Willie scratched his ear, searching for an answer. Then he glanced towards the bunk where Bellman lay. "No," he said. "Look where it gets you."

THE DARK ANGELS.

The stretch of road where the killing was to take place formed one of the long curves that wound through the Sierra de Yeguas on the way to Malaga. Two miles north, an open Land-Rover moved steadily through the dusk shrouding the wooded hills. The driver, Macanaz, was an experienced minder who had lived in Chicago for fifteen years and learnt his craft there. For the past two years he had been employed by the man who now sat in the pa.s.senger seat beside him.

Kaltchas was fifty years old, half Greek, half Spanish and wholly cosmopolitan; a short square man, enormously rich, who had lost his wife and family to a poorer and less busy man ten years ago. Since then he had lived a reclusive life in one or other of his homes in different parts of the world, using the modern wonders of electronic communication to carry out the various business operations that were his sole interest now.

Half an hour ago he had left his home and staff of servants in the remote and beautiful house he had built outside the small village of Vanegas. His presence was required in Brussels next day, where his financial backing would ensure the four billion pound hostile takeover by a European consortium of British Chemicals Ltd, the largest corporation of its kind outside the United States.

Kaltchas was a suspicious man, mistrustful, slightly paranoid. Aware of strong opposition to the takeover, he did not put it past his opponents to attempt some sort of delaying action by preventing his arrival at the Brussels meeting. Matters were finely balanced, and even a twentyfour hour delay could shake the market and create uncertainty in the consortium. It was for this reason that he had chosen to disguise his departure by travelling to the airport in the hired Land-Rover rather than in one of his limousines. Being a man who thought well ahead, he had made the arrangement some days ago, but was unaware that it had quickly become known to parties who were deeply interested in his travel plans though unconnected with the threatened corporation.

At the wheel, not taking his eyes from the unlit road, Macanaz said, "Are you okay, boss?"

"I'm okay." Kaltchas pulled the cap down more firmly on his head and b.u.t.toned the collar of the bomber jacket he wore.

The road was winding downhill now, with the rock from which it had been cut rising sheer on the right, the ground on the left sloping steeply down from the edge, thick with scrub and bushes. Across several curves of the road ahead as it dropped steadily down, Macanaz could see the four red lamps marking the stretch where the road was being widened by cutting deeper into the rock, for at the far end was a dangerous bend where the drop on the left became long and sheer.

Here, in the newly widened strip, an immobilised bulldozer was parked, tools were stored in locked metal sheds, and a mobile crane stood at each end of the working area. Macanaz slowed to thirty k.p.h. as he approached, headlights on beam, alert for any sign of movement amid the cover provided by the roadworks equipment. Beside him, Kaltchas slid a finger through the triggerguard of the revolver on his lap. It was as they pa.s.sed the first crane, its derrick leaning out over the road, that a figure dropped from the top of the derrick, a blackclad figure wearing a skimask.

The timing was perfect. Ropes attached to the ankles brought the falling figure to a halt in the same instant that two arms wrapped round Macanaz's neck and s.n.a.t.c.hed him bodily from the moving vehicle. Kaltchas, peering to the nearside, heard nothing and was unaware that Macanaz had vanished until the Land-Rover began moving towards the edge and he turned his head to give warning.

Unbelievably for him, the driving seat was empty. The shock was huge, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed at the wheel with one hand, trying to steer a safe course while he manoeuvred himself into position to reach the brake. Then came new shock as he pa.s.sed the metal toolsheds, for he glimpsed a dark figure seeming to soar over one of the sheds and drop towards the vehicle, landing behind him as it moved on down the slope.

The second nightmare shock was the last emotion Kaltchas was ever to know, for a hand with a hardened edge struck him sharply on the back of the neck. As he slumped, barely conscious, the man who had hit him leant forward and took the wheel with gloved hands. Macanaz had put the Land-Rover in a lower gear for the descent, but with the increased slope at this point it was steadily gaining speed. When it reached the second crane it was no more than thirty paces from the bend where the ground fell away sheer.

A third figure, identical to the others, dropped from the derrick, ropes strapped to ankles, hands reaching down. The man in the back of the Land-Rover released the wheel and reached up at the precise moment his companion fell. Hands locked on wrists and the vehicle sped on with its lone occupant, smashed through the light wooden barrier and seemed to leap out over the edge of the drop. Seconds later there came the sound of an explosion and the darkness was lit by a glare from below.

The man who had steered the Land-Rover dropped to the ground. His companion doubled forward, pulled himself up one of the ropes hand over hand, sat at the top of the derrick to unstrap his ankles, then came down to the road carrying the ropes. Together the two men moved back to the toolsheds, where the man who had s.n.a.t.c.hed the driver from his seat now waited. One of them said to him, "Macanaz?"

"Alive as per contract," came the answer, "but unconscious. He will not know what happened." They spoke in English but said no more as they moved behind the sheds and disa.s.sembled the small trampoline used by the second man for his soaring leap. With its pieces distributed between them they moved across the road and set off down the steep scrubcovered slope, heading across country to the car they had left hidden in woods two miles away.

They called themselves The Dark Angels. This was not for publicity reasons since it was vital that their existence should not be known. They called themselves The Dark Angels and thought of themselves as The Dark Angels as a means of establishing their selfimage, which in turn was a means of enhancing their special abilities to a remarkable degree.

When planning or executing an operation they took on their professional personas and used only names suited to those personas, names from the hierarchy of demonology - Asmodeus, Belial, and Aruga. They were men in their middle twenties, highly trained in combat and firstcla.s.s gymnasts.

If it is possible to be strong in character without affection, compa.s.sion or humanity, then they were strong in character, but they were also rejects from the elite units of the armed forces, whose psychologists had cla.s.sified them as psychopaths.

They worked exclusively for a small nonprofitmaking organisation in the City of London.

It was midafternoon of a spring day when the phone in Modesty Blaise's penthouse bedroom rang. She was under the shower in the bathroom and her houseboy, Weng, was foodshopping in Soho. Turning off the water she picked up a towel and called, "Danny, answer that for me, please."

In the bedroom, fresh from his shower and dressing now, Danny picked up the phone and said, "Can I help you?"

A man's voice said, "Oh, I'm calling Modesty Blaise. Is that you, Weng?"

Danny said, "No, I'm a friend, and I'm afraid she can't take a call just now. Would you like me to give her a message?"

"Thank you. My name is Tarrant and I'm invited to Modesty's cottage in Benildon next weekend. There's something I'd like to ask her if she'd be so kind as to call me."

Danny started to speak, then broke off as she came from the bathroom, still damp, a towel round her waist. "Hang on," he said, "she's here now so I'll hand you over." He gave her the phone and said quietly, "Tarrant."

"Thanks, Danny." She sat on the bed, naked to the waist, the towel rucked to her thighs. "Hallo, Sir Gerald, I hope nothing's cropped up to prevent your visit."

"No, no, I'm very much looking forward to seeing your country retreat. I simply wanted a word of advice as to the best route from London when I drive down next Friday. It'll be early afternoon, I prefer countryside to motorways, and I recall your telling me of an attractive drive you normally use if you're in no hurry."

She said, "Yes, if you've a pen ready I'll give you the route I'll be using myself when I go down today."

As she went on speaking Danny Chava.s.se b.u.t.toned his collar and put on a tie, watching her, remembering the days when he had worked for her in The Network. Their relationship had been very different then, for like her other lieutenants he had not only admired her but had also been somewhat in awe of her for her extraordinary achievement in creating that organisation and controlling the men who served it.

They were hard, dangerous men, yet to them her word was law, for her reputation was unique and they were proud to have the cachet of serving Modesty Blaise. In those days there had been times when The Network was beset by powerful and murderous opposition, yet by her combat skills and unconventional methods she had ensured that what she had created never suffered defeat. Danny Chava.s.se had not been one of her warriors, nor one of her various technicians. He was a key man in her intelligence section and his function was unique, for Danny had a rare gift. He could, when he chose, be almost irresistible to a woman.

Danny was thirtytwo, of no more than pleasant appearance, easy of manner and slightly slow in speech. There was nothing obvious about his gift, neither was there a shred of insincerity in it, for he had a huge affection for and empathy with all women of any age, and when he focused this feeling upon one of them it was to her as if she const.i.tuted his whole world. This was no less than true at the time. Modesty Blaise had used him to get information from women for Network operations, women in high positions and women attached to men of power in politics, industry or crime, for such men were p.r.o.ne to confide in their women.

It was towards the end of Danny's fourth year with The Network that she had sent him on a job to seduce a woman called Jeanne Fournier at a hotel in the Canaries. He was to leave for Lanzarote in three days, and instructions as to the information she required would be awaiting him there. He had flown to the island, settled in at the hotel, and contrived an encounter with the woman, but she was not Jeanne Fournier. She was Modesty Blaise, all authority stripped away, stressed, frightened, vulnerable, and she had said, "I'm the job, Danny."

Because it was his gift to understand women, he had perceived her need, and it was only later in the month they spent together there that he learned of the Achilles heel she had hidden from the world, not a flaw in her power but in her womanhood. Two rapes in her early teens when she was wandering the Middle East had left her emotionally crippled in a vital area. She did not fear men, or hate them, but shrank from contact with them yet was torn by normal longing and bitterly aware of the unhealed wound within her.

It was the greatest challenge Danny had ever faced, and the one whose success gave him the greatest pleasure. Eight days pa.s.sed before he felt the moment had come when they could sleep together, but from then on her cure was startling to him. He knew this would mean the end of his Network days, for the new relationship would be unworkable, but he had no regrets. And once she had wound up The Network and retired, he had been an occasional and very welcome guest of hers. He was well aware that there were two or three other men who were equally welcome, but this was pleasing to him, for he knew that it was his gift to her and to them. He had made her complete.

Danny came back from his reverie to realise that she had finished the phonecall and was towelling herself dry, watching him with amus.e.m.e.nt in the midnight blue eyes. "Where were you, Danny?" she asked.

He laughed. "Back a few years, mainly in Lanzarote."

She dropped the towel and came to him, standing before him and linking her hands behind his neck. "I wish I could repay you."

He held her gently by the waist. "You're my friend. I've shared your bed most joyously for the last couple of weeks and I'm a grateful recipient of a handsome Network pension. I'm very well repaid."

She shook her head. "I just mean... something as important as what you did for me. A change-your-life sort of something, except you don't need your life changed."

"I'll tell you what. If I ever find myself tied to railway lines with an express thundering down on me I'll send for you."

She began to laugh, then looked at him strangely. "I had a funny feeling when you said that. Look, take care of yourself, will you, Danny?"

He smiled. "You're a fine one to talk."

"I know, but... things happen. Do you really have to fly to America on Wednesday? You're welcome to stay on for a while."

"The great secret is never to outstay your welcome. Anyway, I'm between jobs at the moment, so I plan to mix with some stinking rich people who might provide one. There's a billionaire called Paxero who's gathering a bunch of equally rich mates for a cruise on his yacht out of Miami shortly. What's more, I've been asked by a Fleet Street friend to write an inside piece on the cruise, so that fits in nicely."

"You've been invited by this billionaire?"

"Not yet, but I've seen the list of pa.s.sengers, and Julie Bos...o...b.., the microchip tyc.o.o.n's daughter, is on it, so I thought I'd try to go as her boyfriend."

"Julie Bos...o...b..? When did you meet her?"

"I haven't yet, and I've only got three weeks before the cruise, so I really do have to get over there and stumble across her path."

She stared, then burst into laughter and hugged him. "Oh Danny, she'll love you. Wait a minute." She let him go and moved to her dressingtable, taking a small leather pouch from one of the drawers, then returning to put it in his hands. "It's a thankyou present, but for G.o.d's sake don't let Julie Bos...o...b.. see it."

She moved away and began to put on pants and bra. Danny opened the pressstud of the pouch. From within it a most beautiful watch, a Breguet, slid into the palm of his hand. He drew in a long slow breath and flicked open the back, a thin disc of gold. The inside was inscribed To Danny from Modesty.

At six that evening as Modesty was driving through the village of Netherstreet with Danny beside her, he said, "Is Tarrant the Intelligence chap you did that Gabriel job for last year?"

She nodded. "Yes, he's the one."

"You should stay away from people like that, you know. They can get you killed."

"He's a nice man with a nasty job, and I owed him, Danny."

"For what?"

"Willie's life."

"I see. That's different."

"Yes, but we're not making a habit of it. If he asks me again I'll say no. Okay?"

"Okay, I'll shut up. I'm quite happy to sit here dreaming about your legs." He laughed suddenly. "Do you know there was a time when I didn't dare let myself register that you'd got legs?"

"Ah, Danny. 'That was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead' that wench, anyway."

"I'm not so sure," he said slowly. "Up to a point, maybe. No more Networks, but... I doubt you'll ever stop attracting trouble."

"Oh, come on now. I'm a respectable spinster lady who-" she broke off and began to brake. They were clear of the village now, and ahead on a slight bend a car had pulled off the road near a pond. The bonnet was raised and one man's head and shoulders were out of sight behind it. Another man stood at the edge of the road waving her down with a hopeful air. "I'm also a Good Samaritan," she said, and pulled on to the verge, halting a few paces behind the other car.

Both men moved towards her. They were in their late thirties, she judged, a little too welldressed in a casual way, a little too confident in manner now that they saw clearly who was driving. One had dark curly hair and wore a sports jacket, cream shirt and pale yellow cravat. The other was fair, wearing a fine check shirt, suede jacket and corduroys.

As they stopped by her car, gazing down at her with a hint of quizzical speculation, she said, "Would you like me to send someone from the next garage?"

The cravat man cast an eye over Danny, who sat looking blandly inoffensive, then smiled at her and said, "Well, hallo there, nice lady. You've made it worth our breaking down, hasn't she, Adrian?"

Adrian of the suede jacket said, "Absolutely."

"Do you want a breakdown van or not?" Modesty asked.

Adrian frowned. "Steady on. We're just being matey, aren't we, Tarquin?"

Modesty put the car in gear and said, "No thanks."

As she started to let in the clutch the man called Tarquin said quickly, "Hang on. Do you have a screwdriver we could borrow for a few minutes?"

She considered for a moment or two, then switched off, gave the key to Danny and murmured, "Stay in the car." When he nodded she got out and went to the boot. From a toolbox there she took a screwdriver, then walked back and offered it to Adrian, noting that Tarquin had moved to stand in front of her open door. "You can keep it," she said, "I have another."

Tarquin said, "Look, I've got a better idea. Instead of tinkering with Adrian's heap we'll leave it to be picked up and you could give us a lift." A dismissive glance at Danny. "You and your friend."

Adrian grinned hopefully and said, "Why not? We can stop at my place for drinkies. Charming little cottage. You'll love it."

Danny Chava.s.se thought, Here we go. She's walked into trouble again. How the h.e.l.l does she do it? He was not worried for her, simply intrigued to see how far these two Hooray Henries would go, and with a guilty hope that they might push things too far. It was a long time since he had seen her in action.

Still offering the screwdriver Modesty said, "Do you want it?"

Tarquin chuckled. "Want it? Now there's a question!"

She turned back to the boot and put the screwdriver away. When she moved to the open door Tarquin was still blocking her way. She felt a wave of irritation sweep her and said sharply, "Move."

His flirtatious air faded. "Manners, ducky. Don't we say please?"

A voice spoke from behind her, a voice with the strong drawling accent of one of the southern states of America. " I reckon you better do like the young lady said, Mister."

She half turned. He stood near the rear offside wing, a man of perhaps sixty, not very big, wearing a shabby black jacket, trousers tucked into calflength boots. A bootlace tie hung over an oldfashioned frilled shirt; a black hat, roundcrowned and broadbrimmed, was pushed back on thick grey hair above a weatherbeaten face. He stood glowering, thumbs hooked in his wide leather belt.

His appearance in this setting was so extraordinary that for a moment Modesty and the two men simply stared, taken aback. He gave Danny a cold glare, then moved forward to stand beside Modesty, gazed balefully at Adrian and Tarquin, and said, "Get movin'."

Tarquin shook his head in disbelief and laughed. "My G.o.d, it's Dangerous Dan McGrew!"

Modesty said, "Thank you, but it's all right, you needn't worry."

The stranger turned his head to look at her. "Where I come from, ma'am, a feller always figures he's got to worry about a lady." He touched the brim of his hat and moved forward to stand between her and the two men. Confronting Tarquin, who was a head taller, he said, "Any feller behaves bad to a lady like you done, he's dirt. You gonna move or do I have to whip the hide off'n you?"

Tarquin said contemptuously, "Ah, get lost you b.l.o.o.d.y old fool or-"

The stranger slapped him across the face before Modesty could intervene and said, "Don't get lippy with me, feller."

Tarquin swore and his fist swung, hitting the older man on the side of the jaw so that he staggered sideways and fell. Coldly furious, Modesty said, "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" and moved forward.

The face above the pale yellow cravat began to show anxiety, and a hand was raised in warning. "Now don't you start, ducky!"

She feinted to slap his face, and he jerked up both hands defensively. At once her other hand drove stiffened fingers hard into his solar plexus in a spearhead strike. He gasped and doubled forward. She seized his wrist as Adrian started towards her, reaching out for her, when suddenly she was gone, sliding feet first between Tarquin's straddled legs and coming up behind him, still grasping his wrist with both hands. Now he was bent forward with one arm hauled back between his legs in the cla.s.sic hold of the Bouncer's Wheelaway.

When she pulled and lifted, he had to run awkwardly ahead or fall and hit the ground with his face. A quick footstrike sent Adrian staggering back, then she was running her victim towards the pond, right to the edge before putting a surge of power into an upward heave that sent him somersaulting into eighteen inches of water.

It had all happened in five seconds, and Danny sat turned in his seat, watching with happy admiration. The small American sat with a hand to his jaw, gazing in stunned delight, then let out a whoop of triumph. "Yahoooo-!" He broke off abruptly. "Watch out, Missy!"

Adrian was running at her, his face ugly with rage. "You b.i.t.c.h!" He lunged for her, and she seemed to make a very small evasive movement, yet he grasped only air, and then she had turned, with one of his arms drawn over her shoulder as she snapped into a forward bend, shaping his momentum to her own design so that he flew somersaulting over her back to land beside his companion.