Brokenclaw

by Gardner, John

  Bond nodded, smiling. Ed Rushia was a live one, a natural, he thought. That down-home, simple, almost country-boy language must have led many unwary people to their doom. Bond, who knew good cover when he saw it, had already begun to respect Commander Rushia. ‘And Lords Day?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, that one’s more perverse. It’s the antidote. Long Range Deep Sea Detector And Yaffler. Yea, I had to ask about the Yaffler thing and it appears that in some parts of the world, the common green woodpecker is known as a Yaffler. Simple, isn’t it? The antidote confuses the Lords box with wires by using a particular pattern of sonic beams. They’re not your run-of-the-mill sonic beams. These are special, they form a pattern that sounds just like a common green woodpecker.’ He clapped his big hands together in an act of finality. ‘Okay, James, consider yourself Lords and Lords Day cleared.’

  ‘So, what appears to be the problem?’ Bond asked.

  ‘Oh, the admiral here hasn’t told you? Well, San Francisco is, as you must surely know, the headquarters of the United States Pacific Fleet, and the United States Pacific Fleet is as leaky as an old kettle. There are things going on around here that make the Walker Brothers look like a Girl Scout convention.’ He frowned. ‘The Walker Brothers were spies, by the by, not some singing rock ’n’ roll outfit.’

  ‘I had heard,’ Bond said, straight-faced.

  ‘Well, I like to be sure, James. Some people tell me that there are British officers who don’t even know the difference between Stonewall Jackson and General Sherman. Think they’re baseball players or some such.’

  ‘And what’s it all got to do with us Brits anyway?’

  M stepped in. ‘Us Brits, as you call your own, 007, helped invent the thing, but in the last three months no fewer than three officers and two enlisted men, one Royal Navy and the rest US Navy, have gone missing. They are all fully Lords cleared; they are all highly trained technicians with stratospheric security clearances . . .’

  ‘Six, not five, if you count Wanda . . .’ Rushia began.

  M turned towards the American. ‘We do not count Wanda, because she didn’t go missing, Commander. She’s our asset and she’s here for the night. But you couldn’t have known that.’

  ‘Who is Wanda?’ Bond asked, his mind already centred on the word Lords. He had heard it before and the picture came back clearly – the huge, hybrid Chinese-Indian and the words that had seemed to pass between him and the nervous man outside the Empress Hotel only yesterday afternoon. The lip-read conversation concerning someone’s death by shooting, and the big man with the twisted hand saying, ‘Tell them incalculable damage may have been done regarding Lords.’

  He opened his mouth, but Rushia was already speaking. ‘I might add that if those guys have gone over to any foreign power, even in this time of glasnost and perestroika, then heaven help us, because those guys know things we wouldn’t even share with the Army, Navy and Pentagon combined, leave alone the old folks in East Jaboo.’

  ‘What is more,’ M continued as though he had never been interrupted, ‘as of yesterday, the founding father of Lords, one Professor Robert Allardyce, went missing. Guess where, James?’

  ‘Surprise me, sir.’

  ‘In Victoria, British Columbia. Where you were on holiday.’

  ‘Then I just might have a connection.’

  ‘What kind of connection?’ M snapped.

  ‘I think I have the name of someone possibly mixed up in the business.’

  ‘Really?’ M sounded almost patronising. ‘Give me the name.’

  ‘He’s a half-breed, Chinese-Blackfoot Indian by the name of Lee Fu-Chu, also known as Brokenclaw Lee.’

  M’s face hardened and his voice took on the sharp tone of suspicion. ‘What do you know of Brokenclaw Lee, Captain Bond?’

  ‘Very little, sir. But I saw him and listened to him giving a speech yesterday in Victoria, just before I received your orders to come on down here.’

  ‘Gee whizz,’ said Rushia softly. ‘Gee whizz, is that right?’

  ‘Tell us about it,’ M said flatly, as though challenging Bond to perform some impossible feat.

  5

  TROJAN HORSE

  As he recounted the facts of yesterday’s unexpected sighting and observation of Brokenclaw Lee, Bond was almost anxiously aware that both M and Commander Rushia listened to him with an intensity which he found disturbing. The two men were very still, never moving a muscle, their faces blank, like a pair of predators waiting for their target to come within range.

  When Bond finished speaking there was a long silence. Involuntarily, images came clearly into his mind – smoke from an old steam train, drifting away in a long stream; the view from a powerful telescope, looking into space. Then M spoke.

  ‘Why did you become so interested in Lee?’ His tone was unusually hostile.

  ‘I read his lips; death seemed to enter into the conversation, but, above all, he appeared to be an immensely powerful man. There was an aura about him, something different, fascinating, even charismatic.’

  ‘And that’s the truth, Bond? The whole truth? You saw this man and he struck you as being, shall we say “different”, not quite as other men? His power and presence fascinated you?’

  As he spoke, M raised his eyebrows, glanced at Rushia, who gave him a noncommittal look.

  ‘Exactly, sir. I’ve been a little in the doldrums in the past few weeks. Lee and the story he told about himself somehow jerked me from my torpor. He interested me! In fact I intended to do some kind of follow up, check the fellow out. But your message arrived before I could even begin.’

  There was another pause. More pictures in Bond’s mind, this time of the man, Lee, his power and toughness tempered with charm.

  ‘Knowing the circumstances as I do,’ M started again, pausing, brow furrowed, ‘if it was anybody else but you, 007, I’d be very suspicious of your story.’

  ‘Mighty suspicious.’ Rushia looked at Bond with an almost vacant stare.

  ‘Let’s get it straight one more time,’ M continued. ‘You saw the man and his entourage outside your hotel; you did a little lip-reading and reckoned he was told something about a death connected with Lords though you didn’t understand the significance. You were told his name and, because he was such a striking individual, you followed him and listened to his speech of presentation at the museum.’

  ‘Correct.’ Bond looked straight into M’s cold grey eyes.

  ‘Do you think he would recognise you again?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. His speech was a bit of a performance. As though he were an actor. He used his eyes well, but whether he marked me I couldn’t say. I’d doubt it. Doubt it very much.’

  ‘And the bodyguards?’

  ‘If they’re very good – trained surveillance experts – one of them might make me if he saw me again. I just don’t know.’

  ‘And you believed all that stuff about his Chinese great-grandfather and the marriage to the Blackfoot woman and so on even unto the third and fourth generation?’ M spoke in a mock-parsonical manner.

  ‘It was very convincing. I suppose, apart from his very imposing physical appearance, it was the thing that made him unique.’

  M grunted. ‘Yes. Yes, it is convincing, and you’ve been party to a quite extraordinary coincidence. Very few people actually get to see Mr Brokenclaw Lee. Usually only those he wants to see, apart from his regular retinue. I needn’t remind you, Captain Bond, that in our business, coincidence and luck don’t play a very big part.’

  ‘A strange coincidence, to use a phrase, by which some things are settled nowadays,’ Rushia quoted almost to himself. ‘Who the heck said that?’

  ‘I think it was Byron, actually.’ Bond was already irritated by what appeared to be a hostile interrogation. ‘But I really don’t understand what you’re getting at – either of you.’

  ‘Well, listen, Bond.’ M bent slightly forward, as though about to impart some choice classified information. ‘Brokenclaw Lee is powerful. He’s a gangster,
a hoodlum, a one-man Mafia. He’s also a mystery. He comes and goes as he pleases, disappears like a will-o’-the-wisp, he is a known killer, owns a very large portion of San Francisco’s shady side. He controls practically every gambling den in Chinatown. Prostitution – and there’s plenty of that – only operates under his aegis, the drug dealers pay him a fancy percentage, almost every nightclub or restaurant in the Chinatown area either belongs to him, or pays him handsomely.’

  ‘What about law enforcement? Surely, if this is known . . . ?’ Bond began.

  Ed Rushia stirred in his chair. ‘Gosh, James. Knowing it isn’t proving it.’

  ‘Well, how . . . ?’

  ‘How what?’ The commander thumped his knee with a big hand, fingers spread wide. ‘How he doesn’t get arrested? I’ll tell you how. Because he owns people, owns their souls. Know what that means? It means that, whatever the rumours, whatever the truth, nobody’ll talk and certainly nobody will stand up in court. The local cops and FBI have plenty of snitches who pass on bits of information, rumour, tales, tittle-tattle, even truth. But not one of them would even think of giving evidence about your pal Brokenclaw Lee. For all we know he has people inside the SFPD and the FBI. I doubt it, but who knows?’ For a second, Rushia had dropped his down-home image and manner of speech.

  ‘A one-man Mafia, you said.’ Bond looked from one to the other. ‘But even people mixed up with organised crime talk eventually. What about the special witness programmes? People who give evidence are protected, given new lives. I can’t believe that Lee hasn’t got enemies if . . .’

  ‘Oh yeah. Sure. Sure he’s got plenty of enemies,’ Rushia drawled. ‘But you try to get solid evidence from them. Ole Brokenclaw has two very powerful bits of ju-ju going for him. First off the stuff about his ancestry – Chinese and Blackfoot Indian. His forebears include at least one Medicine Man, or Woman I should say, and possibly more. May sound like superstition to you, Cap’n Bond, but a lot of very down-to-earth folk half believe the man has supernatural powers. He makes certain the stories about him are gilded and pretty juiced up. I’ve met an otherwise rational man who believes that Brokenclaw can turn himself into an eagle.’

  Bond recalled the power of voodoo, which he had seen for himself at first hand. Thinking about it, he decided that a man with Brokenclaw Lee’s personality might well be able to engender a kind of hypnosis and superstition which made followers believe he had unusual powers.

  ‘Second, there is proof on the streets that nobody has ever managed to inform on Mr Brokenclaw Lee and survive,’ Rushia continued. ‘There’s the tale of one particular snitch, name of Tiger Balm Chan. Lee is supposed to have torn him apart with his bare hands. Don’t know if it’s true, but ole Tiger Balm was a mess when they found him – over an area of one square mile. Found him piecemeal, so to speak.’

  ‘If there’s so much information on him, why hasn’t anybody tried to prosecute?’ To Bond, the essential way of Brokenclaw Lee’s life sounded like something from a strip cartoon. He said just that, his eyes fixed on M.

  M laughed. ‘Strip cartoon? Maybe. I told you, the man’s a will-o’-the-wisp. All his financial power is held by companies which are themselves dummy companies answerable to other dummy companies. In ten years the IRS has never been able to move against him because they cannot prove a thing – even the FBI, and I have a great deal of time for the FBI, cannot keep him in their sights. Over a dozen times they’ve mounted very complex, round-the-clock surveillance on him. Result? Those surveillance teams had him for twenty-four hours. Never longer. The man and his closest lieutenants just vanish for long periods. The agencies know of five large estates which might well belong to friend Brokenclaw, but he’s never been physically discovered on any of those properties, and nobody, I mean nobody, has ever come up with conclusive proof of his one-man criminal activities.’

  ‘Sounds like a job you’d put me on to, sir.’ Bond smiled as he said it, and the smile was met by a freezing look.

  ‘Oh, you are on it, 007. You and Ed Rushia here, both. You see, as well as being a mobster of immense skill and cunning, we are now one hundred per cent certain that he’s taken on another line of work. We’re certain that he’s an agent of CELD, and probably the CCI as well.’

  Bond looked at his chief with renewed interest. Up until now, the man Lee had seemed to be simply into organised crime. But CELD was the Central External Liaison Department, while CCI stood for Central Control of Intelligence. They were Red China’s answer to the CIA, the SIS, NSA and any other Intelligence outfit you could think of.

  ‘How much do you know about those happy intriguers in CELD and the CCI, Bond? Precious little I should imagine.’

  ‘As much as anyone else in the trade, sir. They’re both as ruthless as KGB was at the height of the cold war, to targets both at home and abroad. I’ve seen the need-to-know files. I’m aware that, in the current climate, especially since the Tienan-men Square massacre, every Western agency has been put on a red alert regarding Chinese Intelligence.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Since the Republic of China began to encourage visitors and tourists, there have been successful and unsuccessful attempts to recruit agents from the West. They desperately need Caucasians to work in Europe and the United States.’

  ‘Mmm,’ M growled. ‘Tien-an-Men Square,’ he divided the words correctly. ‘The Gate of Heavenly Peace. Some peace. And what have you made of CELD’s attempted conversions?’

  ‘I know that some Chinese nationals have infiltrated our territories, that there are some Intelligence officers working out of consulates and embassies. I also read the long file from our own China Desk on their methods of recruitment and subversion. For a people noted for their cunning and deception, the Chinese methods seemed a shade old-fashioned, the kind of stuff the Russians used in the fifties and sixties. Sexual burns, hidden cameras, drug-induced disorientation, financial rewards.’

  Rushia made a rumbling noise in his throat. ‘You don’t consider that those old ways still work, James?’

  ‘They’re less reliable, except in the case of certain subjects.’

  ‘Surprise you if I said the FBI and Navy Intelligence know of at least six successful recruitments of Caucasians in the last twelve months?’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Bond was unconvinced.

  ‘Tell you? Hell, no. We can show you a pair of them – well, one is Caucasian. Here. Now. Aboard this floating airbase.’

  M held up his hand. ‘I should tell you, 007, that the US Navy have kindly given us the run of certain parts of this ship. There is only a skeleton crew aboard. We have several cabins, as well as the area which our American cousins call the Brig, and the ship’s Hospital. What the Royal Navy would call the Cells and the Sick Bay.’

  Until that moment, Bond had assumed they were the only Intelligence people on board, and that this cabin was a kind of safe house, organised for one meeting. ‘Who’s here, sir? Apart from us, I mean.’

  ‘You’ll see shortly. People known to you. But let’s not run before we can walk. There are other things you must be briefed about if you’re going to stand any chance against this particular evil.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that Brokenclaw Lee is behind the disappearance of these Lords and Lords Day specialists?’

  ‘I would have thought it was obvious by now,’ M said tartly. ‘Yes. Our service was only brought in when Intelligence on this side of the ocean made the connection.’ He looked pointedly towards Ed Rushia, silently ordering him to continue.

  The American took a deep breath, ‘Gee, James, what can I tell you? When the first coupla guys went AWOL nobody bothered. People go AWOL all the time, but when two more disappeared everybody got jumpy, particularly as they were interconnected. Then number five went off into the wide blue yonder and all hell broke loose. I’m just fillin’ in the blanks for you, mind, ’cos I wasn’t around at the beginning, though we had some mighty smart hombres working on it. Guys that look in their rear-view mirrors and
do all those things that just make me plain nervous.’

  Rushia waved a large hand in the general direction of the desk at which M was sitting. ‘The files of the fearless five, the guys who went missing, are there for your inspection, and you’ll see for yourself that all five who became the victims in Trojan Horse were very smart cookies. Trojan Horse is the crypto for the investigation into the missing experts, and you’d better believe they were experts. Between them they could pass on most of the working secrets of Lords and Lords Day. The first thing we did was to check and double-check the backgrounds of each member of the quintet. We particularly looked for weaknesses which could possibly be used as levers for what you consider to be outdated techniques. Just in case these people were turned in the old-fashioned sense. Then we spent a long time looking into their habits. Came up with some names and numbers, as they say. Three of the guys were buddies and spent a lot of time at The Broken Dragon – that’s a kinda Chinese eating place-cum-cat house. They were there on the night they went AWOL. Each one of them was last seen at The Broken Dragon. Guess who owns that joint? And guess who was there on at least two of the occasions when guys disappeared?’

  Bond simply nodded. Brokenclaw Lee was the obvious connection.

  ‘So,’ Rushia held up his left hand and counted off the fingers, ‘Lieutenant Lindsay Robertson, Lieutenant Daniel Harvey and Senior Technician Billy Bob Heron all frequented The Broken Dragon with dangerous monotony. We can put Robertson and Harvey there within two hours of them going AWOL, and there is good evidence that ole Brokenfoot Lee was also there. He showed himself, as if on purpose, both times. More, we can put ole Billy Bob at the same place on the night he did the disappearing act.’

  ‘And the other two?’ Bond had a feeling that this was all too easy.