Peter O'Donnell - Cobra Trap

Captain Candela, wide awake now, heard a clattering medley of sound, a hoarse cry, then the line went dead. He rattled the cradle without effect, then threw back the bedclothes, put on the bedside light and began to dress. If somebody had taken papers from Bellman's safe, Candela was extremely anxious to know if his name appeared in any stolen document.

Four miles away Willie dropped the phone on the floor near Bellman. Modesty knelt to fix a bug on the underside of the desk, then stood up to survey the scene. Willie said, "I reckon he'll be along with a posse in about fifteen minutes. He'll be sweating cobs about there being anything in that safe to compromise 'im."

She nodded. And when Candela saw the subversion document he would surely jump at the chance to distance himself from Bellman and gain kudos by shopping him. She said, "Let's go and listen, Willie. We'll leave the front door open." They were in the woods with the small receiver when three police cars drew up at the gates. Boltcutters severed the chain and the cars moved on up the drive. Soon they heard a medley of voices from the study where Bellman lay. At first there was a confusion of overlapping dialogue, but then a voice other than Candela's, from a man who must have been standing close to the desk, said, "He had papers in his hand, Captain. It is as if he took them from all the rest scattered here and was trying to hide them when he passed out."

Candela's thin, distinctive voice said, "Let me see." There was a long silence. Rustling. Heavy breathing. Background sounds. Then, "Is the telephone working, Sergeant?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Clear this room. I must call Colonel Turina at once on a confidential matter of state security."

Colonel Turina was the area Military Commander, and on Candela's mention of his name Modesty switched off the receiver. "It seems to be working," she said, "and there's nothing more we can do. Thanks Willie. Let's go home."

The seasons turned, The Network thrived. There were many and varied operations. Some were troublefree, some proved highly dangerous. Neither Modesty Blaise nor Willie Garvin came through unscathed, for there were times when rival gangs, dealing in what Inspector Hassan called very dirty crimes, dealing in death and drugs and flesh, tried to move in on The Network. It was then that Modesty Blaise led her people to war, with no quarter asked or given, and in those times she and Willie Garvin were The Network's most deadly weapons.

During those years there were changes in Willie Garvin. There were changes in Modesty Blaise. A strange and rich companionship developed between them, incomprehensible to many. Garcia, who had been with her from the first day and loved her like a daughter, understood completely and was a very happy man.

At last there came a time, as Garcia had predicted, when she wound up The Network and retired to England to a penthouse in London and a cottage in Wiltshire. Willie Garvin bought a pub called The Treadmill on the Thames near Maidenhead, "My favourite name for a town," he had announced, and watched the laughlines crinkle at the corners of her eyes, the laughlines that were his gift to her. But to live without risk was not long endured, and within a year they had been willingly coaxed into an unofficial mission for the head of a British Intelligence department, a mission that came close to costing their lives, and in which Willie had been wounded.

Sir Gerald Tarrant was thinking of that occasion, concluded only a few weeks ago now, as he stood with binoculars to his eyes, gazing down from the stand at Epsom. Willie Garvin was walking towards the paddock with an elegant auburn-haired girl in a green dress. He moved easily, so it seemed the fleshwound in his thigh had healed quickly, as Modesty had said it would. Tarrant lowered the glasses and made his way down the steps.

Leaning on the paddock rail, watching the horses parade round, Willie said to his companion, "They call it the sport of kings, but the truth is if they stopped all the betting today there'd be a glut of cat's meat tomorrow and you could build a supermarket 'ere."

The girl smiled. "I believe you. Do you usually win?"

"Only the bookies usually win. I sometimes get lucky, though. Mind you, it 'elps if you can read the tictac, but I mainly come for the day out… and because you can get talking to people easily."

"As you've shown. And I won fifteen pounds on the last race, so thanks for the tip."

"My pleasure," said Willie, then looked past her with mild surprise. "Allo, Sir G. Didn't expect to see you at the Spring Meeting."

"I have my vices, Willie. Am I intruding?"

"No, we just got chatting." Willie looked at the girl. "This is a friend of mine, Sir Gerald Tarrant, and you're Sandra…?"

"Thorne."

"Sandra Thome."

Tarrant raised his hat to her. "Good afternoon."

She smiled politely and inclined her head. "A very good one at the moment. Will you excuse me while I go and see a man about some money?" She looked at Willie. "Don't go away, I owe you a drink."

She moved off, and both men watched her go, then Willie took out his programme and began to study it. "I don't wonder the country's in a bad way," he said, "people taking a day off work to go racing."

"It's a disgrace," Tarrant agreed. "Have you backed a winner today?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I'm 'opeful."

"She's very attractive." Tarrant gazed idly about him, then said quietly, "I'd like to find a man called Bellman."

"Look in Peru," said Willie, still engrossed in his programme. "Political prisoner with a labour squad in the emerald mines. Been there six years."

Tarrant said, "He got out last year when the government fell. I'm looking for him closer to home."

"Not your field is it, Sir G.?"

"There's a lot of overlapping these days. My minister has asked me to give all possible help to the Drug Enforcement Agency, which I'm glad to do."

"Well, if Bellman's out, the sooner you find 'im the better. He's quite a genius in 'is own nasty line."

"Indeed. I was wondering if you might help."

Willie looked up and grinned. "Talk to my agent."

"You no longer work for Modesty, she's made that very clear. Why refer me to her?"

"Up till she found me," Willie said amiably, leaning back against the rail, "I was a loser. From then on I got lucky. Okay, we're retired now, but I'd like to stay lucky, see?"

Tarrant sighed. "I take the point. She's your talisman. All right, perhaps I'll talk to her but I doubt that she'll be helpful." He saluted with his rolled umbrella and turned to move away.

Willie said, "Try Sammy's Star in the fifth if you want a flutter."

Three minutes later, when Sandra Thorne returned, she said, "I see your friend's gone. Are you ready for that drink?"

"Parched." He put the programme away and studied her curiously. "Funny… I just 'ad a feeling I'd run into you before somewhere."

"It must have been in another life." She took his arm and they began to walk towards the bar.

It was the next day when Modesty stood with a gun to her shoulder and called "Pull!" The voiceoperated trap Willie Garvin had devised for her threw two clay pigeons at a diverging angle of forty degrees. The gun sounded twice and the clays shattered. She lowered the gun, opened it, and turned to the man who stood a little behind her on the clay pigeon layout.

Her cottage lay a hundred yards away across pasture she owned. Beyond was a winding lane that led to the nearby village of Benildon. She was casually dressed for shooting, as was her companion, Paul Crichton, a ruggedly impressive man in his late thirties with the look of one who had lived much in the sun. His gun, open, hung over one arm.