John Gardner - Brokenclaw

‘Well?’ Grant asked.

‘Clever. Very clever. His flight plan routed him to hit the coastline around forty miles south of SFO. About an hour ago he complained of turbulence at 31,000 and asked permission to descend to 20,000. Seemed okay, nothing unusual about that. Then, just before he reached the coast, he Maydayed. One engine overheating and losing altitude. No way could he make SFO, or so he said. SFO directed him to the only possible alternative. Salinas. They landed about three minutes ago. You heard me tell the boys in NY to contact Salinas tower direct.’

Grant shook his head. ‘All we can do is get Rushia and a team into a vehicle with tracking facilities and head out there to search for the homer signals.’

Tanner asked if they yet had information regarding the company with which the jet was registered.

Grant nodded. ‘I was about to fill you in on that. Very solid little recording company. Specialise in heavy metal nine-day-wonder bands. A bit of an iffy set-up, but they’re not breaking any laws. They’ll sign up some greasy long-haired group who shove the decibel level to a point where it’ll terminate pregnancy, then issue a couple of CDs which just make money for the company. Then they throw away the group, or band, or whatever they want to call it.’

‘Exploitation?’ M was asking if their FBI friends might get Silver Service on some exploitation law if necessary.

The CIA man shook his head. ‘Doubt it. They also have around four to five very successful bands who make big money. Anyway, we don’t know the tie-in yet. They own a small studio in New York and another in LA. New York’s going to run a trace on the company. See who owns it, who’s behind it. If their corporate jet takes Custodian and Checklist on a jaunt to meet Mr Lee, the betting’s on Mr Lee holding a lot of stock in Silver Service, Inc.’

One of the telephones rang and Mac answered with a series of noncommittal grunts and sighs. ‘Well, that just about settles it,’ he said, not even looking at Grant as he cradled the instrument. ‘Salinas tower says there was a damned great limo there within fifteen minutes of the Gulfstream landing. Carted the passengers away. They thought it was for another corporate they’re expecting within the hour.’

‘What about . . . ?’

Mac overrode Grant, ‘The airplane? Salinas switched on every light they could to assist the landing. Seems their port engine has gotten problems. There was a lot of oil loss and smoke as they came in. They – Salinas tower – say there’s no doubt it was a genuine emergency landing.’

Grant grunted. ‘And I suppose they radioed for a limo while wrestling with the controls.’

‘Bit fishy, eh?’ from M.

‘Like swimming in a vat full of tuna sandwiches.’

There had been absolutely no panic on board the Gulfstream when the emergency began. This was no reflection on anyone’s bravery or courage, for the knuckle-dragging Bone Bender Ding had come to the rear of the cabin and told them that they might well experience some alarming manoeuvres within the next few minutes. ‘We have a small piece of deception going on.’ Ding’s smile showed two rows of gold teeth and, Bond thought, a narrowing of the man’s eyes which gave him an undeniably sinister look. The face said, ‘I enjoy inflicting pain and death.’

‘This is a precaution only.’ The eyes had become very thin slits by now. ‘There is a small possibility that your arrival in the country has been detected, so Mr Lee insists that we play a game in order to throw off any possible surveillance. You understand me, Mr Abelard?’

‘I can only thank Mr Lee for his foresight and protection.’

Ding’s smile spread wider across his face. ‘You will be able to thank Mr Lee personally before long.’

During the twenty minutes or so that followed, they sat, seat belts fastened and the seats themselves locked into the upright position.

At last, Bond heard the whine and thump of the gear coming down and the captain’s voice – strangely English – told them they should evacuate the aircraft from the rear door as soon as they came to a standstill.

They roared into a brilliantly lit small airfield and Bond fleetingly saw the name Salinas painted in black along the small clutch of buildings below the tower.

Things happened very quickly after that. Within seconds they were out of the plane – there was a lot of heavy black smoke surrounding the starboard engine – and Ding was urging them on, running towards the left of the buildings.

Bond saw that the crew members and the stewardess were leaving the airplane via the emergency hatch towards the nose, but, strangely, Fox had lagged behind as fire and emergency vehicles hee-hawed their way towards the Gulfstream.

Behind the small airport’s limited buildings a black stretch limo had switched on its lights, moving slowly as though to intercept them.

‘In!’ Ding ordered. ‘In quickly. Back of the limo! Now.’

Bond stood back allowing Chi-Chi to climb in and he followed, pushed from behind by Ding. ‘Is okay,’ the Chinese said to the uniformed driver through the sliding glass partition. ‘Foxy coming with baggage. Only take three – four minutes.’

It seemed longer, but Fox appeared on a small electric baggage cart and the driver climbed down to help load the baggage into the trunk. Then with no further delay they were driven away, Fox joining the chauffeur up front, riding shotgun.

Once away from the immediate vicinity of the airport it became very dark and impossible for Bond to get any bearings.

‘Long ride now. One-two hour.’ Ding’s voice came to them in the darkness. Something else accompanied the voice, making Bond’s nose twitch. The massive Chinese had a bad case of body odour.

Blackness closed in and soon they were driving on winding narrow roads, climbing upwards through mountain country, Bond thought. Chi-Chi, he was pleased to note, had gone to sleep and shortly he felt her head fall softly against his shoulder.

The roads seemed to level out and they met only occasional cars coming from the opposite direction. Then a thin mist began to float in around them, the driver slowing and taking all sensible precautions.

The mist thickened from time to time, forming a wall from which the headlights reflected, throwing their glare back into the rear of the limousine. It would thin out for a few miles, then, with no warning, suddenly appear ahead, almost an unearthly curtain of heavy greyness that made Bond turn away in a reflex. His intuition told him that they had gone north, then climbed to the west, finally turning back on a northerly heading. But nothing was certain because of the murkiness that had accompanied most of the drive.

Finally they were through the worst of the mist, though it still lay around them in small wispy pockets. The driver moved his right hand from the steering wheel and Bond saw him pick up a cellular telephone into which he spoke a couple of brief sentences.

He had hardly replaced the instrument when, from straight ahead, a sudden blaze of light exploded in the darkness. Some of the lights had an almost blinding effect as they seemed to be directly facing the car, but the driver did not slow or even falter.

Now the lights were all around them and Bond thought he could see the large bulk of a building. He did glimpse tall metal gates, open, flanked by high dark walls, then they were driving through what appeared to be a tunnel of trees. The white façade of a large house suddenly appeared in the headlights and a couple of seconds later the limo drew up under some kind of canopy. Ding was quickly out of the car, holding the door open for Chi-Chi who seemed dazed with sleep. Bond followed, his feet crunching on what he suspected was gravel, and they were hurried through a heavy, iron-bound door.