Page 107 - Brokenclaw - John Gardner

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adjusted to conform to any position, allowing the user maximum comfort.

Ding and Fox had shown nothing but courtesy to their charges who were
asked to choose whatever seats they liked, while a young uniformed Chinese
girl offered them drinks. There was no hint of threats, no indication of menace.
James Bond OO7 - printing disabled wishes you to have the best he can offer,’ the ugly-looking Bone James Bond OO7 - printing disabled
‘Mr Lee
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Bender Ding smiled, nodding like a Buddha.
Bond and Chi-Chi chose seats together towards the back of the cabin. The
stewardess brought a martini for Bond and a white wine spritzer for Chi-Chi.
The martini was just as he had ordered it and prepared to his usual formula.

‘Three measures of Gordons, one of vodka, half of Kina Lillet, shaken not
stirred, until it’s very cold. Then add a thin slice of lemon peel.’ The Chinese
girl merely smiled and bowed and he thought the chances of getting the real
thing were pretty remote, but sure enough, when served, the martini passed
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even Bond’s most exacting standards.
It was almost three-quarters of an hour later that they reached the threshold
of the active runway and the captain announced that they should prepare for
take-off. Already, Ding had come back from his seat in the forward part of the

cabin and apologised for the hold up. ‘Even Mr Lee cannot override the airport
handling delays, I fear,’ he said with a look which bade Bond not to be too
irritated.
Finally the little executive jet hustled off the runway, pulled back into a

rather extreme angle of climb and levelled off at somewhere in the vicinity of
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thirty-thousand feet, at which time the captain turned off the discreet ‘seat belt’
sign and the stewardess came back with a large menu.
‘Please order anything,’ she smiled and bowed her head. ‘We have excellent

chef on board.’
‘Mr Lee certainly knows how to enjoy himself.’ Bond leaned over and spoke
softly to Chi-Chi, who looked at him and shrugged, ‘Eat, drink and be merry
for . . .’

‘Don’t finish it,’ he said a little sharply. ‘I’m not superstitious except for that
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little phrase and any quotations from William Shakespeare’s Scottish play.’
‘Scottish? Oh, you mean Mac . . .’
‘No!’ He laid a hand on her arm. ‘Humour me, Jenny. These are my only

superstitions.’
‘You’ll have to hear mine, one day,’ she said. ‘They outnumber yours a
hundred to one. But this menu is splendid.’

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