As the head of M.I.5 drawled, 'Naturally,' Bond's eyes momentarily met those of M, and caught the tiny stir of humour. Sir Richard Duggan was not one of M's favourite people.

Bond shrugged. 'Franco,' he continued, 'first came to our attention in connection with a hijacking of two British passenger jets-the airline was B.O.A.C. at the time -in the late 1960s. He appears to have no direct political affiliations, and has operated as a planner who sometimes takes part in terrorist actions, with groups like the former Baader-Meinhof gang, and is still connected with the so-called Red Army Faction. He has links with the P.L.O., I.R.A., and a whole network of terrorist groups.' Bond took out his gunmetal cigarette case, glancing at M for permission to smoke, and receiving a curt nod.

'He would, I think, be best described as an anticapitalist.' Bond lit his cigarette and gave a small quick smile. 'The paradox has always been that, for an anticapitalist, he appears to be exceptionally well-off. There is evidence that he has personally paid for, and provided, arms for a number of terrorist acts. He has certainly committed murder, in connection with two political kidnap-pings – not to mention those who have died in bomb attacks inspired directly by him. A very dangerous and most wanted man, Sir Richard.'

Both Duggan and Ross nodded in harmony, Ross muttering something about Bond knowing his man. Duggan voiced his opinion in a louder voice, saying Bond might well have to know his man even better. He then delved into his briefcase again, bringing out five more matt photographs, which he placed in a row on M's desk, in front of Bond. Each photograph carried a small sticker attached to the bottom right-hand corner. Each sticker bore a date.

Bond immediately noted the dates, before looking at the photographs. The most recent was today's. The other four were marked April 4th and 23rd; May 12th and 25th. The pictures were obviously blow-ups from a videotape recording, and he studied each one with great care. The man portrayed was dressed differently in each photograph; and, indeed, looked different-plump, in jeans and denim jacket, with long hair and a moustache; clean-shaven, but with shoulder-length blond hair and dark glasses, wearing a rumpled roll-neck sweater and slacks; grey-haired and gaunt in loud check, hung around with cameras, and clutching an American passport as though he expected it to be torn from his hand at any moment; clean-shaven again, but with dark hair, fashionably cut, clad elegantly in slacks and an expensive, fur-collared wind-cheater.

Today's photograph showed him with close-cropped hair, neat beard and spectacles. He wore a business suit. The disguises were all excellent, yet Bond had no hesitation. 'Franco,' he said aloud, like an order.

'Of course.' Duggan sounded a little patronising, going on to point out that all the photographs had been taken at Heathrow.

'Five times in the past three months, and he hasn't been picked up?' Bond's brow creased.

Deputy Assistant Commissioner David Ross inhaled, and took over the explanation. At a meeting earlier in the year, it had been decided that certain major 'most wanted' terrorists like Franco should be kept under close surveil lance if they appeared to arrive alone in the country. 'Big fish, little fish,' he grinned, as though it explained every thing. 'When the surveillance teams at Heathrow spotted him in April – the first time – there was, naturally, a full-scale alert.'

'Naturally,' Bond did a fair imitation of Sir Richard Duggan's condescending drawl. M busied himself loading his pipe, gently kneading the tobacco into the bowl, and keeping his eyes well down.

Ross looked a little shamefaced. 'Afraid we lost him the first time. Not ready for him. Lost him in London.'

Something stirred in Bond's memory. There had been an increase in police activity early in April, and he recalled signals coming in with instructions about being more than normally alert: watching for packages and letters, stepping up embassy security – the usual stuff on a Terrorist Red, as the police and security services called it.

Ross was still talking. 'We checked all his possible contacts, and waited. He wasn't detected leaving the country.'

'But, of course, he did,' Duggan chimed in.

Ross nodded. 'As you can all see, he was back again, entering through Heathrow, later in the month. That time we established he moved straight out of London, almost certainly heading north.'

'You lost him again,' Bond stated. Ross gave a sharp affirmative before saying they had better luck during the first May visit.

'Followed him as far as Glasgow. Then he slipped the leash. But on the last trip we kept him in our sights all the way. He ended up in a village called Murcaldy, inland from Applecross, at the foot of the north-west Highlands.'

'And we're sure who it was he visited there,' Duggan smiled. 'Just as we're certain he's gone to the same place this time. I have two officers breathing down his neck. He came in from Dublin this morning – and we were tipped off from there. He went straight to King's Cross and took the first train to Edinburgh – rings the changes, you know. He'll have reached his destination by now. We expect further reports any time.'

A silence fell over the four men, broken only by the scraping of M's match as he lit his pipe. Bond was the first to speak. 'And he's visiting…?' allowing the question to hang in the air like M's pipe smoke.

Duggan cleared his throat. 'Most of the land, including the village of Murcaldy, is owned by one family -th e Muriks. For at least three centuries, possibly longer, the Lairds of Murcaldy have been Muriks. It's almost a feudal set-up. Murik Castle, which dates back to the sixteenth century, has had many modernisations over the years; and there is the Murik estate-farms; hunting and fishing rights. The present Laird is also a celebrity in other fields -Dr Anton Murik, director of many companies, and a nuclear physicist of both renown and eccentricity.'

'Recently resigned, under some sort of cloud, from the International Atomic Energy Research Commission,' added Ross. 'And, as you'll see, there's grave doubt regarding his claim to be the Laird of Murcaldy.'

Bond chuckled, 'Well, Anton isn't exactly a well-known Scottish name. But where do I come in?' He already had a fair idea, but it would not do to jump the gun.

Duggan's face did not change: the granite good looks appeared flawed at close quarters. There was none of the usual smoothness about him as he spoke again. 'Franco has now almost certainly made four visits to Dr Murik. This will be his fifth. An international terrorist and a nuclear physicist of some eminence: put those together and you have a rather alarming situation. On each occasion, Franco has left the country again: probably – and we can only guess – via a Scottish port or airport. We're banking on the possibility that his business with Murik will take some time to conclude; but our hands are tied from the moment he leaves Britain. Our visit today is to ask the help of your service in tracing his movements outside this country.'

This time it was Bond's turn to nod, 'And you want me to dash off up to Scotland, make contact, and follow him out?'

Duggan deferred to M. 'Only if that is- ah- convenient. But I really don't think there's much time left on this trip. Anton Murik owns a string of race horses, which he has under training in England. Two are running at Ascot this coming week-one in the Gold Cup. It's his one passion, apart from nuclear physics. Franco will either be gone by the middle of the week, or up at the Castle awaiting Murik's return from Ascot.'

Bond stretched out his long legs and thought that if there really was a sinister connection between Franco and Murik, the timing indicated this would not be Franco's last visit. But you could never tell.