, Mr Bond. Now you have been the cause of her death.'

Bond asked coolly if Murik would have mourned greatly had the death been that of his intended victim.

'Not in the least,' Murik flared. 'She is a useless little strumpet. Unnecessary. Mary-Jane was a brilliant scientist…' He lapsed into silence, as though the death of his mistress and its repercussions had only just made themselves felt. Then he repeated, 'The common flatworm.'

Bond pressed home on the man's emotional disadvantage, asking what he meant by the common flatworm.

'Killed her.' The Laird became matter-of-fact now. 'There's no getting away from it, Franco was a clever devil: an organiser of ingenuity and a killer of even greater skill. He explained it to me, Bond, after I had arranged things.'

Franco, it appeared, had access to scientific work on untraceable poisons. In great detail, as if talking to himself, Murik explained. 'For years we've known that a poison produced by the epidermal skin glands of the flatworm brings about cardiac arrest in animals. Very quick. A heart attack. It is only in the last year that an extract removed from the flatworm's skin has been made strong enough to bring about the same reaction in humans. A very small amount will bring on a perfectly natural heart attack in a matter of minutes, or seconds.'