Page 49 - Brokenclaw - John Gardner

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triangles of buttered brown bread and a flat dish spread with thinly sliced

smoked salmon. The tables gleamed with starched napery and sparkling silver.
These unaccustomed ‘waiters’ performed their tasks with the speed and
deftness of well-trained servers who worked in silence and withdrew quickly
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once all wa
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Rushia busied himself with the wine while M came and sat at the table as
though expecting the American officer and Bond to serve him. But before they
could even begin to tackle the food there was another knock at the cabin door.
This time Bond crossed the deck to open up.

He was aware, for a second, of two of the Lion Tamers standing guard, then
his eyes were centred on the girl who had knocked on the door.
From behind him, Rushia called, ‘Come in, Wanda. Meet Captain Bond,
Royal Navy. James, this is Lieutenant Commander Wanda Man Song Hing, US
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Navy.’
‘Captain Bond, sir,’ she acknowledged him as she came into the cabin and,
in spite of her very obvious Chinese appearance, her voice was low, husky and
totally without any of the short-tongued hesitant pronunciations of an English-

speaking Chinese.
She was slender and much taller than an average Chinese girl, somewhere
around five-ten, with a high waist which, in the lecherous and chauvinist
corner of Bond’s mind, predicted legs that went on for ever. This, he saw, was

correct as, with a smile, she walked past him into the cabin and stood smartly
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to attention in front of M.
‘Lieutenant-Commander Man Song Hing reporting as requested, sir.’
She wore civilian clothes – a calf-length dark pleated skirt, white shirt with

a Hermes scarf knotted at the neck and a short dark jacket with grey piping.
Her complexion was smooth, more cream than peaches, and her heavy black
hair was swept back from her forehead, falling in a neatly shaped curve above
her collar. She wore diamond clips on the tiny lobes of her exquisite ears, her

almond-shaped eyes were a deep black, the mouth generous and her nose
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small, giving an overall impression of a face of near-perfect proportions.
‘Let me take your jacket, Wanda.’ Rushia was behind her, as though dancing
attendance, and she slipped her arms out of the jacket, straightening the cuffs of

her shirt as she did so. The white shirt was tight and Bond’s throat went
characteristically dry at the clearly rounded shape of her breasts pressing
against the thin material.

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