The midnight blue eyes held mingled laughter and puzzlement as she studied him. "You certainly know how to touch a girl's heart, Jack. But that was a bit heavy, even for you. Is anything wrong?"

He hesitated, then exhaled and said, "Sorry. Can we talk here for a few minutes before we go to lunch?"

"Of course." She gestured to a corner where there was a bench locker and two chairs. Fraser had left his bowler hat and umbrella there with a large envelope. As they sat down she said, "Are you speaking for Tarrant? And is it about the Hallenberg s.n.a.t.c.h?"

Fraser said grimly, "I'm certainly not speaking for Tarrant, but there's a connection with the Hallenberg s.n.a.t.c.h."

She waited, sensing his indecision and puzzled by it, for it was out of character. Tor Hallenberg, winner of the n.o.bel Peace Prize, had come to London on a lecture tour and been kidnapped seven days ago. The government was working with the Norwegian Emba.s.sy and releasing nothing to the press about ransom demands or police activity in the hunt for the missing celebrity. It would not have surprised her to be asked if her knowledge of the underworld, and Willie's, could offer any pointers to whoever might be behind the kidnapping.

Fraser said, "The Royal Lithuania Movement s.n.a.t.c.hed Hallenberg. They've sent proof of holding him."

Willie said incredulously, "Royal Lithuania?"

"That's right," said Fraser. They want the Grand Duchy of Lithuania restored."

Modesty said, "I didn't know there'd ever been a Grand Duchy of Lithuania."

"Before your time, little girl. About six hundred years before. It stretched from the Baltic to the Black Sea."

"Are you serious, Jack?"

"Never more so, lady. What's not serious but ludicrous are the ransom demands. Recognition of the Duchy in Exile. Promise of arms for subversion. A ban on trade with Russia and Poland, their old enemies. And half a million in gold."

Willie said, "They're barmy."

"They would be if in fact the Royal Lithuania Movement had anything to do with the s.n.a.t.c.h, but in fact the movement is only about twenty strong, and the youngest is a man of seventy-three."

Modesty said quietly, "You're stalling, Jack. You don't want to get to the point. Come on, what's this all about?"

Fraser scowled, took off his gla.s.ses and began to polish them. "You're right, and I'm sorry. Well, what it's about is a big scam. The Basque Liberation Group had nothing to do with the s.n.a.t.c.h in Spain two months ago. The Amboines had nothing to do with the s.n.a.t.c.h in Holland before that. We now know that five out of the last six s.n.a.t.c.hes haven't been made by these fringe political groups at all. A professional mob's running the scam."

Modesty nodded. "That begins to make sense. How does it work in detail?"

Fraser put on his gla.s.ses. "They pick a suitable candidate and grab him. Their demands, as Willie just said, are barmy and they know it. Then comes negotiation. It's done by phone and always from another country, so it can't be traced in time. Eventually the kidnappers yield on all points except the money."

There was a little silence. Fraser saw Modesty and Willie looking at each other absently, and suspected that in some strange way their thoughts were merging. At last Willie said, "So they've picked up a few mill in the last eighteen months."

"Quite a few. The only failure was Brazil. They wouldn't pay for De Souta, and he was found in pieces. It'll be the same for Hallenberg now, and in less than fortyeight hours. The Norwegians won't pay on principle, neither will we."

Another silence, and again Fraser sensed that nebulous measure of communication. At the same moment that Willie shook his head Modesty said, "Starting from cold there's no time to do anything useful. But surely you're not starting from cold, Jack. Tarrant must have been trying to get a man inside this mob for months."

Fraser nodded. "We put a man on the job, and he got in. You know Johnny Nash?"

Modesty smiled. "Yes, I know Johnny well. Nothing heavy. We're good occasional friends."

Willie said, "If Johnny's inside, you ought to wrap it up pretty quick now. He's as good as anyone you've got."

Fraser drew in a long breath and picked up the envelope that lay by his hat. "He was very good. But he must have got blown somehow." He took two photographs from the envelope and handed them to Modesty. "Before they killed him they gave him a manicure. With boltcutters, we think."

She sat holding the photographs, one in each hand, looking at them, her face wiped clean of all expression. After a few moments she pa.s.sed them to Willie and stood up, holding her elbows as she paced away before turning to come slowly back. Willie laid the photographs facedown on the locker beside Fraser. His face held no more expression than hers as he said, "Where did you find 'im?"

Fraser said, "In our private carpark, in a sack. As from the Royal Lithuania Movement."

Modesty came to a halt, looking down at Fraser, understanding the strangeness in him that had puzzled her earlier. "You're certainly not speaking for Tarrant," she said quietly. "He'll kill you for showing me those photographs, Jack."

Fraser shrugged, looking up at her with an attempt at a smile. "He'll certainly fire me. But..." he touched the photographs with his fingertips and the effortful smile became a savage, selfmocking grin. "You know how it is, lady. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Christ, girl, I'd go back on the job myself if I thought I had a cat in h.e.l.l's chance, but I'm long past it now." He shook his head wearily. "And anyway I wouldn't know where to start."

Modesty stood gazing absently into s.p.a.ce. Willie sat watching her quietly, waiting. He knew several things now beyond all doubt. She would seek whoever had performed that obscene killing of Johnny Nash. She would hope to find them, and hope for a confrontation that would provide an opportunity to destroy them in hot blood. She would not take Willie's support for granted, even though she knew he would declare it. And she would be aware that as soon as they began their search Tarrant would know that Fraser had shown her the photographs.

It was Fraser who broke the silence, sounding happier now that he had committed himself. "I'll tell the old man when I get back to town. No point in hanging about."

Modesty nodded, and her remote gaze faded as she looked at him. "Yes, phone him today. He knows Johnny was a friend, so tell him that if I'd found out about this later I'd never have forgiven him for keeping it from me."

Fraser said bleakly, "That just might save my bacon, except that I just might be getting you killed, in which case I wouldn't want my bacon saved." He picked up the photographs, put them in the envelope and glared at her sullenly. "For Christ's sake don't get killed, girl. I've still got a few years left maybe, and I don't want to be carrying that with me."

She gave him a small affectionate smile. "I'll bear it in mind. Did you get anything at all from Johnny Nash before they killed him?"

Fraser grimaced. "Almost nothing."

"Almost?"

"The managing director of the mob running the scam will be attending a gathering at a house in Belgravia this evening. But since we have no name and no description, and there are going to be a hundred and fifty others there, it's not much help."

"Can you get us in?"

"No problem."

"There's nothing else? No clues on Johnny or the sack he was in?"

"Forensic checked but got nothing useful. Oh Jesus, no, wait a minute, there was something in the sack but it still wasn't useful. I don't know why I bothered to bring it." Fraser opened his briefcase and took out a small transparent plastic bag containing a white cotton glove, holding it up for Modesty to inspect. "It wouldn't have fitted Nash even before they worked on him, so presumably it was worn by somebody who helped put him in the sack. Somebody who just might be at the gathering."

Modesty said, "Has it been handled much?"

"Only by forensic in rubber gloves. Why?"

"Can you leave it with me?"

Fraser gave a snort of humourless laughter. "Why not? I've shown you the pix, so how the h.e.l.l can I get into worse trouble?" He handed the bag to her, then blinked and gave a baffled stare. "G.o.d Almighty, you can't take a bloodhound to this gathering. It's the Prison Abolition Society and they're actually campaigning for the abolition of prisons if you can believe it, but even a bunch of nutters might think it a bit odd to have a bloodhound sniffing around."

Modesty said, "They might not notice a heavily disguised bloodhound." She looked at Willie and said doubtfully, "Too much for Dinah?"

Dinah Collier and her husband Steve were their closest friends. Blind from childhood, Dinah had a remarkable sense of smell, and could recognise people by their scent if she knew them well enough to have registered the characteristics. Often she described the scent by reference to other senses, so that to her Modesty's was like the taste of brandy, Willie's like the sound of a muted trumpet, her husband's like the feel of suede.

Willie shook his head. "Dinah couldn't match a person to what she could get from that glove, Princess. No chance. You'd need an Abo for that-" He broke off and sat up straight.

Modesty said, "Yes, you told me you had a call from Bluey Peters. He's in London?"

Willie nodded and got to his feet. "Staying at the Waldorf and he's got Jacko with him, as usual."

Her eyes sparkled as she turned to Fraser. "Then we have our bloodhound."

Fraser stared. "You're saying an Aborigine can do it?"

She moved to sit beside him, and he sensed the relaxation in her. "An Aborigine can do it, Jack, and we have one who's an old friend. Outside his tribe he's called 'Grace, and I've been walkabout in the bush with 'Grace and his people more than once. They can follow a threedayold scent across miles of rock and desert and scrub." She paused for a moment, thinking. "Look, there are no guarantees, but whereas I thought it might take us weeks to get near the people who killed Johnny Nash, I now hope we may be able to get that far tonight. In which case there's a slim chance that we could get Hallenberg out before they kill him."

Fraser touched her hand. "Oh G.o.d, that's great. Make sure it's before they kill you, lady."

She said with a touch of impatience, "I don't think like that, Jack. Just tell Tarrant about the Hallenberg possibility when you make your confession, and say I might ask for backup if need be."

Willie said, "I'm in, Princess."

She smiled. "Thanks, Willie." Then to Fraser, "We might ask for backup. But we'll let you know." She stood up. "Now let's forget it and have lunch. I'm starving."

What Willie Garvin liked most about c.o.c.ktail parties of this kind was that they were so horrible. The worse they were, the more he enjoyed them because they presented such a variety of unbelievable characters for his amus.e.m.e.nt. This one was quite satisfactorily horrible in these terms, but he could not enjoy it fully because he had other matters to hold his attention.

The room had once been the ballroom of the large house in the corner of the square. A wide archway on one side opened into an annexe where tables were set with canapes and various confections on c.o.c.ktail sticks. There were fewer than a hundred and fifty people present, Willie calculated, but still well over a hundred, a mixed bunch of freeloaders, cranks, policehaters, and slightly dazedlooking people who had perhaps been raked in without quite knowing what it was all about.

Modesty was with an earnest bearded man. He had a drink in one hand and was leaning against the wall with his other arm over her shoulder, more or less pinning her there as he talked energetically between quick attacks on his drink. She was in a good position for surveying the room, and had given no sign of wanting to be rescued.

Willie stood on the other side of the room, protected on one side by a pillar, an untouched drink in hand, keeping a casual eye on two men who had arrived together twenty minutes ago. Bluey Peters was a big, rugged Australian with shortcropped ashblond hair. His companion, 'Grace, was tall and slender with shiny black skin and a shock of black curly hair. They were moving slowly, casually, from group to group, Bluey playing the extrovert with selfintroductions, 'Grace showing white teeth in a big smile, his broad nose flaring as he exchanged greetings. On his own, Bluey might have found himself coolly received, but with 'Grace in tow there was no danger of that. Any such gathering would above all be Politically Correct.

Both men had worked for Modesty in the days of The Network, running one of her motor fishing vessels in the Mediterranean for smuggling or any other purpose she might require. 'Grace was a pure Aborigine and had spent the first sixteen years of his life in the bush. His people were the best trackers in the world, and not only on their own territory. Willie had known 'Grace to track Bluey three miles through a city to find him in a bar.

An hour ago 'Grace had sniffed the cotton glove for a full thirty seconds before announcing that it held four different human scents. One was a dead man's scent. Of the others, the strongest by far was inside the glove. Now Willie estimated that 'Grace had checked threequarters of the people in the room. He watched as the contrasting pair moved away from a group. Bluey c.o.c.ked an inquiring eye at his friend, who gave a quick shake of his head. Willie sighed inwardly. The chances of the gloveman being present were growing slimmer.

At his elbow a voice said, "Look, I hope you don't mind my sort of accosting you, but I'm feeling a tiny bit lost, really. I don't actually know anybody here."

She was in her middle twenties, with short dark hair and an earnest manner. Her eyes were large and brown, her face round and pleasant, her figure truly excellent. Again Willie sighed inwardly, knowing that he could give her only part of his attention. Sometimes life was very perverse. Putting aside his regrets he gave her a welcoming smile and said, " 'Allo, I'm Willie Garvin. Why d'you come if you don't know anybody?"

"Well," she paused to sip her drink, "well, Daddy wrote and said would I, so I did, because he's been rather sweet about buying me a new balloon. Oh, I'm Lucy, by the way. Lucy Fuller-Jones."

Willie thought, I've got a weirdo here. Aloud he said, "What colour balloon?"

"Well, actually it's black."

As she sipped her drink again, Willie shot a glance round the room. Modesty was still with the bearded man. Bluey and 'Grace had moved across one end of the room and were starting slowly down the far side.

"Black's not very festive," said Willie. "I like red balloons better. But only if I can't 'ave three or four different colours all tied together. They're best of all."

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then her eyes widened and she gave a chuckling laugh. "Oh golly, I mean a big balloon. One you go up in."

Willie put a hand to his head with a wincing expression of apology. "Sorry, Lucy, I thought - well, never mind. How did a girl like you get to be a balloonist? When I say a girl like you I don't mean-"

She broke in eagerly. "It's extraordinary that you should say that, Mr Garvin-"

"Willie, please."

"Willie. Because actually it's because I'm a girl like me that I became one. I mean a balloonist." Her manner became apologetic. "It's my glands, I'm afraid. They seem to produce a lot of awfully excitable hormones that make a girl get rather addicted to... well, to chaps, you see."

Willie suppressed a fervent wish that he was not otherwise occupied at this moment, and covered another survey of the room with a kind of eyerolling expression that might have indicated astonishment. "Addicted to chaps? Isn't that good, Lucy?"

"Oh, it's absolutely no good at all if you want to achieve what the Swami Gumarati calls the Golden Plateau of Serenity."

Willie breathed deeply and said, "That sounds fascinating. Is it a sort of yoga?"

"Well, it's more than that, really. I'll lend you Swami Gumarati's book if you like."

"I'd rather 'ave a ride in your balloon, Lucy." A puzzled lift of his head covered another glance round the room. "Wait a minute, though. What's the balloon got to do with your gland troubles?"

"Ballooning sublimates the earthly aspects of our nature, which was my trouble, of course, the earthly aspects. I wrote to the Swami, and he went into a trance and wrote back to say I should take up ballooning. So I did, and it works." She paused, frowning a little. "Well, I think it does."

Willie said, "I sometimes get a bit of that gland trouble myself. Could I phone you sometime so we could meet and 'ave a chat about it?"

"Well..." She pursed her lips doubtfully, "we'd have to be careful where we meet, wouldn't we? I mean, with our glands."

"Ah yes, I'm glad you thought of that Lucy. Somewhere public. Maybe an art gallery or... or the zoo. D'you live in London?"

"Oh yes." She relaxed, smiling. "I've got a flat in Chelsea, and I'm in the phonebook. Lucy Fuller-Jones."

"Well, that's fine. I've got a few things to attend to just at this time, but I'll certainly give you a call."

"Jolly good. I say, there are some rather peculiar people here, aren't there?" She gazed slowly round the room.

"Talking to you, I'd 'ardly noticed," said Willie, and thankfully joined her inspection. Towards the top of the room on Modesty's side two men in clerical collars were speaking with a large, gushing woman. Bluey and 'Grace were moving slowly towards them. One of the clerics was a very big man with a mane of white hair. The other was smaller with a round cherubic face.

Bluey glanced at the group, was clearly not interested in its composition, and pa.s.sed behind the clerics. 'Grace followed, looking disconsolate, then stopped with a hint of surprise. Even across the room Willie saw the nostrils flare behind the smaller man. 'Grace smiled happily, his gaze moving from Modesty to Willie. Then he lifted his untouched drink and drained the gla.s.s before moving on.

Lucy was saying, "... if you'd really like a ride in my balloon, I expect we could arrange something."

Willie beamed at her. "I'd love that. Will you excuse me, Lucy? I've just remembered I promised our generous host that I'd get a few comments from different people for the Prisoner's Friend magazine."

"Oh. Yes, of course. You go ahead."

The gushing lady was leaving the two clerics as Willie moved towards them. Glancing to his right, he saw Modesty and 'Grace leaving together. The man who had been talking to her was still in the same position, propped by one arm against the wall but with head turned and a puzzled air. Bluey ambled by, and without looking at Willie murmured, "She says make sure they stay put for a couple of minutes."

Willie had expected this. She would be fixing a radio bug on any car that 'Grace identified as bearing the scent of the clerics. He collected a fresh drink from a pa.s.sing waiter and strolled towards his quarry. All around him the buzz of conversation was growing louder and more shrill as liquor loosened tongues. The two men eyed him benignly as he began to move past. He halted, gave them a rueful look, and spoke in one of the cultured voices he could produce so accurately.

" 'For they stretch forth their mouth unto heaven, and their tongue goeth through the world.' "

They looked at him blankly, and the smaller man said, "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Psalm seventythree, verse nine. I felt it an apt comment on the sound of a large c.o.c.ktail party, but perhaps the allusion is rather strained."

The big man said, "Ah, I see. Are you in holy orders, sir?"

Willie shook his head regretfully. "I saw the light too late in life, I fear." He extended his hand. "Francis Pennyquick, youth club leader."