"That's better. But let's not rush this. We're safe here in Crichton's territory so we'll let the others tramp about their patches for a few hours while we relax and they get frustrated."

Willie grinned. "You're a hard-'earted lady. But I'd better take that bomb off Crichton's back until we're ready to go."

Van Rutte sat with his back to a rock in a shallow basin on a hilltop. The directionfinder stood beside him, the Uzi rested on his knees. He stubbed out a cigarette, adding to the six or seven b.u.t.ts scattered nearby. Van Rutte felt he was close to losing a bonus of five or possibly ten thousand pounds, and he was not pleased.

Two minutes later he reached out again for the hundredth time to swivel the aerial, but this time his eyes widened as the needle on the dial suddenly kicked. He picked up the instrument and stood carefully adjusting the aerial for maximum response, then moved off along the line indicated.

Almost half a mile away, Charlie Brightstar showed no sign of emotion as the needle on his d.f. moved for the first time since he had come ash.o.r.e long hours ago. Without haste he adjusted the aerial, studying first the dial and then the map that lay to one side of the instrument. A few moments later he rose to his feet and moved without a sound from the patch of dry brown gra.s.s in which he had lain perfectly camouflaged for the past hour.

Van Rutte was moving warily along a broad gully some ten paces wide and with walls rising almost vertically to well above the height of a man. Its sides were seamed and broken, with many niches and crevices. A few minutes ago his d.f. had given such a strong signal that he was sure the homer Garvin carried could be no more than a hundred and fifty yards away.

Van Rutte moved warily, keeping close to one side, his Uzi c.o.c.ked. Rounding a slight bend, he froze at sight of something lying in the middle of the gully, something black and fawn with... his eyes narrowed in puzzlement. That was the dinner jacket Garvin had been wearing, and on top of it was Crichton's bushhat with the leopardskin band.

Crichton? Was that b.a.s.t.a.r.d poaching? Surely not. That was a nopay offence, and there had been no shot. But could he have taken Garvin silently? Rifleb.u.t.t at close quarters? Van Rutte edged slowly forward, the Uzi poised.

Lying p.r.o.ne amid low scrub on top of the gully wall, Willie Garvin frowned. It was, he felt, inconsiderate of Van Rutte to have changed his baseball cap for a steel helmet. It may well have been that he did not wholeheartedly trust his colleagues, but the effect was to disrupt Willie's plan of taking Van Rutte out with a slingshot from above, for the helmet protected him from a downwardangled missile.

In the past, studying Modesty Blaise and her ways with great intensity when he first came to The Network, Willie Garvin had acquired a quality he lacked before. He had discovered, with much pleasure, the virtues of forethought. Today, as he moved into position for tackling Van Rutte, he had pondered the various options that might confront him. His quarry had lethal firepower, and it might well be necessary to improvise some means of distracting his attention in order to get into slingshot range.

The lure of the jacket and hat was a move in that direction, but Willie had not relied on that alone. Wriggling back from the edge he took Crichton's handkerchief from his pocket. The four corners of this were now attached to thin leather thongs cut from Modesty's jerkin to form a crude parachute. With some reluctance Willie unfastened his bowtie, saddened to lose it, for till now he had felt that the black tie and dinner jacket gave a rare touch of style to recent events. It wasn't often these days, he reflected, that one could smite the unG.o.dly while attired in faultless evening dress. Well, not exactly faultless, perhaps...

He attached one end of the tie to where the thongs of the parachute joined, held a match to the other end until it was smouldering nicely, then clipped that end in Crichton's box of matches so that it rested halfway down with the tie covering the heads. Carefully he rolled the matchbox and two pebbles in the handkerchief, then wriggled back to the edge of the gully. Van Rutte was standing by the jacket and bushhat now, peering down at them, his back to Willie. After a moment or two he kicked the hat aside and stared north along the gully.

Willie stood up and hurled his little package high in the air beyond Van Rutte, then dropped amid the scrub again, watching. He had achieved a good height with the parachute, and as soon as it began to fall it opened nicely, the tie dangling from it with the matchbox attached. The two pebbles dropped to the ground, and at the small sound Van Rutte froze, head c.o.c.ked as he tried to locate the source. The parachute drifted slowly down at an angle and was within twenty feet of the ground when Van Rutte saw it. The Uzi came up, covering the far wall of the gully beyond the parachute's descent. He was nailed, and Willie lowered himself quietly down to the valley floor.

Be nice if the matches lit now... he thought, and began to whirl the sling. Another quality he had long ago acquired from Modesty Blaise was a belief in the idea that inanimate objects could be perverse or cooperative according to one's att.i.tude towards them. Don't curse the recalcitrant screw, give it a little affection. In consequence he had fashioned his parachute contraption with benign care and good vibes. If it failed him he would not complain, but he was cheerfully hopeful... and cheerfully grateful when the matchbox erupted in flame, engulfing the parachute as it fell the last ten feet, and holding Van Rutte's baffled attention.

During that time Willie walked steadily towards him as he stared at the dying flames, and was within five paces when the spell broke suddenly and Van Rutte swung round as if at some slight sound. He had barely completed the turn when a stone the size of a tomato struck like an iron fist to the solar plexus. The Uzi dropped and he doubled forward, mouth agape as he fought for breath. Willie reached over his back, grasped him round the waist, hoisted him up headdown, then dropped to his knees.

Van Rutte's steelhelmeted head hit the ground with considerable force, wiping out his already blurred senses and ramming the helmet down crushingly round his brow.

The homerknife lay some three hundred yards north along the gully. About the same distance further on was a short broad branch running off the main gully, blind after twenty paces. The bottom was thinly gra.s.sed and surrounded on three sides by shoulderhigh rock, opening into the main gully on the fourth side. Here Modesty Blaise stood close against the rock wall near the junction, Crichton's rifle held in the port position. She hoped Brightstar's d.f. had picked up the homer and that he would now be moving down the gully from the north, just as Van Rutte should be moving up from the south to where Willie lay in wait. She stood relaxed, her mind empty except for tight focus on sight and hearing for the first hint of approach. She did not distract herself by speculating on what might be happening with Willie, and she knew he would not be wondering about her own task. For the time being her whole world consisted of waiting for Brightstar to appear. He would surely come along the valley bottom, for he was a hunter and would never move along the top, where he could so easily be seen.

Seconds later shock sent her pulserate leaping as a flat, unemphatic voice from somewhere behind and above her said, "Freeze, lady. Twitch and you're dead."

Brightstar. She stood very still, using all her mental techniques to subdue the selfcontempt that welled within her and to waste no energy wondering how he had located her. The unasked question was answered as the voice murmured, "I'm Choctaw. Picked up your smell at twenty yards. Where's Garvin? Just breathe it, lady."

"He's around." She spoke barely above a whisper.

There was a tinge of satisfaction in the flat voice as Brightstar said, "That gives me head money on the two of you." A brief pause. "Okay, we don't want any noise, so keep hold of the b.u.t.t and just lower the barrel. Easy now. Right down till it's touching the ground. Don't let that rifle fall."

She obeyed, holding the weapon at an angle with her hand on the b.u.t.t, the barrel resting on the ground. There came a faint sound behind her and she knew that Brightstar had dropped down from the gully wall. By moving the angle of the rifle fractionally she was able to pick up his reflection in the polished steel b.u.t.tplate. He was halfadozen paces away, his carbine aimed from the hip. In a low voice she said, "I'll double Bellman's price. Ten thousand."

He was edging slowly forward. "For you and Garvin I get that anyway."

Watching the reflection she said, "You haven't got him yet, and I'm offering ten thousand each."

"Cash? Now?" A hint of mockery.

"You'll get it. I keep a promise." He was within two paces now, changing his grip on the carbine, lifting it horizontally to smash the b.u.t.t against her head.

He said, "I'm a redskin, lady. We had too many promises."

"I know. I saw the movie-" She ducked as he took the final step and swung the carbine in a crushing hook to her head. The b.u.t.t skimmed her hair as she let the rifle fall and stepped back, twisting to drive an elbow into Brightstar's stomach. He gasped, losing his grip on the carbine, and she thrust backwards into him as he doubled forward, reaching over her shoulder to hook a hand round his neck, then jackknifing forward to bring him over her shoulder with a head mare.

His speed of recovery was astonishing, for he twisted like a cat, landing on one foot, staggering, then s.n.a.t.c.hing a knife from the sheath at the back of his belt. She had been lunging for the fallen carbine but glimpsed the move and flung herself sideways and down, the thrown knife pa.s.sing above her neck to hit the rock wall behind her.

Brightstar dived at her as she started to come to her feet, his hands reaching for her throat. She fell back, feet lifted and crossed at the calves, catching him by the neck in the V between her ankles, twisting her feet to hold him, straightening her legs to thrust him back and in the same instant turning on her front with hands on the ground, pushing down to lift her body, then using her arms like legs to run forward in the way that children used to play wheelbarrow racing, pulling Brightstar offbalance behind her, his neck locked between her ankles.

In a second she was close to the gully wall, ducking head and shoulders in a forward roll, heaving Brightstar over her doubledup body to ram the wall with the crown of his head. He fell limply on top of her and she pushed him aside, panting as she extricated herself and got slowly to her feet, lips compressed now as she allowed selfrecrimination to flare within her.

There came a polite cough from above and she whirled to see Willie Garvin looking down. Beside him was Van Rutte, handcuffs on his wrists, a steel helmet jammed down so low on his brow that he could barely open his eyes. Willie was holding the Uzi. Nodding towards the sprawled figure of Brightstar he said, "I just caught the end bit. You ruined a good scalp there, Princess."

She sniffed, looked at a badly grazed elbow, flexed the arm and winced. Moving to Brightstar she checked that he was breathing, then turned and picked up the carbine, limping a little. Willie said, "You all right?"

She looked up at him and grimaced. "A lot better than I deserve. He had me cold but he got greedy. Wanted to sign me off without shooting so he could nail you for your head money too."

Willie turned to speak to Van Rutte, emphasising his words with rhythmic raps of the Uzi on the steel helmet. "There. D'you 'ear that, Van Rutte? Let the wicked fall into their own nets. Psalm 'undred and fortyone, verse ten."

Modesty looked up at the sky. "Sundown in halfanhour. Let Bellman hear what he's waiting for."

Willie thought for a moment, then switched the Uzi to singleshot and fired once. He returned to automatic, counted to ten, and fired two short bursts in the air. Modesty was on one knee, tying Brightstar's hands with his headband. Looking down from above, Willie felt a touch of concern. From the set of her shoulders he could tell there was something amiss. Tentatively he said, "You really okay, Princess?"

She stood, turning her head to glower up at him. "No I'm b.l.o.o.d.y not!" She pointed to the unconscious redskin. "He said he could smell me at twenty yards!"

Willie suppressed a grin and gazed down at her with infinite affection, vastly entertained by her outraged femininity and knowing it would never have surfaced for a millisecond if the caper had still been running. "Why shouldn't he, Princess?" he said. "It's peaches and pomegranates warm in the sun, rose petals and the bouquet of Chateau d'Yquem, honey and exotic spices."

She laughed, all tension gone. "That's lovely, Willie. Who said it?"

Willie looked hurt. "I just did," he said.

On the deck of the Ambato Sandra had jumped at the sound of the shots. Beside her, Bellman tensed for a moment, uttering a wordless sound, then relaxed as if all energy were draining out of him.

She said, "Is it over? Both of them?"

He nodded slowly and it seemed an effort for him to speak. "Both. They wouldn't have split up, not those two. They must have been on Van Rutte's patch. The gun blew up in her hand, then he finished them off."

Two large canvas sacks, heavily weighted, now lay on the deck. Sandra looked at them and shivered. "Are you really going to have them put in those sacks?"

"I thought of coffins..." his voice was dreamy, faraway, "beautifully polished... bra.s.s handles, and plates with their names. Too good, though. Over the side in sacks. Much better. The sea shall have them..."

Captain Ricco Burrera came along the deck and saluted. "I heard the ah - noise from the island, senor. When do you wish for me to send the launch for your friends?"

Bellman gazed absently through him, and it was Sandra who eventually answered. "In an hour. They'll need time to a.s.semble and they have... things to carry."

The captain inclined his head in acknowledgement, and as he did so Bellman suddenly focused upon him and spoke briskly. "Ah, there you are, Salzedo. How did it go in London and Amsterdam?"

Bewildered, Burrera glanced at Sandra but she was looking anxiously at Bellman, a hand to her lips. Burrera cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me, senor. I am not Salzedo and I have not been to London or Amsterdam. I am Captain Ricco Burrera- you know me well."

Bellman's head began to nod foolishly. "Good. Good," he said, slurring the words. "I'll see the supplies keep coming. Your job is to get them hooked, Salzedo. Get them hooked... what was I saying? Yes, always the young ones, the children, that's our basic training. Easy to get them on the needle... and they last longer as customers... as customers..." His voice faded and the nodding head became still as he sat gazing with empty eyes.

Burrera looked at Sandra, baffled. She was trembling. With an effort she took a grip on herself and said, "He's been under a big strain. Help me take him to his cabin."

An hour later Modesty stood by a low crag near the landing point, Brightstar's carbine cradled in one arm. The sun had set and a deep twilight lay over the sea. From where she stood she could see the lights of the Ambato at anchor and the shape of the launch creaming through the water towards her. A few paces away Willie stood facing Crichton, Van Rutte and Brightstar. The two pairs of handcuffs had been used to link the three men together with Brightstar in the middle. Van Rutte's head was still jammed in his helmet. Half Crichton's face was one huge bruise.

"Remember that cave where we picked you up, Crichton?" Willie said conversationally. "I left the 'andcuff keys on the ground there somewhere. You'd better all go and 'ave a look." He smiled a cheery smile. "Might as well say our goodbyes now. We'll 'ave the ship under way long before you're back."

Crichton tried to hold his voice steady as he said indistinctly from swollen lips, "What happens to us?"

Willie said disapprovingly, "Well, Miss Blaise 'as got a nicer nature than me, and she says we'll leave you the ship's dinghy and a couple of oars. The rest's your problem." He moved closer to them, lowering his voice, and the humour was suddenly wiped from his face. "By Christ, you're lucky. Any of you come near 'er again and I'll rip your guts out, no messing."

Sandra was sitting at the table in Bellman's cabin, her head in her hands, her back to the door, when there came a polite tap and Ricco Burrera entered. "The launch is on its way back, senorita," he said. "Shall I instruct the gentlemen to report to Senor Bellman here?"

She said wearily, "Get out, Burrera. Just get out." Offended, Burrera looked across the cabin to where Bellman lay on a low bunk, a blanket covering him to the shoulders. For a moment the captain considered putting the question to Bellman, then decided against it and went out. Moving along the deck he muttered to himself indignantly. "I am the captain of this ship. One does not say get out to the captain of a ship. It is a position of great authority. If I was not a man of iron control I would have-"

He stopped short, his stomach contracting with fear, for onturning a corner of the deckhousing he found the barrel of a carbine close to his nose, held by the woman he believed dead. Even in the dusk her eyes were very frightening. Beyond her was the big fair man who should also have been dead but who had a hunting rifle slung and was holding a submachine gun aimed at two seamen who were standing very still with their hands in the air.

Burrera drew in a deep breath, conjured up a sickly smile and spread his hands in a gracious gesture. "Welcome back, senorita, senor. I am Captain Ricco Burrera at your service. If you wish to charter my ship it will be a pleasure to arrange most economical terms."

Modesty said softly, "The terms are that if you put a foot wrong you go over the side."

The smile was maintained but became even more sickly. "I am not a man to haggle, senorita. Agreed."

"You've made a wise decision. How many crew?"

"Eleven, apart from myself."

"Your men or Bellman's?"

"Mine, senorita, and cowards to a man. You need have no worry."

"I haven't. What's your ship's radio?"

"A one kilowatt Telefunken."

"Where are Bellman and the girl?"

"In his cabin. He is unwell."

She glanced at Willie. "We'll deal with them when we've got things moving." Then to Burrera, "Put a dinghy ash.o.r.e with oars, and as soon as your men return you get under way for Greenock. That's the nearest port?"

"It is, senorita." Burrera drew himself up and saluted. "I will give orders at once."

Twenty minutes later, when the engines began to throb, the girl in Bellman's cabin was sitting at the table with head pillowed on her arms, halfasleep, emotionally drained. As the ship stirred she lifted her head then let it fall again, unable to care what was happening. Behind her the door opened and closed. She said dully, "What is it now, Burrera?"

A man's voice with a c.o.c.kney accent said, "Nothing special."

She sat up slowly, turning to see Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin. Both were dishevelled and incongruous, she with her skirt hacked off to well above midthigh, he in his oncewhite shirt and soiled dinner jacket. Both were armed with the weapons of the men who had been sent to kill them. Already numb from shock, Sandra could feel only feeble surprise. She looked from one to the other, then said slowly, "You won't believe me, and it doesn't matter anyway, but I'm... relieved."

Modesty nodded towards the figure on the bunk. "Does that go for Bellman?"

"No. It was being glad that killed him."

Modesty and Willie exchanged a look, then he moved to the bunk and rested two fingers on the side of Bellman's neck. After a moment or two he pulled the blanket up over the man's face.

Sandra said, "He thought you were dead when he heard the shots. Then he died happy."

Modesty moved to the table and sat down, rubbing a bruised knee. The sleeve of her shirt was torn and there was blood on her arm. "I wouldn't begrudge anyone that," she said. "Not even him."

Sandra said, "The others... did you kill them?"

"No. We've left a dinghy. If they row east they'll hit Scotland."

Sandra absorbed this slowly, trying to comprehend, but the effort was too great and she let it go. Not looking towards the bunk where Bellman lay she said, "His mind slipped at the end. He babbled things... about getting the young ones hooked on the needle." She shivered, and tears began to run down her cheeks. "It was true, then? He... he really did those things?"

Willie said, "They don't come any worse than Bellman in that game. It's why we put 'im away."

For a moment resentment flared in her. "Who gave you the right?"

Modesty said without heat, "About ten thousand junkies in general and a teenage girl murdered by two of them in particular."

The spark of anger died, and Sandra wiped tears from her cheeks with her fingers. "I didn't know," she said in a whisper. "He was always so good to me. Always."

Modesty gave a tired shrug. "Maybe when you're destroying people at the rate he was, you need something or someone to keep your mind off it."

Sandra drew in a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "Yes. He said something like that himself." She looked from one to the other of them. "What happens now? To me?"

Modesty stood up with the carbine and moved a little stiffly to the door. There she paused to look back at the girl with something of compa.s.sion. "What happens now is your problem, isn't it? We have nothing against you. Might be a good idea to go away for a while. Lie in the sun and think about how you start a new life. Not easy, but at least Bellman will have left you well provided for." She looked at Willie. "I'll go and call Weng. He can sort out some clothes for us and fly up to Glasgow, meet us in Greenock."

She flexed her grazed arm gingerly. "Sometimes I get sick of losing skin. Still, we can't blame Tarrant this time." She opened the cabin door. "Look after her, Willie."

When the door closed there was silence for a while. Sandra sat with knuckles pressed to her cheeks, trembling a little, shaken by moments of weeping but trying to suppress it. Willie picked up a spare blanket and put it round her shoulders. She muttered a word of thanks but did not move. He said, "Come on, Sandra, you can't stop 'ere. Let's get you to your cabin, then I'll rustle up some brandy and 'ot coffee."

She rested her hands on the table and gazed down at them, perplexed. "Nothing against me?" Her voice still wavered from shock. "What did she mean? I was part of it, wasn't I? Part of having you killed?"

Very gently Willie took her arm and helped her to her feet. "It's past, Sandra. All over."

At the door she stopped, turning her head to look at him. "I did. I took part in trying to kill her. Kill you both. And she just says go away and start a new life. Don't you hate me? Don't you want to do something... for revenge?"