Peter O'Donnell - Cobra Trap

Willie was staring at her incredulously. "Blew 'is memory? All those years back?"

"Yes. He suffered a head injury that brought on total amnesia. The brother of Matilde, that's the old lady you saw at the farm, he found Alex unconscious and brought him home. The boy didn't speak for months, except to give his name and number, but even that soon faded. Matilde nursed him, he picked up French, became one of the family. He's been here ever since. That's the bones of it, Willie."

Willie Garvin shook his head as if to clear it. "God Almighty," he said softly. "What a story. How d'you find out, Princess?"

She pressed his hand. "Let's start walking back, I'll tell you as we go."

He rose and drew her to her feet. As they began to walk she said, "It's not a family secret. Old Matilde is the only one of her generation left, the only one who was alive when Alex came. It's strange, he still uses an English word or two as a kind of exclamation. The day he found me I thought I heard him say "Bloody hell!" and I couldn't believe it. But he does say that, and sometimes he says "wizard prang!" isn't that one of those wartime RAF expressions for something good happening?"

Willie nodded. "Heard it in old latenight war movies. It goes with the handlebar moustaches the RAF used to wear."

"I thought so, but at first I just assumed he'd been in England for a time with the Free French, perhaps. The family takes no notice of his little interjections. I don't think any of them know or care where Alex came from, apart from Matilde. For them he's always been there, part of the farm. But last Sunday I was alone with Matilde, the others had gone to church, and she spoke of Alex and his bloody hells, so I asked if he'd been in England. That's when it began to emerge, Willie."

She told him of the strange conversation with Matilde, of going to her bedroom and seeing the jacket and discs. "It was an RAF jacket. He'd torn off the buttons and wings and the rings on the sleeve, and he'd stained it with Godknowswhat so he could pass for a peasant at a distance, I suppose. And there was this thing the forces wear round their necks, with discs giving their name, number and religion."

Willie stopped short to look at her. "She'd got 'is identity discs?"

"Yes. She let me handle them, and then she showed me a letter he'd been carrying in one of his pockets. She'd never been able to read it, of course. It was from a girl called Elaine."

As they moved on again Willie said, "And she'd never shown 'im the letter?"

"She was eighteen when they found him, and after nursing him she hoped he would marry her one day, but he didn't."

Willie blew out his cheeks in bewilderment. "Well, weirder things 'appen in wartime, I suppose. Anyway, so now you know who this Old Alex really was—really is?"

"Yes, I know," she said reluctantly. "He may be entitled to a different name now, but when he was trying to escape through the Pyrenees in 1943 he was the Honourable Alexander Sayle. I think that means he was the son of a peer. A lord or an earl, maybe."

"Oh, Jesus!" They walked on in silence for a few moments, then he said, "What are you going to do about it, Princess?"

She sighed and took his arm. "I wish I knew, Willie. I wish to God I knew."

Twentyfour hours later Willie Garvin said, "Could you run us down to the village, Pierre? I can phone for a car from there."

The farmer stared. They were standing outside the farmhouse, a little apart from where Modesty was saying her goodbyes to the family. "A car? But you have this, Willie, the beautiful Range-Rover."

"Ah, well, I'm leaving that. We thought it might be useful round the farm."

Pierre blinked, then frowned. "We do not want payment for the little we have done. It has been our pleasure to have such a welcome guest."

Willie put a hand on his shoulder. "I know that," he said very quietly, "but it's not payment, Pierre, she's just saying thank you. So am I. Alex saved Modesty's life, and all the riches of Versailles mean nothing to me beside that. Please don't turn us down, Pierre. It's not from the pocket, it's from the heart."

Pierre stood in thought, running a hand over the Range-Rover's wing. Then he smiled. "Old Alex will love this," he said.

"More tea?"

"If you please." Sir Gerald Tarrant passed his cup. He had left his office in Whitehall where he headed a Special Intelligence Group and was sitting with Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin in the big drawingroom of the Hyde Park penthouse that was her home. Three days had gone by since her return with Willie. She had telephoned Tarrant at once, for her regard for him was almost filial, but he had not seen her till now, and was relieved to find her looking fit and well after the appalling ordeal Willie had described to him.

She was wearing a summer dress in pale yellow, and her hair was up, exposing the lovely column of her neck. Tarrant noted that Willie's eyes rested on her, not watching, just gazing with dreamy content. It was, Tarrant felt, a rewarding occupation. Sometimes, alone, he was swept with shame at the memory of other ordeals she had endured of which he had been the cause, and one of which he had been the occasion, when he had watched, helpless, as she fought unarmed and naked in the great crystal cave to save him from death. Those searing moments would live in colour for him for the rest of his life.

Yet whenever he saw her the shame was washed away by the smiling affection with which she always greeted him.

As he took his cup from her he said, "Would you like me to run over my report again?"

She shook her head and gave him a somewhat rueful look. "No, I think we've got it. The Honourable Alexander Sayle was the elder of the two sons of Viscount Sayle of Casterlaw, now deceased. In late May 1943 he was captain of a Halifax bomber that failed to return from a mission. The crew baled out over France and were taken prisoner. They reported later that the aircraft had been badly damaged. Alexander, as captain, presumably baled out after the crew had gone, but he was never captured and never heard of again. He was first reported missing, and later missing believed killed."

She looked down at her tea, prodding the slice of lemon in it. "Alexander's brother Mark, younger by four years, inherited the title twentyfive years ago. He is married with children and grandchildren, and occupies the family manor house in Kent. He is renowned for his charitable work, and well respected in the city and in the country." She stopped and looked a question at Willie, who nodded.

"That's it, Princess."

She turned to Tarrant. "So?"

"So what are you going to do about this obscene attempt to kill you slowly? I understand you made no report to the French police."

She shook her head impatiently. "Don't change the subject. We're watching our backs and we'll deal with it ourselves. What could the police do anyway? What I want now is your advice on what I should do about Old Alex. Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't thanked you for digging out all these details. I'm very grateful."

"Not at all. May I say I've never before known you to seek advice as to what you should do in given circumstances."

She gave a small laugh. "Most of the decisions I've had to make were pretty basic. This one isn't."

"I can see that, which is why I'm hedging. But since you press me I think you should make the survival of Alexander Sayle known to his family."

Willie said, "Alexander Sayle doesn't exist any more, Sir G. He's someone else now. Has been for fifty years." He looked at Modesty. "But I still think you can't just leave things, Princess. I know it's going to be a traumatic 'appening, but for God's sake, Lord Sayle's got a right to know. Old Alex is his brother."