"Well, if Bellman's out, the sooner you find 'im the better. He's quite a genius in 'is own nasty line."

"Indeed. I was wondering if you might help."

Willie looked up and grinned. "Talk to my agent."

"You no longer work for Modesty, she's made that very clear. Why refer me to her?"

"Up till she found me," Willie said amiably, leaning back against the rail, "I was a loser. From then on I got lucky. Okay, we're retired now, but I'd like to stay lucky, see?"

Tarrant sighed. "I take the point. She's your talisman. All right, perhaps I'll talk to her but I doubt that she'll be helpful." He saluted with his rolled umbrella and turned to move away.

Willie said, "Try Sammy's Star in the fifth if you want a flutter."

Three minutes later, when Sandra Thorne returned, she said, "I see your friend's gone. Are you ready for that drink?"

"Parched." He put the programme away and studied her curiously. "Funny... I just 'ad a feeling I'd run into you before somewhere."

"It must have been in another life." She took his arm and they began to walk towards the bar.

It was the next day when Modesty stood with a gun to her shoulder and called "Pull!" The voiceoperated trap Willie Garvin had devised for her threw two clay pigeons at a diverging angle of forty degrees. The gun sounded twice and the clays shattered. She lowered the gun, opened it, and turned to the man who stood a little behind her on the clay pigeon layout.

Her cottage lay a hundred yards away across pasture she owned. Beyond was a winding lane that led to the nearby village of Benildon. She was casually dressed for shooting, as was her companion, Paul Crichton, a ruggedly impressive man in his late thirties with the look of one who had lived much in the sun. His gun, open, hung over one arm.

Modesty said, "We're still level. Would you like another dozen each?"

He halfsmiled and shook his head. "I might find it more interesting if the clays could hit back."

"Ah. Big white bwana prefer charging lion?"

He shrugged. "Just something that adds a little spice to the game."

She looked towards the cottage. "Then let's go. You won't find much in Wiltshire to give you an interesting hunt."

He surveyed her with raised eyebrows. "No?"

She did not react, and they moved away together in silence.

Unseen beyond a tall hedge, a car was halted on the road bordering the pasture. A driver sat at the wheel, and Sir Gerald Tarrant stood by a fivebarred gate that was flanked on each side by the hedge. Again he was using binoculars, focusing on the man and woman moving towards the cottage from the clay pigeon shoot. He adjusted the focus, studied the two faces and muttered an oath. Lowering the gla.s.ses he returned to the car and got in the back. The chauffeur said, "You're not calling on the lady then, sir?"

"No. I've changed my mind." Or had it changed for me, he thought unhappily. "Back to London, Reilly."

As Modesty and Crichton reached the stables and outbuildings she said, "I'll fix an early lunch before we leave for town."

Crichton said pleasantly, "Fine. It'll save having to stop on the way." When they came to the cottage he left her to go to his car, opened the boot and put his twelvebore in its case. Closing the boot, he glanced towards the cottage to check that she had gone in, then opened the offside front door and leaned across to run the palm of his hand over the surface of the pa.s.senger seat. Reaching under the dashboard he threw a small switch, then pressed a b.u.t.ton set in the fascia. A fine needle sprang up through a minute hole in one of the leather seams, ejected a clear liquid, then vanished. Crichton wiped the seat dry with a clean rag, closed the door and walked towards the cottage.

As he entered by the kitchen door he made an effort to maintain an amiable demeanour and avoid showing anger at her Big White Bwana remark. It had affronted Paul Crichton's macho selfimage and he would very much have enjoyed hitting her, but took comfort in the reflection that a far more permanent and profitable revenge lay ahead.

Three hours later Sir Gerald Tarrant sat at his desk looking at two photographs lying side by side, one of a man, the other of an attractive young woman. His a.s.sistant, Fraser, stood watching him, a file under his arm. Fraser was a small vinegary man in his early fifties who had two personas, a false one as an ingratiating wimp, a true one as a casehardened cynic. The combination had made him a very dangerous operative during his active years as an agent in the field. At this moment he was in his second persona, gazing sourly at his chief.

"So you went down there and didn't see Modesty Blaise after all?" he said.

"Only at a distance. I changed my mind about speaking to her, Jack. Now observe a curious fact." Tarrant touched one of the photographs. "We know that Paul Crichton has had recent contact with the elusive Bellman. We also know that Miss Sandra Thorne, as she now calls herself, has a connection with Bellman going back many years. And at this moment Crichton is squiring Modesty Blaise and Miss Thorne is being squired by Willie Garvin."

Fraser grunted a.s.sent. "Which means?"

"Which means our friends Modesty and Willie don't know it, but they're in trouble. Bellman is after them for some reason. He's setting them up."

Fraser sniffed. "You're suggesting we warn them?"

Tarrant kept his eyes on the photographs. "For anybody with an ounce of decency and selfrespect it's the only course." He looked up and shook his head irritably. "I wish we could afford such luxuries, but I want Bellman. If he's going for our friends Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin he might well run into problems that force him into the open. Have a close watch kept on them, Jack. Put it in hand right away."

"Will do." Fraser moved to the door leading into his own office. "If it's not too late," he added.

Tarrant put the photographs aside, wishing he didn't dislike himself so much at this moment. "There's always that possibility," he said bleakly. "In which case we can only hope they survive Bellman's attentions."

Fraser opened his door. "That's their problem."

Next morning found Tarrant in the foyer of a penthouse overlooking Hyde Park, speaking to Modesty Blaise's houseboy, Weng, who was also her chef and chauffeur. It was Tarrant's opinion that the young oriental could well have become a captain of industry had he so wished, and had he not so clearly preferred to remain in service to his highly unusual employer who trusted him with many large and demanding responsibilities.

"No, Sir Gerald," Weng was saying politely, "Miss Blaise was due home last night but did not arrive. May I take your hat and umbrella, sir? Miss Blaise would wish me to offer you coffee, tea, or perhaps-"

"No, no thank you," Tarrant broke in hastily. "Have you rung her at the cottage?"

"Yes, but she is not there, sir. I have also rung Mr Garvin, but it seems he did not return home to The Treadmill last night, as expected."

"I see." Tarrant hesitated. "Iumthink they may have some trouble on their hands, Weng."

"So I a.s.sumed, sir. It is not the first time. I shall wait, and listen out."

"Listen out?"

"We have radio communication here, sir."

Tarrant said unhappily, "I feel their chances of calling you on it may be rather slight."

"It is the routine laid down by Miss Blaise, sir."

Tarrant gazed at the houseboy with some annoyance. "You don't seem particularly worried, Weng."

A bland, expressionless look. "Certainly I am worried, Sir Gerald, but I am also inscrutable. I do not allow my manner or my expression to reveal that I believe you have dropped them in it again."

Tarrant stared, then nodded and put on his hat, turning to the private lift which would carry him down to the reception hall of the block. "How considerate of you, Weng," he said.

Willie Garvin opened his eyes warily, then lifted hands to his aching head, discovering by so doing that his wrists were in handcuffs. Slowly he sat up on the bunk where he had been lying. Looking down at his much rumpled clothes he noted that he was still wearing the dress shirt and dinner jacket he had been wearing when he called to take Sandra Thorne to a charity film premiere followed by a dinner and dance. He had a feeling that this had been quite a long time ago now.

As the muzziness in his head began to clear he realised that the room was rising and falling very gently. Not a room, then, but a small cabin, dimly lit and well below luxury cla.s.s. On first sitting up he had registered that Modesty Blaise lay sprawled on her back on another bunk barely an arm's length away across the cabin. She wore a grey skirt with a tartan shirt under a soft leather jerkin, flat shoes and dark tights. In view of his own situation Willie felt little surprise at seeing her. Clearly they were jointly in trouble. Sandra Thorne had arranged his own transfer to wherever he was now, but he had no idea who had done the same for Modesty.

Quietly he got to his feet and thumbed open one of her eyelids. He checked her breathing, felt her pulse, straightened the skirt rucked at her thighs, then looked about him. The cabin contained a small washbasin, lockers, a door and a porthole. He moved to the porthole and looked out across a calm grey sea. It was a little before dawn, he judged, with a thin overcast of broken cloud. He could make out land no more than a few hundred yards from the anch.o.r.ed ship. No lights gleamed from the sh.o.r.e, and the line of land seemed to terminate when he peered to the right. An island, perhaps.

There came the sound of a key being put into the lock of the door, and in a moment he was back on the bunk, sprawled as if unconscious. Somebody opened the door and entered. He caught a hint of perfume, and knew it was Sandra Thorne. Then she spoke to somebody outside. "Tell Mr Bellman they're still asleep."

The door closed and he heard her move to Modesty's bunk. A few seconds pa.s.sed, then her hand touched his face as she made to lift an eyelid. He caught her wrist, jerked hard so that she fell towards him, and chopped with the edge of his handcuffed hands to a point just behind her ear. Her sudden indrawn breath was exhaled with a barely audible grunt and her body went limp upon him.

He rolled her over on the bunk, got to his feet, lifted Modesty and put her over one shoulder, then moved to the door and opened it carefully. Best move was to get ash.o.r.e for a start. Not much chance of being able to launch a dinghy, but if he could get overboard with Modesty she would soon revive in the sea. Once on land they could try to deal with the 'cuffs. She might have something to use as a lockpick. Even a hairgrip might do.

He had barely stepped into the pa.s.sage when a man came down a companionway ten paces away, a man with long dark hair and a band round his forehead, darkeyed, with deepbronze skin. He wore a grey shirt, jeans, and soft leather boots. There was a knife in a sheath at his belt, and he carried a carbine levelled from the hip. Willie nodded a casual greeting and turned to look the other way. A second man had emerged from round the corner of the pa.s.sage, a bigger man, perhaps forty, with cold unblinking eyes. He wore a camouflage tunic and a baseball cap, and carried a 9mm Uzi submachine gun with a folding stock, slung so that it rested at his hip for immediate use.

Willie gave him a friendly smile and went back into the cabin, emerging a few seconds later with Sandra cradled in his arms and muttering dazedly. With great care he propped her against the pa.s.sage bulkhead. She gazed at him with bleary, uncomprehending eyes while he held her until her straddled legs gathered enough strength to support her. Then he let her go and smiled winningly at the big man with the Uzi.

"She 'ad one of her turns," he explained, and went back into the cabin, closing the door. Seconds later he heard the key turn in the lock. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket he soaked it at the washbasin, hauled Modesty into a sitting position on her bunk, and slapped the wet pad on the back of her neck. Then, awkwardly because his hands were 'cuffed, he began alternately to shake her and pat her face quite sharply.

"Come on, Princess," he said firmly, "this is no time to sleep it off. We've got to 'ave a talk. Wake up, there's a good girl." Her eyelids flickered and she began to turn her head feebly to avoid his pats. "Come on, where are we?" he demanded. "Let's see you do your 'uman compa.s.s trick. Where's north?" She muttered something, and moved her 'cuffed hands to indicate a direction.

"There's a clever girl. Now tell Willie where you went to sleep." He gave her a shake. Eyes half open now, frowning irritably, she pointed.

"Southeast?" She muttered a.s.sent. "So we could be somewhere off the west coast of Scotland? Is that what it feels like?"

She stiffened slowly in his grasp, drew in a long breath and opened her eyes wide. She looked at Willie, at her 'cuffed hands, then round the small cabin. He watched her begin controlled breathing as she drew on her deeper energies to bring her to full alertness, and a minute later she said in her normal voice, "Yes, that's about what it feels like. How did we get here?"

"Don't know about you, Princess. I got picked up by a girl called Sandra who slipped me a mickey in a drink she gave me at 'er flat."

Modesty said slowly, "Paul Crichton... I was in his car, and... oh G.o.d, yes." She winced at the memory and tried to feel her b.u.t.tock. "Needle in my backside. Last thing I remember is thinking I'd sat on a wasp." She got to her feet and moved to the porthole. "This was planned well in advance and with no expense spared, Willie. I'd say we're on a motor fishing vessel somewhere north of Glasgow, and they brought us up here by helicopter under sedation." She turned to look at him, and he was glad to see that her colour was good and her eyes clear as she said, "Do you know who they are?"

He.nodded. "It's Bellman."

She stared. "Lima? Six years ago?"

"That's the one. He got out of the mines when the government fell. Tarrant's looking for 'im, and I just 'eard my friend Sandra say 'is name."

"You've seen her, then?"

"Yes, she came in to check 'ow we were doing."

"Did she say anything?"

"Not to me. I'd been awake a couple of minutes, but I made like I was out and gave 'er a chop. Then I was carrying you out to see if I could find a dinghy, or if not make a swim for it, but I ran into a Red Indian with a carbine and a mercenary type with a Uzi, so I brought you back in and took Sandra out."

She smiled and moved to sit beside him, giving him a pat on the knee. "You've been a busy lad, Willie love."

"And stupid, too, letting myself get picked up at Epsom." He frowned. "Who's Paul Crichton? I don't remember you mentioning 'im."

"I met him only a few days ago. And don't brag, I'm just as stupid as you are. He's from Kenya. I asked him to come to the cottage, then wondered why. He's very macho. A hunter-" She broke off.

Willie said, "A hunter?" They looked at each other with new speculation.

After a while Modesty said, "Well, I don't suppose it'll be long before we find out."

Crichton sat at the wardroom table polishing the steel b.u.t.tplate of a hunting rifle, already burnished by years of use. A little way from him sat the big man with the Uzi, smoking, his gun lying on the table in front of him. Occasionally he glanced at Crichton with a shade of contempt. On the port side of the wardroom was a man in a wheelchair with a blanket over his knees. His hair was white, his face lined and the colour of putty. He sat with hands clasped in front of him, sunken eyes fixed on the door.

It opened, and Modesty Blaise came into the wardroom followed by Willie Garvin with a carbine at his back. The redskin moved to one side and stood watching them, the carbine at his hip. Modesty and Willie surveyed the wardroom thoughtfully, then stood with eyes on the man in the wheelchair. After a moment or two he said in a throaty voice, "Well...?"

Realisation came with a shock. They looked at each other, then at the man again, and Willie said cheerfully, "'Allo, Bellman. How's your luck?"

Bellman spoke in a voice that was shaken by weakness and pa.s.sion. "Hard to recognise me, is it? A few years of h.e.l.l in the mines and I'm an old man. An old man."

Modesty said, "I've seen junkies a lot younger who looked worse. Your clients."

For all the reaction he showed, Bellman might not have heard. He said hoa.r.s.ely, "I've waited a long time for this. It was all that kept me alive. Now you're going to die, G.o.d d.a.m.n you!"

He did not take his eyes from Modesty as he went on, "These are your hunters. Charlie Brightstar, Choctaw Indian. Best hunter in the States. Sooner kill a paleface than a bear. Van Rutte. Seven years a mercenary in black Africa. Good killing machine. Crichton... big game. A hunter with all the trophies except a man or a woman."

The door opened and Sandra came in. Bellman said in a gentle voice, "Are you all right now, darling?"

"Just a headache." She moved to face Willie, her eyes hostile. "You still don't recognize me?"

He looked at her searchingly. "Wait a minute... ah, yes, you've changed your hair colour. Lima, wasn't it? The girl on the bed." He smiled apologetically. "I didn't get much of a look at you that night. Not your face, anyway."

She looked at him coldly, then turned away and moved across the wardroom to stand beside Bellman, a hand on his shoulder. He reached up to rest a hand on her own, eyes dark with hate as he stared at Modesty. "You hunted me," he said with bitter rage. "You hounded me across the world... and then you framed me! I was innocent!"

"Innocent?" Modesty shook her head. "You want us to bleed for you, Bellman? You handled threequarters of a ton of heroin every year. You ran a training school, teaching your pushers how to get the kids hooked." Willie saw Sandra stiffen, and it seemed to him that fury and shock were at odds within her as she looked uncertainly down at Bellman, then at Modesty again as she went on: "You've killed them by the thousand, Bellman... but slowly. You rotted their souls. But you wouldn't ever see that end of it. You were just the big supplier. You didn't see the kids crawling to your pushers for a fix, ready to lick boots, steal, kill, anything-"

"Stop the b.i.t.c.h!" cried Bellman in a quavering scream, and Crichton came out of his chair fast, hitting Modesty hard across the mouth with the back of his hand, eyes alight with pleasure. Her lip was cut, and she lifted her hands, pressing the back of a wrist against her mouth to stem the bleeding.

Willie looked at Crichton and said mildly, "What was the name again?" In contrast to the voice there was something so truly chilling in his eyes that Crichton stepped quickly back. Then he recovered and forced a laugh. "You won't come looking for me, Garvin. I'll soon be looking for you."

Van Rutte said, "And he won't be the only one. Here's your gear." He picked up a haversack beside his chair and emptied it on to the table: a colt .32, a bowie knife, a waterbottle, and handcuff keys on a string.

In a voice trembling with malice and selfpity Bellman said, "You hunted me! Now you'll learn what it feels like. You'll be put ash.o.r.e on an island at ten. It's small, n.o.body lives there. You'll have your favourite weapons, Colt thirtytwo for you, Blaise, a knife for Garvin. A bottle of water. Keys for the handcuffs." Van Rutte put the items back in the haversack as they were named, and Bellman went on, "You'll have two hours, then they'll be coming to hunt you down... and kill you!" His voice cracked on the last words and he swayed in his chair, panting, looking about him with crazed eyes. Sandra held his shoulder to steady him, deeply troubled.

Modesty said quietly, "It wasn't the labour squad that ruined you, Bellman. It was having no guts. You just gave up, because you're a whinger and a quitter."

Bellman tried to speak, but no word emerged. Sandra looked at the two captives with savage anger, then at Charlie Brightstar. "Take them away," she said. "I don't want to hear any more lies."

Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin stood on a flat stretch of rock that made a natural landing place, watching the small launch as it headed back towards the ship anch.o.r.ed offsh.o.r.e. On leaving her they had noted that she carried a Panamanian flag and was called Ambato. They were still handcuffed, and Willie was carrying the haversack. For a few seconds they studied their surroundings, noting the lie of the land, the distance to the ship, the set of the current, and estimating the time it would take to swim to the Ambato if at some stage they so decided.

Modesty gave a little nod, and together they turned and moved inland, up a short rocky slope then down into a hollow where they would be hidden from anyone watching with fieldgla.s.ses from the ship. Willie took keys from the haversack and unlocked Modesty's 'cuffs, eyebrows lifting with a touch of surprise. "I thought Bellman might be 'aving us on," he said. "Wrong keys."

"They could well have been." Modesty took them from him and freed his wrists. "Bellman's half crazy. Eaten away inside."

"Like a few thousand of 'is old customers, if they're still alive." Willie took out the Colt and pa.s.sed it to Modesty. As she checked the cylinder to see that it was loaded he rested the bowie knife across one finger to a.s.sess the balance. "How d'you want to play it, Princess?" he asked.