THE DARK ANGELS

The stretch of road where the killing was to take place formed one of the long curves that wound through the Sierra de Yeguas on the way to Malaga. Two miles north, an open Land-Rover moved steadily through the dusk shrouding the wooded hills. The driver, Macanaz, was an experienced minder who had lived in Chicago for fifteen years and learnt his craft there. For the past two years he had been employed by the man who now sat in the passenger seat beside him.
Kaltchas was fifty years old, half Greek, half Spanish and wholly cosmopolitan; a short square man, enormously rich, who had lost his wife and family to a poorer and less busy man ten years ago. Since then he had lived a reclusive life in one or other of his homes in different parts of the world, using the modern wonders of electronic communication to carry out the various business operations that were his sole interest now.
Half an hour ago he had left his home and staff of servants in the remote and beautiful house he had built outside the small village of Vanegas. His presence was required in Brussels next day, where his financial backing would ensure the four billion pound hostile takeover by a European consortium of British Chemicals Ltd, the largest corporation of its kind outside the United States.
Kaltchas was a suspicious man, mistrustful, slightly paranoid. Aware of strong opposition to the takeover, he did not put it past his opponents to attempt some sort of delaying action by preventing his arrival at the Brussels meeting. Matters were finely balanced, and even a twentyfour hour delay could shake the market and create uncertainty in the consortium. It was for this reason that he had chosen to disguise his departure by travelling to the airport in the hired Land-Rover rather than in one of his limousines. Being a man who thought well ahead, he had made the arrangement some days ago, but was unaware that it had quickly become known to parties who were deeply interested in his travel plans though unconnected with the threatened corporation.
At the wheel, not taking his eyes from the unlit road, Macanaz said, "Are you okay, boss?"
"I'm okay." Kaltchas pulled the cap down more firmly on his head and buttoned the collar of the bomber jacket he wore.
The road was winding downhill now, with the rock from which it had been cut rising sheer on the right, the ground on the left sloping steeply down from the edge, thick with scrub and bushes. Across several curves of the road ahead as it dropped steadily down, Macanaz could see the four red lamps marking the stretch where the road was being widened by cutting deeper into the rock, for at the far end was a dangerous bend where the drop on the left became long and sheer.
Here, in the newly widened strip, an immobilised bulldozer was parked, tools were stored in locked metal sheds, and a mobile crane stood at each end of the working area. Macanaz slowed to thirty k.p.h. as he approached, headlights on beam, alert for any sign of movement amid the cover provided by the roadworks equipment. Beside him, Kaltchas slid a finger through the triggerguard of the revolver on his lap. It was as they passed the first crane, its derrick leaning out over the road, that a figure dropped from the top of the derrick, a blackclad figure wearing a skimask.
The timing was perfect. Ropes attached to the ankles brought the falling figure to a halt in the same instant that two arms wrapped round Macanaz's neck and snatched him bodily from the moving vehicle. Kaltchas, peering to the nearside, heard nothing and was unaware that Macanaz had vanished until the Land-Rover began moving towards the edge and he turned his head to give warning.
Unbelievably for him, the driving seat was empty. The shock was huge, and he snatched at the wheel with one hand, trying to steer a safe course while he manoeuvred himself into position to reach the brake. Then came new shock as he passed the metal toolsheds, for he glimpsed a dark figure seeming to soar over one of the sheds and drop towards the vehicle, landing behind him as it moved on down the slope.
The second nightmare shock was the last emotion Kaltchas was ever to know, for a hand with a hardened edge struck him sharply on the back of the neck. As he slumped, barely conscious, the man who had hit him leant forward and took the wheel with gloved hands. Macanaz had put the Land-Rover in a lower gear for the descent, but with the increased slope at this point it was steadily gaining speed. When it reached the second crane it was no more than thirty paces from the bend where the ground fell away sheer.
A third figure, identical to the others, dropped from the derrick, ropes strapped to ankles, hands reaching down. The man in the back of the Land-Rover released the wheel and reached up at the precise moment his companion fell. Hands locked on wrists and the vehicle sped on with its lone occupant, smashed through the light wooden barrier and seemed to leap out over the edge of the drop. Seconds later there came the sound of an explosion and the darkness was lit by a glare from below.
The man who had steered the Land-Rover dropped to the ground. His companion doubled forward, pulled himself up one of the ropes hand over hand, sat at the top of the derrick to unstrap his ankles, then came down to the road carrying the ropes. Together the two men moved back to the toolsheds, where the man who had snatched the driver from his seat now waited. One of them said to him, "Macanaz?"
"Alive as per contract," came the answer, "but unconscious. He will not know what happened." They spoke in English but said no more as they moved behind the sheds and disassembled the small trampoline used by the second man for his soaring leap. With its pieces distributed between them they moved across the road and set off down the steep scrubcovered slope, heading across country to the car they had left hidden in woods two miles away.

* * *

They called themselves The Dark Angels. This was not for publicity reasons since it was vital that their existence should not be known. They called themselves The Dark Angels and thought of themselves as The Dark Angels as a means of establishing their selfimage, which in turn was a means of enhancing their special abilities to a remarkable degree.
When planning or executing an operation they took on their professional personas and used only names suited to those personas, names from the hierarchy of demonology - Asmodeus, Belial, and Aruga. They were men in their middle twenties, highly trained in combat and firstclass gymnasts.
If it is possible to be strong in character without affection, compassion or humanity, then they were strong in character, but they were also rejects from the elite units of the armed forces, whose psychologists had classified them as psychopaths.
They worked exclusively for a small nonprofitmaking organisation in the City of London.

* * *

It was midafternoon of a spring day when the phone in Modesty Blaise's penthouse bedroom rang. She was under the shower in the bathroom and her houseboy, Weng, was foodshopping in Soho. Turning off the water she picked up a towel and called, "Danny, answer that for me, please."
In the bedroom, fresh from his shower and dressing now, Danny picked up the phone and said, "Can I help you?"
A man's voice said, "Oh, I'm calling Modesty Blaise. Is that you, Weng?"
Danny said, "No, I'm a friend, and I'm afraid she can't take a call just now. Would you like me to give her a message?"
"Thank you. My name is Tarrant and I'm invited to Modesty's cottage in Benildon next weekend. There's something I'd like to ask her if she'd be so kind as to call me."
Danny started to speak, then broke off as she came from the bathroom, still damp, a towel round her waist. "Hang on," he said, "she's here now so I'll hand you over." He gave her the phone and said quietly, "Tarrant."
"Thanks, Danny." She sat on the bed, naked to the waist, the towel rucked to her thighs. "Hallo, Sir Gerald, I hope nothing's cropped up to prevent your visit."
"No, no, I'm very much looking forward to seeing your country retreat. I simply wanted a word of advice as to the best route from London when I drive down next Friday. It'll be early afternoon, I prefer countryside to motorways, and I recall your telling me of an attractive drive you normally use if you're in no hurry."
She said, "Yes, if you've a pen ready I'll give you the route I'll be using myself when I go down today."
As she went on speaking Danny Chavasse buttoned his collar and put on a tie, watching her, remembering the days when he had worked for her in The Network. Their relationship had been very different then, for like her other lieutenants he had not only admired her but had also been somewhat in awe of her for her extraordinary achievement in creating that organisation and controlling the men who served it.
They were hard, dangerous men, yet to them her word was law, for her reputation was unique and they were proud to have the cachet of serving Modesty Blaise. In those days there had been times when The Network was beset by powerful and murderous opposition, yet by her combat skills and unconventional methods she had ensured that what she had created never suffered defeat. Danny Chavasse had not been one of her warriors, nor one of her various technicians. He was a key man in her intelligence section and his function was unique, for Danny had a rare gift. He could, when he chose, be almost irresistible to a woman.
Danny was thirtytwo, of no more than pleasant appearance, easy of manner and slightly slow in speech. There was nothing obvious about his gift, neither was there a shred of insincerity in it, for he had a huge affection for and empathy with all women of any age, and when he focused this feeling upon one of them it was to her as if she constituted his whole world. This was no less than true at the time. Modesty Blaise had used him to get information from women for Network operations, women in high positions and women attached to men of power in politics, industry or crime, for such men were prone to confide in their women.
It was towards the end of Danny's fourth year with The Network that she had sent him on a job to seduce a woman called Jeanne Fournier at a hotel in the Canaries. He was to leave for Lanzarote in three days, and instructions as to the information she required would be awaiting him there. He had flown to the island, settled in at the hotel, and contrived an encounter with the woman, but she was not Jeanne Fournier. She was Modesty Blaise, all authority stripped away, stressed, frightened, vulnerable, and she had said, "I'm the job, Danny."
Because it was his gift to understand women, he had perceived her need, and it was only later in the month they spent together there that he learned of the Achilles heel she had hidden from the world, not a flaw in her power but in her womanhood. Two rapes in her early teens when she was wandering the Middle East had left her emotionally crippled in a vital area. She did not fear men, or hate them, but shrank from contact with them yet was torn by normal longing and bitterly aware of the unhealed wound within her.
It was the greatest challenge Danny had ever faced, and the one whose success gave him the greatest pleasure. Eight days passed before he felt the moment had come when they could sleep together, but from then on her cure was startling to him. He knew this would mean the end of his Network days, for the new relationship would be unworkable, but he had no regrets. And once she had wound up The Network and retired, he had been an occasional and very welcome guest of hers. He was well aware that there were two or three other men who were equally welcome, but this was pleasing to him, for he knew that it was his gift to her and to them. He had made her complete.
Danny came back from his reverie to realise that she had finished the phonecall and was towelling herself dry, watching him with amusement in the midnight blue eyes. "Where were you, Danny?" she asked.
He laughed. "Back a few years, mainly in Lanzarote."
She dropped the towel and came to him, standing before him and linking her hands behind his neck. "I wish I could repay you."
He held her gently by the waist. "You're my friend. I've shared your bed most joyously for the last couple of weeks and I'm a grateful recipient of a handsome Network pension. I'm very well repaid."
She shook her head. "I just mean... something as important as what you did for me. A change-your-life sort of something, except you don't need your life changed."
"I'll tell you what. If I ever find myself tied to railway lines with an express thundering down on me I'll send for you."
She began to laugh, then looked at him strangely. "I had a funny feeling when you said that. Look, take care of yourself, will you, Danny?"
He smiled. "You're a fine one to talk."
"I know, but... things happen. Do you really have to fly to America on Wednesday? You're welcome to stay on for a while."
"The great secret is never to outstay your welcome. Anyway, I'm between jobs at the moment, so I plan to mix with some stinking rich people who might provide one. There's a billionaire called Paxero who's gathering a bunch of equally rich mates for a cruise on his yacht out of Miami shortly. What's more, I've been asked by a Fleet Street friend to write an inside piece on the cruise, so that fits in nicely."
"You've been invited by this billionaire?"
"Not yet, but I've seen the list of passengers, and Julie Boscombe, the microchip tycoon's daughter, is on it, so I thought I'd try to go as her boyfriend."
"Julie Boscombe? When did you meet her?"
"I haven't yet, and I've only got three weeks before the cruise, so I really do have to get over there and stumble across her path."
She stared, then burst into laughter and hugged him. "Oh Danny, she'll love you. Wait a minute." She let him go and moved to her dressingtable, taking a small leather pouch from one of the drawers, then returning to put it in his hands. "It's a thankyou present, but for God's sake don't let Julie Boscombe see it."
She moved away and began to put on pants and bra. Danny opened the pressstud of the pouch. From within it a most beautiful watch, a Breguet, slid into the palm of his hand. He drew in a long slow breath and flicked open the back, a thin disc of gold. The inside was inscribed To Danny from Modesty.

* * *

At six that evening as Modesty was driving through the village of Netherstreet with Danny beside her, he said, "Is Tarrant the Intelligence chap you did that Gabriel job for last year?"
She nodded. "Yes, he's the one."
"You should stay away from people like that, you know. They can get you killed."
"He's a nice man with a nasty job, and I owed him, Danny."
"For what?"
"Willie's life."
"I see. That's different."
"Yes, but we're not making a habit of it. If he asks me again I'll say no. Okay?"
"Okay, I'll shut up. I'm quite happy to sit here dreaming about your legs." He laughed suddenly. "Do you know there was a time when I didn't dare let myself register that you'd got legs?"
"Ah, Danny. ›That was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead‹ that wench, anyway."
"I'm not so sure," he said slowly. "Up to a point, maybe. No more Networks, but... I doubt you'll ever stop attracting trouble."
"Oh, come on now. I'm a respectable spinster lady who-" she broke off and began to brake. They were clear of the village now, and ahead on a slight bend a car had pulled off the road near a pond. The bonnet was raised and one man's head and shoulders were out of sight behind it. Another man stood at the edge of the road waving her down with a hopeful air. "I'm also a Good Samaritan," she said, and pulled on to the verge, halting a few paces behind the other car.
Both men moved towards her. They were in their late thirties, she judged, a little too welldressed in a casual way, a little too confident in manner now that they saw clearly who was driving. One had dark curly hair and wore a sports jacket, cream shirt and pale yellow cravat. The other was fair, wearing a fine check shirt, suede jacket and corduroys.
As they stopped by her car, gazing down at her with a hint of quizzical speculation, she said, "Would you like me to send someone from the next garage?"
The cravat man cast an eye over Danny, who sat looking blandly inoffensive, then smiled at her and said, "Well, hallo there, nice lady. You've made it worth our breaking down, hasn't she, Adrian?"
Adrian of the suede jacket said, "Absolutely."
"Do you want a breakdown van or not?" Modesty asked.
Adrian frowned. "Steady on. We're just being matey, aren't we, Tarquin?"
Modesty put the car in gear and said, "No thanks."
As she started to let in the clutch the man called Tarquin said quickly, "Hang on. Do you have a screwdriver we could borrow for a few minutes?"
She considered for a moment or two, then switched off, gave the key to Danny and murmured, "Stay in the car." When he nodded she got out and went to the boot. From a toolbox there she took a screwdriver, then walked back and offered it to Adrian, noting that Tarquin had moved to stand in front of her open door. "You can keep it," she said, "I have another."
Tarquin said, "Look, I've got a better idea. Instead of tinkering with Adrian's heap we'll leave it to be picked up and you could give us a lift." A dismissive glance at Danny. "You and your friend."
Adrian grinned hopefully and said, "Why not? We can stop at my place for drinkies. Charming little cottage. You'll love it."
Danny Chavasse thought, Here we go. She's walked into trouble again. How the hell does she do it? He was not worried for her, simply intrigued to see how far these two Hooray Henries would go, and with a guilty hope that they might push things too far. It was a long time since he had seen her in action.
Still offering the screwdriver Modesty said, "Do you want it?"
Tarquin chuckled. "Want it? Now there's a question!"
She turned back to the boot and put the screwdriver away. When she moved to the open door Tarquin was still blocking her way. She felt a wave of irritation sweep her and said sharply, "Move."
His flirtatious air faded. "Manners, ducky. Don't we say please?"
A voice spoke from behind her, a voice with the strong drawling accent of one of the southern states of America. " I reckon you better do like the young lady said, Mister."
She half turned. He stood near the rear offside wing, a man of perhaps sixty, not very big, wearing a shabby black jacket, trousers tucked into calflength boots. A bootlace tie hung over an oldfashioned frilled shirt; a black hat, roundcrowned and broadbrimmed, was pushed back on thick grey hair above a weatherbeaten face. He stood glowering, thumbs hooked in his wide leather belt.
His appearance in this setting was so extraordinary that for a moment Modesty and the two men simply stared, taken aback. He gave Danny a cold glare, then moved forward to stand beside Modesty, gazed balefully at Adrian and Tarquin, and said, "Get movin'."
Tarquin shook his head in disbelief and laughed. "My God, it's Dangerous Dan McGrew!"
Modesty said, "Thank you, but it's all right, you needn't worry."
The stranger turned his head to look at her. "Where I come from, ma'am, a feller always figures he's got to worry about a lady." He touched the brim of his hat and moved forward to stand between her and the two men. Confronting Tarquin, who was a head taller, he said, "Any feller behaves bad to a lady like you done, he's dirt. You gonna move or do I have to whip the hide off'n you?"

Tarquin said contemptuously, "Ah, get lost you bloody old fool or-"
The stranger slapped him across the face before Modesty could intervene and said, "Don't get lippy with me, feller."
Tarquin swore and his fist swung, hitting the older man on the side of the jaw so that he staggered sideways and fell. Coldly furious, Modesty said, "You bastard!" and moved forward.
The face above the pale yellow cravat began to show anxiety, and a hand was raised in warning. "Now don't you start, ducky!"
She feinted to slap his face, and he jerked up both hands defensively. At once her other hand drove stiffened fingers hard into his solar plexus in a spearhead strike. He gasped and doubled forward. She seized his wrist as Adrian started towards her, reaching out for her, when suddenly she was gone, sliding feet first between Tarquin's straddled legs and coming up behind him, still grasping his wrist with both hands. Now he was bent forward with one arm hauled back between his legs in the classic hold of the Bouncer's Wheelaway.
When she pulled and lifted, he had to run awkwardly ahead or fall and hit the ground with his face. A quick footstrike sent Adrian staggering back, then she was running her victim towards the pond, right to the edge before putting a surge of power into an upward heave that sent him somersaulting into eighteen inches of water.
It had all happened in five seconds, and Danny sat turned in his seat, watching with happy admiration. The small American sat with a hand to his jaw, gazing in stunned delight, then let out a whoop of triumph. "Yahoooo-!" He broke off abruptly. "Watch out, Missy!"
Adrian was running at her, his face ugly with rage. "You bitch!" He lunged for her, and she seemed to make a very small evasive movement, yet he grasped only air, and then she had turned, with one of his arms drawn over her shoulder as she snapped into a forward bend, shaping his momentum to her own design so that he flew somersaulting over her back to land beside his companion.
She grimaced, and felt round behind her thigh with one hand, pulling up her skirt and craning her head round to look down.
There was a broad ladder in one leg of her tights. She said, "Blast!" and let the skirt fall. When she turned, the greyhaired westerner was on his feet, holding his hat, face averted, very clearly not looking in her direction.
He said, "You hurt someplace, Missy?"
She laughed. "No, just laddered my tights. Excuse me."
He came towards her, shaking his head in wonder, grinning despite the trickle of blood from a corner of his mouth. I'll be gol'durned! They cotched 'emselves a cougar with you, Missy." He turned his head to glare at Danny. "Can't say that young feller helped much."
Danny composed his features and said with dignity, "I am Madam's butler, sir, and she instructed me to remain in the vehicle. I may also say she is better than I at dealing with such matters."
"Hehhehheh! You can say that again, son!"
Modesty looked at her elderly champion with friendly exasperation, took a handkerchief from a pocket of her skirt and held it against the cut by his mouth. "Don't you know better than to tangle with lippy dudes half your age?" she asked.
He took over holding the handkerchief. "Feller's gotta stand up for a lady. Ain't too old till he's dead."
She studied him curiously. "They don't make too many like you these days. What's your name and where did you spring from?"
"I'm stayin' down the road a piece at a little pub place, and I just took a walk. My friends call me Gus."
She watched the two men wade miserably from the pond, void of aggression now, avoiding her eye. Then she took the old American's arm and walked him to her car. "All right, Gus," she said, "I'll see you home."
Fifteen minutes later they were sitting together at a low table in a corner of the lounge in a three hundred year old hostelry. The table was set for three with a plate of scones, jam and cream, and a pot of tea. Danny, now trapped in his role of butler, sat looking dignified and was not presuming to join in the conversation. Modesty, amused by the setup and intrigued by her new friend, was pouring tea and saying, "Well, you're a long way from home, Gus."
He nodded. "Yup. They run these here package tours, so I come across for a few weeks." He took the cup she passed him, thanked her, and put several knobs of sugar in it, stirring as he said, "My folks was from this village around a couple a hundred years back, so 1 figured spending a day or two here, seein' if I could find any of 'em in the churchyard or the register thing. Where you from, Miss Modesty?"
"Oh, nowhere special. What do you do back home, Gus? Or maybe you're retired?"
"No, I got a general store." He frowned with a touch of embarrassment. "Everybody's gotta come from somewhere, but maybe you reckoned I was nosey, askin' you?"
She shook her head in friendly reassurance. "It's just that I don't know the answer. I think my folks may have been refugees who didn't make it, but the first thing I can remember is wandering through the Middle East on my own."
He had picked up his cup, but now he set it down and looked at her wonderingly. "How old?"
"Seven, eight maybe. Everything before that seems to have disappeared."
"And you was on your own? Just roamin' about?"
"I was on my own at first. Then I met an old man in a Displaced Persons campwell, he seemed old to me then but he was probably under fifty. He'd been a professor in Budapest until he had to run for his life. He knew just everything."
"And he looked after you?"
She smiled. "No, I looked after him, Gus. He knew everything, but he was hopeless in my kind of world, so I had to fight for us and steal food and do whatever had to be done. I never knew his real name, I just called him Lob. Anyway, that's where I come from."
"But... where d'you go from there, Miss Modesty?"
"Well, we roamed all over the Middle East and North Africa, and he was my teacher. He gave me my name, and I loved him. When I was about sixteen he died one day in the desert. I buried him, and cried, and went on alone. What came next is much too long to tell, Gus."
He sat staring down at the table, his tea untouched, not meeting her eye, and she had the strange impression that he was struggling with a feeling of shame. At last he said in a low voice, "I jest can't figure how a kid girl could get by all those years."
She wanted no sympathy for what had been, and said, "Hey, lighten up, I didn't tell you to make you feel bad. You've lived rough yourself, haven't you?"
He seemed to take hold of himself, and grinned. "Yup. Plenty. Was twice I sure enough nearly didn't git back alive when I was a young feller prospecting. But I warn't a kid girl."
"It's the same for anyone. As long as you don't starve and don't die of exposure you get by."
"Sure. But there's more'n being hungry or gitting froze. There's people. Bad people."
She had no intention of telling about the occasions of horror she had gone through, and said, "What did you do about people like that when you were a young feller?"
"Me? Well, I ain't big but I used to be real sneaky. I'd kick 'em in the belly, then stomp 'em."
"I thought it would be something like that. I used to run until I got big enough and sneaky enough to do it your way."
"That figures. Ain't no wonder you give them fancypants a surprise just now." He sighed, turned his head to look at her directly, and said with curious formality, "It's been a real pleasure meetin' you, Miss Modesty. A real pleasure."
She dipped her head. "Thank you, Gus. I've enjoyed it too, so if you come up to London give me a call." She turned to Danny Chavasse. "Give the gentleman my address and number before we go, Blenkinsop."
Danny nodded gravely. "Certainly, madam."

* * *

Two men and a woman sat at a boardroom table in the City of London. There was no secretary to take minutes. The woman was Harriet Welling, fortyeight years old, director of three large companies and committee member of several charities. She wore a neat suit, had a round face and forgettable features, an appearance that belied her character, for she had risen from pool typist to become a figure of substance in the City.
There was silence in the room as all three sat reading copies of the same report. First to finish was George Sumner, a lean, eaglefaced man, a brigadier who had been among those axed from one of the county regiments during the last slimming down of the armed forces. He got up, moved to feed his copy of the report into the shredder, then resumed his seat, and said, "In my view The Dark Angels are getting too damn theatrical. What's the point of all these acrobatics? They just have to kill someone. Don't have to carry on like - who is it? - Batman or somebody."
The second man, Timmins, was heavily built, squarejawed and with thinning black hair sleeked back from a wide brow. He said, "You miss the point, Sumner. The theatricality of The Dark Angels is essential to their success. It's essential to them, because that is their common character. I'm sure your brigade had a character that you created and which caused it to operate in a particular way - your way, and therefore in some degree different from the way another brigade would operate. The Dark Angels are the elite among the executive groups we employ, and we interfere with their methods at our peril."
Sumner sat gazing into space for perhaps half a minute, then nodded and said abruptly, "Point taken." He looked towards the woman, who had laid down her report. "Your view, Mrs Welling?"
Harriet Welling always spoke slowly but without hesitation, her voice cool and amiable. She said, "I agree they're theatrical, Brigadier, but if we use psychopaths we have to accept psychopathic behaviour. The Dark Angels revel in their role. To them it's godlike. When they operate, not only does nobody know who was responsible, nobody even knows there's been a killing, because the Angels create perfect accidents," she tapped the report in front of her, "as they did for Kaltchas. What's more, although one hundred per cent successful, they're content to remain anonymous, which is greatly to our advantage. Most assassin groups give themselves a name and publicise it. That's the last thing we want if we're to be effective."
Timmins said, Thank you, Mrs Welling. We must also take on board the fact that, unlike lesser contractors we hire, The Dark Angels know our identity." He glanced at the other man. "That was inevitable since it was Sumner who had to select them from army records and arrange covert training. My point is that, given their particular mentality, it would be unwise and bad security to subject them to needless criticism. Their work for us has been impeccable. Let us not disturb the relationship in any way."
Sumner nodded briskly. "Agreed," he said. "I recall anxious moments during the van Doom business, when other contractors failed twice and we had finally to bring in The Dark Angels. It's just..." he paused with a wry smile, "it's just that they are so damn theatrical, and with my own training that sets my teeth on edge. But you've provided convincing reasons why I should put up with it, so I won't raise the matter again."
Timmins looked at his watch, then at an empty chair where an agenda paper lay on the table in front of it. "Beckworth's late, but I think we should leave item three until he arrives. Item four-Future Operations." He looked up. This depends on what forewarning we may have of proposed largescale takeovers affecting this country. I have my usual lines of inquiry out, but nothing to report at present. Mrs Welling?"
Harriet Welling said, "I believe there is a possible hostile takeover of one of our larger industrial companies being planned, but I would rather wait till I have further intelligence on this before reporting fully."
Timmins said, "Thank you. Brigadier?"
Sumner shook his head. "My sources are very narrow compared with yours and Mrs Welling's. Perhaps Beckworth has-' he broke off as the door opened and a man entered. He wore a city suit and was carrying a bowler hat and umbrella." Sumner said, "Ah, Beckworth."
The man said, "Sorry Mrs Welling, gentlemen." He hung up his hat and umbrella, moved to the empty chair and sat down, a man with a fresh complexion, a chubby face and bright blue eyes, his hair greying at the temples, a neat moustache still dark.
Timmins said with a touch of sarcasm, "Good of you to come."
Beckworth answered without resentment. "I'm on eight boards of directors, Timmins, most useful to our enterprise, and the traffic's hell today. Where are we up to?"
"Item three, please."
Beckworth studied the agenda. "Choice of contractor for disposal of Mr. Howard A. Keyes. Well, what's the feeling?"
Sumner said, "I recommend using The Dark Angels right away."
Harriet Welling said gently, "As treasurer I feel I must point out that our funds are low following heavy expenditure last year. The Carter group or the Albanian group would be cheaper."
"Not if they fail," said Timmins. "We don't want to pay half in advance and then fall back on the Angels anyway."
Sumner said slowly, "We four are the only source of funds. We are dedicated to the sole purpose of keeping British industry Britishowned by preventing the steady takeover of our industrial base by foreign corporations. Surely there must be others of our mind, others who foresee the loss of sovereignty and death of Britain as we know it if this continues. Can we not recruit a few carefully selected persons of reasonable substance who would join our enterprise?"
Beckworth fingered his moustache. "Our enterprise involves killing people."
"Of course. But we take great care to ensure that only the selected person dies. You'll see from the report on the Kaltchas operation that his bodyguard suffered no harm."
"A minor torticollis, perhaps," Harriet Welling suggested.
"I beg your pardon?"
"A stiff neck, Brigadier."
"Oh. Quite. But I don't think that invalidates my point. We do what has to be done in an extremely responsible manner."
Beckworth leaned back in his chair and looked round at his companions. "My own feeling is that any attempt at recruitment would be dangerous. However, we may have to consider it and I therefore recommend that we leave Sumner's suggestion on the table for future discussion. Now, according to our latest intelligence Mr Howard A. Keyes shouldn't be very difficult to kill. I suggest that to save expense we put the job out to the Carter group first, but with a cash on delivery proviso, no deposit."
Timmins said, "Certainly we lose nothing that way. I'll second the proposal. Mrs Welling?"
"Yes. A good compromise."
Sumner said, "Agreed."
There was silence as they looked at their agenda papers, then Beckworth said, "Items one and two are routine, and no doubt you've dealt with them. Shall we proceed to item four now?"

* * *

Danny Chavasse had been gone three days. The church fete was in progress in the village of Benildon, and Sir Gerald Tarrant stood at the hoopla stall with Modesty Blaise beside him, watching him throw the wooden rings. He paid for six more and sighed inwardly, reflecting that he would have been greatly enjoying himself if he had not been suffering from a rare attack of guilt. His job was one in which he often had to put his people at considerable risk. Sometimes they were given tasks which resulted in death for them. This was something to which he had been compelled to inure himself, though he sometimes feared that he was simply postponing any response to some future day, to retirement perhaps, when all the horrors would descend upon him together.
At this moment he was feeling guilty about the girl beside him who was licking an ice cream cornet and carried a basket full of bottles, jars, cans of food and sundry other items either bought or won at great expense. She was no employee, but twice she had carried out missions for Tarrant, and in the Sabretooth operation had come close to dying for him.
Since that time, what had been acquaintance had become something closer, and he had been delighted when she invited him for a long weekend at her country cottage. They had fixed a date three weeks ahead, but only two days after making the arrangement Tarrant had been called in by the government minister to whom he was responsible. Intelligence reports from sources abroad and from other UK organisations had been passed to Tarrant, and he had been required as a matter of urgency to investigate and deal with a possible criminal matter of great delicacy involving foreign citizens and their governments. Evidence was patchy to the point of being nebulous, but he was told that speed in settling the matter was essential.
After long hours of increasingly uneasy consideration Tarrant had come to the ineluctable conclusion that no legal authority had the power to do what would be necessary if he was to achieve the task laid upon him. He had also concluded that there were two people who, being independent, could act more freely than any he could employ. They were also widely experienced in criminal matters, and above all had ways of thinking that he regarded as unique. So it was possible, just possible, that they might find a way to the heart of the nebulous matter and uncover what lay there.
Impossible simply to ask Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin for their services again. He would have to involve them tangentially, and this he had now taken steps to arrange, which was why he felt heavy with guilt as he threw the last of the hoopla rings and watched with horror as it settled neatly round a small but very ugly green frog. This prize proved to be of painted lead and was presumably intended for use as a paperweight.
Modesty choked off a laugh, crunched the last of her cornet, wiped her lips on a tissue and said, "Well done." She looked about her. "Where did Willie disappear to?"
"Over there." Tarrant nodded to a stall where Willie was throwing darts at rows of playing cards fastened to a large board.
Modesty stared. "He can't do that!" She took Tarrant's arm and moved briskly across to the stall as Willie prepared to throw a final dart. "Willie! Don't you dare win prizes at that, it's not for-" she swallowed the word 'professionals' and made it, "for people like you."
The motherly lady in charge said, "Oh, it's all right, dear." She pointed to the row of small, evillooking gnomes on a shelf above the board where the playing cards were pinned. "He hasn't hit any spots yet, but he's just broken three of the prizes and he's very sorry, so he's going to pay five pounds for each of them."
Willie said, "I can't get the hang of this, some'ow." He threw the last dart, and a fourth gnome shattered with the impact. "There, see what I mean?"
Modesty nodded thoughtfully. "Yes... another time you could try aiming a bit lower, perhaps?"
"Might be the answer," Willie agreed. "I'll think about it." He handed a note to the lady in charge. "Twenty pounds, Mrs Bailey. Will that cover the damage?"
"Handsomely, thank you, Mr Garvin, they're only a pound each. And you're not fooling me for a moment, you know."
Willie grinned, winked at her, then turned away with Modesty and Tarrant. "What's that you've won, Sir G.?"
"It's a large emerald carved in the shape of a frog," said Tarrant. Inspiration struck him, and he seized the moment. "Should I seek protection, do you think? A bodyguard?"
Modesty said, "I'll ask the Boy Scouts." And before Tarrant could continue his theme she went on, "I think we've done our bit now. Let's go home and have tea."
Willie said, "I'm dying for a cup. Let's 'ave the basket, Princess."
As they moved towards the field where the car was parked Tarrant said, "Talking of bodyguards-" he stopped as she gave him a puzzled look.
"Bodyguards? Oh, you mean just now. Yes, sorry, go on."
Hiding his discomfiture Tarrant continued, "If you'll forgive me for talking shop briefly I'd just, like to ask if you could recommend a really good bodyguard."
After a little silence Modesty said, "We never dealt in that line of business. Surely you have access to a wide selection of likely people?"
"We need somebody rather special," said Tarrant. "The person to be guarded is inclined to be difficult."
"And you can't tell us who it is?"
"In confidence, yes. It's Mr Howard A. Keyes. It's possible you may have heard of him."
Willie said, "Keyes? He's been in the news a bit. Owns a chunk of Texas and a chain of supermarkets."
Modesty said, "Is he the American the city pages call the Mystery Tycoon, who's planning to build supermarkets here?"
"And to take over one of our major supermarket chains," said Tarrant. "Yes, that's the man."
They had reached the car, and as Willie opened the door for her she said, "Who does he need protection from?"
"I'm afraid we don't know," said Tarrant, "but what he needs protection from is murder. And Keyes isn't particularly mysterious, just eccentric. He hates publicity."
Willie said, "Then he won't much like being murdered. It's bound to make 'eadlines."
"I've been given the job of preventing that." Tarrant took the back seat with Modesty, and Willie got in behind the wheel. As they moved away Modesty said, "Why are you involved?"
"Because he's over here now, my dear. I've been instructed to protect him but he won't submit to normal security measures."
Willie said, "Lousy job. All the initiative's with the other side. And you've no idea who wants to knock 'im off?"
"We're not even sure that anybody will try to do so."
"Jesus, you don't know a lot about this, do you, Sir G.?"
"Sadly, no. What's happened is this. Computers have come up with a pattern concerning several very odd and seemingly accidental deaths over the past year or so. They've found a common denominator, which is that the victims have all been foreign captains of industry involved in taking over British companies. In each case the person's death has aborted the takeover."
Modesty said, "I thought we were keen on investment from overseas."
"Economics baffle me, but I suppose there's a difference between investment and takeover, and I've been told to work on the theory that the deaths were in fact murder and that a group of Little Englanders feel so strongly about what they see as bits of their country being sold off that they're going to any lengths to prevent it."
"And you think this American tycoon Keyes is a prime candidate for their attention?" Modesty asked.
"If an attempt is made, it will be very convincing confirmation of that theory."
"You're not suggesting that Willie and I should turn bodyguards?"
"Oh, good Lord, no."
"That's all right, then."
Tarrant brooded for a moment or two. Then, "We don't want Mr Howard A. Keyes dead, but he's a very difficult character. He won't agree to have bodyguards or submit to any security arrangements."
Willie said, "Then what's the point in asking if we can recommend anyone? I don't know what we're talking about, Sir G. D'you want us to come to the funeral or something?"
"I was simply hoping you could suggest someone Mr Keyes just might find acceptable as a protector. Or perhaps I should say protectors since Modesty raised the question of your participation."
"What?" she said indignantly. "I did no such thing and you're a wicked old gentleman. Only the other day a good friend of mine said I should stay away from people like you because you're likely to get a girl into trouble."
Tarrant sighed and leant back in his seat, consumed by guilt. "Very true," he said gloomily, "but please don't take his advice to stay away. I promise I'll never ask you again, and as an earnest of my good intentions I..." he took out his diary and flicked over the pages, "I invite you both to dine with me at my club on Thursday next, if that's convenient?"
Modesty said, "Well, that's very contrite of you. Yes, please. Are you clear, Willie?"
"No problem. You know, Princess, for a moment there he sounded so apologetic I thought he was going to give you 'is frog."

* * *

Tarrant belonged to several clubs. The one he had chosen was not of the kind where members died quietly in deep leather armchairs without anybody noticing the change, it covered a wide spectrum of professions and agegroups. When Modesty and Willie arrived at the appointed time they were immediately greeted by a steward who apologised for Tarrant and explained that he had phoned to say he would be a few minutes late. "He hopes to join you in the lounge shortly, madam, and I am to ask if you would like an aperitif or glass of wine."
Modesty and Willie were seated in a corner of the quiet lounge, talking together as they waited for their drinks to arrive when a voice said, "Well, dang me if it ain't Miss Modesty."
She looked up in astonishment to see Gus standing there, dressed much as he had been that day by the pond. "Gus! What a nice surprise! What are you doing here?"
"Supposed to meet a feller, but I ain't too keen. He's been apestering me all week." Gus looked at Willie with a touch of suspicion. "Howdy."
She said, "Oh, this is Willie Garvin. Willie, this is my friend Gus. I told you about him."
Willie rose and put out his hand. "'Allo, Gus. You kick 'em in the belly and I'll stomp 'em."
The leathery face split in a grin as they shook hands. "Ain't no need with Miss Modesty around. You shoulda seen her, son."
"I've seen 'er. Sit down and 'ave a drink while you're waiting, Gus. We've got a generous host arriving soon."
"I'll take whisky neat, please." He sat down and looked from Modesty to Willie. "You two sparking?"
She said, "Willie and I? Oh, we've been around together too long for that."
Gus sighed and shook his head. "Sure wish I was thirty years younger."
"I'm so sorry to be late..." It was Tarrant, hurrying towards them. "Do forgive me." As he reached the table he stared in surprise. "Oh, you've met?"
Modesty said, "Met?"
Gus said, "You know this young lady?"
Tarrant looked embarrassed. "Why yes, I've hoped to be here earlier so that I could explain, but in any event allow me to make formal introductions. Modesty, this is Mr Howard A. Keyes. Mr Keyes, this is Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin."
Modesty looked blankly at the old westerner. "Gus? Howard A. Keyes?"
He shrugged uncomfortably. "Augustus. My second name. Howard's kinda prissy and it don't shorten like Gus." He looked at Tarrant and tugged at one ear. "Danged if I can figure this, Miss Modesty. You something to do with this feller?"
She said, "This feller's just an old and untrustworthy friend. You said you kept a store, Gus. You've got hundreds of them, plus oil wells in Texas."
He looked at her anxiously. "Never was one for big talk. I offended you some?"
"No, of course not. But this feller Tarrant-" She stopped speaking as a steward brought a chair for Tarrant and took orders for two more drinks. When he had moved away Tarrant said, "I had the simple idea that if I brought you together you might take to one another. I could hardly know you'd already done so."
Gus said to Modesty, "He's some kinda sheriff and he's frettin' about some dirty sidewinders aiming to drygulch me."
Her eyes were troubled as she said, "Yes, I know. And he tells me you won't have any protection."
Gus gave a snort of contempt. "Bodyguards! I seen 'em on the movies. You figure I want to spend all day hidin' behind a coupla big oxes with guns under their arms? Ain't no way for a man to act."
There was a little silence. She looked at Willie for a moment or two, then at Gus again and said gently, "Willie and I wouldn't want you to hide behind us. We'd just want to be around. Would that make a difference?"
He stared at her for long seconds, then grinned suddenly as her meaning dawned on him. "You? Holy Moses, that'd make a difference, long as you was really willing. Oh, you didn't ask Willie yet, though."
She smiled. "Yes, I did. You can both stay at my place for the rest of your time here, Gus. There's plenty of room and it's fully secure, so if anyone wants to come at you they'll have to do it in the open."
Gus beamed with delight. "Then we'll git 'em!" He nodded towards Willie. "He as good as you when it comes to pickin' 'em up and bouncing 'em?"
"Every bit as good, and he does it from higher up."
Gus exploded in a gust of laughter that left him breathless. "We'll kick the goddam plums off'n 'em-" he cackled, then stopped short, contrite. "Sorry, Miss Modesty. Askin' your pardon. Bunkhouse talk ain't fitting for a lady."
She laughed. "Now now, Gus. No flattery, please."
The steward arrived with drinks, and as he set them down Willie Garvin reflected on the strange workings of chance. Modesty would never have considered doing a bodyguard job, even for Tarrant, of whom she was becoming quite fond. But chance had set Gus on the spot at the moment when she found herself in a brush with two unpleasant men. He had walked into trouble for her, and so won her friendship, which as Willie knew was boundless once given.

* * *

In the days that followed, Howard A. Keyes proved to be an undemanding guest. He was happy to talk, or to sit with a pile of newspapers and magazines to read, happy to play poker for small stakes of an evening or to spend time in his room working on what he called 'business things'. He greatly admired Weng's cooking, and would sit cheerfully in the kitchen watching him prepare and serve dinner, happy to talk but careful not to distract.
Sometimes he would go out with Modesty or Willie, sometimes with both, never alone. He enjoyed stage musicals and film comedies, but best of all for him were Laurel and Hardy videos. He also enjoyed playing what he called checkers, and was very good at it, usually beating Modesty or Willie but going down to defeat against Weng.
One long weekend was spent at Modesty's cottage in Wiltshire with the hope that this might tempt any wouldbe killers to strike if indeed they existed but there was no hint of trouble. They visited Willie's pub, The Treadmill, where they had lunch and Gus played an excruciatingly bad game of darts; and on another day they spent an hour or two on an out of town site where Gus was financing the building of a pigeonhole carpark for a shopping precinct which would include one of his supermarkets. From time to time both Modesty and Willie were certain they were under surveillance, but they were unable to pinpoint it and nothing happened.
On the tenth day of Gus's stay at the penthouse a board meeting was held in offices off Threadneedle Street. It was chaired by John Beckworth and there was only one item on the agenda. Beckworth said, "There's been a delay in the matter of dispatching Howard A. Keyes and I'll ask Sumner to give details."
Sumner looked round the table and said sourly, "Not much detail to give. We contracted with the Carter group and they've been keeping the subject under observation, seeking an opportunity for completion. However, it seems Mr Keyes is aware of his danger and has protection."
Timmins said, "How would Keyes be aware?"
Sumner frowned, and Harriet Welling said mildly, "We can hardly expect Brigadier Sumner to know that."
"Is it police protection?" Beckworth asked.
Sumner shook his head. "No. A woman called Modesty Blaise assisted by a man called Garvin. Their reputation is such that Carter has now withdrawn his tender for the job. We have to decide on an alternative."
Beckworth looked amazed. "One man and one woman? You can't be serious."
"Carter's serious enough," Sumner said bluntly. "I'm not privy to underworld reputations, but he is, and he won't touch the job now."
Harriet Welling said, "The Dark Angels, then?"
"Yes, Mrs Welling. I've placed them on standby, and I simply require the board's authority to activate them. However, I have to tell you that in this matter the Angels will not accept our standard veto against causing harm to other persons."
Beckworth frowned. "Why's that?"
"Because other persons in this context are likely to be Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin. If they choose to place themselves between The Dark Angels and our chosen target, they will die. It may also not be possible to arrange a convincing accident. The guarantee is simply that Mr Keyes will vanish without trace, as will Blaise and Garvin if they intervene."
The others looked at each other, then Timmins said, "The Angels seem greatly impressed by this pair."
"Indeed they are, which is very sensible of them. They are also eager to match themselves against them professionally. Very eager and totally confident. They have no doubt of the outcome, and hope to complete within two days."
"Two days?" said Beckworth. "That's remarkably quick, surely?"
"It is," Sumner agreed. "But they take the view that this Modesty Blaise person, who seems to be the senior partner, will react to a challenge if it's properly presented. I am of the opinion that if we fail to agree to what the Angels ask, then we cannot hope to kill Mr Keyes. For this reason I now ask the board for authority to activate them."
Beckworth looked round the table. "Sumner proposes to use The Dark Angels under the conditions just stated." He shrugged. "Needs must, so I second. All in favour?"

* * *

In the penthouse that evening an hour after dinner Modesty was teaching Gus the rudiments of chess and Willie sat working on a circuit diagram for a new electronic gadget he had in mind.
When the phone rang, Weng answered it in the kitchen, then came through to announce, "A call for you, Mr Keyes. A Mr Smithson, who says it's urgent."
Gus looked puzzled. "Who's Smithson? He say what it's about?"
"I did not ask, sir."
Modesty said, "Better find out, Gus. Take it in your room if it's private business."
"I got nothing private from you, Miss Modesty." Gus got up, moved to a sidetable and lifted the phone. "I'm Keyes, who's this talkin'?"
He listened, frowning, and after a few moments said, "Look, feller, I don't know how you come into it, but if there's trouble at the site you jest tell the guys I pay to handle it." A pause of several moments, then, "Come down now! You crazy?"
Again he listened. Watching him, Modesty and Willie saw his expression slowly change, his eyes narrowing warily. At last he said in a voice quieter than usual, "Yeah. Okay, I got it. Hang on while I talk to my friends."
He pressed the secrecy button on the unit and looked across the room. "Feller says he handles insurance on that shopping precinct. Says there's trouble, subsidence he called it, an' that big carpark's like to fall down. Wants me to go an' look at it. Now."
Willie said incredulously, "They can't expect us to fall for that. It's phoney as a glass eye."
Gus nodded. "Sure. And he knew dang well he warn't foolin' me. Talked funny, kinda insulting." He looked at Modesty. "Know what I figure? They can see we know the score and they got tired of pussyfooting around. They reckon maybe we got tired too, so they're sayin' come out an' get it settled."
Willie said, "For all they know we could set up a cordon of fuzz round the place, Princess. Or you and I could go and leave Gus 'ere. But they don't reckon we'll do that."
"No. They'll have eyes on the job, Willie, and if we don't play it their way they won't be there." She thought for a moment, gazing at the chessboard. "And if we just sit tight they can wait till Gus goes back to the States and try to nail him there. They don't fancy a longhaul job so they're offering a showdown."
There was a silence. Gus looked from Modesty to Willie and back again. "Then let's go get 'em," he said quietly.

* * *

It was an hour before midnight when a Cessna Skymaster moved steadily through the darkness at ten thousand feet over Surrey. Within, The Dark Angels sat in silence, ramair parachutes strapped in position, focusing their minds on the task that lay before them. Performanceenhancing drugs were at work in each bloodstream.
The aircraft banked gently, skirting the pool of light from a town below. Two miles to the west the darkness was pierced only by a red lamp on top of a tall structure, the iron skeleton of a partly built carpark.
The pilot spoke, and without a word the three blackclad figures in their skimasks rose and moved to the door, Asmodeus first, followed by Belial and Aruga, each deep in the role he was playing, each with surging confidence in his more than human powers. Seconds later they were gone, dropping in free fall and moving laterally as they fell in echelon at a speed increasing to a hundred and twenty miles an hour.
The carpark was in the shape of a capital E with the middle stroke missinga long centre span with two wings. As The Dark Angels came to within two thousand feet of the red lamp they diverged from one another and pulled the ripcords. Black ramair 'chutes blossomed into curving rectangles, easily distinguished against the starlit sky and the almost full moon, but they were in view for no more than a few seconds. The Angels had reconnoitred the site in daylight, and Asmodeus touched down beside the western wing, exactly where he intended. On the far side of the structure Belial landed gently beside a mobile crane. Aruga, to his anger, missed his chosen spot by several feet as he touched down midway between the two wings of the structure.
On a partly finished floor near the top of the building Modesty and Willie stood near the middle of the main span with Gus. Both wore black slacks and shirts, camouflage paint on their faces. Willie wore twin knives strapped on his chest, two small weighted clubs in loops on his belt. Modesty carried the kongo in a pocket near one shoulder and wore a holstered Colt .32 at her hip.
There had been some argument as to what part Gus should play. After Willie had checked carefully to make sure they were first in the field, he and Modesty had proposed finding a hideyhole for Gus until the action was over. Gus had protested vigorously, pointing out that as bodyguards they were supposed to guard his body, which they couldn't do if he wasn't around. In the end they had taken him up with them on the platform of the powerdriven hoist that rose on the outer side of the central span.
They had hardly heard the sound of the aircraft passing a mile away, but it was enough to alert them to a possibility, and they were watching when the 'chutes opened briefly on the final approach. Gus whispered, "Three of 'em. By air. Jeesus!"
Willie said softly, "Fancy stuff, Princess. But they're good."
"Yes. I wish now we'd slipped Gus a mickey and tucked him away safe somewhere."
Gus sniffed in disapproval. "I'd be real put out if you had, Miss Modesty. What we gonna do? Wait for 'em to come at us?"
"Better them on the move than us. Easier to spot." She looked about her at the network of girders and stanchions forming the skeleton of the structure. "These stanchions throw shadows. Stand close against one, Gus, and don't move unless I tell you to."
Several floors below, Asmodeus was climbing a rope he had cast with a grapnel tipped with solid rubber, now caught over a higher girder. It had been agreed between the Dark Angels that there could be no preplanned combination moves such as those they had devised for the Kaltchas contract. They would be engaged with opponents of high reputation who were expecting attack, and in this chosen arena of the halfbuilt carpark all action would have to be improvised with each man acting on his own initiative according to the way the combat developed.
This was new for the Angels, and intensely exciting. It also introduced an element of competition, for each was eager to claim either Modesty Blaise or Willie Garvin as a victim, or better still both. One thing the novelty of the coming confrontation had not done was to diminish their confidence in the slightest degree, for it was established in their psyches that they were superior beings to whom defeat and death could not come.
One floor below where his quarry waited, Asmodeus stood by a stanchion rising from a nineinch Igirder and put miniature nightglasses to his eyes for the fourth time. After a few seconds he smiled, lowered the glasses, pulled goggles down over his eyes and took a small CS gas bomb from a pouch at his hip. It was a long throw across the angle between the east wing and the main span to the floor above, but Asmodeus felt no shred of selfdoubt as his arm swung.
The missile landed on the concrete platform a few paces from Gus and began vomiting gas. Within two seconds Willie was there, kicking it out over the edge. Gus was coughing, hands clutched over his eyes as Modesty reached him, holding her breath but with her own eyes streaming. Gripping his arm she hauled him across to the hoist platform, pushed him so that he sprawled on to it, then drew her Colt and knelt to press it into his hand as she whispered, choking a little, "When you get below find a hole and stay there, Gus, shoot anyone who gets in your way."
She groped for the switchbox, found the start button, and felt the hoist sink away from her as the engine below came to life. When she turned away from the edge Willie was beside her, crouching, knuckling an eye, a knife held by the blade. She said. "Split. On the run till we can see straight."
They had both seen the canister hit the concrete and bounce, and could judge the direction from which it had been thrown. Together they moved the opposite way, diverging. Each carried an empty sack picked up from a pile at the foot of the hoist. Using her folded sack as protection for her hands, Modesty slid down two stanchions to a lower floor, gripping the flange on each side of the stanchion to control the speed of her descent.
At the back of her mind she was very conscious that she and Willie had been prodded into action with no time for serious preparation, while their three opponents had taken whatever time they needed to choose the arena and equip themselves for the occasion. She had seen them only as dark figures at a distance when they landed, but knew they were very special operators, highly skilled and organised.
She sought to get closer to their minds, recalling that whoever had thrown the CS bomb must have located one of them, probably Gus himself judging by where the canister had landed, yet there had been no shot, no attempt to kill. Did this mean they carried no weapon to kill beyond arm's length? Or were they hoping to maintain their practice of faking an accident? Or were these men so sure of themselves that they felt able to play cat and mouse with their victims?
One floor down and in the west wing, Willie Garvin had an unhappy feeling that he was cornered. Somebody was stalking him, and his eyes were not yet working well enough to pick out a shape in the deceptive starlight. From where he stood a long scaffold pole extended across a corner formed by the inner side of the wing and the main span. It would take only four seconds to swing along that, he decided, and tucked under his belt the sack he carried.
Among other hobbies, Willie Garvin was part owner of a tenting circus that travelled Europe, and he would sometimes spend a few weeks with it, doing a knifethrowing act under the name of El Cazador and Conchita, who was his target. There were one or two occasions when Modesty had played Conchita, with Willie hamming outrageously in Mexican garb for the entertainment of friends in the audience. Willie had also been the standin catcher for a trapeze act, and to swing hand over hand along the scaffold pole was easy for him. He was halfway along when he saw the man appear at the end he was approaching, a tall man all in black and wearing a skimask. Where the mouth showed, the man was smiling. At the moment his arms were folded and he held no weapon.
Willie looked back and saw a duplicate figure at the end he had just left, again simply watching, seeing no cause for hurry to dispatch a helpless opponent. Willie looked down at the ground sixty feet below, then at the floor he was facing, one level down from where he hung. The man on his right spoke softly. "We are The Dark Angels. I am Belial."
The man on his left said, "I am Aruga. You will be the first of our victims ever to know who destroyed you."
Willie thought, They're psycho. I'm in with a chance. He began to swing back and forth, talking amiably. " 'Allo, I'm Willie Garvin. I've 'eard of Belial but I thought Aruga was one of those islands in the Dutch West Indies..." He went on talking as the man called Belial drew a knife from the back of his belt and flicked it over to catch it by the blade. By now Willie had increased his swing almost to the horizontal, and a glance the other way showed that the other man was also preparing to throw.
Willie made the final swing forward, putting all his strength into the move, turning in an open back somersault to land on the very edge of the floor below but with residual impetus, diving forward as two knives struck steel or concrete to either side of him. Next moment he had rolled on and come to his feet under the shelter of the floor above, out of sight of The Dark Angels.
Three floors higher, Modesty lay prone, looking down at the corner where Willie had vanished. She had heard his voice, and reached the edge of an unfinished floor just in time to see him escape the knives. Her gun was with Gus, or she could have brought down at least one of the men. Now they had gone, perhaps to follow Willie, perhaps to seek other quarry, herself or Gus. Later, if there was to be a later, she would be furiously scathing with herself for ineptness in approaching the challenge she had accepted, but this was not the moment for dwelling on it.
She edged back, slid down one floor and saw a mortar tray with a spade propped against a nearby stanchion. A length of rope was attached to the tray, perhaps for hauling it across the rough floor. She eyes the spade thoughtfully for a moment or two and decided to stay for a while.
Willie Garvin was also profoundly annoyed with himself and had decided it was high time to take some sort of initiative. To this end he was on the ground now, having slid down a succession of stanchions using the sack to protect his hands from friction. Knife in hand he moved towards the foot of the hoist, thankful that his vision was clear again. It was as he passed the heap of sacks that he heard a soft "Pssst!" and dropped to one knee, turning ready to throw.
One of the top sacks was flipped back and Gus's head and shoulders emerged from the pile with a hand holding Modesty's gun. His voice held a tinge of disappointment as he whispered. "Only you. I hoped it was one o' them parachutin' critturs. How's it goin'?"
Willie breathed, "I rate three out often so far, but I'm 'oping to improve."
"Where's Miss Modesty?"
"Up top somewhere, I think."
"Then what the hell you doin' down here? Let's git to helping her."
He started to clamber out of the pile, but Willie pushed him back and whispered fiercely, "You stay buried or I'll break your legs. You promised Modesty." He flipped a sack over Gus's scowling face and moved on to the foot of the hoist.
Several floors above, Belial moved like a shadow through a lattice of girders and stanchions to a section of concrete flooring. In one hand he held the butt of a whip. Its thong was five feet long tipped with a further foot of razorwire. There came a slight sound ahead and to his right from behind one of the broad steel stanchions. He froze, then edged forward. The lash leapt out, curling round the stanchion at head height, and in the same instant two feet smashed into Belial's back as Modesty launched a high dropkick from behind.
He was flung forward, his head hitting the face of the unforgiving steel, and he slumped unconscious. Modesty listened for any hint of sound nearby, then moved forward. A spade lay behind the stanchion. It was attached to a length of rope she had used to create the small sound that had decoyed the man into position for her attack. She searched him for weapons, was disappointed to find no gun and only an empty knife sheath, then used the rope to tie his hands behind him with feet doubled back and lashed to the hands.
When she pulled off the skimask she saw the face of a man in his middle twenties with blood welling from a cut forehead. In the fall, a medallion on a chain round his neck had emerged from under his shirt. Using a pencil torch and carefully screening it she saw that the medallion bore a winged human figure. Arched above this were the words The Dark Angels, and below it the word Belial. She switched off the torch and knelt unmoving for a moment, marvelling as she thought, My God, they're fantasy roleplayers but for real!
She had just risen to her feet when there came from below the sound of the engine that drove the hoist. She moved quickly across the girders to a point where she would be able to watch its progress, not knowing who had started the hoist or what it signified, but with an instinctive feeling that this was probably a Willie Garvin initiative, which was comforting.
On a floor below, Aruga crouched with a dartgun aimed. The hoist ran in a framework of steel scaffolding and was located so that on each floor it could be halted at a point where a section of flooring had been run in. Aruga heard the engine note change as the platform came to a halt at each of the floors before moving on. Now it was approaching the floor where he waited only eight paces away. It came into view, halting just above the level of the floor, but the platform was empty except for one or two sacks lying on it.
Aruga stood up, moving forward to investigate. As he did so a man's head and shoulders rose from the farther edge of the platform and an arm swung. Startled, Aruga jerked the gun up, but even as he began the movement a knife drove into the muscle of his gunarm. The weapon fell. Aruga staggered with shock and dropped to his knees. Making a huge effort he rose and lurched forward, reaching towards the dartgun with his sound arm, but then the man was there, a big man with fair hair he had last seen hanging helpless from a scaffold pole. Now he was holding a second knife with its point touching Aruga's throat. A voice with a Cockney accent said softly, "You'll 'ave to tell me more about The Dark Angels... but not just now." A hand with an edge like teak struck behind Aruga's ear, and he fell sideways.
Willie Garvin felt slightly less annoyed with himself as he moved into some shadows and waited to see if any attention had been attracted. He had hung from the outer edge of the hoist with one foot in a loop of rope and with the control box detached from its mounting so that he was able to stop the platform at each floor in the hope that at some stage one of the ungodly would approach to investigate. And one of them had.
Looking across from the corner of the east wing, Modesty had been able to make out enough of the scenario to feel that Willie had probably eliminated one opponent, which left only the third man in contention. She moved off, walking on one of the long girders, arms spread for balance, reflecting that the odds were more favourable now but there was still nothing to be complacent about. The last man had to be found and-
He came from behind a stanchion ten paces ahead. She had moved from the girder on to a floored section when he emerged, his arm swinging horizontally in a throw, which told her the missile was not a knife, and as she ducked sideways she glimpsed the razorsharp ninja star flashing past, its steel edge slicing a shallow cut in her arm just below the shoulder instead of finding the intended target of her throat.
Then he was upon her with a karate attack and she was offbalance, blocking, backing, using all her combat skills to evade a crippling strike, but unable to use her unique ability to fight aggressively while in swift retreat, for the floor edge was behind her with an eightyfoot drop waiting below. Driving him back for a moment with a glancing footstrike she felt for the last stanchion behind her where the long girder began. By moving fast along it, by running along it, she would have the advantage at the far end if he followed.
She had taken only one stride when her foot slipped on a small pool of blood that had run down her arm from the cut in her shoulder and she sprawled forward, clutching at the girder as she fell, her legs slipping over the edge, their weight dragging her body over so that she hung only by the grasp of her two hands on the upper flange of the girder.
The man moved forward on to the narrow steel, treading lightly and with perfect balance, halting near her right hand and looking down at her, teeth showing in a smile. "We are The Dark Angels," he said, "and I am Asmodeus, your destroyer."
He stamped at her fingers, but she snatched the hand away and transferred her grip to the lower flange of the girder, following suit with the other hand. Now if he tried to stamp on her fingers he would be unbalanced and vulnerable. He made no move to do so, but laughed and took a step forward, turning to stand with legs astride, firmly balanced as he looked down from directly above her.
" I am Asmodeus," he repeated, and slowly drew a knife from the sheath at the back of his belt.
She had been hoping for this, focusing energy on her stomach muscles, and now with explosive speed she chinned herself and brought her legs up behind him, thrusting her feet between his straddled legs, hooking her heels beneath his kneecaps, then pushing back. He swayed, uttered a wordless cry of shock, then fell, clutching futilely at space. One of his feet caught her ankle, almost tearing her loose from the girder, then he was gone and she heard a scream cut short as he hit a girder, a voiceless impact as he struck another, and a soft sound from far below.
With a huge effort she dragged herself up and crawled to the safety of the flooring to sit with her back against a stanchion, a hand gripping her cut shoulder. It was perhaps a minute later that Willie's voice whispered from the shadows, "Princess...?"
She said, "Did you get any?"
"Only one."
She relaxed. "That's all right. We're clear. The one who just took a dive was my second."
He emerged from the shadows, peering at her. Even in the pale light he could see that her face was grazed, her shirt torn, her shoulder hurt. He said apologetically, "Sorry to lumber you with most of it. I made a right cockup to start with."
"I made one both ends. Christ, Willie, we'd better get our act together. We walked into this as if it was going to be a teaparty."
He nodded. "I know. Too cocky. But so were they, only worse. What 'appened 'ere, Princess?"
"I'll tell you while you get a dressing on this shoulder. It took a bit of a cut from a ninja star."

* * *

Fifteen minutes had gone by. A cement mixer was churning below. On a section of the fourth floor Aruga and Belial lay without masks, hands tied behind them, faces empty with shock. Aruga's right shirtsleeve had been cut away and there was an emergency dressing on his upper arm.
Using the hoist, Willie had just brought the two men here from where he and Modesty had left them bound. He had not been pleased to find the whip tipped with razorwire that Belial had used as a weapon. Modesty stood with arms folded, a bulge under the sleeve of her shirt just below the shoulder where Willie had fixed a dressing. Gus stood grimfaced, smoking the last of a cheroot having asked Modesty's permission.
Willie walked to where the concrete flooring ended and looked down through the steel skeleton of girders, then he moved to where the two Dark Angels lay and studied them as if trying to come to a decision. From the time he had brought the first of them here, Aruga, not a word had been spoken, and even now the ominous silence continued as Gus dropped his cigar butt and trod it out while Willie adjusted his knives and buttoned his shirt over them.
Another full minute passed before Modesty spoke. She said, "I'm going to keep this simple. We're going to assume you know who sent you to kill Mr Keyes. If you don't know, it's going to be hard luck."
Willie took Belial by the hair, hauled him to his feet and backed him to the edge of the unfinished floor. "We're mixing some concrete for the road," he said. "Asmodeus is already down there making a nice bit of 'ardcore foundation, and we thought you'd like to join 'im."
Modesty said without much interest, "Or you could just tell us the names."
There was a silence. Belial glared defiantly. Willie said, "He thinks we're bluffing, Princess," and hit Belial hard under the jaw with the heel of his hand. Unconscious, the man fell back limply into the darkness below.
Willie stepped to the edge and looked down. "That's amazing," he said with interest. "D'you know, he missed every girder going down. Didn't bounce once." He turned with a grin. " ›Yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind.‹ Psalm eighteen, verse ten." He hauled Aruga to his feet and pushed him back to the edge. "Wonder if I can do it again?"
Modesty said, "Just the names."
Sweat was pouring down Aruga's face. He had suffered defeat, and a wound, and the world he lived in had been destroyed. Holding him by the throat Willie said, "I expect you and your dead mates were going to mix up a bit of concrete for us, eh? Still, you can't say we never gave you a chance." He lifted an eyebrow hopefully. "No? Well, you go and tell Belial 'ow brave you were."
He shaped for the blow, and Aruga broke. "Wait! His head sagged and he mumbled, "Sumner. Brigadier Sumner. Beckworth, Timmins... a woman, Harriet Welling... that's all I know." As Willie pulled him away from the edge his legs gave way and he collapsed.
Gus moved forward and looked down over the edge. Belial lay ten feet below in a heavy loading net spread between the girders. Gus sniffed. "The goddam net held," he said sourly, and moved away to face Modesty. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket he held it against the weeping graze on her cheek, and saw her skinned knuckles as she took it from him. "You took some bad lumps for me, Miss Modesty," he said in a low sad voice.
She smiled. "Fewer than I deserve. But we stomped 'em, didn't we?"
"Yeah. You an' Willie did. It all worked out okay." He turned from her and stood with hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking out at the night sky with forlorn eyes. "It worked out just fine."

* * *

Twelve hours later John Beckworth, OBE, was standing by the big fireplace in the lounge of his Pall Mall club, glancing at the Financial Times and expecting that at any moment a steward would tell him he was wanted on the phone. The caller would be Brigadier Sumner, who by now would have received a report from The Dark Angels.
Looking up from the newspaper he saw that a fellow member had risen from a nearby armchair, a member with whom he had only slight acquaintance. Beckworth nodded a greeting and said, "Morning, Tarrant. How's the Civil Service these days?"
"Oh, hoping to please, I think," said Tarrant.
"Glad to hear it." Beckworth frowned and stared past Tarrant with some annoyance. "Good God, there's a chap come into the club wearing a rollneck shirt under his jacket. Doesn't he know the rules?"
Tarrant said, "He's not a member. He's Chief Detective Inspector Finn, and he's with me, here on business."
Beckworth stood very still for a moment or two, then laid the newspaper down on a coffeetable. "Well... I'll let you get on with it."
Tarrant said quietly, "I'm afraid it's to your address, Beckworth. One of the Dark Angels is dead, the other two are in custody having talked. Sumner, Timmins and Mrs Welling were picked up an hour ago."
"Ah, I see." Beckworth stood in deep thought for a few moments, then managed a wry smile. "I sometimes wondered precisely what your job was, Tarrant. I'd be greatly obliged if we could go to the Secretary's office and then leave before your chap actually arrests me."
Tarrant's eyebrows lifted in query, and Beckworth went on anxiously, "I simply want to settle my bill and hand in my formal resignation. Better for the club that way, surely?"

* * *

At ten o'clock next morning Willie Garvin came into the penthouse kitchen where Weng was making bread. "Let's 'ave Miss Blaise's orange juice, Weng," he said.
The houseboy looked surprised. "But she told us she would sleep till noon and to hell with it. She is restoring herself, Mr Garvin."
"I know." Willie waved a sheet of paper. "But this just came through on the fax. It's from Mr Chavasse. Take a look." There was nothing exceptional about his showing it to Weng, who handled all Modesty's affairs during any of her absences from home, which were sometimes quite long.
After fifteen seconds Weng blinked once then handed back the paper. Rolling the dough he had kneaded into a ball he wrapped it in plastic and put it in the freezer. "I will have her orange juice ready in a moment, Mr Garvin."
She roused when Willie tapped on her door and entered. "Hallo, Willie love. What is it?" She knew the time was well before the hour she had set herself to wake.
He handed her the orange juice as she sat up. "Tell you in a minute, Princess. How's the shoulder?"
She wore no nightdress, and looked down at the neat stitches put in by a police surgeon in the small hours of the day before, following the night of The Dark Angels. "It's fine," she said. "I'll be ready for a workout with you in a week."
He waited until she had drunk the orange juice and set down the glass, then he said, "Gus has gone."
She stared. "Gone? You mean left?"
"Vanished. No note, nothing. Must 'ave slipped out before Weng was up. Weng told me when I came for breakfast, but I didn't see any point in waking you up."
"No. But..." she shook her head, bewildered, "it's out of character, Willie. Gus is so... courteous."
"That's what I thought too, Princess, and maybe he is, but d'you remember Danny Chavasse rang you from Boston soon after he got there, and you told him old Gus turned out to be Howard A. Keyes, supermarket tycoon?" She nodded, and he handed her the sheet of paper, "Well, this fax just came through from Danny in Miami."
The fax read: I suppose it takes one to know one. Your friend Gus is a doublephoney. When he said ›Jumpin' Jehoshaphat‹ twice in ten minutes I felt I was watching an old Bpicture western. Didn 't mention any doubts then because it didn 't seem important, but when I rang from Boston you told me about Howard A. Keyes, so now I'm faxing you to say if Howard tries to sell you a gold brick, don't buy it. I 'II be on Paxero's yacht with my good friend Julie Boscombe when it sails tomorrow, and meantime I've been mixing with some of the top tycoons in the US of A. They assure me there ain 't no such person as Howard A. Keyes, owner of a vast supermarket chain and bits of Texas. The story fed to selected newspapers and magazines was a wellorganised ploy. My rich friends suspect connivance by more than one government, which I find puzzling, but there it is. Anyway, the Breguet is wonderful. You shouldn 't have, but thank you.
Love, Danny
She laid the paper down on her lap and said, "Tarrant."
Willie nodded. "Who else? He set up that roadside fracas with noble old Gus standing by to do his stuff."
"Which is why he rang to find out which route I'd be taking."
"Adrian and Tarquin were phonies too. Tarrant's people. I like their choice of names though, Princess."
She had been sitting tightlipped, but now she suddenly grinned at him. "Yes. You can't help admiring the old bastard, Willie. It was brilliant. He hadn't got a lead on these dubious accidents the computers came up with, so he set up a stalking horse as bait, namely Gus. Then he suckered me into the game with Gus turning up as my defender, which meant getting you in on it because he knew that's how it would be. And we did the job for him."
Willie was happy to see her eyes sparkling with amusement. He said, "Crafty old sod. I wonder who Gus is?"
"Yes, that's a question. But whoever he is he's got guts, Willie. He's no chicken, but he was there with us when The Dark Angels came down out of the sky to kill him, and that took cold nerve." She thought for a moment. "I wonder why he's run away?" She picked up the bedside phone. "Let's see what Tarrant has to say."
She dialled and gave her name to the switchboard operator, but it was Tarrant's assistant, Fraser, who came on the line. "Sorry, Modesty, he's out of the office. Left for Heathrow ten minutes ago. Anything I can do?"
"I don't think so, thanks, Jack. Is he going abroad?"
"No, just seeing a VIP off."
"Like Mr Keyes, the phoney tycoon?"
There were several seconds of silence, then Fraser sighed and said, "I won't ask how you found out. Tarrant's in mourning over conning you, but I'm not. We had lives to save, and we don't have people like you on our books to call on."
"Excuses, excuses. All right, Jack. Tell him I'll call tomorrow. Take care."
She put down the phone, threw off the bedclothes and made for the bathroom. "Two can play at withholding information, and I don't want him calling Tarrant to warn him. We're going to Heathrow, Willie. They have ten minutes start, but I'll be out of the shower in three and dressed by the time you've brought the Jensen round to the front, so we won't be far behind. Let's go."

* * *

Sir Gerald Tarrant and Howard A. Keyes sat with coffee at a table in the cafe area of London Airport's main concourse. They had been speaking occasionally but had now lapsed into an unhappy silence, each lost in his own thoughts.
A Cockney voice nearby said, "D'you mind if we join you?" Both men froze, then turned to see Willie Garvin with two coffees on a tray, Modesty Blaise beside him. They rose, their faces filled with dismay and apprehension.
She was in slacks and a thin rollneck sweater, wearing not a scrap of makeup, her hair loose and tied back with a small piece of ribbon. She seemed smaller now than either of them remembered, and they found it hard to conceive that this was the same girl who had fought the power of The Dark Angels for them only two nights ago, fought to the death for them. It made the sick pain they already felt even harder to bear.
After a moment or two Tarrant gestured and managed to mutter. "Yes, please sit down."
Willie set down the tray, held a chair for Modesty, drew up one for himself facing her, and gestured politely for the others to sit. Modesty opened her little carton of cream and poured it in her coffee, opened the packet of sugar and tipped it in, all without haste. She stirred the coffee thoughtfully, laid down the spoon, and looked at the American for the first time. "Well, who are you, Gus?"
He spoke in the voice of an educated man and with a milder southern accent, a voice deeply troubled. "The name's right, ma'am, and my friends do call me Gus. The rest was lies."
"You don't own a string of supermarkets in America?"
He shook his head. "I own a small hardware store in Montana."
"So how did you get into this?"
"I was with the CIA for twentyodd years, ma'am. Did a lot of undercover work. Seems they owed your friend Sir Gerald a favour, and when he told them what he wanted they remembered I retired a few years back and they gave him my name. Said I might fit the bill and go along with it. So the stories about the big supermarket tycoon were planted, then I came over, and... we set you up."
"Yes, I know that bit now, and I know the reason why my - what did you call him? - my friend Sir Gerald did it. But you were there with us, up the sharp end with three very smart killers gunning for you. Why did you do it, please?"
"Me? Well, I did it for fifty thousand pounds sterling."
"That's just money. There has to be a reason behind the money."
"I did it, ma'am, that's all. No excuses."
Tarrant coughed and said diffidently, "I feel bound to reveal that Mr Keyes had a wife who was in a local hospice for three years before she died. The hospice now has to raise substantial funds for refurbishment or it will close. Mr Keyes asked that the consideration due to him for his services be paid to the hospice."
After a moment Willie said, "Post 'umously if necessary?"
Tarrant smiled a small grey smile. "Of course. But thankfully that doesn't arise."
Gus Keyes said sombrely, "We've been sitting here arguing about which of us hates himself most. We could have got you killed, ma'am. Oh, Willie too," he added hastily.
Willie grinned and said, "Thanks."
Modesty drank some coffee, gazing reflectively from one man to the other. At last she said, "Where did the Jumpin' Jehoshaphat character come from?"
The American gave her a hesitant smile. "He was easy for me. That Gus was my grandfather, and I can conjure him up any time."
She looked at Willie. "He was a nice man, wasn't he, Willie? We liked Gus."
"They don't make 'em like him any more, Princess."
Gus Keyes flinched. "Sure. I don't think he'd like his grandson too much."
Still speaking to Willie she said, "On the other hand lives have been saved, killers put away, and our Gus would certainly have wanted to do his best for the hospice, wouldn't he?"
"I just 'ad the same thought. He'd even 'ave done it for the measly fifty grand."
She frowned. "It was a hundred grand, Willie. You can't have been listening properly." She looked at Tarrant. "That's right, isn't it, a hundred thousand sterling?"
Tarrant sighed. "Yes, of course." He looked at Willie and said severely, "Do listen more attentively, please."
After a short silence Gus Keyes said, "You're heaping coals of fire on my head. I don't know what to say."
"You can tell me why you ran out on me this morning."
He met her gaze with troubled eyes. "For shame, ma'am, you must know that. For shame. The longer it went on, you and me and Willie, the worse I felt."
"But you agreed to spend a week with us down at the cottage before you went back. A week with no worries."
He shook his head. "I couldn't do it, living lies for another week. I couldn't."
"Well, that won't apply now, will it? The invitation still stands." She smiled suddenly, and it was a smile that warmed his heart and made him catch his breath as she said, "But I won't be offended if you turn me down. I know you have a store to run."
He sighed, and tension seemed to drain out of him. "The store can wait," he said. "You're a very generous lady and I'm deeply beholden to you, ma'am."
"Good. Now you can stop calling me that." She looked across the table. "Will you take care of Gus and his luggage please, Willie? I'll join you at the car in a couple of minutes. I just want a quick word with Sir Gerald."
"Sure, Princess." Willie rose and picked up the suitcase beside Gus. "Come on, oldtimer, let's get them oxen harnessed."
When they had moved away Tarrant said, "I'd rather you were angry with me than hurt."
She looked at him, puzzled. "I'm neither. I was annoyed with myself for being suckered, but that'll help keep me on my toes. Why didn't you simply ask me?"
"You mean tell you the full story and ask you to take part, knowing Gus was a fake? I couldn't believe you'd agree. Why on earth should you?"
She sat thinking for a few moments, then said slowly, "Yes, you could be right. There had to be someone I cared about involved." She shook her head and laughed. "You'd better remember that another time."
Tarrant looked away. "My dear," he said gently, "I remembered it this time, didn't I? There'll never be another."