Brokenclaw

Bond was still watching it streak upwards as their engines started and they slowly moved into place on the catapult. He could see the catapult officer with his glowing yellow wand off to the right, and could feel the whole craft vibrate as his pilot brought the engines up to maximum throttle. He found himself looking, hypnotised, at the catapult officer who straightened up and raised his wand in a sweeping motion, bringing it down like something out of a Star Wars movie, so that the flashing yellow rod was aimed directly below the aircraft, at the catapult. Bond tensed, pushed his head back against the padded seatback and waited, counting to himself . . . One . . . Two . . . and the catapult fired, the gigantic punch in his back, his body pushed almost wildly out of control as they accelerated and were thrown into the air. It was so quick that, mentally, his stomach was left behind, about eight feet above the carrier’s deck, while his body was now at a thousand feet and climbing.

Bond preferred the more civilised ski-jump technique of his old friend the Harrier.

They made exceptional time, bumping and buffeting at maximum altitude with engine noise mixed with the wind. There were two stops for midair refuelling, and Bond listened to Chi-Chi’s pilot talking to the captain of the great C-130, out of SAC HQ at Offott AFB, Omaha. He had two shots at getting the probe into the refuelling drogue the first time, and there were some distinctly off-colour comments from both pilots.

Bond’s driver hit the drogue first time on each occasion, and, like a ritual, the dialogue never varied – ‘Just keep it there and let it soak up the good juices,’ drawled the C-130 pilot; and when they disengaged, the fighter jock clipped out a ‘How was it for you?’ To which the C-130 driver sighed and told him that the earth had moved.

At just after ten o’clock, Eastern Standard Time, they locked on to the RAPCON – Radar Approach Control – at the Grumman Aircraft Company’s facility on Long Island. At ten thirty they were on the ground and turning off the long runway. Chi-Chi’s Tomcat was already parked far away from any of the buildings and Bond could make out the shape of a small Hughes helicopter in civil livery standing off to one side.

Bond climbed down from the rear cockpit, giving the thumbs up to his pilot and rapidly unzipping himself from the G-suit which was taken from him by a technician who greeted him with the words, ‘Message from Mr Grant, sir. No joy yet, but the 06 from Tokyo is early. She’ll be on the ground and at the terminal in less than half-an- hour.’

‘Better get a shift on then.’ He nodded at the tech, hurried over to the helicopter and climbed in next to Chi- Chi, both now in the dark-blue coveralls of baggage handlers.

The pilot nodded and the door was closed as the rotors wound up and they lifted into the night sky.

‘That was quite a ride, uh?’ he shouted at Chi-Chi over the engine noise.

‘Sure,’ she yelled back. ‘I was good. Only vomited four times.’

He looked at her to make sure she was all right and, in spite of the slight pallor, he saw she was smiling.

In the distance the towers of Manhattan glittered against the night sky, and fifteen minutes later, they were over New York’s John F Kennedy airport, under local control, and being directed towards the International arrivals terminal on the air side. The pilot touched down just long enough for Chi-Chi and Bond to clamber out. They were greeted by two figures in similar baggage handler’s coveralls.

‘Indexer sends his regards,’ one of the men said, with little conviction.

‘The glossary’s been completed on time then?’ Bond replied with the prearranged question.

‘JAL 06’s down and taxiing in now. Your personal items are on our truck.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the train of baggage trolleys with its little electric truck out in front below the high, jetway where the usual arrivals crew waited for the 747, the engines of which could be heard as it headed towards the end of its long journey from Tokyo. The luggage, which had gone ahead packed in wing pods on the Tomcat that had brought Ed Rushia, was piled on the first trolley, and the supervisor spoke quietly as the Boeing’s engines got louder and louder in the background.

‘The cabin crew’ll deplane all passengers from the front door when it’s latched to the ramp,’ he told them. ‘We’ve arranged for one of the stewards to open up the rear door when two-thirds of the passengers are off. He’s being paid so he imagines it’s some scam we’re running – drugs or illegals. But once he’s opened up the door he’s been instructed to go forward and not to let any other crew members back there. We’ve got a set of steps ready to drive in and secure to the rear door. You just hang around with the lads who’ll be doing the unloading. When I give you the okay, get out of the coveralls, grab your hand baggage, and get up there.’

It took around fifteen minutes before they saw the rear door swing back and the motorised steps move forward. Four minutes later, Chi-Chi, carrying a Scribner’s Bookstore canvas bag, and Bond hefting a briefcase, both wearing their regular clothes, were at the back of the line of people who were the last to deplane. Bond had flipped his fingers into his breast pocket and pulled into view the top half of his JAL boarding pass given to him by the Scrivener earlier that day. They even thanked the members of the cabin crew at the door as they went out on to the ramp and began that long hike to immigration and customs.

At immigration they split up, Chi-Chi heading for the US Citizens’ zone and Bond for the non-US passports. It took about another half-hour for them to get through to the baggage carousels and the usual scramble for luggage, but by eleven forty-five they reached the far side.

Chi-Chi stayed with the luggage and caught a glimpse of Ed Rushia, looking harassed, trying to get some information at one of the baggage desks. Bond headed first for the left baggage lockers, where he found number 64 and unlocked it with the key supplied earlier by the CIA man, Grant. The package was the right weight and he slipped it into his briefcase before getting to the first empty phone booth and dialling the number Franks and Orr had given him.

The distant end answered with a curt, ‘Yes?’

‘I was given this number to call about some books.’ It was exactly what they had told him to say.

‘What kind of books?’

‘Historical.’

‘Ah, they told you wrong. You want a New York number, a 212 area code, okay? You got a pencil?’

‘No, but I have a good memory.’

The curt voice rattled off a number, asked him to repeat it and hung up.

When Bond dialled the 212 number, a woman answered with a negative, ‘Hello?’

‘I’m sorry to call so late, but I understand you have some books for sale on Peter Abelard.’

‘Yes. My father had an extensive collection, and I have hand-bound editions of Etienne Gilson’s work in translation, Luscombe’s The School of Peter Abelard, The Letters of Abelard and Heloise, of course, in the 1925 edition, and most of the other well-known works.’

‘And they’re all in mint condition?’

‘Immaculate.’

‘I’m very interested. Would it be too late for me to come over to see them tonight?’

‘Your name is . . . ?’

‘Peter, Peter Piper.’

‘Come as quickly as you can, Peter.’ She gave an address on West 56th. ‘It’s just past the Parker Meridien,’ she said. ‘I look forward to seeing you. You are coming alone, are you?’

‘No, I’ll have Heloise with me.’

The woman at the other end chuckled and closed the line.

‘I want you to wait a good fifteen minutes and then take a cab out,’ Bond told Chi-Chi, after giving her the address. ‘It sounds okay, and she does seem to be expecting you. Ed’ll be watching my back, so if there’s any surveillance on the place, he’ll stop it and hold you off.’

She nodded and Bond gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek, picking up his case and the briefcase and heading towards the taxi rank. On the way he got into a crush of people and found the big Ed Rushia next to him. Talking very low, as if to himself, he gave Rushia the gist of what was happening.

‘You sure get around,’ Ed muttered before he disappeared into the crowd.

The cab driver was not talkative, but just drove and Bond fiddled with his briefcase, making certain the driver could not see what he was doing – unwrapping the package and transferring his trusted ASP 9mm automatic to the waistband of his trousers, well back behind the right hip.

Manhattan looked like its fabled fairyland self from the bridge. It was only when they got into the caverns of its streets, felt the roughness of the roads, pitted and rutted, and saw the quality of life on the sidewalks at this time of night, that Bond got the flow of adrenaline which always hit him on arrival in this city. It was worse than the