Peter O'Donnell - Cobra Trap

"Oh, I see. Jolly good."

In the glow of the burner Modesty saw Willie roll his eyes skyward. Lucy peered down, and the balloon sank gently towards the roof, which was partly gabled with flat areas between. At forty feet she said, "I don't think I can risk any lower."

Modesty dropped a light ropeladder over the edge of the basket. "That's fine, Lucy. You've done a great job." She swung a leg over and began to descend.

Lucy said thoughtfully, "Willie… have you known Modesty very long?"

"Quite a few years now."

"Oh. Well, I was just thinking, this sort of thing isn't very usual for a girl, is it? I mean, do you think this is her way of sort of sublimating her, you know, urges?"

Willie grinned and shook his head. "She doesn't believe in sublimating them, Lucy." He climbed over the edge of the basket and on to the ladder. At the bottom, ten feet above the roof, he hung by his hands and dropped beside Modesty, the balloon lifting as his weight was lost.

Above, Lucy adjusted a second time for the extra lift, then picked up the hand radio that hung from her neck. "This is me reporting," she said. "They've both landed safely."

On the roof, Modesty crouched by a door set in the stairs bulkhead that gave access from below. Willie watched as she probed gently in the keyhole with a lockpick. She shook her head, and he handed her a different probe from a set of six in a small leather wallet. Thirty seconds later the lock yielded, and when she eased the door open it made no sound.

She looked at Willie, saw him grimace in the moonlight, and could read his thoughts for they matched her own. Landing on the roof and getting into Poldeacon had been deemed that part of the operation which could most easily go wrong, yet it had all gone smoothly. From experience they both knew that when the hard parts went well it was likely that one of the easy parts would go sour on you. She shrugged, flickered an eyelid at him, and moved through the door.

For ten minutes they prowled silently through the dark top floor, using a pencil torch, seeking any indication of where Hallenberg might be held. They saw and heard nothing except distant music from below. Somebody was listening to a pop programme.

Three minutes later, on the floor below, they moved along a dark passage illumined only by a light from the far end where it joined a wider passage. At the corner Modesty took a small mirror on a thin metal arm from her haversack and edged it slowly out beyond the wall. Fifteen paces away a man in clerical wear sat in an easy chair facing a door with a light above it, reading a magazine.

She drew back, put her lips to Willie's ear and whispered, "One man guarding a room. Profile shot." He nodded, and took a sling from a thighpocket. Three slingshots were carried in a tube slotted into a narrow pocket down the seam of his slacks. Each was the size of a plum and was made of leadshot moulded in wax. Willie Garvin, ever fascinated by weaponry, had made a study of the sling and its usage from earliest times, and had discovered by long practice that it could be remarkably accurate.

He eased a shoulder and half his head round the corner, sighted the man in the chair, and started to spin the sling. After a moment or two, as expected, the whisper of noise or a glimpse of movement made the man turn his head. An instant later the shot took him squarely on the brow, just above the bridge of the nose, disintegrating as it struck home. Modesty was out in the wider passage and running soundlessly, the kongo in her hand ready to follow up, but the man sagged back limply in his chair and lay still, the girlie magazine slipping from his hand.

As Willie came up she pulled the man into a half lying position and pushed an anaesthetic noseplug into one nostril. She was beginning to go through his pockets when Willie said softly, "The key's in the door, Princess. It's a red carpet caper so far."

She rolled her eyes, miming wariness at such good fortune, and moved to the door. It opened into a comfortable bedsitting room with a large alcove containing a bed. Curtains were drawn back on each side of the alcove. Opposite the door was a window set in a deep bay with a builtin cushioned windowseat. An iron grille covered the window and the outer shutters were closed. In one corner of the room was a small wardrobe, a chair beside it; in the centre a table with a tray bearing a meal of cold meats, cheese, tomatoes, bread rolls, and a pot of coffee.

At the table, pausing in the act of buttering a roll, sat a tall greyhaired man with an air of quiet dignity who regarded his visitors with mild surprise.

Hallenberg. His photographs had been in every newspaper for the past few days. Willie closed the door, a prickle of unease creeping up his spine. So they had found Hallenberg just like that. No snags, no setbacks. Very ominous.

Hallenberg said, "Yes?" and resumed buttering his roll.

Modesty said, "Don't talk, please. Just come with us and try to move very quietly."

The man surveyed them both and clearly understood their presence but showed no sign of relief. He said, "Who are you?"

Willie thought, "Here it comes." This was the easy part going sour. He was much too experienced to offer any mental reproach to his second favourite female, Lady Luck. When she decided to torment you, you just had to smile at her whims. Resentment annoyed her deeply.

Modesty said, "Does it matter who prevents you from being murdered, Mr Hallenberg?"

He considered the question. Then, "Yes, I believe it does."

"You want credentials? Banker's references?"

Hallenberg put the roll on his sideplate and began to cut a piece of cheese. "Have you read any of my works, young woman?"

There was an edge to her voice as she said, "I'll start tomorrow. Will you stop eating and come with us now, please?"

He sighed regretfully. "If you had read my works, you would know that I deplore the ethos of opposing violence with violence. The men here have treated me with courtesy and respect. One of them guards that door. What have you done to him?"

"He's unconscious."

Hallenberg gestured as if his point had been made. She said, "But he's still alive. In a few hours these men will kill you. Is that what you want?"

"No," he said patiently, "but I will not betray my beliefs. Are you so different from these men?"

"You see no difference between what they intend to do and what we're trying to do?"

Wearily patronising, Hallenberg said, "It is the means, young woman. The means. Do not confuse motive with means. Dear God, I have spent thirty years trying to make the world grasp that simple truth." He put bread and cheese in his mouth and began to munch.

Modesty wiped out the anger that was trying to possess her and made a swift appraisal. They had a genius to cope with. A genius with a massive ego and all the common sense of a cockroach. It was impossible even to admire his courage, for clearly he could not imagine that he was to be killed. It was simply unthinkable that this could happen to him. Mountjoy and company had been treating him well. He might even be rather enjoying the situation, convinced that either the ransom would be paid or that his captors would release him because he was so wonderful. Well, one way or another she intended to take the man out of Poldeacon, but perhaps…

Willie reached the same conclusion at the same moment and said in Arabic, "Easier if he comes quietly. Worth gambling a few minutes if you can talk him round."

She gave a little nod and said to Hallenberg, "I'm sorry the world hasn't grasped your simple truth, Mr Hallenberg, but there's another simple truth. The dead stay dead, and the world urgently needs Tor Hallenberg alive." She smiled respectfully at him, took the other chair to the table and sat down facing him. "Could we talk about your latest work, please?"