Page 112 - Brokenclaw - John Gardner

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The roads seemed to level out and they met only occasional cars coming

from the opposite direction. Then a thin mist began to float in around them, the
driver slowing and taking all sensible precautions.
The mist thickened from time to time, forming a wall from which the
headlights r
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would thin out for a few miles, then, with no warning, suddenly appear ahead,
almost an unearthly curtain of heavy greyness that made Bond turn away in a
reflex. His intuition told him that they had gone north, then climbed to the west,
finally turning back on a northerly heading. But nothing was certain because of

the murkiness that had accompanied most of the drive.
Finally they were through the worst of the mist, though it still lay around
them in small wispy pockets. The driver moved his right hand from the steering
wheel and Bond saw him pick up a cellular telephone into which he spoke a
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couple of brief sentences.
He had hardly replaced the instrument when, from straight ahead, a sudden
blaze of light exploded in the darkness. Some of the lights had an almost
blinding effect as they seemed to be directly facing the car, but the driver did

not slow or even falter.
Now the lights were all around them and Bond thought he could see the large
bulk of a building. He did glimpse tall metal gates, open, flanked by high dark
walls, then they were driving through what appeared to be a tunnel of trees.

The white façade of a large house suddenly appeared in the headlights and a
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couple of seconds later the limo drew up under some kind of canopy. Ding was
quickly out of the car, holding the door open for Chi-Chi who seemed dazed
with sleep. Bond followed, his feet crunching on what he suspected was

gravel, and they were hurried through a heavy, iron-bound door.
Before the door closed behind them, Bond could have sworn that he heard
the sound of the sea in the distance and his nostrils twitched, sensing what he
thought was the scent of the Pacific in his nostrils.

They were standing in a hallway which would not have been out of place in
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Bond’s beloved western highlands of Scotland. For a fraction of a second, he
realised that out there in the fog he had experienced the same tingling dreadful
sensation which he had once had on a visit to Glencoe, the site of both the

horrific massacre in 1692 and the birthplace of the father he had hardly known.
But any further reflections were quickly banished.
They stood on a deep-pile carpet laid across a highly polished oak floor. A

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