Brokenclaw

by John Gardner

  Chi-Chi said nothing, but indicated with her eyes that she could handle it. When the bedroom door closed he went to the phone again and tapped out the number Myra had given to him. It rang for quite a long time before a gruff, accented voice answered with a grunt.

  ‘I had a message to call you,’ Bond said.

  ‘Your name?’

  He took a deep breath and prayed that Franks and Orr had got it right. ‘Peter Abelard.’

  ‘So you’ve arrived. Is Héloïse with you?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s pretty tired. It’s been a long trip.’

  ‘We have your wellbeing at heart.’ The voice became strong and not unpleasant. ‘That’s why we arranged an overnight stop before you come on to San Francisco. You leave tomorrow night, or tonight in your case, for it must be after midnight. American Airlines Flight 15, leaving JFK at nine fifteen. The tickets are being held in your names at the desk. Just be there before eight fifteen to pick them up. You get in here about half past midnight, and you will call this number as soon as you’re through the gate. You understand?’

  ‘We’ll be there.’

  ‘Good.’

  Bond stood, silent and looking at the handset for a few seconds after they had disconnected, then he called to Chi-Chi, ‘Bring her out here, we’ve a whole lot of talking to do.’

  Chi-Chi did not have Myra under restraint when the women came back into the room, and it was obvious that the tall girl was confused and upset; her eyes were red and filled with tears.

  Chi-Chi sat her down in one of the leather chairs. ‘Tell my friend what you’ve told me.’ Her voice had almost a parade ground snap in it.

  Myra looked up at Bond, and then away again quickly, as though very frightened. ‘Just tell him,’ Chi-Chi commanded again.

  ‘I was expecting my old friend, Jenny,’ she began.

  ‘Yes, we all know that. Tell him why you were expecting her.’

  She bit her lip. ‘They told me that she was one of the people who would come during the period from twenty-seventh of September until seventh of this month.’ She was still very tearful.

  ‘And you were to identify her for them? Whoever “they” happen to be.’

  ‘No . . . No . . . No,’ in rapid succession, with a wild shaking of the head. ‘No, they had no idea that I’d ever known anyone by the name of Jenny Mo.’

  Bond thought this was an unlikely story, but he kept up the fiction. ‘Myra, who are they?’

  ‘I . . .’ she began, then faltered and started again, ‘I don’t really know. People I am indebted to.’

  ‘That’s as far as I got with her,’ Chi-Chi muttered.

  ‘See if you can rustle up some coffee or something.’ Bond moved to sit near Myra, but the girl half rose. ‘How stupid of me, I have food waiting for you. I’m sorry to be so damned wet, but – well, I’ve so looked forward to seeing Jenny, and this is a blow. I thought she was dead.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Bond spoke softly, gently, glancing up at Chi-Chi. His eyes tried to indicate that they should play the good cop, bad cop routine. ‘Just coffee.’

  Chi-Chi nodded and went towards the kitchen.

  ‘These people you say you’re beholden to – who are they, exactly?’

  ‘Are you police?’ A very small voice.

  ‘No. If you tell us the truth, Myra, nothing bad will happen to you.’

  ‘Then . . .’

  ‘I should warn you, Myra,’ Chi-Chi stood in the passageway to the kitchen, ‘if you do not tell us the truth, we shall know. Then you will wish you had never been born.’

  Bond nodded to Myra, as though bearing out the Chinese girl’s words, while at the same time showing his own compassion.

  There was a long, drifting hesitation, then Myra started again. ‘I’d better begin at the beginning, for I was born in China, just outside Peking, as they called it then, in 1948.’

  So, Bond thought, she was older than he had suspected. Over forty in fact.

  ‘My parents had spent most of their lives in China. They were American citizens, Baptist missionaries, and you will know that things were chaotic in that strange country during the late 1940s . . .’

  ‘And after,’ Bond commented.

  Myra gave a little nod. ‘When I was born, in the November of ’48, there was bitter fighting around Peking. But the memory of my childhood in Peking itself was one of happiness. We lived in a small but pleasant house on the outskirts of the city. My parents taught me and brought me up as a Christian, which I thought odd, because the Communist Revolution was in full flood and I knew that we were different by the time I was seven or eight. There seemed to be no other Americans that we could mix with. In fact, we saw very few white people, though a number of Chinese, most of them officers of the Red Army, visited us.

  ‘When I was sixteen, I was told what had happened. During the fighting between Mao’s Red Army and the Nationalist troops at the time of my birth, my parents had sheltered a young Red Army officer. He had been badly wounded and my mother nursed him while my father lied to the Nationalist soldiers who came looking for Communist stragglers.

  ‘When Peking was taken and the Revolution began in earnest, the young officer told my father that he would see to it that we were not harmed. Later, he returned and said it was impossible for him to get us out of the country, but if we made no political trouble, he would ensure that we could live in peace. The house was found for us and there we lived. Both my father and mother embraced Mao’s brand of Communism and my father did some translation work for the new government. For this, we were left in peace.

  ‘I understood little of the political implications, though I know that in my late teens I began to feel very uncomfortable about some of the things my father had to do.’

  She stopped, as though a host of memories had come drifting back to her, and Bond was forced to prompt her to go on.

  ‘I was twenty-four when the officer who I had been told was the man my parents had sheltered came late one night and spent hours alone with my father. It appeared that he could do little to help us any more. I didn’t understand it all, but he seemed to have lost some of his previous power. For several weeks we were confined to the house and there was an armed guard at the door. Then he came again. Apparently there was one way he could save us from being tried as spies and probably executed – we knew many had faced trials and summary death for what was called spying. If my parents would consent to my being taken to the United States, they would be safe. I was to find work in New York and we would be allowed to exchange letters once a month. The officer told me it was not likely that I would ever see my parents again, but at least I would be sure of their safety in their old age if I did as I was told.’

  ‘So you came to America?’

  She gave a small nod, biting her lip. ‘I think I should have stayed. I was ordered to do anything my parents instructed me to do. I don’t think they’re alive any more, but I still get letters which appear to be from them.’

  ‘And you obey instructions?’

  ‘Yes. There was no problem with my passport, social security, anything. There was even a job for me. I am a translator at the UN. I speak several Chinese dialects; German, quite good Russian, and French.’

  ‘Your mother must have been an amazing lady.’ Chi-Chi had come through with a tray loaded with cups and a large thermos of coffee.

  ‘Oh, she was. She taught me well.’

  ‘The jobs you were asked to do . . . ?’ Bond began.

  ‘There haven’t been all that many. I carry a great sadness about my family, but I live comfortably, my work is interesting. I’m modestly happy.’

  ‘The jobs?’ he prompted.

  ‘Delivering messages. Picking up letters and forwarding them to various people, both here and abroad. This is only the third time I’ve had to let people stay here.’

  ‘Chinese people?’

  ‘The first time – oh, six years ago – there were two Caucasians, foreigners who did not speak English well and a Chinese
– a young man who was very kind. He comes back to see me quite regularly. He’s a good man. Then, last year, there were two Chinese, a man and a woman. They stayed for six days. There were telephone calls and, finally, a rough-looking Chinese came and took them away.’

  ‘This Chinese? The one who comes back to see you. Does he ever give you instructions?’

  ‘No. No, never. We have a kind of . . . well . . .’

  ‘You sleep with him,’ Chi-Chi said harshly.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I sleep with him from time to time.’

  ‘Can I make a guess at something?’ Bond took a proffered cup of strong black coffee.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I would guess that the young officer your parents saved – the one who had you brought to America – is called Hung Chow H’ang. Right?’

  Myra gave a little gasp, ‘Yes. How did you . . . ?’

  ‘One of the injuries he suffered when your mother nursed him was to an eye, right?’

  ‘Why, yes. He wears a patch over his left eye.’

  ‘Has he ever visited you here?’

  The hesitation was too long. ‘He has?’ Bond nudged her and she gave a minute nod.

  ‘He’s quite an old man now.’ She was almost whispering. ‘But he visits about twice a year. Always calls a week ahead. Takes me out and buys me dinner. Always correct, but he lies to me.’

  ‘About your parents?’

  ‘He tells me they are fine, but in his stories they are just the same as when I left China.’

  ‘Do you know what you’re doing when you pass on messages, post letters and put people up?’

  ‘I think so.’ Again the very small voice.

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘I think it’s something to do with . . . with spying, espionage.’

  ‘It would seem that way. Drink your coffee, Myra. Then tell us about your friend Jenny Mo.’

  She sipped nervously at her coffee, eyes restless and cheeks flushed as though she were running a fever.

  ‘She worked in one of the accounts departments at the UN. I got to know her well and we became friends.’ There was an extended pause. ‘Close friends.’ Another silence as though she were trying to tell them more. ‘One day, Jenny said she was having problems with the lease on her apartment, so I let her use the spare room here. We shared this place until two years ago, when she was offered a very highly paid job in San Francisco. So she left. I had a couple of telephone calls and several letters, then she wrote to me saying she was worried. She said she thought it was necessary to go to the police . . .’

  ‘She tell you why?’ asked Bond.

  ‘You still have the letter?’ asked Chi-Chi.

  ‘Yes, I still have it. You want to see?’

  ‘Later, maybe. Just tell us what else happened.’

  ‘Nothing happened. Just this strange letter, then nothing, except the Chinese boy, the one I told you about, the one who still visits from time to time. He made a remark one night when he was here. I thought it odd.’ She stopped as though that was all there was to it.

  ‘How odd?’

  ‘Well, he was always nice. Kind and good. But he was pretty casual. I mean he usually wore jeans and a shirt, or a windcheater. Then, on this particular night, he arrived wearing an Armani suit. He had a gold Rolex and a heavy gold ID bracelet, two gold rings on his fingers. I was only joking. I said, “Business must be good,” and he just laughed. So I told him maybe I would have to go to the police and inform on him if business was that good. I was teasing him. He slapped me, beat me up, but before he left we made it up. He apologised, but he did say that I should be careful talking like that otherwise I’d end up like my old friend Jenny Mo.’

  ‘You follow up on that?’

  ‘I asked him what he meant, and he said he wasn’t being serious, only, as I hadn’t heard from Jenny in a long time, she must have disappeared. It worried me. Then I had the instructions about you. They simply said that a man called Peter Argentbright, who would identify himself as Peter Abelard, would call and then come with his wife, who would be called Héloïse, but was really Jenny Mo. I thought . . . I thought, well, I thought it must be Jenny. It’s been so long, and I had been very worried. Then, when you came, it was as though she were truly dead.’

  ‘So.’ Bond walked over to the telephone, then decided against it.

  ‘Am I in trouble?’ Myra asked.

  ‘You mean police? No, but I think some other friends of ours will probably want to see you, maybe keep you in a reasonable place – a house somewhere – and ask you a lot of questions. If you go along with them, you’ll be safe, but I believe if you stay here you’ll probably be dead inside a week.

  ‘You manage if I go out for a while?’ he asked Chi-Chi.

  ‘Telephone?’

  ‘Yes, I don’t fancy this one after the last call. I might have screwed things up as it is. Shouldn’t be long. Only open up to me – or Indexer of course.’

  There was still plenty of traffic on the street even at this time in the morning, and Bond cursed for not having put on a warmer jacket for there was a rising cold wind.

  He turned left out of the apartment building and walked a block down to the Parker Meridien. Across the street, Ed Rushia, in a chauffeur’s cap, nodded at the wheel of a stretch limo. Bond smiled to himself. Ed was certainly an operator. They had told him to hire a car and back up. He had obviously done just that and hired a stretch limo.

  The night porter was on duty outside the 56th Street entrance to the imposing hotel, and as Bond approached him, he stepped forward.

  ‘I help you, buddy?’

  ‘I need to use one of the public telephones.’ He slipped a ten into the man’s hand.

  ‘Oh, okay, sir. Thank you. You want I should get you a cab?’

  ‘I’ll be just fine,’ and Bond disappeared into the brightly lit interior. A minute later he had swiped a credit card through one of the telephone booths and dialled the same local number as before.

  ‘Curve’s Deli, Joe speaking. How can I help you?’

  ‘Custodian! Patch me through to whoever’s the senior officer.’

  There were a couple of clicks, then a voice he recognised as Grant’s answered. ‘Custodian? Where the hell’re you calling from?’

  ‘Public booth. Listen, we could have a serious problem. Our hostess seems to have been expecting the real Mo girl, but we’re not certain if it’s Eeny, Meeny, Miney or Mo, if you follow.’

  ‘I don’t, but go on.’

  ‘Our hostess seems to have been working for the people at the old French Legation, but swears she didn’t know what she was really up to. I would suggest you make arrangements to have her dried out once we’ve left. We’re off to sunny California tonight.’

  ‘Jetsetter!’ Grant was actually trying his hand at a joke. Pity it was so limp.

  ‘You’re in touch with Indexer?’ Bond did not even have a smirk in his voice.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then use whatever means you can to put a photograph of the Mo woman on the wire and get it to him.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘He knows where I am, and you know, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Are we alone, or does Indexer have company?’

  ‘He says not, and he’s usually accurate.’

  ‘I’ll call back from the apartment and order pizza or something. You can send a lad down with them. Just get Indexer to intercept and bring the items up.’

  ‘Will do.’ Grant hung up and Bond left the hotel.

  ‘Okay, sir?’ The doorman would remember him, but that couldn’t be helped.

  ‘Sure. Fine. My phone’s out and my girl just stood me up.’

  ‘Women!’ said the doorman, as though this was the cause of all the world’s problems.

  ‘Everything normal?’ he asked when he got back into the apartment. Chi-Chi or Myra or both had made more coffee, and there was a plateful of sandwiches.

  ‘Fine.’ Chi-Chi smiled at him, as if to say
together they could conquer the world. ‘Myra’s worried about getting arrested.’

  ‘Don’t lose a wink over it, Myra. I’ve been arrested a hundred times. Nothing to it.’ He picked up the apartment phone and called the contact number, spending several minutes ordering three jumbo pizzas with all the trimmings while the women sat open-mouthed.

  ‘Myra has enough here to feed an army.’ Chi-Chi held out the plate which looked as though someone had tried to make a model of the Leaning Tower of Pisa from bread, smoked salmon and cheese.

  ‘An army doesn’t live on smoked salmon alone. Armies like us need other things – camp followers, nurses, air support.’

  Chi-Chi raised an eyebrow at this piece of whimsy and Bond thought to himself that she had incredible control over it.

  ‘Will they put me in jail?’ Myra asked, anxious and getting quite close to hysteria.

  ‘Not if you’re a good girl and eat your sandwiches. Try to relax, Myra. I want you with all your wits about you. Another friend’s coming up shortly.’ He took his fourth sandwich and munched on it happily. ‘We could always play Trivial Pursuit while we wait. Do you have Trivial Pursuit, Myra?’

  She shook her head, but did not speak.

  ‘How about Mahjong?’

  ‘Yes, if we have to.’

  ‘We don’t have to do anything, Myra. Just stay calm and wait.’

  The downstairs buzzer went about half-an-hour later.

  ‘Pizzas from Curve’s Deli.’ Rushia’s growl came out covered in static.

  ‘Come right up,’ Bond answered.

  He had the chauffeur’s peaked cap pushed on to the back of his head. ‘There’s your eats.’ He gave the big smile to the women. ‘Do yourself proud here. Very nice.’

  ‘You got the other thing?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m to slog around passing messages for you, and I’ve got another little job if you can manage it.’

  ‘I hope you’ve got somebody watching that limo.’ Bond took the photograph. ‘Around here it could be on bricks by the time you get back.’

  Rushia chuckled. ‘I sure fooled them. I let the air outa the tyres.’

  ‘Myra,’ Bond walked over to where she sat, holding the photograph out to her, ‘you recognise this girl?’