John Gardner - Brokenclaw

So Brokenclaw had welcomed them as the real thing on their arrival, but Bond was concerned. It might not take very long to break Wanda. Then the dragon would be truly out of the cave. The way Brokenclaw Lee had spoken could mean only one thing – deep interrogation, and the Chinese were past masters at that. Indeed, the Chinese had written the book on Thought Reform as they liked to call the techniques of control. Interrogation was simply an extension of Thought Reform, now honed to a fine art, with the use of drugs and other chemicals.

He stared up at the ceiling, gradually getting more clear as a new day came over the Eastern horizon, and, unbidden, another of Brokenclaw’s lines from the night before came back with stunning suddenness. ‘Tomorrow,’ the big Chinese Indian had said, ‘we will go over the information and make arrangements for its safe transference back to Beijing Hsia, before we begin the real work .’

M and Franks had warned him of the possibility of this real work , but he was certain Chi-Chi had no knowledge of it. The thing had been one of the imponderables.

After another ten minutes’ thought, Bond decided he should make a reconnaissance – find out where they really were.

Quietly he got out of bed, picked up the robe which contained the automatic, collected a clean shirt, socks and underwear from his case and went into the bathroom.

He shaved, showered, vigorously towelled himself and dressed, using clothing, as before, to effect the transfer of his pistol to its normal position behind his right hip.

In the main room he wrote a short note in full view of any cameras that might be watching. It was addressed to Jenny and merely said he had gone out to find their generous host.

She still slept peacefully, and he placed the note on the side table, where she would see it as soon as she woke.

Back in the main room, he was walking towards the door when another thought struck him. Turning, he retraced his steps, going to the high main windows, feeling around under the drapes for a tassel, then pulling. They swept silently back, and the sunlight of a beautiful morning stabbed into the room. He turned and peered out, then took a couple of paces back, not believing what he could see.

They had landed at Salinas and driven for an hour and a half, two hours maximum, therefore they had to be in California and quite close to San Francisco. Yet he was looking out on a formal garden laid out with conifers and roses. At the limit of the garden, a meadow sloped away. There were horses grazing peacefully, and the ground dipped to a densely wooded area, where the lush trees rose to a skyline that could not possibly be in California. For he recognised it, both from photographs and from the memory of seeing it at close quarters himself some years ago.

How could he be in California when he was looking out at the unmistakable Blue Ridge Mountains of Central Virginia?

12

CHINESE BOXES

Bond just stood at the window, actually rubbing his eyes, not believing the unexpected view. It was unmistakable, even to the distinctive blue haze which gives that particular chain of mountains its name. He frowned, trying to think logically. They had entered the house at the front directly into the ground floor, and gone into Lee’s study. From there they had been taken down to the guest suite. He remembered counting the stairs, and worked out that they were at least fourteen feet below the ground. So, unless the house was built on the split-level principle, there should be no view at all from these windows.

Turning, Bond walked quickly to the door, opening it to find his clean laundry, carefully wrapped, reposing on a small folding stool. He paused to pick it up, leaving it in the bedroom before returning to the corridor to retrace their footsteps up the stairs and into Brokenclaw’s study.

The sunlight streamed into this room also, and there was the same view. The Blue Ridge. No argument. Yet something worried him. Either his eyesight was playing tricks or the glass in the windows did something to the peripheral vision. He stepped back to take a look from well inside the room.

‘So you’re an early riser also. A lovely morning, Peter, eh? You like the view we have from here? Spectacular, isn’t it?’ Lee had emerged from a door to his left.

‘Incredible!’ Bond heard the note of surprise and bafflement in his own voice.

Brokenclaw gave a low chuckle. ‘I did not expect to find you about yet. You should have slept, rested.’

‘Jenny is still asleep.’

‘Well, come and breakfast with me. You hail from an old British family, I understand, so you’ll enjoy my breakfast ritual here.’

Bond was ushered through the door to his left, conscious that it also stood between bookcases and was directly opposite the door which led down to the guest suite and its many corridors.

This door also led to a similar short passageway, then down a long flight of steps. He was convinced that they were going below ground. Then Brokenclaw opened a door at the foot of the stairs on the right, and Bond found himself in a long, low dining room. The floor was made up of polished boards which looked very old, the walls were panelled, and the ceiling appeared to be held in place by great beams, again old and irregular. The furniture was Jacobean, Bond would have staked money on it. A polished table with at least thirty matching chairs took up the centre of the room, while along one wall stood a tall, elaborately carved chest, which served as a sideboard. On the chest were silver chafing dishes, and the table was laid for three.

In the wall opposite the long tall chest gaped an open fireplace, complete with its iron basket and a set of fire tongs, poker and shovel. Above the fireplace hung the only picture in the room – a large engraving showing, as it said in lettering inside an ornamental oval at the top of the picture, the Great Frost Fair on the Thames in London, 1683–4 .

Two mullioned windows, leaded, with diamond-shaped panes, gave light from the far end of the room, and even from just inside the doorway, Bond could see the view was of the same Blue Ridge Virginian mountains.

Brokenclaw stood by the makeshift sideboard, plate in hand. ‘Come, Peter Abelard, there are good things here – bacon, sausage, eggs, kedgeree. All you would expect in an old English country house.’

There was a knock at the door and an emaciated-looking Chinese entered, carrying a large tray loaded with two silver coffee pots, sugar basin and cream jug.

‘Ah, Peter, this is one of the few trusted men I allow to come here. He is known as Frozen Stalk Pu – a reference, I believe, to his amazing virility. He does not look much, but I do assure you he can do things to men that would turn your hair grey. This is Mr Abelard, Pu.’

Frozen Stalk Pu gave a little bow, placed the tray on the table and retired.

At Brokenclaw’s pressing invitation, Bond helped himself to bacon and two eggs. It was not his usual, or indeed favourite breakfast, but eating with the man might solve some of the puzzles.

Brokenclaw had seated himself at the head of the table, and as Bond took the place to his right, Frozen Stalk Pu entered silently, placing two large racks of toast in front of each of them.

‘You are quite a legend at Beijing Hsia,’ Bond began. ‘They say that you are half Chinese and half Blackfoot Indian. Can this be true?’

Lee swallowed a mouthful of food, nodding. ‘It is true. What some people do not realise is that my ancestry is almost royal, on both sides – Chinese and Blackfoot.’ He continued, telling the same story that Bond had heard in the museum of British Columbia.

As Bond had experienced at the first hearing of the story, there was something almost hypnotic about the way Brokenclaw spoke. Then he noticed two other things – when he sat close, watching Lee eat, the strange twisted hand became more apparent, also the tale of his mixed ancestry was repeated as though learned by heart. He recalled a remark Lee had made in Victoria – ‘I have heard it said,’ Bond clearly recalled the almost conspiratorial smile which had crossed his face, ‘I have heard it said that I am a fraud, that I have invented these stories, that I am nothing more than the child of some itinerant Chinese tailor and a Blackfoot girl who sold her body in Fort Benton. None of this is true.’