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Brokenclaw, John Gardner’s ninth Bond novel, brought James Bond into the 90s, and presented one of Gardner’s most original creations, Brokenclaw Lee.

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Agent 007 meets his match in John Gardner’s ninth addition to the James Bond canon.

When Bond arrives in San Francisco for a much-needed holiday, the last thing he expects to find is m waiting for him. Only then does he realize that his shrewd old commanding officer has set him up, and he is singularly unprepared for what happens next. But then nobody can be prepared for Fu-Chu Lee, known o the underworld and security agencies alike as Brokenclaw.

A cunning monster who has been a thorn in the flesh of the SFPD and the FBI for years, Brokenclaw Lee is evil personified. Half Chinese and half Blackfoot Indian, six feet, six inches tall, massively strong, and with an unquenchable sexual appetite, Brokenclaw is rumored to have torn men apart with his bare hands. He is certainly the most powerful Chinese gangster in San Francisco, where he runs a mafia-style family with a blend of terror and brutality.

Lord of gambling clubs, drug rings, prostitution, and local crime, Brokenclaw might now have turned to another desperate trade. Suspected of working for the Central External Liaison Department, the highly efficient intelligence service of the PeopleÕs Republic of China, Brokenclaw may be the mastermind behind an espionage coup that, as one CIA officer says, makes the Walker Brothers spy ring look like a Girl Scouts convention.

Teaming up with some of the most intriguing Bond women yet, 007 quickly finds himself among Lee’s lieutenants, all as ruthless and malign as their master. Against the glittery, tawdry backdrops of San Francisco and New York, and the wild beauty of the California coast and the Pacific Northwest, Bond moves deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine web of Brokenclaw’s fiefdom, until at last he comes face to face with this deadliest of adversaries.

-Putnam dust jacket

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Within ten minutes, he knew that someone was following him.

First it was just a feeling, born of immense experience of such things. Around him, the nightlife seethed: garish neon signs beckoned the unwary and, as he moved deeper into Chinatown, more sordid aspects of the city at night were blatantly displayed: girls for sale along the pavements, scantily dressed, watched over by shadowy figures who lurked in doorways or in full view leaning against buildings. At every intersection, he also caught sight of the dealers who did not have to hassle as much as the whores, for their clientele was ready made. The market for crack cocaine, straight heroin, and even grass was secure. Sometimes a car would pull up near the curb, its occupant calling, low, to ask if he wanted some action. For “action” read “crack,” “ice,” or even “speed.” The results of the dealers’ work could be seen everywhere, in drawn faces, empty or wild eyes. The atmosphere took on a more dangerous, almost tangible, feel the further Bond went, fending off girls and dealers who approached him with monotonous regularity.

He turned left, into an alleyway, took ten paces and then turned back, going onto the other street again, glancing to his right as he did so. He saw, among the many people along the sidewalk, one-man falter in his stride, eyes flicking as he recovered himself and carried on walking. Caucasian, Bond noted: mid-thirties; cleanshaven; well-built, around 140 pounds; brownish hair, brushed straight back; casually dressed in well-cut jeans and a denim jacket, with soft gray leather Sperry Top-Sider shoes. The glance to left and right could mean that he was working with a team. Remember the shoes, Bond told himself. If it was a well-trained team they would change positions, even clothes, but they seldom had time to alter their shoes.

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- Chapter 3, Brokenclaw

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