Peter O'Donnell - Cobra Trap

There came the sound of a key being put into the lock of the door, and in a moment he was back on the bunk, sprawled as if unconscious. Somebody opened the door and entered. He caught a hint of perfume, and knew it was Sandra Thorne. Then she spoke to somebody outside. "Tell Mr Bellman they're still asleep."

The door closed and he heard her move to Modesty's bunk. A few seconds passed, then her hand touched his face as she made to lift an eyelid. He caught her wrist, jerked hard so that she fell towards him, and chopped with the edge of his handcuffed hands to a point just behind her ear. Her sudden indrawn breath was exhaled with a barely audible grunt and her body went limp upon him.

He rolled her over on the bunk, got to his feet, lifted Modesty and put her over one shoulder, then moved to the door and opened it carefully. Best move was to get ashore for a start. Not much chance of being able to launch a dinghy, but if he could get overboard with Modesty she would soon revive in the sea. Once on land they could try to deal with the 'cuffs. She might have something to use as a lockpick. Even a hairgrip might do.

He had barely stepped into the passage when a man came down a companionway ten paces away, a man with long dark hair and a band round his forehead, darkeyed, with deepbronze skin. He wore a grey shirt, jeans, and soft leather boots. There was a knife in a sheath at his belt, and he carried a carbine levelled from the hip. Willie nodded a casual greeting and turned to look the other way. A second man had emerged from round the corner of the passage, a bigger man, perhaps forty, with cold unblinking eyes. He wore a camouflage tunic and a baseball cap, and carried a 9mm Uzi submachine gun with a folding stock, slung so that it rested at his hip for immediate use.

Willie gave him a friendly smile and went back into the cabin, emerging a few seconds later with Sandra cradled in his arms and muttering dazedly. With great care he propped her against the passage bulkhead. She gazed at him with bleary, uncomprehending eyes while he held her until her straddled legs gathered enough strength to support her. Then he let her go and smiled winningly at the big man with the Uzi.

"She 'ad one of her turns," he explained, and went back into the cabin, closing the door. Seconds later he heard the key turn in the lock. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket he soaked it at the washbasin, hauled Modesty into a sitting position on her bunk, and slapped the wet pad on the back of her neck. Then, awkwardly because his hands were 'cuffed, he began alternately to shake her and pat her face quite sharply.

"Come on, Princess," he said firmly, "this is no time to sleep it off. We've got to 'ave a talk. Wake up, there's a good girl." Her eyelids flickered and she began to turn her head feebly to avoid his pats. "Come on, where are we?" he demanded. "Let's see you do your 'uman compass trick. Where's north?" She muttered something, and moved her 'cuffed hands to indicate a direction.

"There's a clever girl. Now tell Willie where you went to sleep." He gave her a shake. Eyes half open now, frowning irritably, she pointed.

"Southeast?" She muttered assent. "So we could be somewhere off the west coast of Scotland? Is that what it feels like?"

She stiffened slowly in his grasp, drew in a long breath and opened her eyes wide. She looked at Willie, at her 'cuffed hands, then round the small cabin. He watched her begin controlled breathing as she drew on her deeper energies to bring her to full alertness, and a minute later she said in her normal voice, "Yes, that's about what it feels like. How did we get here?"

"Don't know about you, Princess. I got picked up by a girl called Sandra who slipped me a mickey in a drink she gave me at 'er flat."

Modesty said slowly, "Paul Crichton… I was in his car, and… oh God, yes." She winced at the memory and tried to feel her buttock. "Needle in my backside. Last thing I remember is thinking I'd sat on a wasp." She got to her feet and moved to the porthole. "This was planned well in advance and with no expense spared, Willie. I'd say we're on a motor fishing vessel somewhere north of Glasgow, and they brought us up here by helicopter under sedation." She turned to look at him, and he was glad to see that her colour was good and her eyes clear as she said, "Do you know who they are?"

He.nodded. "It's Bellman."

She stared. "Lima? Six years ago?"

"That's the one. He got out of the mines when the government fell. Tarrant's looking for 'im, and I just 'eard my friend Sandra say 'is name."

"You've seen her, then?"

"Yes, she came in to check 'ow we were doing."

"Did she say anything?"

"Not to me. I'd been awake a couple of minutes, but I made like I was out and gave 'er a chop. Then I was carrying you out to see if I could find a dinghy, or if not make a swim for it, but I ran into a Red Indian with a carbine and a mercenary type with a Uzi, so I brought you back in and took Sandra out."

She smiled and moved to sit beside him, giving him a pat on the knee. "You've been a busy lad, Willie love."

"And stupid, too, letting myself get picked up at Epsom." He frowned. "Who's Paul Crichton? I don't remember you mentioning 'im."

"I met him only a few days ago. And don't brag, I'm just as stupid as you are. He's from Kenya. I asked him to come to the cottage, then wondered why. He's very macho. A hunter—" She broke off.

Willie said, "A hunter?" They looked at each other with new speculation.

After a while Modesty said, "Well, I don't suppose it'll be long before we find out."

Crichton sat at the wardroom table polishing the steel buttplate of a hunting rifle, already burnished by years of use. A little way from him sat the big man with the Uzi, smoking, his gun lying on the table in front of him. Occasionally he glanced at Crichton with a shade of contempt. On the port side of the wardroom was a man in a wheelchair with a blanket over his knees. His hair was white, his face lined and the colour of putty. He sat with hands clasped in front of him, sunken eyes fixed on the door.

It opened, and Modesty Blaise came into the wardroom followed by Willie Garvin with a carbine at his back. The redskin moved to one side and stood watching them, the carbine at his hip. Modesty and Willie surveyed the wardroom thoughtfully, then stood with eyes on the man in the wheelchair. After a moment or two he said in a throaty voice, "Well…?"

Realisation came with a shock. They looked at each other, then at the man again, and Willie said cheerfully, "'Allo, Bellman. How's your luck?"

Bellman spoke in a voice that was shaken by weakness and passion. "Hard to recognise me, is it? A few years of hell in the mines and I'm an old man. An old man."

Modesty said, "I've seen junkies a lot younger who looked worse. Your clients."

For all the reaction he showed, Bellman might not have heard. He said hoarsely, "I've waited a long time for this. It was all that kept me alive. Now you're going to die, God damn you!"

He did not take his eyes from Modesty as he went on, "These are your hunters. Charlie Brightstar, Choctaw Indian. Best hunter in the States. Sooner kill a paleface than a bear. Van Rutte. Seven years a mercenary in black Africa. Good killing machine. Crichton… big game. A hunter with all the trophies except a man or a woman."

The door opened and Sandra came in. Bellman said in a gentle voice, "Are you all right now, darling?"

"Just a headache." She moved to face Willie, her eyes hostile. "You still don't recognize me?"

He looked at her searchingly. "Wait a minute… ah, yes, you've changed your hair colour. Lima, wasn't it? The girl on the bed." He smiled apologetically. "I didn't get much of a look at you that night. Not your face, anyway."