Page 26 - Brokenclaw - John Gardner

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been followed? he asked himself again. Who wanted him under surveillance?

Come to that, was the death of Porpoise just one of those unhappy timings –
being in the wrong place at the wrong time – or was there some more sinister,
premeditated reason?
James Bond OO7 - printing disabledtions were to haunt him all that night as he lay James Bond OO7 - printing disabled James Bond OO7 - printing disabled
The ques
James Bond OO7 - printing disabledin his safe and
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luxurious room high in the Fairmont. Bond dropped in and out of sleep,
sweating and plagued by nightmares of a severed head being kicked around a
schoolyard by a laughing gang of Chinese children.
At dawn he woke suddenly from one bout of deep sleep. Sitting bolt upright,

he captured the image of the girl in the store from his most recent dream. The
girl had first giggled and then thrown her head back, cackling, which showed
her to have the razor-sharp teeth of a shark.
He called room service and ordered breakfast – just a lot of coffee and toast
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– there was little chance here of getting his beloved precisely boiled egg or the
De Bry coffee, Tiptree strawberry jam or Cooper’s Vintage Oxford marmalade
which made up his breakfast ritual back home.
Before the room-service trolley arrived, he had time to shower, shave and

dress. Then he sat at the window drinking almost scalding coffee and eating
quite reasonable wholewheat toast with at least a facsimile of marmalade or
jam.
As he breakfasted, his head began to clear and his thoughts became more

positive. Was there any point in reporting what he had seen to the local police?
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The answer to that was a straight no. He had been summoned to San Francisco
by his chief, which certainly meant official business. A report to the police
would only snarl him in red tape. It would also, undoubtedly, reveal his RN

rank plus his identity as a member of the British Secret Intelligence Service.
Whatever M required of him, Bond could bet every penny he owned that his
Chief would not be attracted to the idea of his identity becoming public
knowledge to local law enforcement agencies. The only course still open to

him was a quick, unidentifiable call to the SFPD giving the barest details of the
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horrific murder he had witnessed.
He was still thinking of the feasibility of this action when the doorbell
chimed. Probably room service wanting to clear away the breakfast debris, but

he took the safe action of squinting through the security peephole in the door.
The strange fish-eye view showed two well-dressed burly men standing back
from the door.

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