The Giggle-Wrecker

The Minister lightly underlined a few words on the report in front of him, then looked across his desk at Sir Gerald Tarrant and said, 'I'm advised that Professor Okubo is the best bacteriologist in the world. It's a vital aspect of defence today, and if he's available we want to have him. We must have him.'
Tarrant sighed inwardly. He held Waverly in good esteem and liked the man personally. But, perhaps like all politicians, Waverly sometimes allowed his judgement to be swayed by a particular enthusiasm; and as Minister of Defence, Waverly's great enthusiasm was scientific research in the military field.
'If you want Okubo badly, Minister,' Tarrant said, 'then I think you should talk to somebody else about it. My organization in East Berlin isn't geared for getting a defector out.'
Waverly began to fill his pipe. He was a stocky man with small, intelligent eyes set in a heavy face. 'I've persuaded the PM that this calls for a special effort,' he said.
Sixteen years ago Okubo had slipped away from American surveillance in Tokyo and reappeared in Moscow. It had long been known that he was a brilliant young scientist, but of suspect political views. Until his defection it was not known that he was a dedicated Communist. Now, at the age of forty, he had become disenchanted with Marx's brave new world, and had defected anew, but it was a messy and poorly planned defection. Tarrant did not like it at all.
He said, 'Even if we got him out, I don't think you could hold him for long. The Americans would offer him a million-pound laboratory set-up. Why should he stay with us and make do with a Bunsen burner and a bit of litmus paper?'
Waverly smiled. 'Come now. You know I've wrung enor-
28
mous increases from the Treasury for scientific work. And we seem to be Okubo's personal choice. Just get him out and leave the rest to me.'
First news of Okubo's disappearance from Moscow had come direct to Waverly from the Embassy Intelligence there. Within forty-eight hours there had been rumours in foreign newspapers, followed by denials. It was then that Tarrant had been called in. He did not like being handed a job that was already begun and had been botched, though there was nobody to blame for this but Okubo himself.
The Minister said, 'You've done very well so far.'
'I haven't had the chance to do either well or badly yet,' Tarrant said courteously. 'You asked me to get a line on Okubo, and then he just turned up.'
'Yes.' Waverly looked down at the report again. 'This is very brief. How did he get from Moscow to Berlin?'
'By way of Prague. After the Russians walked in there our Prague Section managed to recruit one or two embittered Czech party members. One was a scientist who knew Okubo well. Apparently they hatched this clumsy escape plan between them. Okubo got to Prague under his own steam without any difficulty and went to ground there. Then his friend informed Prague Control, and they managed to get Okubo as far as East Berlin. I don't think it was the best thing to do, but from the report sent to me I fancy Okubo is an awkward customer who likes things done according to his own ideas. Anyway, Prague found themselves holding this very hot potato and I don't blame them for getting rid of Okubo as fast as they could. If he'd given us any warning of his intention to defect we could have handled things much more smoothly. Even now, given time and given his cooperation, I can get Okubo out, either by the Baltic coast or back through Czechoslovakia and over the border into Austria. But the man who's keeping Okubo under wraps at the moment reports that he won't cooperate.'
Waverly shrugged. 'It's understandable. When you're little more than a stone's throw from freedom, you don't want to start travelling the other way. Besides, we have to make allowances for scientific genius. You'll just have to accept the
29
situation, and bring him out from East to West Berlin.'
Tarrant said bluntly. Tm sorry. I haven't the facilities.'
The Minister frowned. 'If he can be got from Moscow to Berlin, surely you can get him over the Wall? It's only another hundred yards or so.'
'A very particular hundred yards, Minister. Okubo is Japanese, and only four feet ten inches high. In an Aryan country he couldn't be more obvious if he carried a banner with his name on it. Getting him out would require a major operation. Worst of all, we're not the only ones who know he's in East Berlin. The KGB knows it, too.'
Waverly had been about to draw on his pipe. Now he paused. 'How do you know that?'
Tarrant hesitated. He hated giving needless information, even to a Minister of the Crown. Reluctantly he said, 'We've had a man in East German Security HQ for seven years now.'
'I see. I won't mention it at cocktail parties,' Waverly said with mild irony. He got up from his desk and walked to the window. 'If the Russians know Okubo is there, I imagine they're turning East Berlin upside down, and as you say, it can't be easy to hide a Japanese. The sooner he's out, the better.'
'The Russians aren't making a tooth-comb search,' Tarrant said. 'They know we have Okubo in a safe-house, and they're simply waiting for him to move. Then they'll net him. Starov's no fool.'
'Starov?'
'Major-General Starov. Head of Russian Security in East Berlin. He's very devious. A man I fear.'
Waverly returned to the desk. 'You said it would require a major operation to bring Okubo out. I see what you mean. But you'll just have to mount one.'
Tarrant kept a tight hold on the fear and anger he felt. 'We've spent fifteen years building up the network we have in East Berlin,' he said quietly. 'It takes time to recruit safely and to get people planted, but we have a very nice tight little network now. Agents have been spotted in carefully. They don't do anything. They're sleepers, and they've been placed
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there for one purpose only - so that we can activate them if and when the Berlin situation ever really catches fire. That's the real crunch, and they shouldn't be activated for anything else, however tempting. I suggest Okubo isn't worth it, Minister. It's like using kamikaze pilots to sink a row-boat.'
Waverly stared into space for a while, then said, 'Can you hire agents for the job? Money's no object for this.'
Tarrant sat up a little. 'No object to whom, Minister? The budget for all Secret Service departments was cut last year and again this year. We now have just over ten million pounds annually. I doubt if that would pay the CIA's telephone bill.'
Waverly shook his head. 'You're too old a hand to be disenchanted by Government parsimony. The Americans can afford it, and we can't. But you needn't touch your budget for this. I can secure money from the Special Fund. Surely you can hire the necessary personnel? I understand there are more freelance agents in West Berlin than we have civil servants in Whitehall.'
'There are almost as many Intelligence groups as that,' Tarrant said dryly. 'Some agents have become so entangled in the situation that they find it hard to remember who they're working for. And since there's precious little liaison, they spend some of their time industriously liquidating each other's agents by mistake. The fact that many of the groups have been penetrated by Russian Intelligence complicates matters. Add in the freelances, the doubles and the triples, and you have a situation which must make the Russians laugh themselves to sleep at nights.'
Waverly smiled. It was a small and not very humorous smile. 'Then if you can trust nobody else, you'll have to use your own people.'
'I thought I'd covered that point, Minister.'
'No.' Waverly looked into Tarrant's eyes. 'No, not really. You said Okubo wasn't worth risking your network for. But what Okubo is worth is a Ministerial decision. My decision.'
There was a very long silence in the room. 'Of course,' Tarrant said at last, and got to his feet. 'I'll keep you fully informed, Minister.'
31
When Modesty Blaise came into the reception hall of the penthouse block she appeared to be accompanied by a small but very handsome walnut tallboy chest of Queen Anne's day, moving on human feet that protruded from beneath it.
Willie Garvin set the tallboy down and wiped his brow. He had sat with it resting across him in the back of Modesty's open Rolls while she drove the eighty-odd miles from the country house where the auction sale had been held.
She was looking apologetic now, as well as stunningly attractive in the powder-blue matching dress and jacket she wore. Tm sorry, Willie,' she said as he stretched his cramped muscles. 'I ought to have let them send it.'
'That's right,' Willie agreed amiably.
'But I kept remembering how that lovely little table was ruined last year.'
Willie nodded judicially. 'That's right, too.'
'So it was better to bring it with us, really.'
'That's right, Princess.'
She grinned suddenly, patted his arm and said, 'You ought to get mad at me sometimes for my own good.'
'Next time.' He looked past her and registered mild surprise. 'Look who's 'ere.'
A man had risen from an armchair in the reception hall and was moving towards them. He carried a bowler hat and a rolled umbrella. His name was Fraser, and he was Sir Gerald Tarrant's personal assistant.
Fraser was a small bespectacled man with a thin face and a timorous manner. The picture he chose to present most of the time was one of nervous humility. This was a role he had acted for so long that it was a part of him. Sometimes, within a tiny circle of close intimates, the role was dropped and the real Fraser appeared. This was another man, and a very hard personality indeed. Fraser had served as an agent in the field for fifteen years before returning to a desk job, and he had been one of the great agents.
Now he said with an anxious smile, 'I hope my visit isn't... I mean, I tried to telephone you, Miss Blaise, but - er ... so I thought I'd come along and wait for you.'
'That's all right. I wanted to go over the policy with you
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before I signed,' Modesty said, and turned to the porter behind the reception desk. 'George, will you give Mr Garvin a hand to get this thing in the lift?'
A private lift served Modesty's penthouse. There was just room for the three of them and the tallboy. Going up in the lift, Fraser retained his servile manner, commenting fulsomely but knowledgeably on the tallboy.
Willie lifted it out and set it down in the tiled foyer. Modesty led the way into the big sitting-room, taking off her jacket, and said, 'Is something wrong, Jack?'
Fraser grimaced, threw the hat and umbrella on to a big couch and stared at them sourly. 'Tarrant's resigning,' he said, discarding his image. 'Bloody hell. The longer I live, the more I sympathize with Guy Fawkes, except that blowing up politicians is too good for them. Do you think I could have a drink?'
Modesty nodded to Willie, who moved to the bar and poured a double brandy. He knew Fraser's tastes.
'Why is he resigning?' Modesty asked.
'If I tell you that,' Fraser said, 'I shall be breaking the Official Secrets Act.' He sipped the brandy, sighed, and said, 'God, this is good. If anyone ever wants to ruin it with dry ginger, I hope you break their teeth.'
Modesty and Willie glanced at each other. Fraser was a badly worried man, and that was so unlikely as to be alarming.
'So let's drive a truck through the Official Secrets Act,' Fraser said with gloomy relish. 'There's some bloody Jap bacteriologist who's been working for the Russians for years. Professor Okubo. He's defected and he's in East Berlin now, being kept under wraps by our liaison man. Our masters want him. Waverly's told Tarrant to get him out - even though Starov knows he's in hiding there. We can't do it without activating the sleeper network. Tarrant's been told to go ahead and do just that.' Fraser shook his head. 'My sister's husband would have more sense, and I wouldn't match him against a smart dog, the thick bastard.'
Willie Garvin whistled softly. This was bad. He saw that Modesty was angry. Like him, she was thinking of the agents, the men and women who for years had lived the bleak,
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comfortless and restricted life of East Berliners, and who with luck might go on doing so for years more, simply so that they could be activated if ever a crisis got out of hand and the chips went down.
At very best the job was a sentence to long barren years of deprivation. At worst, a bad break would mean torture and death. God alone knew why they did it. But they did. And the very least acknowledgement they could be given was not to sell them down the river by needless exposure.
'If Tarrant resigns,' Fraser said brusquely, 'we lose the best man ever to hold the job. That's one thing. It's bad, but we seem to specialize in self-inflicted wounds, so it's nothing new. The second thing is this. If he resigns, they'll put in somebody who will agree to do what Tarrant won't. The new boy will activate the network to get this bloody Japanese measles expert out, and it's an odds-on chance that Starov will have the lot.' He looked down into his glass and said broodingly, 'I've been where they're sitting now. It's not funny.'
Modesty said, 'You're asking us to do something?'
Fraser gave her a lopsided, humourless smile. He looked suddenly tired. 'Not asking,' he said. 'I don't see what the hell you or anybody can do. I'm just telling you and hoping. Hoping you might think of some way to save those poor trusting buggers in East Berlin.'
Nobody spoke for a while. Fraser looked up and saw that Willie Garvin was leaning against the wall by the fireplace, looking at Modesty with an almost comically inquiring air, as if they were sharing some faintly amusing joke.
She got up and moved to the telephone, saying, 'Do you know where Sir Gerald is now?'
'At the office,' Fraser said, hardly daring to acknowledge the flare of hope that leapt within him. 'Composing his resignation, I imagine.'
She dialled the direct number, waited a few seconds, then said, 'It's Modesty. Do you think you could call here very soon, Sir Gerald? Something urgent has come up.' A pause. 'Thank you. In about twenty minutes, then.'
She put down the phone. Willie had moved and stood looking down at Fraser with a wicked grin. He said, 'Tarrant
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swore he'd never get the Princess tangled up in another caper. He's going to 'ave your guts for this, Fraser, my old mate.'
When Tarrant arrived, Willie Garvin was absent. The sight of Fraser, and his simple statement, 'I've told her,' left no need for further explanation. Even Tarrant's immense control was barely sufficient to contain his fury.
Fraser went into his humble and pathetic act, was blasted out of it, and sat in dour silence, his face a little pale, as Tarrant lashed him with a cold but blistering tongue.
Modesty allowed time for the first shock to be absorbed, then broke in briskly. 'He came to me because he's concerned about your sleeper network, Sir Gerald. Let's talk about that now.'
'No, my dear.' He turned to her. 'I wouldn't send one of my salaried agents into East Berlin for this job, much less you. Don't think me ungrateful. I even recognize Eraser's good intentions. But I won't allow you to attempt an impossible mission.'
'A few people who trust you are going to die if we don't do something.'
'I know.' There was a grey tinge to Tarrant's face. 'If I thought you stood a chance of getting Okubo out...' He shrugged. 'Perhaps I'd forget the promise I've made to myself, and ask your help. But there isn't a chance. The Berlin Wall is virtually impenetrable now. Oh, I know there have been plenty of escapes, but not recently. People used to escape over it, under it, and through it. But not any more.'
Absently he took the glass she handed him and muttered his thanks. 'It's different now,' he said. 'And it was never easy. You'd need three figures to count the tunnels dug during the years since the Wall was built, but only a dozen succeeded. Now there are detection devices to locate tunnels. People have crossed the Wall in every possible way. By breeches-buoy on a high cable. By battering through it with a steamroller. They've used locomotives on the railway and steamers on the canal. They've swum and they've run and they've climbed. Over two hundred have died. With each new idea, the East Germans have taken measures to prevent it being used again. And the
35
West Berlin people have stopped being cooperative now. They don't like messy incidents at the Wall.'
He gave her a tired smile. 'I can't send you into that. There's not only the Wall itself. There are guards by the hundred, highly-trained guard-dogs, and anti-personnel mines. There's a wired-off thirty-yard death strip even before you can reach the Wall from the east. That's where most people die. There are infra-red cameras and trip wires and waterway patrols. And nobody gets smuggled through a checkpoint any more, certainly not Okubo.'
He emptied his glass and put it down. 'I know your ability and resources. Perhaps you could find a way out, given time. But you can't even get inside safely at short notice. You could never enter East Berlin as yourself, and a sound cover-identity would take months to establish.'
Modesty smiled at him. 'Don't be such an old misery. I have a friend with special facilities for entering East Berlin.'
Before Tarrant could answer there came the faint hum of the ascending lift. The doors in the foyer opened and a man stepped out. He was tall and wore a well-cut dark suit. His hair had once been fair but was now almost entirely grey, prematurely grey to judge by his face, which was rather round and bore a healthy tan. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles, and was beginning to thicken around the waist.
'Ah, there you are,' Modesty said as he moved forward and down the three steps which pierced the wrought-iron balustrade separating the foyer from the sitting-room. 'It's good of you to drop everything and come so quickly. Sir Gerald, I'd like you to meet Sven Jorgensen.'
The man shook hands and said in good English with a slight accent, 'A pleasure to meet you, Sir Gerald.'
Tarrant said, 'How do you do.' He was puzzled and a little distressed. Why the hell had Modesty brought in a foreign stranger, right in the middle of a top-secret discussion? He trusted her judgement completely, but--
Why on earth was Jorgensen prolonging the handshake, gazing at him in that odd way?
Jorgensen said in Wilh'e Garvin's voice, 'You're not concentrating. Sir G.'
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Tarrant heard Fraser rip off a delighted oath, and struggled hard not to show his own surprise. Yes, he could see it now, as if suddenly seeing the hidden face in a child's puzzle-picture. The disguise was not heavy. There was the superb and undetectable wig, and the pads which altered the shape of the face, but the rest of the transformation lay mainly in manner, posture and movement.
Tarrant said, 'Hallo, Willie. You're right. I wasn't concentrating.'
'We go in from Sweden by air,' Modesty said. 'Willie is Herr Jorgensen, who runs a small antique and rare-book business in Gothenberg. I'm his secretary. I can't show you what I'll look like just now because I have to dye my hair, but I'll be equally convincing.'
'I'm sure you will.' Tarrant shook his head slowly. 'But it still won't do, Modesty. Foreign businessmen or visitors are automatically suspect in East Germany, you know that. You'll be watched. Your rooms may be bugged, your passports intensely checked. You simply won't get away with it.'
'We have got away with it for the last five years,' Willie said in his rather stilted Jorgensen voice, and took out a packet of Swedish cigarettes. Tarrant looked at Modesty. She said, 'We've made a ten- or twelve-day trip to East Berlin from Sweden every year for the last five. The antique business in Gothenberg is quite genuine and belongs to us.'
Fraser said, 'But for Christ's sake, why do you do it?'
She gave a little shrug. 'We began it a year or two before we retired from crime. It seemed a useful provision, to see what went on behind the Curtain and to establish credible identities there. We kept it up because it seemed a pity to let the thing lapse. The East Berlin police have Herr Jorgensen and Froken Osslund on record. We've been tailed and bugged and checked and politely questioned. They've given up tailing us now. We know that, because we always know if we're being tailed. They may still bug our rooms. We never bother to check, because even if the rooms were clean there might be three bugs in each when we got back from a trip. So when we talk in our rooms, we talk in character.'
'You make trips?' Tarrant said. 'Outside East Berlin?'
37
'Yes. We advertise in a few newspapers, and people with likely stuff to sell telephone us at the hotel. We go and see what they've got, and buy any reasonable antiques or books. Not just in Berlin, but in Potsdam, Dresden, Frankfurt and any number of small towns. We've kept our noses clean, we've done straight business, and we make immediate payment in kroner or dollars, then ship the stuff to Gothenberg. Nobody can suspect that we're anything other than what we seem.'
Fraser said in an awed voice, 'You actually go there once a year? You go and spend ten days or so in that God-awful country, just to maintain these identities?'
'It's a chore,' Modesty said, 'but it always seemed potentially useful. And now it's going to be. The only thing the security people there might suspect is mat I'm Willie's bird and that he takes me on business trips so he can have a little fun at a safe distance from his own doorstep.' She grinned. 'They won't have heard any confirmation of that over the bugs.'
Willie lit a cigarette and moved to pour a drink. His walk and his mannerisms were still Jorgensen's. 'We can be there in thirty-six hours,' he said.
Tarrant rubbed his eyes with fingers and thumb, trying to collect his thoughts. 'You'd still have to find a way of getting Okubo out,' he said slowly.
A hand was laid on his arm and he heard Modesty's voice, warm and understanding. She would know that his part - the safe, waiting part - was always the most agonizing. 'Come on now,' she said. 'Don't worry so much. You know we've always come back before.'
'Just,' said Tarrant. 'Only just.' He opened his eyes to look at her. He was a widower and had lost his sons in the war. With sudden and painful perception he realized that this dark-haired girl, smiling at him now, had in some measure filled the long emptiness in him. For a moment he hated his job with weary passion, and hated himself for letting sentiment lay its soft fingers upon him. It was as if he were throwing his own flesh and blood to wolves when he said, 'Try to make coming back a little less marginal this time.'
She slipped her arm through his and moved towards the
38
foyer. 'We'll be very careful. Come and see the tallboy I picked up at the Rothley Manor auction.'
It was a beautiful piece, with inlaid intarsia panels and in almost perfect condition. For a moment the sight and touch of it lifted Tarrant's depression by a degree. He saw that Modesty was completely absorbed and that her face was lit with pleasure.
She said, almost apologetically, 'Fifteen pounds.'
He could not believe it. 'My dear, you could get close to a thousand for it at Christie's any day. The dealers must have been blind.'
'There weren't any. If you go far enough out of London for a sale, you often find the dealers haven't bothered. But I didn't buy it to sell. I just want to enjoy it.'
The moment passed, and Tarrant felt aching anxiety descend on him again.
'For God's sake make sure you're able to,' he said.
The printing shop lay in a narrow street not far from Alex-anderplatz. Toller was a fair, thickset man in his late forties. He said, 'Ah, yes. I don't know if the books have any great value, Herr Jorgensen, but when I read your advertisement I thought it worthwhile to telephone you. Come this way, please.'
Willie Garvin and Modesty Blaise followed him through the printing shop, where half a dozen men were working. Her hair was dark chestnut now, and body padding made her look thirty pounds heavier. Contact lenses gave her eyes a different colour, and a moulded hoop of plastic round the gum-line of her lower jaw had altered the shape of her face.
A small flat-bed machine was churning out propaganda pamphlets for the West. Bundles of these would be stuffed into papiermache containers, loaded into modified mortars, and fired across at different points along the 850-mile frontier of minefields, watchtowers and barbed wire. The pamphlets bore pinpup pictures and enthusiastic accounts of the happy life led by one and all in the Democratic Republic.
In return, and because the prevailing wind was favourable, pamphlets from West Germany would come drifting across the frontier suspended from balloons with clockwork scatter-
39
mechanism. It was all a heavy-handed exercise in pinprick irritation.
Toller closed the door of the print shop and opened another across the passage. They entered a small room, sparsely furnished, and when Toller closed the door all sound of machinery was muffled to a whisper.
'This room is safe,' Toller said softly. His manner was steady, but looking beneath the surface Modesty saw the underlying tension.
'You have him here?' she asked. They spoke in German.
Toller jerked his head back slightly, lifting his eyes towards the ceiling. 'Upstairs. It is three days since the courier brought instructions to me for making contact with you. Two days since I telephoned.'
'We had to maintain our routine,' Modesty said. 'Is communication with West Berlin difficult?'
'There is always some risk. Couriers must be foreign nationals and can operate only for a limited time. But as foreigners you can pass freely yourselves.'
'We won't do that. We've never gone to and fro before, and it would look suspicious if we started now. Zarov must be very much on his toes.'
Toller said, 'Very much. We use no radio. We have them, but for emergency only. The big emergency. Apart from that, communication with London Control must go through Local Control in West Berlin, by courier.'
London Control had moved to West Berlin. Tarrant himself was there now. But Modesty did not tell Toller that. A spy dislikes holding more information than is necessary for what he has to do. She said, 'I've arranged a new system of communication for this mission. I'll tell you about it after we've seen Okubo. We'll be taking him off your hands tonight.'
Toller said fervently, 'Thank God for that. He is very difficult. I have been more afraid in the last ten days than in the last ten years.'
Okubo was in a small upper room with a single shuttered window overlooking an enclosed yard. There was a bed, a chair set at a plain deal table, and a battered chest of drawers. A big china jug of water stood in a bowl on top of the chest.
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Okubo lay on the bed, smoking. He wore a rumpled dark-grey suit and was very short but well proportioned. His thick black hair was sleek, and he had a vestigial moustache of which the hairs could almost be counted. His eyes were unfriendly and arrogant.
He sat up and spoke in rather high-pitched, liquid English, with a marked American accent. 'Are these the people, Toller? I was beginning to wonder if they existed.'
'The situation is not easy for them,' Toller said. He sounded like a man who had said the same thing many times.
Okubo looked through Modesty, then stared at Willie without warmth. 'You will explain your plan.'
Modesty said, 'It's a simple one--'
'I did not address you,' Okubo broke in without looking at her.
Willie Garvin put his hands in his pockets, and Modesty saw his eyes behind the plain-glass spectacles go blank for a moment as he killed the instinctive flare of anger within him. Toller had not exaggerated in saying that Okubo was difficult. He was the best virus-man in the world, much sought after, and he knew it. Allied to his professional arrogance was the traditional male Japanese attitude towards the female. Okubo was not going to accept the idea of a woman running this operation.
She caught Willie's eye. He took over and said, speaking without his usual Cockney accent, 'We're using an opportunity that happens to be available. De Souta is in Berlin this week--'
'De Souta?'
'Special United Nations Representative for U Thant. He's having talks on both sides of the Wall at local level, trying to reduce tension.'
Okubo's mouth twisted in contempt. His reaction was justified. De Southa's efforts were futile. He no doubt knew this himself, but he was a dedicated man and had patiently suffered rebuffs in various parts of the world in the course of his peace-making attempts.
Willie said, 'He's staying at his own Embassy here, and there's a set pattern to the talks. West Berlin in the morning,
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East Berlin in the afternoon. Every day at nine am he goes through the checkpoint in his car, with his own chauffeur. The guards know the car. They just make sure he's in it, then wave him through. It's the only car that isn't checked. Tomorrow, you'll be in the boot. It's a Daimler, so there'll be plenty of room.'
Okubo threw his cigarette end on the floor. It was Toller who trod it out. 'You must be a fool,' Okubo said. 'A United Nations representative would never involve himself.'
'He won't know,' Willie said. 'The car's kept in a lock-up garage near the Embassy, and we've hired a lock-up in the same block. We've made a dry run on this, and it works. We'll get you into the garage and into the boot by eight o'clock, so you'll only have an hour to wait. I drilled some air-holes last night, in the floor. The car stops at the Hilton. That's where De Souta talks to Mayor Klaus Schiitz, to keep things informal. Wait five minutes after the car stops, then get out. I've fixed the lock so you can open the boot from inside. One of our men will be on the spot, waiting for you.'
Okubo lit another cigarette and stared at Willie coldly. 'It is a stupid plan,' he said. 'If your people want me, they should arrange a practical operation, meticulously organized, and covered by an experienced group--'
'Nobody's going to start a war to get you out,' Willie said. 'We're using an opportunity that's simple and that works.' He gave Okubo no time to reply but said to Toller, 'Can you bring him to that car park north of Rosenthaler Platz at midnight?'
Toller nodded.
'All right. We'll be there in a grey Skoda. I'll have the bonnet up and I'll be fiddling with the engine. Park alongside if you can. Have Okubo in overalls. He slides out and into the Skoda. Then you can forget him.'
Okubo's face was hard with anger. He said, 'I have told you--'
'I know you have,' Willie cut in. 'But don't. Don't tell us how to get you out of East Berlin, and we won't tell you how to breed foot-and-mouth bugs. All we want to know is if you're going to be in that car park at midnight.'
The hatred of pricked vanity flamed in Okubo's dark eyes.
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He looked away. After a long silence he said, 'Very well. You force me to agree.'
Toller's sigh of relief was audible. He opened the door, and followed Modesty and Willie out. In the room below, Willie exhaled and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. He swore softly and said in English, 'We got a little beauty there. You signalled me to lean on 'im, Princess. I didn't make it too strong?'
'Just right. It worked. But he scares me.'
Toller nodded his head in grim agreement. 'It is a good plan. Very good. But Okubo has a great sense of his importance. I think he wishes for some big, dramatic affair.'
'Yes.' Modesty took a compact from her handbag and checked her appearance. Her face was too taut, and she worked the muscles to relax them. 'Dramatics are all right. But not when the man awarding the Oscars is Major-General Starov.'
In the afternoon they drove out to a village north of Halle, to see a farmer who had telephoned after reading one of their advertisements. He had, he said, over two dozen carved wooden fairground animals for sale, cockerels and horses and ostriches. The small antique business in Gothenberg was managed by a competent Swede who kept abreast of the whims of fashion and who had told Modesty that there was a ready market at up to eighty pounds apiece for these curiosities from the old fairground roundabouts.
At the farm they were shown round three big barns, almost filled with circus and fairground equipment. The owner of a tenting circus, a Hungarian, had disappeared with all the cash takings at the end of last summer, leaving the season's rent unpaid and the performers and handling staff short of a month's wages.
Some of the circus acts had taken their gear and departed. But others, perhaps recognizing that theirs was a dying profession, had simply abandoned their gear and dispersed. Since the Hungarian had chosen to decamp with the lady lion-tamer, the farmer had found himself with six mangy lions to feed until they were taken over by a zoo. He had a long and harrowing story to tell about this.
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Willie, who in his early twenties had once worked for a spell in a circus, was fascinated by the evocative sights and smells of the tawdry equipment. There were mouldering tents, broken seating, sections of a dismantled roundabout and helter-skelter; rusting donkey engines and a miniature railway track; cages and cables, a huge cannon, a clowns' car with eccentric wheels, and a set of distorting mirrors with most of the silvering gone. But only the roundabout animals were of any real value. Beneath the dirt and peeling paint they were exceptionally good specimens, free from worm and dry-rot, beautifully carved, and with the wooden eyes which set them above the cheaper type with eyes of glass.
After some uncertain bargaining on the farmer's part, Willie agreed to buy the twenty best for eighteen hundred kroner or the dollar equivalent, and to pay all transport charges. Modesty made a note of the transaction in a little book. She was pleased with the afternoon's work. Doing genuine business was important in strengthening their cover.
They drove out past Leipzig to look at some clocks, and were back in Berlin by seven that evening. Willie drove the car into one of the hired lock-up garages, only three doors from the garage where the Daimler of the United Nations representative was kept.
As he switched off he said softly, Til be glad when this one's over, Princess. That bug-fancier gets under my skin.'
Modesty felt the same. It was a neat and beautifully simple caper. Willie's idea. But like Willie, she felt that Okubo himself was the weak link, the dangerous element. And there was nothing they could do about that.
The pick-up at midnight went smoothly. Okubo was left to spend the night on the back seat of the Skoda in the garage. His manner was unchanged. He did not seem to be afraid, only resentful and ungracious, complaining of the inadequacy of the arrangements for his escape.
At eight in the morning, as Herr Jorgensen and his secretary, they left the hotel and took the Skoda out of the garage, with Okubo lying on the back seat. Willie immediately stalled it directly outside the door of the Daimler garage, and pretended to have difficulty in restarting. While he raised the
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bonnet and checked the leads, Modesty opened the door of the Daimler garage with the key Willie had made two days ago. Okubo slid out of the Skoda and into the darkness of the garage.
Surprisingly, he did not renew his complaints of the night before, but seemed subdued as he curled up in the big boot of the Daimler. She whispered, 'Don't worry. We'll be watching you all the way.' He nodded, saying nothing, and she closed the boot. A minute later she was in the Skoda with Willie, heading for Toller's yard.
Now, an hour later, Okubo was less than half a mile from Checkpoint Charlie and freedom. The Daimler moved smoothly along the Friedrichstrasse and crossed the intersection of Unter den Linden. Willie Garvin, driving a dirty brown van, kept on its tail. He wore overalls which covered his Jorgensen suit, and a beret pulled down low. Immediately behind him, Modesty was driving the Skoda.
Ahead lay Leipziger Strade. Willie prepared to turn off. He could go no further without coming to the checkpoint.
It was then that shock hit him like a full-blooded jab under the heart. The Daimler was slowing, pulling into the kerb, moving a little bumpily. The nearside tyre was flat. He whispered, 'Jesus!' The chauffeur would have to open the boot to release the spare wheel.
Willie Garvin became suddenly immensely calm. He put out his hand in a quick signal to Modesty, a wave-on followed by a chopping halt sign. As the Daimler stopped he pulled in behind it, leaving a space of no more than five feet between his front bumper and the rear of the Daimler. In the Skoda, Modesty came up alongside and stopped, covering the gap between the two vehicles.
She saw the flat tyre, saw the chauffeur alighting. Willie was already out of the van. He glanced at her without interest and she gave him a fractional nod. From long years of working dangerously together their minds were sensitively attuned. His glance had simply asked for her confirmation to go ahead with what they both knew was the only way to snatch Okubo from disaster.
Willie would meet the chauffeur at the rear of the Daimler
45
and offer to help. When the chauffeur opened the boot, Willie would drop him with a body-jab at close quarters. And while Modesty, anxious and fluttering, tapped on the Daimler window to tell De Souta his chauffeur had apparently fainted, Willie would get Okubo out of the boot and into the van.
The whole move was electric with danger, but it would take only five seconds and there was no other option now. A car hooted and swung out past Modesty. She made an apologetic gesture, started the engine and stalled as soon as it fired. The chauffeur had spoken to his master and was moving round to the rear of the Daimler. With an air of hopeful cupidity Willie said in German, 'You want a hand with it?' The chauffeur looked slightly surprised. Then, grasping that goodwill was not the motive, he nodded indifferently and bent to open the boot. As he lifted the lid Modesty saw Willie's rigid hand poised to stab forward, his body hiding it from any passing pedestrian. Then he froze.
She could see into the boot, and it was empty. No Okubo. The chauffeur began to winch down the spare wheel from its resting place. Willie rubbed his chin and turned his head so that his gaze passed idly across her. Now what? She gave a little backward jerk of her head, then started the Skoda and moved off, turning down Leipziger Strade. Anger, relief and speculation all battled for a place in her mind.
An hour later Willie drove the van into Toller's yard. She was waiting for him in the big garage, and said, 'We're alone. It's safe to talk.'
He began to take off his overalls and said grimly, 'Where's the little bastard now?'
'Back where he started. Up in Toller's room.'
'You found 'im still in the lock-up garage?'
'Yes. He changed his mind at the last minute, he tells me, so he hid under a tarpaulin there when the chauffeur came to get the Daimler out.'
'Changed 'is mind? He wants to go back to Moscow?'
She shook her head. 'Changed his mind about accepting our plan for getting him out. I managed to smuggle him into the Skoda without anyone seeing, and I brought him back here.
46
Toller was ripe to kill him when we turned up.'
Willie took off the beret and inserted the rubber pads in his cheeks. His movements were taut and precise. She knew that he was boiling with anger. Her own fury had had time to cool now. She said, 'It could have been worse, Willie love. I know that flat tyre was a million-to-one chance, but it happened. We might have scooped Okubo out of the boot and into the van safely, but we could only have brought him back here.'
Willie let out a long breath and nodded reluctant agreement. 'Did you tell Okubo what 'appened?'
She grimaced. 'No. He's bad enough without being given a chance to say I-told-you-so. I just tore him apart for fouling up the plan, but I'm female so he hardly listened. He just wants to know what the next move will be.'
'I wouldn't mind knowing that meself,' Willie said bleakly, and put on his plain-glass spectacles.
'I told him that we'd have to lay on a major operation, but that it would take a few days to organize.'
Willie stared. 'Activating Tarrant's lot?'
'Yes. That's what Okubo wants. A big show. I thought we might let him believe he'll get it.'
Willie relaxed, gazing at her curiously, trying to mesh with her thoughts. Then his eyebrows lifted and he gave a little nod of comprehension. 'Yes. You could be right, Princess.'
His anger had vanished now. They stood in silence for a while, their minds mutually preoccupied. At last Willie said, 'Tarrant should've got the message last night. It'll make 'im sweat when Okubo doesn't 'op out of that Daimler.'
'Yes.' She gave a wry shrug. 'He's used to sweating. We'll get another message to him tonight.'
'Same way?'
'The same way. I don't want to use couriers. I don't want to rely on anybody but us. And Toller. We'll use the pamphlet bomb again. Toller says they're firing nightly for the next two weeks at least.'
Willie grinned. The idea was Modesty's, and he thought it a knock-out. Toller printed the propaganda pamphlets and packed them in papiermache 'bombs' which were fired over the border from crude mortars. He made a delivery of bombs
47
nightly to gun sites along a four-mile stretch of the border south of Berlin.
It was easy to make a stronger bomb, a container which would not burst and scatter its contents. It would contain no pamphlets but would carry a homing device transmitting on a set frequency and activated by the shock of the discharge. Toller would deliver that bomb, with the usual issue, to a prearranged site. On the other side of the border, Tarrant had men on permanent listening watch, to get a cross-reference on the homing device in the fallen bomb. It would be located within minutes of landing, and it would contain whatever message Modesty wished to send.
Toller had been entranced by the idea. He hated using couriers, and the thought that the East German propaganda gunners would be acting as messengers gave him a pleasure that was rare in the unremittingly grey and dangerous life he lived.
Willie said, his grin fading, 'So all we've got to do is figure another way of getting Okubo out.'
'Just that small item.'
He sighed. 'There's only one good thing 'appened this morning,' he said gloomily. 'I got a dollar tip from that chauffeur for 'elping change the wheel.'
Throughout the rest of the day they made no conscious efforts to formulate a plan, but simply left their minds open to recognize any opportunity. This was their method, and this was how Willie had hit upon the first plan, several days ago, when he had seen the United Nations car pass by on its daily journey through Checkpoint Charlie.
When night came they were still without inspiration. Modesty lay in bed and reviewed the chances of using the same escape plan again, except that this time they would knock Okubo unconscious before putting him in the boot. But his cooperation would be needed until the last moment, and she knew they could not fool him for long enough to ensure that cooperation.
It was eleven o'clock. Within the next hour or two the East Germans would obligingly shoot her message to Tarrant over the border. It would be some relief to him to know that even
48
though one attempt had failed, at least they had not been caught...
An association of ideas made her thoughts dart off at a tangent. She drew in a quick breath and sat up, her mind racing. The idea seemed hare-brained, but it might work. Yes ... it just might. Willie would know, and he could make it work if it was in any way possible.
She got out of bed, pulled on a dressing-gown and went through the communicating door into his room. He woke at the faint sound of the door opening, sat up in bed and put on the bedside light. She beckoned him through to the bathroom and turned on the shower. It was possible the rooms were bugged, but unlikely that this included the bathroom. If so, then the sound of the shower would make the bug ineffective.
Willie sat beside her on the edge of the bath, his eyes eager, knowing she had an idea. She put her lips close to his ear and began to whisper. After the first ten seconds he suddenly hunched forward, a frantic expression on his face, then rammed the fingers of one hand into his mouth and closed his teeth on them, rocking back and forth in agonized struggle as he fought to subdue the gust of laughter that convulsed him, laughter so stupendous that if he had given vent to it the sound would have been heard through the walls.
She stared at him almost indignantly for a moment, then punched his arm gently in remonstrance. He shook his head in speechless apology, and doubled up again. Somehow he straightened, the breath rasping round the gag of his fingers. He looked at her, his face empurpled with strain, then nodded again and again, lifting his free hand to make a confirmatory circle with finger and thumb.
A new spasm gripped him, and suddenly she caught the infection. The same convulsive laughter welled up within her. Eyes closed, tears squeezing from under the lids, lips tightly compressed, she leaned against him and hugged her forearms across her stomach in the desperate struggle to keep silent.
Tarrant handed the sheet of paper to Berlin Control and fingered his moustache. Berlin Control read the message twice, a variety of expressions chasing one another over his face. At
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last he said simply, 'They must be joking.'
'That's the first impression one gets,' Tarrant agreed. 'But it's not tenable. So let's assume that this is just a typically unorthodox idea. We're going to comply with what they ask.' It was two days since the earlier message had come through, giving no details but stating baldly that the first plan had failed and that another would be devised. Now this new message had come over the border. Berlin Control read it once again and said, 'It won't be easy to get this organized.'
Tarrant eyed him coldly. 'It's a bloody sight easier than what she and Willie have to organize, don't you think?'
'We only have thirty-six hours."
'Then that will have to be long enough.' Tarrant frowned, trying to trap a fleeting thought of something he had seen or read in the last few days. He identified it and said, 'There's a man in the States called John Dall. A tycoon with all kinds of diverse interests. Get him on the phone for me.'
Til try. Tycoons usually have a screen of secretaries to shield them.'
'Give my name and say it concerns Modesty Blaise,' Tarrant said. 'You'll get through that screen as fast as if you were the President.'
It was an hour later, and four am in New York, when Tarrant picked up the phone and heard Dall's voice. 'Tarrant?'
'Yes. I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour--'
'Never mind. Have you got her into another peck of trouble?'
'I could have stopped her by putting her in a straitjacket, perhaps.'
He heard Dall give a sigh of resignation. Then, 'OK. I know what you mean. What can I do?'
'I believe you have a major interest in a film company which has a unit here at the moment, shooting scenes which include the Wall. They have, or can obtain, certain facilities she wants me to provide.'
There was a silence. Tarrant knew that Dall wanted to ask if Modesty was on the wrong side of the Wall, but would not do so on an open line. He said, 'Yes, she is, John.'
Dall said, 'Oh, my God. All right, the unit director is a guy
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called Joe Abrahams. I'll call him now. He'll make contact with you within the next couple of hours and he'll be under your orders for - how long do you want?'
'Thirty-six hours, please.'
'OK. Where does he contact you?'
Tarrant gave the address and number of a small travel agency. Dall said, 'I've got that. Will you have her ring me as soon as she's able to, please?'
'Of course. And thank you.' Tarrant put down the phone and looked at Berlin Control. 'I've seen them shooting scenes close to the Wall. They must have permission for it from the West Germans.'
'Yes. Are you going to ask the Gehlen Bureau for help? They have a lot of pull.'
'I don't think we need it now we have the film-location cover, and the fewer people involved the better.' Tarrant pointed to the message Berlin Control had picked up from the desk. 'Study that sketch map and the figures, then go and look at the site and see how best to set the scene.'
Okubo sat in the brown van with Modesty, in a lay-by on the Dresden road fifteen miles south of Berlin. It was just after half past eight, and night had fallen.
'There is to be a full conference?' Okubo said.
'Yes. Nobody likes the idea, but I persuaded them that we'd have to set up a major operation to get you out.'
'So I have said all along. What is the plan?'
'I don't know yet. It's to be settled tonight.'
'It must have my approval.'
'That's why you're here now and out of cover,' Modesty said dryly. 'It's dangerous for you and it's bad security for our people, but they've accepted the risk.'
An enormous furniture truck came rumbling along the road. It pulled into the lay-by behind them. The headlights were switched off, and Willie Garvin, dressed in overalls and a beret, climbed down from the cab of the truck and moved to the van. He nodded to Modesty. She said to Okubo, 'We move into the truck now.'
The little Japanese got out of the van and followed her
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round to the rear of the tall truck. A tarpaulin hung down from the back of the rectangular roof to join the tailboard. Willie lowered the tailboard and Okubo mounted it. He said, 'It is to be a mobile conference, then?'
'The Group Controller decided it was the safest way,' Modesty said, and followed Okubo as he ducked under the hanging tarpaulin.
There was nobody in the truck, but the vast bulk of some strange object filled it almost completely fore and aft, leaving a passageway on each side. Okubo stared in the darkness. The thing seemed to be an enormous cylinder, tapering slightly and angled up towards the rear of the truck. The cylinder was set on some kind of mounting or low carriage which seemed to be bolted to the floor.
It was a gun. A cannon. A caricature of a cannon. It was of metal and had once been brightly painted, but most of the paint had peeled off. The barrel was absurdly large. Large enough to take a man...
Watching, Modesty saw Okubo freeze with incredulity for a moment. Then he turned and sprang at her in the narrow gap between the side of the truck and the circus cannon. He jumped high, and one foot lashed out for her heart in a skilled karate kick. It was a reaction far quicker than she had anticipated, but instinct gave her a split-second warning of it.
She twisted, and his heel scraped her upper arm. She blocked the follow-up chop of his hand with an elbow driven paralysingly against his forearm; and then, as he landed, she was inside his guard and the kongo in her fist rapped home sharply under his ear. He fell like an empty sack.
Behind her, Willie Garvin said, 'Karate man, eh? And a lively little Professor all round. Caught on fast, but didn't fancy the idea much.'
'It's not a very dignified way of going over the Wall,' Modesty said, and took the hypodermic Willie handed her. 'It ought to be dramatic enough for him, but there's a certain loss of face about it. Did you test the cannon again today?'
'Three times on a set trajectory, with a sack of sand the same weight as Toller gave us for Okubo. There wasn't more than thirty inches variation on landing. If Tarrant fixes the net
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on the measurements we want, Okubo ought to land pretty well dead centre. And the size of net we asked for allows a margin of sixteen feet on width, and twice as much on length.'
Willie Garvin sounded very confident. The circus he had worked for long ago had boasted a Human Cannonball act, and one of Willie's jobs had been to check and test the cannon, and to load it with the compressed air which provided the fire-power.
Two days ago, undisguised and purporting to represent a Russian circus, Willie had visited the farm again and bought the cannon. He had spent a full day there, stripping down and adjusting the firing mechanism, scouring the inside of the barrel to mirror smoothness, getting the necessary compressed air cylinders, testing the cannon, and hiring the furniture truck.
The farmer had been mildly surprised, but this brusque circus man was a Russian, and one did not argue with one's allies and protectors.
There was a crash-helmet to protect Okubo's head, a stiff leather collar for his neck, and a small tarpaulin in which to wrap him up and so protect his limbs, since he would be unconscious while making the flight. The tarpaulin was oiled on the outside to give a smooth exit from the great barrel of the cannon. With the lightweight Okubo as projectile, the cannon's range was greater than usual. It had tested out well at just under ninety yards.
Modesty completed the injection of pentothal and straightened up. She said, 'All right, Willie. Let's get him loaded.'
Willie Garvin reached for the crash helmet and tarpaulin, and as he bent to the task his body shook with silent laughter.
Fifteen miles away, and on the other side of the Wall, Tar-rant stood with Joe Abrahams in a side-street near Brunen-strade. Abrahams was a lean, eager man of great energy. At first resentful of interference by Dall from above, he had become ecstatic about the project as soon as Tarrant explained what was wanted. His only regret was that there was no film in the three cameras set up to cover the scene they were pretending to shoot.
Abrahams had conjured up a net, flown in from Bonn, after
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an urgent call to his property man there. It was forty yards long and fifteen wide. At this moment it lay carefully folded on top of three big tracks which stood facing the open ground between the end of the side-street and the Wall.
There was the usual apparent confusion that inevitably surrounds a film unit. Lights were being set up, powered by long cables run out from a generator. Peoples sat around in canvas-backed chairs, drinking coffee served from a canteen-van. Others called instructions or made chalk marks on the ground for the actors to take up position when shooting began.
Abrahams ran his fingers through an untidy mop of hair and said, 'Your artillery friends had better be spot on ten-fifteen. When we run that net out, the guys in the watchtowers won't see it because we've fixed the lighting that way. But it'll only take maybe five minutes before the West German cops get around to making guesses and having us take it down.'
'My artillery friends are very reliable,' Tarrant said. 'Run the net out at twelve minutes past ten. I'm sure you can stall for seven or eight minutes from then. Once the fish is netted we'll whisk him away before anyone realizes what's happened. And don't worry about your crew. The East Germans won't fire into the West. Into the death-strip on their side, yes. But not over the Wall.'
One edge of the net was attached to the upper windows of the empty building against which the three trucks were tightly backed. On Abrahams' signal the drivers would move the trucks forward slowly, in line abreast, to a precisely measured line marked on the open ground just over thirty yards from the Wall, and the net would then be tautly spread.
Berlin Control looked at his watch for the twentieth time and said, 'Another eight minutes. I still think they're out of their minds.'
'I hope you double-checked the map and the measurements,' Tarrant said. 'Accuracy is going to be vital.'
'It bloody well is for Okubo,' Berlin Control said with feeling. 'I've triple-checked everything. But please don't ever send those two to get me over the Wall.'
Abrahams grinned wolfishly. 'They're creative people,' he said. 'I love 'em. Whoever they are, I love 'em.'
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Modesty turned off Weinbergstrade into the network of side-streets. She was driving a different van now, a laundry van she had stolen from a car park only twenty minutes ago. She wore a plain head-scarf, and a loose sweater covered the upper half of the clothes she wore as Jorgensen's secretary.
Soon, in the headlights, she saw some way ahead of her the barbed-wire fence, eight feet high, which ran parallel to the Wall, leaving a thirty-yard gap in which guards and dogs patrolled - the death-strip. Behind her the lights of the lumbering furniture truck disappeared as it turned off.
She looked at her watch and drove on slowly. Okubo would be making a flight of eighty-eight yards, thirty-one on this side of the Wall and fifty-seven on the far side. According to Willie the risk to Okubo was very small, providing the net was in the right position at the right time. That part of the job was Tar-rant's, and she wasted no anxiety on it.
Turning again, she drove down the road which paralleled the Wall, the most westerly road where traffic was allowed. At each intersection the street to her right was a cul-de-sac leading only to the wire fence and the Wall beyond. The buildings in these cul-de-sacs were empty and derelict.
The next intersection was the one she wanted. Ahead and beyond it she saw the furniture truck turn into the road and come towards her. She moved into the centre and stopped her engine. There was no room for the truck to pass. It halted. One or two people looked out from the window of a dingy cafe as Willie Garvin shouted to her in German.
She called back fluently, making her voice shrill, telling him she had stalled and her battery was flat. If he backed out of the way she could get started on the slight down-slope.
Grumbling, Willie Garvin put the big truck into reverse and backed slowly round the corner of the cul-de-sac. There was no laughter in him now. His eyes moved from side to side in total concentration as he centred the truck precisely ... and kept backing.
Modesty let the laundry van roll forward a little. Now she could see obliquely along the side of the truck. When the back of it was within a yard of the barbed-wire fence she gave a short whistle. The truck stopped. She pushed back her sleeve
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and looked at the big stop-watch strapped to the inside of her forearm. It was ten-fourteen. Sixty seconds to wait. Her mouth became a little dry with tension.
The nearest observation platform was well over seventy yards away. Though the guards there could not see the truck now, they would have marked its passing along the road, and they were trained to suspicion. Their machine guns would be ready, covering the gap between wire and Wall, and they might well be calling the patrol guards by radio.
Distantly, from the far side of the Wall, a loud-hailer sounded harshly. An American voice. 'Right folks, settle down. We're all set to shoot. All set to shoot. Roll 'em. Action!'
She did not wonder what Tarrant had arranged, but thanked God for his wit in saving a dangerous minute of waiting. Her hand moved in a signal to Willie.
In the cab of the truck there were two ropes which ran through holes into the back. Willie picked up the rope with a wooden toggle on the end and pulled hard. There was some resistance for the first few feet, and then the rope went slack. The tarpaulin fell from the back of the truck, leaving the great barrel of the cannon clear for an unobstructed shot. It still could not be seen, except from directly behind the truck, and no patrolling guards had arrived in the death-strip yet. Only twenty seconds had passed since the truck started backing.
Willie picked up the second rope and jerked it. The truck vibrated slightly. In the sawdust ring of the circus there would have been a puff of smoke and a loud explosion, a fake effect. Now there was surprisingly little sound as compressed air exploded from the firing chamber, only a heavy and sonorous plop.
From the laundry van, Modesty picked up a momentary sight of the black, sausage-shaped object soaring up over the death-strip, over the Wall, still rising, then dipping down, rotating slowly, end over end. It was gone, and she doubted that any other eye on this side of the Wall had seen it.
She started the engine. Willie was out of the truck and moving towards her, not seeming to hurry but covering ground fast. She swung open the passenger door for him and let in the clutch as he settled beside her. The distant voice sounded on
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the loud-hailer. 'Cut! Okay folks - we'll print that one!'
She turned a corner, heading away from the Wall, driving without obvious haste but keeping up a steady speed. Behind them a miniature searchlight beam stabbed along the Wall from the nearest watchtower, ranging back and forth uncertainly. An amplified voice began to call orders in German.
Five minutes later, when that section of the Wall was buzzing with activity and far behind them, they abandoned the laundry van in a poorly lit side-street off Prenzlauer Alice. Willie had stripped off his overalls and was in his Jorgensen guise. Modesty had taken off the head-scarf and sweater, and was his secretary again. They walked out into Prenzlauer Alice and turned towards the cinema car park where she had left the Skoda.
When they were in the car with the doors closed, Willie leaned back luxuriously in his seat, hands resting on the wheel, utterly content, smiling dreamily. 'Psalm Eighteen, Verse ten,' he murmured. 'Yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind.' He picked up her hand and touched it to his cheek for a moment. It was his salute to her, his accolade.
She gave an aggrieved sigh. 'You don't love me for myself, Mr Jorgensen. Just for my nutty ideas.'
He shook his head. 'It worked. It was a cracker ... a genuine twenty-two-carat masterpiece.' He chuckled exuberantly and his voice changed to a hoarse, strident whisper, a muted impression of a ring-master. 'Ladie-ees and Gentlemen ! We now present to you! For the first time anywhere in the world! That Mighty Midget, that Brilliant, Breath-taking Bacteriologist... Professor Okubo - the Human Cannonball!'
He choked and hunched forward. She had rarely seen him so delighted. She said, 'For God's sake forget it and think Jorgensen for the next twenty-four hours, Willie love. We'll be out by then.'
He nodded, controlling the rich and joyous emotion that bubbled within him. 'Out,' he said. 'That's what I want, Princess. I got to 'ave room to laugh.'
Three days later Tarrant sat in the Minister's Office once again. Waverly was in excellent humour. He said, 'Fraser
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reported that you'd got the man out safely, but he gave no details. Congratulations, Tarrant.'
'There were no important details to give at the time,' Tarrant said. 'And now I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed. The man wasn't Okubo.' Waverly stared. 'I beg your pardon?' 'It wasn't Okubo. The first thing I did was to check identification. That took forty-eight hours, since we had to get hold of someone who knew Okubo personally.'
Waverly looked very shaken. 'And ... it wasn't him? I don't understand.'
'Okubo is still in Russia, and always was. The man who purported to defect was a Japanese agent called Yoshida, working for Major-General Starov. A put-up job. Starov banked on the fact that most Japanese look more or less alike to us, as we do to them, no doubt. He set up the whole thing to tempt us, hoping that we'd activate our sleeper network and expose it to Yoshida.'
'Oh, my God,' Waverly said softly.
'Yes. We'd have been wiped out there. Fortunately I didn't activate the network. I was able to make unofficial arrangements with two friends of mine who have some expertise in these matters.'
'Friends of yours?'
Tarrant allowed himself a small smile. 'I do have friends, Minister.'
'I didn't mean that. I meant--'
'I can't tell you who they are,' Tarrant cut in crisply. 'They aren't employed by us, and they weren't hired.'
Waverly gazed at him. 'I find this very baffling. People don't risk their necks for nothing.'
'It's unusual,' Tarrant agreed, and left the point. They came to suspect Okubo when their first escape-plan failed. He refused to go through with it at the last minute and kept pressing for a large-scale plan. If they had known for certain that he was an imposter, they would simply have killed him, because our liaison man who runs a safe-house there was already exposed. But there was no way to have Okubo identified, so they got him out.' Tarrant paused for Waverly to absorb the
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implications, then added, 'Fortunately he killed himself with a cyanide pill soon after we'd had him identified in West Berlin.'
Waverly realized that this last part might or might not be true. The man could not be held indefinitely, and as long as he was alive the safe-house and its agent were at risk. If Yoshida had not in fact killed himself, then Tarrant had seen to it. Waverly felt an inward chill, and for the first time realized with sharp clarity the awful and inexorable burdens of Tar-rant's job.
He said, 'I must apologize to you. I made a serious error of judgement in the instructions I gave you.' Tarrant inclined his head in acknowledgement, and Waverly went on, 'How the devil did these two get the man out? He certainly wouldn't cooperate, and they could hardly do it without his cooperation.'
"They're very resourceful. They rendered him unconscious and shot him over the wall from a cannon.' Tarrant's face held no expression.
Waverly looked blank, then incredulous, then angry. Tarrant had been more than generous, but a Minister of the Crown could not be subjected to insolence. 'I asked you a serious question, Tarrant,' he said sharply.
'They shot him out of a cannon,' Tarrant repeated. 'Over the Berlin Wall. One of those Human Cannonball things they sometimes have in circuses. We caught him with a net.'
After twenty seconds Waverly said, 'Good God,' and began to laugh. Tarrant warmed to him, but prepared to exact the mild retribution he had planned. 'The performance wasn't entirely free, Minister,' he said. 'There are expenses. I shall want something from the Special Fund, as promised.'
Half an hour later, at a parking meter off Whitehall, Tarrant got into a Jensen and sat down beside Modesty Blaise. Once again he was intrigued by the fact that on her return from a situation of high danger she always looked younger, quite ridiculously young. He thought that perhaps this was how she had looked on the day Willie first saw her, when she was barely out of her teens.
She said, 'Willie sent his thanks for the lunch invitation but
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asked to be excused. He's gone away to forget his sorrows.' 'His sorrows?'
She smiled, almost giggled. 'He's very upset. This was the richest, funniest, most gorgeous caper he's ever known. But Yoshida ruined it. He killed the gag. Wrecked the giggle.' 'I don't quite follow.'
'Neither do I, quite. But then I'm not English and not a Cockney, so I don't always grasp the subtleties of Willie's weird sense of humour. I can only quote him.' Her voice sank to a deeper pitch and became gravelly, in imitation of Willie. 'Shooting a big-'eaded, bloody-minded little Jap bug-expert over the Wall, that's one thing, Princess. But Yoshida was just a Commie agent, and that takes all the bubbles out of it.' Her voice became normal. 'He's annoyed on my account. He takes the view that Yoshida ruined my punch-line.'
Tarrant reflected. 'Yes, I do see his point. Vaguely, perhaps, but I see it. Poor Willie.'
She was looking at him with an inquiring smile, and he remembered the little bunch of violets he was carrying. 'With my love,' he said, and presented them to her.
'Why, thank you. They're beautiful.'
'I could think of nothing else,' Tarrant said. 'The point is, they have a rarity value. They're not really from me, they'll be paid for out of the Special Fund. It's difficult to get money out of the Special Fund at any time, because the PM has to approve, but getting twenty thousand pounds would be easier than getting two shillings, which is what I've put in for. Waverly wanted to give me two shillings out of his pocket, but I wouldn't have it. I wish you could have seen his face.'
She laughed, and put her lips briefly to Tarrant's cheek. 'They're just what I've always wanted. I'll ask for a vase when we get to Claridge's. You hold them while I drive.' She started the Jensen and backed from the meter.
Tarrant said, 'How is Willie forgetting his sorrows?'
'With Mavis. He's flown to Jersey for a long weekend with her.'
'Mavis?'
'I haven't met her, but according to Willie she's a very tall showgirl with more and bigger curves than you'd think pos-
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sible on any human being. Mentally as thick as two planks, but unfailingly cheerful and bursting with enthusiasm. He says it's like going to bed with four girls and a cylinder of laughing-gas. I think she's just the sort to take him out of himself.'
Tarrant sighed, baffled. You're a woman, and Willie is a part of you,' he said. 'Why on earth aren't you possessive about him?'
He saw humour touch her face. 'I suppose it's just the pattern,' she said patiently. With her eyes still on the road ahead she grinned suddenly. 'But if Mavis ever starts shooting people over the Berlin Wall with him, I might feel like bouncing some of those curves off her.'
Tarrant laughed. He felt very happy. It had started to rain, but for him the sun was shining today. 'I don't suppose it will ever come to that,' he said.
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