Peter O'Donnell - Cobra Trap

A few of the government men had set off along the track on foot with their wives and children. Willie had not tried to dissuade them. They could not hope to make the journey before being overtaken by the rebel soldiers, but once the track was repaired the train would soon catch up with the walkers and take them aboard, for all the difficult gradients were behind, and the driver had said that the rest of the run to the border was over flat ground which would allow reasonable speed.

For Willie it had been a busy morning. He had spent the last halfhour using yoga techniques to restore his mental and physical energy. Now he reflected quietly on what he had done, and decided there was nothing more until Modesty arrived. It would be impossible for her to land here, but that simply meant the aircraft would be a writeoff. No doubt it was fully insured.

She was on her way, Sagasta had told him, with fishplate spanners, weaponry, field glasses, twoway radios, and whatever other items she had decided might be of use.

Willie sat relaxed, slowly distancing himself from the present and from all about him, letting his mind drift back to when he had last seen her. That was at her cottage in Benildon, ten days ago, shortly before the fighting broke out in Montelero. He had been lying in a lounger on the terrace in the warm July sunshine, idly assessing the pros and cons of getting up and fetching himself a cold beer from the kitchen.

It was a finely balanced decision. On the one hand Modesty always kept an ample supply of his favourite beer at the cottage, and it would be bliss to feel the ambrosial liquid swilling around his tastebuds before it made the happy descent down his throat. On the other hand, as lawyers so often said, one had to consider adverse factors. The lounger was very comfortable, and the fridge in the kitchen was a good thirty paces from the terrace where he reclined.

"And," Willie reminded himself solemnly, "you're not as young as you were, Willieboy." He grinned to himself at the thought, and was about to get up when two bare arms slid down over his shoulders to rest across his chest, and a soft cheek was laid against his.

Surprise touched him gently, for this and other small gestures of affection she had been showing lately were something new—not that her affection for him had ever been in doubt, but through all the long years it had been tacit and rarely displayed. He found the change very pleasant even as he wondered at it.

Opening one eye he saw that a tankard of beer now stood on the little table beside his chair. Modesty Blaise said in his ear, "I have this amazing telepathic power." She straightened up, ruffled his hair, and moved to sit on the swingseat to his left. Her feet were bare, and the long slender legs rose to faded denim shorts topped by a sleeveless silk blouse. The legs, Willie decided, were as good as ever, a joy to contemplate.

He said, "Thanks, Princess. I bet you got this telepathic power when you were in the woods at dawn one day and saved a little pixie who was caught in some brambles, and she gave you three wishes."

She looked at him in surprise. "How did you know?"

He took a long pull at his beer. "I've met 'er myself. It's Mabel. She's always getting in trouble and giving three wishes to people who get 'er out. I once saved 'er from a killer rabbit, and she gave me the Derby winner."

"That was useful. What about the other two wishes?"

"I've forgotten now. I think one of them was to do with girls. What about your other two?"

She was silent for several seconds, gazing absently into space, then seemed to emerge from a reverie. "Oh, sorry. My other two wishes?" She shook her head. "I passed. From what I've read about people who take up these threewish offers they usually wish they hadn't. There's always a nasty sting in the tail." She paused, frowning. "Did I tell you John Dall's coming here at the end of next week to spend a few days with me?"

Willie said, "You told me last week, Princess. Give 'im my best. I'd like to 'ave seen John, but I'll be in Montelero."

She nodded. "Yes, of course. I'm glad you're going. Things seem to be getting a little tense out there, and I always worry about Dinah."

A few days ago a typical letter from Collier had arrived, pointing out that for ten weeks now he had been hotly engaged in statistical analysis for the Montelero government, and that Dinah was alleging neglect and becoming mutinous. She had therefore demanded that he require the presence of the notorious hooligan, Modesty Blaise, to keep her company for the final weeks of his commission. Dinah's demand had been emphasised, he claimed, by skilfully timed rights to the jaw and threats of kneecapping if he failed to assuage her loneliness. The presence of that illfavoured member of the lower classes, Willie Garvin, would be tolerated providing he remained silent and wore a stocking over his head at all times.

To Willie's surprise Modesty had said, "You go, Willie love, I can't make it just now. I have John Dall coming, and then Weng's getting stroppy because he says there's a lot of business paperwork I've neglected."

It was no doubt true about Weng and the paperwork, thought Willie as he took another pull at his beer, but it was unlike her to be concerned about such things.

She said, "I've cabled them to say I'm sorry I can't make it. Anyway, Dinah loves having you around, so does Steve, whose insults are code for endearments. They won't mind if I'm not there this time." She rose from the swingseat. "Give a shout if you want another beer." She patted his cheek and moved away towards the cottage.

Steve and Dinah would mind though, Willie thought as he watched her go. They would both be disappointed, as he was himself. He sighed inwardly. How long was it now? Over thirty years since the day she had come into his wretched life and remade his world. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and gazed down the long slope of the years. In the beginning was The Network and the days of high danger. When Modesty wound up the organisation and they retired, there was an unexpected but not unwelcome continuation of risk and challenge in what Willie always thought of as the Tarrant era.

Sir Gerald Tarrant was head of British Intelligence in that time. Modesty and Willie had worked for him only twice by design, but there were later occasions when he had been involved in a number of the conflicts into which they had been drawn. It was now eight years since Tarrant's death following five years of retirement. He had suffered a heart attack while staying with Modesty at Benildon, and died quickly, quietly, contentedly, in the ambulance on the way to hospital, holding Modesty's hand.

Throughout the Tarrant era and the years that followed, time had slipped by barely noticed, for their lives were full. They sought trouble no more than the iron filing seeks the magnet, but were drawn to it no less inevitably. There had been new enemies to face, new dangers to be met, but these occasions were shortlived periods of intense experience, and served only to heighten their enjoyment of all that lay between, sharpening their appreciation of the good fortune that fate had laid upon them.

Their adrenalin addiction, whether gift or burden, had also been laid upon them by the tapestry woven in their early lives, and they were aware of this, accepting it as a facet of their destiny. But with the passing years it grew less demanding, and this seemed to reduce the aura that made them so readily subject to the attraction exerted by the forcefield of danger. It was four years now since they had been in serious action, but regular training in their various skills was a lifetime habit they still maintained.

And that was just as well, thought Willie as he came back to the present, because this could turn out to be a very dodgy caper. He opened his eyes, got to his feet and was about to open the compartment door when Collier shouted from the roof above him.