Page 10 - Brokenclaw - John Gardner

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He left the meal barely tasted, signed the bill and strolled away past the

main restaurant, heading for the foyer. He would take a walk, he thought, along
the harbour front which, for some reason, reminded him of Switzerland.
Certainly the mountains were far away – in Washington State – but the calm
James Bond OO7 - printing disabled with its pleasure boats, seaplanes and the juxtaposition of ancient James Bond OO7 - printing disabled
anchorage
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and modern buildings all had a feel of the order one found on the Swiss lakes.
For a moment he stood just outside the main door. It had been a glorious day
and the sun was now low and beginning to colour the western sky. A sleek,
dark blue Rolls-Royce stood in the turning circle, about thirty yards from the

entrance, and a young man, nervous, his head and eyes in constant motion,
talked with a uniformed chauffeur at the car’s door.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ One of the grey-uniformed doormen was at Bond’s elbow,
gently moving him to one side as though someone of great importance was
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about to leave the hotel. At the same moment, Bond was aware of two men,
reeking of ‘security’, shouldering their way past the doorman and moving to
what appeared to be preassigned places near the Rolls. One wore the
obligatory earpiece of a bullet-catcher, as professional bodyguards are known

the world over, the other sported a long open raincoat of the type favoured by
US Secret Service men to hide the Uzi or H & K MP5A2 submachine-guns.
Three more men passed through the door and it was obvious which of them
was being protected. Bond did a double take as the striking figure moved

towards the Rolls, turning slightly as the nervous young man with the chauffeur
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came forward to greet him.
So arresting was this man that Bond almost missed the next series of events.
The man was well over six feet tall, nearer six-three or -four, broad-

shouldered, erect, and, from the way he moved, in very good physical shape.
You could practically see the muscles ripple under the expensive, meticulously
tailored double-breasted grey suit. His face was even more remarkable than
his physique: – dark, almost olive-skinned, with a broad forehead, fine flared

nose and a mouth that could have been perfectly sculpted by an artist – thick,
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sensual lips, but which were in flawless proportion to the rest of the face. The
bone structure, Bond thought, was almost that of a pure-blooded American
Indian; only the dark brown eyes gave the lie to this, for they were slightly

almond-shaped and hooded, hinting at some Oriental blood. Certainly,
whoever he was, this fine-looking specimen could never be forgotten.
The nervous young man had been speaking to him, rapidly and low, the tall

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