John Gardner - Brokenclaw

The helicopter was airborne and tilting like a fairground ride, angling the lights of the city crazily below them.

The helicopter ride took them out over the bay towards the US Navy facility on Treasure Island and down to the helicopter pad of a Nimitz class nuclear aircraft carrier. Throughout the whole journey, which took less than ten minutes, Bond said nothing to his old chief. Inside he seethed with anger. ‘Take a rest; take a holiday . . .’ M had said. Now, Bond felt that he had been betrayed. Certainly he had been set up, the hostility of the FBI men had not been feigned, so somehow he had been used, and there could only be one manipulator – M himself.

As they touched down on the carrier’s deck, the deck lighting went off. The door was opened and two shadowy figures helped him out of the helicopter, leading him firmly towards the island – that unique superstructure which is the hallmark of any carrier, though the island of Nimitz class aircraft carriers is distinctively smaller than normal.

Once through the hatchway and into a brightly lit interior, Bond turned as M followed him.

‘I think you owe me some explanation, sir!’ His anger was barely concealed, but M simply gave a tight little smile and indicated that he should follow the uniformed yeoman who stood patiently waiting just inside the hatchway.

Bond gave an audible sigh and followed the yeoman along the maze of companionways, and up metal stairways until they reached a wooden door set into a bulkhead. The yeoman opened the door without pausing to knock, holding it back so that both M and Bond could enter, then closing it behind them.

‘Alone at last, eh, 007?’ M’s voice had a slightly jaunty air to it. They were in a large day cabin, the kind, Bond thought, that would be occupied by a Naval Taskforce C-in-C. There was a large desk anchored to the deck and chairs set around for conferences. The US President’s framed photograph hung over the desk which was completely clear except for a bank of telephones and a small, neat, pile of files.

M strode across the cabin, taking the seat behind the desk as though this was his rightful place. Bond opened his mouth, about to pour out a list of genuine grievances, but M held up his right hand as though staving off a blow. ‘Just sit down, James. Sit down and listen to me before you even try and fire a broadside. Things are not what they appear to be.’

Bond swallowed his pride and sat, his head cocked to one side, chin lifted arrogantly.

‘You say that I owe you an explanation, and maybe I do,’ M began, ‘but I think you’ll find the boot might be on the other foot. First, you are under the impression that I tried to lure you to this part of the globe on the pretext of sending you on leave when I really wanted to involve you in some operation, right?’

Bond nodded. ‘Absolutely right, sir. And if I . . .’

‘Wait!’ M barked. ‘Just sit quietly and wait, 007. You’re too fond of flying off the handle at the least suspicion. I am sorry that your leave has been curtailed because you are still very obviously in need of a rest and change of scene, but we’re into something far more important now.’

He shifted in the black leather chair, taking out his pipe and tossing a tobacco pouch on to the desktop. ‘Let me say now that I wanted you to get a good rest – a change of scene and a change of pace. Yes, on the charge of trying to lure you into this part of the world, I plead guilty, but I wanted you to get your leave before slamming you into an operation here, in the United States.’ He began to load his pipe, constantly glancing up at Bond as he spoke. ‘Events overtook me. I had thought to give you fair warning and a good briefing. Before you left London, I was pretty certain that you would end up working on this side of the Atlantic and I’m sure you wouldn’t have relished two trips across the fish pond. My whole aim was a genuine attempt to get you relaxed and ready. Come to that, it backfired very badly – and that part is down to you.’

‘You mean the FBI and the surveillance?’ Bond had calmed a little for he knew, while M could be devious, he always played fair with him when it came to operations, even though he had, on a number of occasions, tried tricks of involvement without giving him all the facts at the outset.

‘I left a note for you at the Fairmont. That just about amounted to an order. I was telling you to stay aboard the damned hotel and not go gadding off around the town.’

He waited, as though expecting an apology. When none was forthcoming, M continued, ‘Instead of staying in, you went off out into the night and, as a result, an FBI agent was killed. Your fault, 007. Entirely your doing.’

Another pause and silence between the two men. Bond stared straight ahead, not even looking M in the eyes as he slowly began to face the fact that it was his fault.

‘Death is not funny, especially in the way the poor, unfortunate Malloney met his end, but it has helped us rather than hindered a somewhat complex situation.’

‘So, I am now a pariah as far as the FBI are concerned? Because some young agent wasn’t experienced enough.’

‘No.’ M’s look hardened into an all too familiar grimness. ‘No, you’re persona non grata with the FBI because that’s how we want it. It’s one of the reasons I did not countermand the Queen’s Regulations and MoD instructions and take you off active duty in the Royal Navy. You see, we’re co-operating wholly with the US Navy. Even brought your uniforms over here, just in case you need to wear them. Also we’ve spread the word that you’ve become highly disenchanted with life in the Navy. That you want out . Which is what you do want, is it not?’

Bond’s anger briefly flared again, ‘Oh, no, sir. No, we’ve been down that road before. Disenchanted Naval and Intelligence officer seeks employment with hostile power. Object, the passing of classified information.’

‘It isn’t quite like that, James. Not this time. But people like the FBI and your old friends in the CIA are probably quite interested in seeing us move you out and back to the UK. You’re simply disenchanted and not a little slipshod. Inefficient, not taking life very seriously.’

‘Why?’ This time 007 locked eyes with M as though challenging him to provide an adequate reason.

For the first time, M smiled. ‘Because of Lords and Lords Day.’

Bond’s voice was heavily tinged with sarcasm. ‘Sir, I know you like being cryptic and using cryptos, but a crypto’s no good to me unless I know what it means.’

‘Oh, you’ll find out what it means, James,’ all fatherly now. ‘You’ll know what it means, but I doubt if you’ll ever know how it works. Let me call in one of the US people you’re going to be working with.’ He lifted one of the telephones which was answered immediately. ‘Would you ask Commander Rushia to step in now, please.’ He pronounced the name ‘Roosha’.

Rushia was in civilian clothes, smart, tidy, even a shade of the dandy, sporting a blue white-spotted bow tie, an immaculate white shirt, dun coloured slacks and a lightweight thin-striped summer jacket. But it was the man himself whom Bond saw immediately, not the clothes. He was big, tall and broad-shouldered, about Bond’s age but with hair which had gone prematurely grey. He had a rangy look about him, eyes which seemed to yearn for far-off horizons, either at sea or the edges of great wheat fields reaching almost to the sky. His hands were large, big, strong and used sparingly in simple gestures.

Bond’s first impression was of a man who might just have been a mite happier on some Mid-Western farm. His whole manner and speech also seemed to betray this essential idea, as though he wanted people to think of him only as slow, charming and have the feeling that he was really not up to the complexities, let alone the niceties of his calling.