John Gardner - Brokenclaw

Bond moved.

Ghirardelli Square is a colourful little shopping mall named after Domingo Ghirardelli, an enterprising Italian merchant who came to San Francisco and prospered in 1849. It is not unlike a smaller version of London’s Covent Garden shopping area. Basically the mall is made of renovated old buildings, the largest standing on the site of what had been a woollen mill during the Civil War. Most of the buildings are of red brick and were built in the early 1900s to house Ghirardelli Chocolate Manufactory, some of the original vats and ovens still being in operation. There are pleasant walks, a striking ornamental fountain and several speciality shops, like Bears ’R Us, and a Mickey Mouse store as well as a branch of the famous Sharper Image chain which sells expensive executive toys and other items that people can easily live without. In plain language, a lucrative business.

He crossed Larkin, dodging the traffic, and entered the square, walking quickly round Fountain Plaza with its pond spraying jets of water into the air and the mermaid statue. In seconds he was heading rapidly towards West Plaza which would take him nearer the furthest end and Polk Street.

‘Ai! Abelar! You stop, Abelar!’ It was Ding’s voice, shouting from behind. Bond glanced back and saw the big Chinese moving through Fountain Plaza. People were scattering, and as he reached for the ASP, two bullets ricocheted from the brickwork to his right.

Dodging behind the nearest wall, round the side of the Woollen Mill building, Bond took a deep breath. He held the automatic in the two-handed grip, muzzle upwards, hands tucked into his right shoulder. Another breath and he swung out into the open again.

Ding was moving fast towards him, his gun raised, and as he saw Bond take up a firing stance, he slid to a halt, lifting his hands to fire.

Bond had him cold, but at that moment his only desire was to cripple and stop Ding. He fired twice, low, and saw the large Chinese jump sideways as concrete splintered between his feet.

At least, Bond thought, it would hold him for a few seconds. Turning, he weaved through the walkways, heading for the exit into Polk Street, praying M’s car had arrived by this time. As he reached the street, he saw that the traffic had stalled. He glanced to left and right, deciding to make a run for it away from the Beach Street front, but as he began to move, the words, ‘Stop! FBI! Drop the weapon!’ came from nearby.

Though he was a set-up for the FBI, he knew this was at least his one way out. A call from the FBI to the carrier would put him in the clear.

There was a clatter as he dropped the 9mm, turned, and placed his hands on his head.

‘Well, well. Captain Bond. We thought your own people had taken care of you. But it’ll be a pleasure to fix you once and for all.’

The taller of the two men had spoken, but both were slowly coming towards him, and he recognised the agents who had called on him at the Fairmont after he had seen Agent Malloney bludgeoned to death. Even their names came back readily to him. Wood and Nolan.

It was Wood who was speaking while Nolan dispersed the small knot of people who had gathered with the usual morbidity of people who watch arrests being made, happy in the thought that ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I.’

‘I’ll come with you gladly, gentlemen. I need to make a phone call. I am allowed one, aren’t I?’ Then he saw that Wood was looking past him, talking to someone near the building. ‘You want this guy, Ding?’

‘Want him bad, Mr Wood. The broken clawed one requires him,’ Ding hissed.

‘Dead or alive?’ Wood asked.

‘Oh, we take him back alive, I think. Much vengeance to be reaped.’

Nolan had joined the party. ‘Where you want him, Ding?’

‘Our car. On corner. I take him, okay?’

‘By all means.’ Wood gave Bond a little push.

‘Just tell Mr Lee to keep those little envelopes coming, Ding. We’ll need extra for this.’ Then, to Bond, ‘Act natural, Captain. I guess where you’re going there won’t be much chance to act natural for a long time.’

Ding grinned and stooped to pick up the fallen ASP which he jabbed into the right side of his belt.

‘If ever.’ Wood gave him another push, straight into the arms of Bone Bender Ding, who embraced him like a bear, put an armlock on him and prodded his back with his own handgun. ‘You move now. Our way this time. The wolves will not go hungry tonight, I think. Ai?’

15

TO DIE LIKE A GENTLEMAN

‘Golly, and you let him go back there, sir?’ Ed Rushia stood in M’s cabin, while both Tanner and Franks spoke on telephones. John Grant had shouldered past Rushia as the tall Naval Intelligence man was coming in. He appeared to be in a great hurry. Now Rushia stared at M with horror.

‘No, Commander Rushia, I did not let him go back. I expressly ordered him to come in. We even had a car less than a hundred yards away when he was taken. There were shots fired, it seems, and two FBI men recognised Bond – they want him as much as they want you, Rushia. That’s the way we set it up – to give you both extra protection if the FBI decided to tail you.’

‘Well, if the FBI guys . . .’

‘The FBI gu . . . men, lost him. So he’s back to square one.’

Rushia rubbed a hand over his chin. ‘Guess he hasn’t got much of a chance. Jiminy, I feel terrible about this.’

‘Commander Rushia,’ M barked, ‘stop playing the dolt with me. I know you’re not a country bumpkin. It might work with interrogations, but it cuts no ice here.’

‘No. Guess it doesn’t, sir. But the ice man cometh, as the playwright sayeth.’

M raised his eyes to heaven, as though in a silent prayer for strength. ‘There’s a team of US Marines at Alameda. Mr Grant’s gone to try and procure their use for an assault . . .’

‘Request I go in with them, sir.’ Rushia had lost his homespun manner.

M frowned. ‘If there’s any special duties you can perform, then I suppose . . .’

Grant crashed through the cabin door without even knocking. ‘We’ve got a problem, sir. The Marines over at Alameda; they’re all rookies on a training exercise.’

M, not a man to use profane language under normal circumstances, spat out a single four-letter word.

‘It means a delay,’ Grant looked flushed, ‘but I do have good news as well. We’re authorised to use a First Special Forces Operational Detachment.’

‘Delta?’ M asked.

‘I don’t know; there are four of those elements. Delta was the first. It doesn’t matter which one they send, because they’re as good as your own Special Air Service boys, Admiral. Problem is they have to get up here from Fort Bragg. That’s North Carolina – say four hours if they get a move on. They’re good and we can brief them very quickly.’

M sighed. ‘Better than nothing. I wouldn’t want to send in any old force. That place needs specialists. Even Bond doesn’t seem to know what their strength is.’

Ed Rushia, the tallest man in the room, cleared his throat. ‘Would someone put me in the picture, the entire picture. James has become a friend and colleague. Mightn’t there be some way I can help until the Special Forces people get here?’

Everyone looked at him, in silence. Then Grant spoke, ‘I’m second guessing this Brokenclaw bastard. But maybe there is one thing you might do. It’s not one hundred per cent certain, but it’s worth doing. As a long shot, it just might save Captain Bond.’ He then outlined what he had in mind.

The risks, Ed Rushia thought, were higher than a kite on the Fourth of July.

Bone Bender Ding frog-marched Bond down to Beach Street. The FBI men, in Brokenclaw’s pay, had chased away any lingering tourists, and it was surprisingly easy for Ding to get Bond into the limo.