THE GIRL WITH THE BLACK BALLOON
Poised sedately on his motorscooter, Simon Bird kept to a speed he thought suitable for a man of the cloth as he moved along the winding Cornish lane. From time to time he ran a finger round the new clerical collar he wore, and from time to time he reached under his jacket to feel the butt of the Colt .357 in the Berns-Martin shoulder holster under his black jacket. He touched it not because he was in any way apprehensive, but because he was obsessed by it with all the passion of an ardent lover.
It was years since the lane had known any repair, but neither had it suffered more than occasional use. After winding for half a mile through thin woodland it became a rising track that led up across open greensward to a granite headland towering above the Atlantic. Here stood Poldeacon, a folly built a century before by a quicktempered tin magnate who had later cut his wife's throat arid bludgeoned to death the man he believed to have cuckolded him. This proved to be a false belief for which the tin magnate expressed deep regret before being hanged.
The incident gave Poldeacon an unsavoury reputation. By chance, later residents met with a variety of misfortunes and rarely remained for more than a few years. Local people in the village of Mallowby, a mile away, believed that a curse lay upon the pile. Those less superstitious attributed such misfortunes to the theory that anyone who wanted to live in an unimaginative heap of granite confronting the savage force of the Atlantic in winter must be less than fully sane and therefore prone to selfinflicted misfortune.
As he emerged from the woods into noonday sunshine Simon Bird gazed with affection at the dark towers rising beyond the new wall that surrounded the folly. He neither knew nor cared that the wall had been built by a government department ten years ago for a scheme abandoned eight years ago. His heart and mind were already with the companions he knew he would find within that bleak dwelling.
The heavy wooden gates in the outer wall stood open. He rode through into the courtyard and pulled up beside a short row of cars parked against the western wall. Dismounting, he took off his crashhelmet and replaced it with a lowcrowned black hat from one of the saddlebags. As he moved towards the main doors he saw that they were closed, and that at a window above stood a very large man in clerical garb with an impressive mane of white hair. Simon Bird halted. The man at the window made a regal gesture indicating that he should go round to the back of the mansion. Bird raised a hand in acknowledgement and moved off.
A back door stood open, and as he approached it Bird saw that against the wall to one side was the crude figure of a man, cut from plywood and backed by sandbags. A happy smile touched his round cherubic face. He halted six paces from the figure and with a courteous air took off the flat black hat with his right hand, holding it close to his chest.
For a moment he was still, eyes flicking up to a window above where now appeared the same large man with two companions also wearing dark suits and clerical collars. Simon Bird's eyes returned to the wooden figure. The hat slipped from his fingers, then the Colt was in that same hand, firing once, and he stooped only slightly to catch the hat by the brim with his left hand before it reached the ground. The bullet had ripped a hole through the middle of the target's face.
Bird looked up and inclined his head as he slipped the gun back into its holster. The figures at the window clapped politely, unheard. Bird made a slight bow, then moved towards the door. A minute later he was passing through a large room on the ground floor, dreary in design, its decor sadly run down from long neglect. Four apparent vicars were playing poker at a cardtable. Three more sat watching a blue video, slumped in boredom.
Bird said, "Christ, do we wear these togs all the time?"
One of the poker players spoke without looking away from the game. "Mountjoy says we stay in character while we're here. Was that you shooting just now?"
"Who else? Where do I find him, Jacko?"
The man nodded towards a door at the far end of the room. "Through there, and second on the left. Paddy and Silver are bringing the patient up."
Bird nodded, went through into a wide passage and took the second door on the left. It opened into a spacious study. Mountjoy was seated behind a large old desk. He rose ponderously and moved round it to shake hands with Bird. "Simon, my dear fellow. Your arrival is most admirably timed." The white hair swayed as he nodded towards a pair of boltcutters lying across a corner of the desk. "As you see, our visitor has arrived." The face framed by the thick white hair was younger than might have been expected, but broad and unrevealing, an enigma of emptiness.
"Yes, Jacko told me." Bird took off his hat and threw it on a chair, then slipped a hand under his jacket to feel the butt of the Colt for comfort. He could never understand what it was about Mountjoy that made him feel strange twinges of fear. "Are we all here now?" he said.
"You are the last, Simon. As you were attending to the business in London, Jonathan brought your luggage down as requested. You will find it in your room."
The door opened and two more vicars entered, both stronglooking men, both a little breathless, one pushing a trolley bearing a large and obviously heavy wooden crate bound with thick galvanised wire. Several holes were bored in two of the sides. The other man nodded to Bird and said, "You never came all the way from London on that scooter, did you, Birdie?"
Bird shook his head. "Only from Exeter. Got a sore arse at that, Paddy me boy."
Mountjoy said to the man with the trolley, "If you please, Silver." The man tipped the trolley forward and the crate fell with a crash. Paddy and Silver heaved it over so that the hinges of the lid rested on the floor. Mountjoy looked at Bird and gestured with a graceful movement towards the desk. Bird moved across, picked up the boltcutters and snipped through the three bands of securing wires.
The lid fell open and a huddled man rolled out. He was in shirtsleeves and without shoes, his wrists manacled and attached by a short chain to shackles round his ankles. He was a ruggedlooking man with a strong face, but now he was in agony with cramp, his face bruised and bloody, his hands swollen and blue. He lay on his side panting, staring up at the men about him, trying to hold down his fear.
Very carefully Bird cut through the short chain. The man extended his tortured legs painfully. Bird smiled and crooked a finger, telling the man to stand. It took thirty seconds for him to struggle to his knees, but he could move no further. He knelt there sweating, chest heaving from the effort, glaring up at his captors.
Mountjoy said in his rich, solemn voice, "Your real name is unknown to us, but we do know for whom you work, and we feel it necessary to make an example of you."

* * *

Sir Gerald Tarrant sat in his Whitehall office on a fine sunny morning and made himself look at the photographs once again. Sick at heart, he put them aside and leaned back in his chair, gazing wearily across the desk at his assistant, Fraser, who stood blinking owlishly at him through unfashionable glasses. After a little silence Fraser cleared his throat and said diffidently, "I feel this is a very serious development, Sir Gerald."
"For God's sake, Jack, you don't have to tell me that!" There was anger and frustration in Tarrant's voice, and the use of Fraser's forename was a signal telling him to drop the pose of anxious timidity that was second nature to him. It had served Fraser well during his active years as an agent, and had been the death of several highly competent enemies, but there were times when Tarrant found it nerveracking, and this was just such a moment.
"So what are we bloody well going to do?" said Fraser. "If those bastards murder Tor Hallenberg, Nobel Peace Prize winner no less, the press is going to demand the return of public hanging for the Home Secretary personally, which is fine by me except that it'll just about blow The Department to hell and gone."
"We'll have to get another man inside," said Tarrant. "I don't know how, and I dread how long it may take, but it's the only option."
Fraser nodded towards the photographs. "After what they did to Nash, you'll have to make it a volunteer job anyway, and we're not going to get knocked over in the rush."
Tarrant looked at him balefully. "So suggest something better."
Fraser hesitated, then said warily, "We need a different approach. A way of getting to these people fast. We don't see any way, but we know somebody outside The Department with a knack for that kind of thing. She thinks differently from the way we do-"
"Forget it!" Tarrant said sharply. "Just forget it, Jack. She's left blood and skin and God knows what else all over the place for me, and it's enough. I can't even begin to think about getting her into this bloody mess."
Fraser chewed his lip. "She has this knack," he said carefully. "And she wouldn't be on her own, would she? Both she and Willie Garvin are in the country just now. I'm having lunch with them at The Treadmill on Saturday. Honest to God, they're the only people I know, or even know of, who might get in fast and do the job. You wouldn't have to ask her. Just show her those pix you've been looking at."
"I've no right," Tarrant said quietly. "I've never had any right. We've sent people to their deaths over the years, God forgive us, but that was always on the cards in the job they were paid to do."
Fraser sighed. "The thing is, we have to operate The Department." He gestured towards the photographs. "I'm worried sick about the effect of this killing. We can keep it away from the press and public, but not from our own people. They already know what happened to Johnny Nash, and can you imagine what it will do to morale if we don't nail these buggers fast?"
"I can imagine," said Tarrant. "But there are some things even I can't bring myself to do, and what you suggest is one of them. Let me have a list of available volunteers on Monday and we'll take it from there. That's all for now."
Fraser got slowly to his feet and peered over the top of his spectacles with an air of nervous apprehension, a mouse of a man. "Very well, Sir Gerald," he said meekly.

* * *

The Treadmill stood a long stone's throw from the Thames and a few miles from Maidenhead. Between the pub and the river was a long low building without windows and with a single door at one end. This was Willie Garvin's combat room. It contained a miniature gymnasium, a dojo, and a range with targets for pistol, knife, and shortrange archery. There were racks of weapons, ancient and modern, two shower cubicles, a dressingroom, and a separate workroom lavishly equipped for almost any task from microengineering to wroughtiron work.
Willie was under one of the showers. For the past two hours he and Modesty had been workingout in several combat disciplines. He glanced at her now as he turned off the shower and began to towel himself. She had taken off her combat slacks and tunic, and was standing in front of the long mirror beside the open cubicles. Her body still gleamed with sweat from the workout, her feet were bare and she wore plain black pants and bra with a shoulder holster rig that held a Colt .32 just below and forward of her left armpit. She was drawing the gun and returning it to the holster again and again, sometimes slowly, sometimes at speed, her face a mask of concentration.
Willie finished drying himself, pulled on shirt and slacks, and moved across to watch closely. She sighed and turned to him with an apologetic air. "I'm sorry, Willie. I know you've put hours of work into designing this rig, but I can't make it work. I'm losing a fifth of a second."
Willie nodded and checked the position of the holster carefully. "Do it in slowmotion a few times so I can see, Princess."
She moved her hand to the butt slowly, and drew. After the third time Willie grimaced. "Your left knocker gets in the way," he said.
She laughed. "They're both part of the set, Willie love."
"So three cheers. I thought we might 'ave a problem there, but it was worth a try." He took the rig from her as she slipped it off. "Better stick to the old hipholster. You're only tooled up when we're on a caper, and the tunic hides it then."
"Yes. But thanks for trying." She moved to the other shower, took off bra and pants, put on a showercap and turned on the water. "We're respectable citizens now, so it's pretty well academic. Anyway, in all the years there were only three or four moments when I had to get a gun out fast." She began to soap herself, then paused and moved her head clear of the water to look at Willie. "But you never know, so let's take care not to forget first principles. If you do get into a gunfight there's no prize for coming second."
"Only a wooden overcoat," said Willie. He turned away and sat down to put on socks and shoes, grinning to himself. It never failed to amuse him that she genuinely regarded herself as being immensely cautious.
Five minutes later she was dressed and running a comb through her hair when the intercom on the wall buzzed and a woman's voice said, "Mr Fraser's here, Mr Garvin. Shall I tell him you'll be over soon?"
Willie pressed the intercom button, said, " 'ang on, Mavis," and glanced at Modesty with a lifted eyebrow.
She said, "Have him come here for a few minutes, Willie. He loves browsing around your collection, and I want to put a bit of makeup on."
Willie spoke briefly into the intercom, then moved to the end of the combat room to unlock the door. Fraser arrived, growled a surly greeting, and mooched around the various weapon displays for a while, responding with little more than a grunt to any comment from Willie. At last he said abruptly, "Modesty's here, isn't she? I thought that was the arrangement."
Willie stared. "Yes, she's 'ere. Look, are you all right, Jack? You're looking a bit pasty."
Before Fraser could answer, Modesty appeared from the dressingroom section at the far end and came towards them, smiling. "Hallo, Jack, it's good to see you."
Shoulders hunched, mouth turned down, he watched as she approached and stood before him. "Christ, you look great, girl," he said dourly. "Since the day you went legitimate I've got twelve years older. You've just stood still. If you ever feel like taking care of a miserable old sod with no money in his declining years, just call me. I wouldn't mind marrying you."
The midnight blue eyes held mingled laughter and puzzlement as she studied him. "You certainly know how to touch a girl's heart, Jack. But that was a bit heavy, even for you. Is anything wrong?"
He hesitated, then exhaled and said, "Sorry. Can we talk here for a few minutes before we go to lunch?"
"Of course." She gestured to a corner where there was a bench locker and two chairs. Fraser had left his bowler hat and umbrella there with a large envelope. As they sat down she said, "Are you speaking for Tarrant? And is it about the Hallenberg snatch?"
Fraser said grimly, "I'm certainly not speaking for Tarrant, but there's a connection with the Hallenberg snatch."
She waited, sensing his indecision and puzzled by it, for it was out of character. Tor Hallenberg, winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, had come to London on a lecture tour and been kidnapped seven days ago. The government was working with the Norwegian Embassy and releasing nothing to the press about ransom demands or police activity in the hunt for the missing celebrity. It would not have surprised her to be asked if her knowledge of the underworld, and Willie's, could offer any pointers to whoever might be behind the kidnapping.
Fraser said, "The Royal Lithuania Movement snatched Hallenberg. They've sent proof of holding him."
Willie said incredulously, "Royal Lithuania?"
"That's right," said Fraser. They want the Grand Duchy of Lithuania restored."
Modesty said, "I didn't know there'd ever been a Grand Duchy of Lithuania."
"Before your time, little girl. About six hundred years before. It stretched from the Baltic to the Black Sea."
"Are you serious, Jack?"
"Never more so, lady. What's not serious but ludicrous are the ransom demands. Recognition of the Duchy in Exile. Promise of arms for subversion. A ban on trade with Russia and Poland, their old enemies. And half a million in gold."
Willie said, "They're barmy."
"They would be if in fact the Royal Lithuania Movement had anything to do with the snatch, but in fact the movement is only about twenty strong, and the youngest is a man of seventy-three."
Modesty said quietly, "You're stalling, Jack. You don't want to get to the point. Come on, what's this all about?"
Fraser scowled, took off his glasses and began to polish them. "You're right, and I'm sorry. Well, what it's about is a big scam. The Basque Liberation Group had nothing to do with the snatch in Spain two months ago. The Amboines had nothing to do with the snatch in Holland before that. We now know that five out of the last six snatches haven't been made by these fringe political groups at all. A professional mob's running the scam."
Modesty nodded. "That begins to make sense. How does it work in detail?"
Fraser put on his glasses. "They pick a suitable candidate and grab him. Their demands, as Willie just said, are barmy and they know it. Then comes negotiation. It's done by phone and always from another country, so it can't be traced in time. Eventually the kidnappers yield on all points except the money."
There was a little silence. Fraser saw Modesty and Willie looking at each other absently, and suspected that in some strange way their thoughts were merging. At last Willie said, "So they've picked up a few mill in the last eighteen months."
"Quite a few. The only failure was Brazil. They wouldn't pay for De Souta, and he was found in pieces. It'll be the same for Hallenberg now, and in less than fortyeight hours. The Norwegians won't pay on principle, neither will we."
Another silence, and again Fraser sensed that nebulous measure of communication. At the same moment that Willie shook his head Modesty said, "Starting from cold there's no time to do anything useful. But surely you're not starting from cold, Jack. Tarrant must have been trying to get a man inside this mob for months."
Fraser nodded. "We put a man on the job, and he got in. You know Johnny Nash?"
Modesty smiled. "Yes, I know Johnny well. Nothing heavy. We're good occasional friends."
Willie said, "If Johnny's inside, you ought to wrap it up pretty quick now. He's as good as anyone you've got."
Fraser drew in a long breath and picked up the envelope that lay by his hat. "He was very good. But he must have got blown somehow." He took two photographs from the envelope and handed them to Modesty. "Before they killed him they gave him a manicure. With boltcutters, we think."
She sat holding the photographs, one in each hand, looking at them, her face wiped clean of all expression. After a few moments she passed them to Willie and stood up, holding her elbows as she paced away before turning to come slowly back. Willie laid the photographs facedown on the locker beside Fraser. His face held no more expression than hers as he said, "Where did you find 'im?"
Fraser said, "In our private carpark, in a sack. As from the Royal Lithuania Movement."
Modesty came to a halt, looking down at Fraser, understanding the strangeness in him that had puzzled her earlier. "You're certainly not speaking for Tarrant," she said quietly. "He'll kill you for showing me those photographs, Jack."
Fraser shrugged, looking up at her with an attempt at a smile. "He'll certainly fire me. But..." he touched the photographs with his fingertips and the effortful smile became a savage, selfmocking grin. "You know how it is, lady. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Christ, girl, I'd go back on the job myself if I thought I had a cat in hell's chance, but I'm long past it now." He shook his head wearily. "And anyway I wouldn't know where to start."
Modesty stood gazing absently into space. Willie sat watching her quietly, waiting. He knew several things now beyond all doubt. She would seek whoever had performed that obscene killing of Johnny Nash. She would hope to find them, and hope for a confrontation that would provide an opportunity to destroy them in hot blood. She would not take Willie's support for granted, even though she knew he would declare it. And she would be aware that as soon as they began their search Tarrant would know that Fraser had shown her the photographs.
It was Fraser who broke the silence, sounding happier now that he had committed himself. "I'll tell the old man when I get back to town. No point in hanging about."
Modesty nodded, and her remote gaze faded as she looked at him. "Yes, phone him today. He knows Johnny was a friend, so tell him that if I'd found out about this later I'd never have forgiven him for keeping it from me."
Fraser said bleakly, "That just might save my bacon, except that I just might be getting you killed, in which case I wouldn't want my bacon saved." He picked up the photographs, put them in the envelope and glared at her sullenly. "For Christ's sake don't get killed, girl. I've still got a few years left maybe, and I don't want to be carrying that with me."
She gave him a small affectionate smile. "I'll bear it in mind. Did you get anything at all from Johnny Nash before they killed him?"
Fraser grimaced. "Almost nothing."
"Almost?"
"The managing director of the mob running the scam will be attending a gathering at a house in Belgravia this evening. But since we have no name and no description, and there are going to be a hundred and fifty others there, it's not much help."
"Can you get us in?"
"No problem."
"There's nothing else? No clues on Johnny or the sack he was in?"
"Forensic checked but got nothing useful. Oh Jesus, no, wait a minute, there was something in the sack but it still wasn't useful. I don't know why I bothered to bring it." Fraser opened his briefcase and took out a small transparent plastic bag containing a white cotton glove, holding it up for Modesty to inspect. "It wouldn't have fitted Nash even before they worked on him, so presumably it was worn by somebody who helped put him in the sack. Somebody who just might be at the gathering."
Modesty said, "Has it been handled much?"
"Only by forensic in rubber gloves. Why?"
"Can you leave it with me?"
Fraser gave a snort of humourless laughter. "Why not? I've shown you the pix, so how the hell can I get into worse trouble?" He handed the bag to her, then blinked and gave a baffled stare. "God Almighty, you can't take a bloodhound to this gathering. It's the Prison Abolition Society and they're actually campaigning for the abolition of prisons if you can believe it, but even a bunch of nutters might think it a bit odd to have a bloodhound sniffing around."
Modesty said, "They might not notice a heavily disguised bloodhound." She looked at Willie and said doubtfully, "Too much for Dinah?"
Dinah Collier and her husband Steve were their closest friends. Blind from childhood, Dinah had a remarkable sense of smell, and could recognise people by their scent if she knew them well enough to have registered the characteristics. Often she described the scent by reference to other senses, so that to her Modesty's was like the taste of brandy, Willie's like the sound of a muted trumpet, her husband's like the feel of suede.
Willie shook his head. "Dinah couldn't match a person to what she could get from that glove, Princess. No chance. You'd need an Abo for that-" He broke off and sat up straight.
Modesty said, "Yes, you told me you had a call from Bluey Peters. He's in London?"
Willie nodded and got to his feet. "Staying at the Waldorf and he's got Jacko with him, as usual."
Her eyes sparkled as she turned to Fraser. "Then we have our bloodhound."
Fraser stared. "You're saying an Aborigine can do it?"
She moved to sit beside him, and he sensed the relaxation in her. "An Aborigine can do it, Jack, and we have one who's an old friend. Outside his tribe he's called 'Grace, and I've been walkabout in the bush with 'Grace and his people more than once. They can follow a threedayold scent across miles of rock and desert and scrub." She paused for a moment, thinking. "Look, there are no guarantees, but whereas I thought it might take us weeks to get near the people who killed Johnny Nash, I now hope we may be able to get that far tonight. In which case there's a slim chance that we could get Hallenberg out before they kill him."
Fraser touched her hand. "Oh God, that's great. Make sure it's before they kill you, lady."
She said with a touch of impatience, "I don't think like that, Jack. Just tell Tarrant about the Hallenberg possibility when you make your confession, and say I might ask for backup if need be."
Willie said, "I'm in, Princess."
She smiled. "Thanks, Willie." Then to Fraser, "We might ask for backup. But we'll let you know." She stood up. "Now let's forget it and have lunch. I'm starving."

* * *

What Willie Garvin liked most about cocktail parties of this kind was that they were so horrible. The worse they were, the more he enjoyed them because they presented such a variety of unbelievable characters for his amusement. This one was quite satisfactorily horrible in these terms, but he could not enjoy it fully because he had other matters to hold his attention.
The room had once been the ballroom of the large house in the corner of the square. A wide archway on one side opened into an annexe where tables were set with canapés and various confections on cocktail sticks. There were fewer than a hundred and fifty people present, Willie calculated, but still well over a hundred, a mixed bunch of freeloaders, cranks, policehaters, and slightly dazedlooking people who had perhaps been raked in without quite knowing what it was all about.
Modesty was with an earnest bearded man. He had a drink in one hand and was leaning against the wall with his other arm over her shoulder, more or less pinning her there as he talked energetically between quick attacks on his drink. She was in a good position for surveying the room, and had given no sign of wanting to be rescued.
Willie stood on the other side of the room, protected on one side by a pillar, an untouched drink in hand, keeping a casual eye on two men who had arrived together twenty minutes ago. Bluey Peters was a big, rugged Australian with shortcropped ashblond hair. His companion, 'Grace, was tall and slender with shiny black skin and a shock of black curly hair. They were moving slowly, casually, from group to group, Bluey playing the extrovert with selfintroductions, 'Grace showing white teeth in a big smile, his broad nose flaring as he exchanged greetings. On his own, Bluey might have found himself coolly received, but with 'Grace in tow there was no danger of that. Any such gathering would above all be Politically Correct.
Both men had worked for Modesty in the days of The Network, running one of her motor fishing vessels in the Mediterranean for smuggling or any other purpose she might require. 'Grace was a pure Aborigine and had spent the first sixteen years of his life in the bush. His people were the best trackers in the world, and not only on their own territory. Willie had known 'Grace to track Bluey three miles through a city to find him in a bar.
An hour ago 'Grace had sniffed the cotton glove for a full thirty seconds before announcing that it held four different human scents. One was a dead man's scent. Of the others, the strongest by far was inside the glove. Now Willie estimated that 'Grace had checked threequarters of the people in the room. He watched as the contrasting pair moved away from a group. Bluey cocked an inquiring eye at his friend, who gave a quick shake of his head. Willie sighed inwardly. The chances of the gloveman being present were growing slimmer.
At his elbow a voice said, "Look, I hope you don't mind my sort of accosting you, but I'm feeling a tiny bit lost, really. I don't actually know anybody here."
She was in her middle twenties, with short dark hair and an earnest manner. Her eyes were large and brown, her face round and pleasant, her figure truly excellent. Again Willie sighed inwardly, knowing that he could give her only part of his attention. Sometimes life was very perverse. Putting aside his regrets he gave her a welcoming smile and said, " 'Allo, I'm Willie Garvin. Why d'you come if you don't know anybody?"
"Well," she paused to sip her drink, "well, Daddy wrote and said would I, so I did, because he's been rather sweet about buying me a new balloon. Oh, I'm Lucy, by the way. Lucy Fuller-Jones."
Willie thought, I've got a weirdo here. Aloud he said, "What colour balloon?"
"Well, actually it's black."
As she sipped her drink again, Willie shot a glance round the room. Modesty was still with the bearded man. Bluey and 'Grace had moved across one end of the room and were starting slowly down the far side.
"Black's not very festive," said Willie. "I like red balloons better. But only if I can't 'ave three or four different colours all tied together. They're best of all."
She stared at him blankly for a moment, then her eyes widened and she gave a chuckling laugh. "Oh golly, I mean a big balloon. One you go up in."
Willie put a hand to his head with a wincing expression of apology. "Sorry, Lucy, I thought - well, never mind. How did a girl like you get to be a balloonist? When I say a girl like you I don't mean-"
She broke in eagerly. "It's extraordinary that you should say that, Mr Garvin-"
"Willie, please."
"Willie. Because actually it's because I'm a girl like me that I became one. I mean a balloonist." Her manner became apologetic. "It's my glands, I'm afraid. They seem to produce a lot of awfully excitable hormones that make a girl get rather addicted to... well, to chaps, you see."
Willie suppressed a fervent wish that he was not otherwise occupied at this moment, and covered another survey of the room with a kind of eyerolling expression that might have indicated astonishment. "Addicted to chaps? Isn't that good, Lucy?"
"Oh, it's absolutely no good at all if you want to achieve what the Swami Gumarati calls the Golden Plateau of Serenity."
Willie breathed deeply and said, "That sounds fascinating. Is it a sort of yoga?"
"Well, it's more than that, really. I'll lend you Swami Gumarati's book if you like."
"I'd rather 'ave a ride in your balloon, Lucy." A puzzled lift of his head covered another glance round the room. "Wait a minute, though. What's the balloon got to do with your gland troubles?"
"Ballooning sublimates the earthly aspects of our nature, which was my trouble, of course, the earthly aspects. I wrote to the Swami, and he went into a trance and wrote back to say I should take up ballooning. So I did, and it works." She paused, frowning a little. "Well, I think it does."
Willie said, "I sometimes get a bit of that gland trouble myself. Could I phone you sometime so we could meet and 'ave a chat about it?"
"Well..." She pursed her lips doubtfully, "we'd have to be careful where we meet, wouldn't we? I mean, with our glands."
"Ah yes, I'm glad you thought of that Lucy. Somewhere public. Maybe an art gallery or... or the zoo. D'you live in London?"
"Oh yes." She relaxed, smiling. "I've got a flat in Chelsea, and I'm in the phonebook. Lucy Fuller-Jones."
"Well, that's fine. I've got a few things to attend to just at this time, but I'll certainly give you a call."
"Jolly good. I say, there are some rather peculiar people here, aren't there?" She gazed slowly round the room.
"Talking to you, I'd 'ardly noticed," said Willie, and thankfully joined her inspection. Towards the top of the room on Modesty's side two men in clerical collars were speaking with a large, gushing woman. Bluey and 'Grace were moving slowly towards them. One of the clerics was a very big man with a mane of white hair. The other was smaller with a round cherubic face.
Bluey glanced at the group, was clearly not interested in its composition, and passed behind the clerics. 'Grace followed, looking disconsolate, then stopped with a hint of surprise. Even across the room Willie saw the nostrils flare behind the smaller man. 'Grace smiled happily, his gaze moving from Modesty to Willie. Then he lifted his untouched drink and drained the glass before moving on.
Lucy was saying, "... if you'd really like a ride in my balloon, I expect we could arrange something."
Willie beamed at her. "I'd love that. Will you excuse me, Lucy? I've just remembered I promised our generous host that I'd get a few comments from different people for the Prisoner's Friend magazine."
"Oh. Yes, of course. You go ahead."
The gushing lady was leaving the two clerics as Willie moved towards them. Glancing to his right, he saw Modesty and 'Grace leaving together. The man who had been talking to her was still in the same position, propped by one arm against the wall but with head turned and a puzzled air. Bluey ambled by, and without looking at Willie murmured, "She says make sure they stay put for a couple of minutes."
Willie had expected this. She would be fixing a radio bug on any car that 'Grace identified as bearing the scent of the clerics. He collected a fresh drink from a passing waiter and strolled towards his quarry. All around him the buzz of conversation was growing louder and more shrill as liquor loosened tongues. The two men eyed him benignly as he began to move past. He halted, gave them a rueful look, and spoke in one of the cultured voices he could produce so accurately.
" ›For they stretch forth their mouth unto heaven, and their tongue goeth through the world.‹ "
They looked at him blankly, and the smaller man said, "I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Psalm seventythree, verse nine. I felt it an apt comment on the sound of a large cocktail party, but perhaps the allusion is rather strained."
The big man said, "Ah, I see. Are you in holy orders, sir?"
Willie shook his head regretfully. "I saw the light too late in life, I fear." He extended his hand. "Francis Pennyquick, youth club leader."
The white head was inclined courteously as the man took Willie's hand. "How do you do? My name is Mountjoy, and this is my spiritual confrere, the Reverend Simon Bird."
"A pleasure," said Willie, and shook hands with the man 'Grace had identified.
Bird's cherubic face was innocent and welcoming. "You do important work, Mr Pennyquick. Are you a student of the psalms?"
Willie smiled deprecatingly. "Only in a very amateurish fashion, I assure you." He did not feel it would be fruitful to admit that he knew them by heart as a result of spending six months in a Calcutta gaol in his younger days with only a psalter to read. "You're interested in the Prison Abolition Society, Mr Mountjoy?"
Mountjoy pondered the question. Then, "Obliquely, Mr Pennyquick, obliquely. The first necessity is of course to eliminate crime, thereby obviating the need for prisons. I take it your own efforts are to that intent?"
With long practice in front of a mirror Willie had found that by pulling his chin in, folding his lower lip under his upper lip, curving his mouth in a smile, and causing his head to wobble slightly as he spoke, he could create an appearance of great stupidity. He had been building this effect since first speaking to Mountjoy and Bird, and had given it full rein while Mountjoy was speaking. Now he said, "We youth club leaders are in the front line of that battle, Mr Mountjoy."
Bluey Peters appeared in the doorway, one hand holding a lapel of his jacket, thumb pointing up. Willie looked at his watch and registered surprise. "Good heavens. I had no idea. The time, I mean." He pointed to his watch as if to clarify the matter. "Do excuse me. I promised young Kevin I'd go with him to see his probation officer..." He allowed his words to fade into incoherence, and hurried away.
Mountjoy and Bird watched him go with wellconcealed contempt. Smiling about him, Bird said in a low voice, "Twenty years ago I had a probation officer who was almost as dumb as that dickhead."
Mountjoy said softly, "Don't knock it, Simon. We like dumb people. I'm only sorry the Brits and the Norwegians aren't quite dumb enough to pay up for Hallenberg."
"There's still time," said Bird, "and you never know. They might crack in the last few hours. But I don't think we'll get anything out of this evening's jaunt. Nobody's going to believe in a militant wing of the Prison Abolition Society going in for kidnap and murder."
"I'm aware of that, Simon. But it's at gatherings like this that one meets all kinds of singleissue weirdos who might provide ideas for future use. That Greek woman who buttonholed us is a case in point."
"Jesus, she wanted a Ladies Only Olympics! We can't use that."
"I wouldn't rule it out entirely. But in fact it made me think about the Greek-Albanian situation. There might be something for us in that."
"We've got another chat coming up," Bird murmured, watching the darkhaired girl approach. "Nice piece, too. She'd certainly give me a few ideas if I weren't a man of the cloth."
Lucy Fuller-Jones said, "Oh, do excuse me, but did you see where Mr Garvin went? He was with you a few moments ago, and then somebody spoke to me, and when I looked again he'd gone."
Mountjoy said slowly, "Mr Garvin?"
"That's right. The gentleman you were talking with just now. He told me his name was Willie Garvin."
Bird was staring at her fixedly. Mountjoy said, "Ah, yes. The gentleman who was with us just now. We must have failed to hear correctly when he introduced himself He spread his hands in a gesture of regret. "I'm afraid he's left, my dear. We had exchanged only a few words when he remembered he had an urgent appointment."
Lucy looked crestfallen. "Oh, what a pity. He's such a nice man. Well, thank you." She gave them a smile and moved away. Mountjoy and Bird looked at each other with no outward sign of agitation. Bird said in a whisper, "Garvin, by Christ! You know what that means?"
Mountjoy nodded and said without emotion, "Yes. It means Modesty Blaise is in the game. The authorities are playing their aces, and we must take immediate steps to trump them."
Together, inclining heads benevolently to any who caught their eye in passing, they made their way through the chattering throng to the door.

* * *

The rather elderly Rover moved at a rather elderly pace along the Cromwell Road. Eighty yards behind, with one car between, Modesty sat at the wheel of a Mercedes. Beside her Willie said, "Well, we shouldn't lose 'em, unless we get 'ad up for loitering."
She said, "I hope they're not going far. It's more difficult to make this sort of tail look natural than one at normal speed. Still, we didn't have to hang around for them till that cocktail do ended. They almost followed you out." After a few moments she said, "Was that just coincidence?"
"I don't see it could've been anything else, Princess."
"I suppose not. Still..." She let the nebulous thought fade unspoken, for the Rover had turned left down Earls Court Road. Five minutes later it drew up opposite a small and seedy hotel where no lights showed except for a dim lamp over the entrance. Mountjoy and Bird got out, crossed the road and went in by the front door.
In the Mercedes, halted well back from the hotel, Modesty said, "It looks deserted."
Willie unfastened his seatbelt. "We just passed a pub. I'll go and ask about it."
The hotel lobby was bare of furniture except for one shabby chair in which a man with thin sandy hair sat reading a tabloid newspaper and smoking. The remains of a takeaway meal lay on the counter. As Mountjoy and Bird entered, the man got hastily to his feet, stubbed out his cigarette in some tomato ketchup decorating a cardboard plate, and showed signs of ingratiating unease.
Mountjoy ignored him and moved to the counter. Picking up the phone there, he dialled a number. Bird stared at the caretaker without expression. After a few seconds Mountjoy said, "Tabby? Good. Now listen. I want four men at the contact point within twenty minutes." A brief pause. "No, don't tell me you'll try to fix it, Tabby. Not me. There'll be some merchandise to pick up for delivery as before. Two units of merchandise, and they'll need cautious handling, you understand? Good. Just don't make any mistakes, Tabby. Any at all."
He put the phone down and looked at the caretaker. "We shall leave at once by the back way, Charles. In a few minutes you'll almost certainly be having visitors. Now listen carefully while I tell you what to do. It's much the same as before."
A stone's throw from the entrance, Willie returned from the pub and spoke to Modesty through the open window of the Mercedes. "The 'otel's closed, Princess. Went bust. Empty now except for a caretaker to keep squatters away."
They both gazed along the road towards the dimly lit entrance, calculating possibilities. After a few seconds Modesty said, "I wouldn't think they'd keep Hallenberg there."
Willie nodded agreement. "Maybe they're on to us. Went in the front, out the back and took a cab."
She considered. "Hard to see how they could be on to us." For half a minute neither spoke, then she looked at her watch and opened the car door. "It's been ten minutes now. We're not going to find out anything like this. Let's go and take a look."
Charles the caretaker was reading his newspaper again when they came into the lobby. He glanced up briefly and said, "We're closed."
Willie moved towards him. Modesty stood in the middle of the lobby, looking about her. There was a lift with stairs running up beside it, a closed door opposite the lift, a partly open door to the left of the reception counter, a corridor leading off to the right.
Willie said to the caretaker, "I want a word with the two gents who came in a few minutes ago."
Charles returned to reading his newspaper. "What gents?" he said without interest.
Willie took a twentypound note from his wallet. "Clerical gents. Vicars. Remember?"
Charles looked at the note. "Who wants 'em?"
"Me and my auntie. We're in their confirmation class."
Charles reached out a grubby hand to grasp the note, but Willie didn't release it. "They've gone," said Charles impatiently. "Went down the 'ole."
"What 'ole?"
"The 'ole! What used to lead down to the subway. It was for airraids in the war."
Willie glanced at Modesty, then released the note. "Show me."
Charles scowled and got reluctantly to his feet. "Along 'ere," he said, moving into the corridor. "Down through the storeroom."
Less than a minute later he opened a door and put on the light in a large, windowless room. Empty steel shelving was fixed along two walls. The only furniture was a single ladderback chair with a hole in its cane seating. The floor was littered with rubbishbundles of newspapers, a galvanised iron bucket with a large dent in one side, a broken broom, and a cluster of small oddments and trash. Nothing was new except four large crates stacked in one corner. In the opposite corner lay a square of dirty threadbare carpet.
Willie stood by the door, watching the way they had come. Modesty was in the room, her eyes on the caretaker as he pulled the piece of carpet aside to reveal a large trapdoor secured by two coachbolts. He drew the bolts and lifted the trap, resting it back against the wall.
"There," he said with the air of a man who had performed far beyond the demands of duty. "You go down the 'ole, across the cellar, then through the passage, and you come out in a branch of the subway. Never used now, but there's only a rope across it." Modesty took a small torch from her handbag and flashed it down into the darkness. A lightweight metal ladder rested against the thick beam at the foreedge of the trap. She turned and began to go down, shining the beam about the empty square cellar below. Charles sighed resignedly and lit a cigarette.
The cellar was about twelve feet along each side, and ten or eleven in height. In one of the walls was an arched doorway. Modesty moved towards it and shone the torch along a passage that ended in a rightangle turn. She called softly, "All right, Willie."
In the storeroom above, Willie moved to the open trap. Charles shrugged and slouched towards the door. "I can't 'ang around all night," he said plaintively. "If you come back this way you shut it yourself."
Willie paused at the top of the ladder. "The rate you've been earning since we got 'ere works out at about two thousand quid a day," he pointed out.
Charles sniffed. "It's all relative," he said surprisingly, and went out.
The walls of the passage leading off the cellar were rendered with concrete. With Modesty leading, they moved slowly forward. Twice in the twentyyard length she halted to listen. The only sound was that of their own breathing. When they came to the rightangle turn she moved swiftly across the width of the passage, shining the light on the inside corner while Willie stepped quickly into the centre of the new passage with his back to the wall.
Nobody was lying in wait. Modesty said, "We'd better follow this through anyway." She turned the beam along the passage and heard Willie mutter an oath. Twelve feet from where they stood, the light shone on a solid wall. The passage had been bricked up.
Willie was racing back the way they had come, and she was on his heels. A second before they reached the cellar there came the crash of the trap falling shut and the lesser sound of bolts scraping home. The ladder was gone.
Modesty exhaled and said quietly, "I wasn't too clever, calling you down."
Willie shrugged, gazing up at the trap. "He 'ad me fooled, Princess. Worth an Oscar, that was."
They were both staring up, gauging the height. She said, "I think you named it, Willie. They're on to us, God knows how. But they didn't work this just to shake us off. I think this may be how they nailed Johnny Nash."
Willie's head snapped round to stare at her in the gloom. "Those crates we saw upstairs?"
"I think they expect to use a couple of them for us. We'd better not hang around."
"I'll vote for that. Seeing what's 'appened so far I reckon they've got some hired muscle pretty close. Probably on its way to get us crated."
As he spoke she handed him the small torch and her handbag, and unfastened her skirt. "What about the Oscar winner, Willie?"
"Off to the pub till it's all over. He wouldn't want to see the nasty bits."
"Are you carrying anything?"
He opened his jacket to show the twin knives sheathed on the inside left breast. "You?"
She threw the skirt aside. "Just the kongo on the handbag."
He put the torch in his breast pocket so that the beam shone up, and together they moved to stand beneath the foreedge of the trap, facing each other. She kicked off her shoes and put her hands on his shoulders. He reached out to grip her arms above the biceps and bent one leg slightly to offer her a knee to step on. Her foot was there for less than a second before she was gone with a little spring, doubling her body at the waist then extending her legs upwards so that she was standing on her hands on his shoulders, well supported by his grip on her upper arms.
Their combined height in this position was a fraction under twelve feet, but her legs were bent with the trapdoor only six inches above her feet. She drew in a deep breath and smashed her feet against the trap in the area she had judged one of the bolts to be. These were feet unshod for most of her childhood years, feet on which she could still walk unshod for any distance over any terrain.
The door lifted slightly and shuddered. Her head almost touched the top of Willie's head with the recoil, but then their arms straightened and she kicked again. On the third strike she felt something give, and one corner of the trap lifted an inch or two. Willie said a little breathlessly, "That bolt's gone, Princess. Ripped the screws out of the keeper section." He moved sideways a little, and again she launched a hammerblow with the flat of her feet against the position of the other bolt. It gave on the second strike, and she kicked the door back to rest against the storeroom wall above. Doubling at the waist, she lowered her feet to Willie's shoulders, straightened up, and with her back to the foreedge reached up to hook fingers over the edge before lifting her legs to circle her body up and over on to the storeroom floor.
The metal ladder, in two short sections, lay near the trap. As she got to her feet her handbag and skirt were tossed up from below. She said, "The ladder's here, Willie. Won't be a moment, it's in two bits."
She was bending to bring the two sections together when the door opened and a man stepped into the storeroom, a thin, neatly dressed man with dark hair sleeked back, a long jaw and watery eyes. He stopped short, staring at her, and the three men who were following crowded in the doorway behind him. Two were of medium build, the third a big man, all hardfaced and wellmuscled, with the confident air of experienced minders.
The big man gave a sudden laugh and said, "Well there's a turnup. Nice legs, eh Tabby?"
Tabby moved aside, blinked watery eyes and said, "Get her, Dave. Quick."
As the man moved towards her she spread her hands and said ruefully, "Okay, there's four of you, so let's not get heavy about this." On the last word, timing his pace accurately, she spun round and delivered a vicious backheel to his crotch. He squealed, staggered sideways, and sank down against the wall, panting and clutching himself, face pale with shock.
Tabby said in a voice suddenly shrill, "Christ! Get the bitch!" One of his two remaining companions was dark and stocky, the other was younger with a shaven head. A half section of the ladder was in her hands as they moved forward together. With one end of it she hooked the ladderback chair to send it skidding across the floor and down through the open trap. Continuing the swing, she dropped the two furthermost rungs over the shaven head and sent the man cannoning sideways into his companion. They fell in a tangle together, and she snatched up her handbag, clutching the kongo that formed part of the clasp, jerking it free.
In the cellar, Willie held the chair by its topmost rail, the legs pointing upwards. She had let him know that there were four men to cope with and in one brilliant stroke had given him the way out. The sounds from above suggested that she was managing so far, but he was well aware that in such a confined space she would be at a great disadvantage. He bent at the knees, concentrated for a second, then jumped. The seat of the inverted chair hooked over the edge of the trap, and at once he began to haul himself up the ladderback.
As his head cleared the opening he saw a big man clutching his crotch and trying painfully to get to his feet. A second man sat with his neck trapped between the rungs of the ladder and his head covered by the galvanised iron bucket. Its handle was caught over one of the projecting ends, making it very difficult for him to get the bucket off. Modesty, kongo in hand, faced a dark stocky man with a knife and was using all her footwork skill to keep him between her and a thin man by the door who held a gun.
Halfway out of the trap, knife in hand, left forearm braced on the floor for support, Willie threw. The blade sliced across the top of the gunhand, and the weapon flew wide with the violent reaction of the nerves. The man gave a muffled scream, clutched his gashed hand, and started forward as if to recover the gun.
Willie held his second knife poised. He said briskly, "Leave it, Tabby, or this one goes right through your puddingchute."
The stocky man was distracted. Modesty stepped inside an illjudged thrust and dropped him with a strike from the kongo. Tabby focused on the figure climbing out from below, and the blood drained from his face. He backed against the door, wounded hand clutched under his armpit now, trying desperately to force a smile.
"Oh Jesus, I didn't know it was you, Willie!" he croaked. "I mean, we were just doing a job for someone, that's all. I'd never 've touched it if I'd know it was you! I mean, would I?"
The man with the bucket over his head gave up trying to remove it and sat very still. Modesty moved to pick up the fallen gun and the stocky man's knife. Evidently Willie and the man he called Tabby had met in the past. Tabby was plunging on now, trying to be jocular. "It's a real turnup, this, isn't it, Willie? I mean, with you down the 'ole I couldn't know who it was, could I? I mean, I never seen Modesty before-"
He broke off with a yelp of terror as a knife grazed his ear and stood quivering in the door. Willie moved towards him, grimfaced. "You referring to Miss Blaise!" he demanded. "Just don't take bloody liberties, Tabby, it upsets me, see? You might need specs one day, so you don't want to lose your ears, do you?"
Modesty suppressed a smile. She knew that Willie's anger was quite genuine. It always baffled her that he could accept with equanimity the notion that people might try to kill her but was infuriated if they showed any sign of disrespect. Tabby was looking at her now, sweating, ducking his head in apology and saying huskily, "Sorry, Miss. No offence."
She said, "You've done this before, haven't you, Tabby? Picked up a man here. A man with thick dark hair and a scar over one eye."
Tabby swallowed. "I-I might 'ave. Miss."
She said, "He's dead. So are you now. He was an SIS man, and his friends will sign you off when we hand you over, so you won't live to need spectacles." She began to turn away, then paused. "Unless we can come to some arrangement."
Tabby almost choked in his eagerness to get the words out. "Anything, Miss. Anything," he gabbled. "I mean, whatever you say. Oh Christ, I just want out. I 'ate that Mountjoy." He glanced in terror at Willie. "I don't know much, honest, Miss. But I'll tell all I know."
Willie said, "Will Mountjoy phone you tonight?" Tabby nodded. "So you'll tell him everything went according to plan?"
Tabby said desperately, " 'Course I bloody will! You don't reckon I'm going to tell 'im I blew it, do you? He'd 'ave me gutted! You going after 'im, Willie, you and Miss Blaise? I mean if you don't nail 'im he'll 'ave me gutted anyway, soon as he finds out I blew it."
Modesty said, "Did you deliver the crate last time, or was it collected?"
Tabby looked away. "My boys delivered it," he muttered. "Just delivered it."
"So you know where. That's good. When would you expect to deliver us?"
Tabby winced. "He'll ring and say. Most likely it'll be tomorrow night. Not before."
"All right." She glanced round the room. It was clear that all three men had to some extent come to their senses, but all were unmoving. Impossible to see the face of the man with the bucket on his head, but the other two seemed to be listening dazedly. She said, "Can you answer for your boys? Answer to Willie for them?"
"Oh God, yes, Miss. Yes. No sweat."
She looked at Willie. "Can you screw the keeper sections of those bolts back in place so the caretaker won't wonder?" He nodded, and she turned back to Tabby. "For the same reason, you take two of those crates when you leave here. When Mountjoy has phoned and you've told him all's well, you and your boys disappear. Go anywhere as long as you're well out of distance. Watch the newspapers. If you read that Hallenberg is safe, then you won't need to worry about Mountjoy. Or his friend."

* * *

At ten that evening, in his apartment overlooking the Thames, Sir Gerald Tarrant took a phonecall from Modesty Blaise. "Yes," he said quietly. "Fraser told me what he had done. I was very angry indeed, but then he gave me your ultimatum."
"No. Just my message telling you how I feel. It wasn't a threat to sever relations."
"Even so, after all I've put you through in the past I don't think I could bear to have you unable to forgive me for failing to tell you about Nash."
She said gently, "Well, that doesn't arise now. What are you going to do about Jack Fraser?"
"Nothing. I'm terrified of offending you."
He heard laughter in her voice. "I'm very glad about that, and now I need your help. There's a big old house in Cornwall called Poldeacon, perched on cliffs and quite a long way from the nearest village, which is called Mallowby. I'd be very glad if you could use your considerable resources to find out all you can about it, without letting it appear that inquiries are being made."
"That doesn't sound too onerous. When do you need this information?"
"Tomorrow morning would be very nice. I don't want to talk about it on the phone, but I'm not asking as a personal favour. It's to do with the hope I expressed to Fraser this morning, and which I'm sure he passed on to you."
Tarrant said, "What? How can you possibly-?"
She broke in. "I know it's only a few hours since he told us, but we got lucky at that Prison Abolition function this evening. Can you come and see us tomorrow morning? Willie's here with me."
There was a brief silence, then Tarrant said, "Is there really a chance that you might save some Scandinavian bacon for me?"
"That's what we're hoping for. We'll expect you for breakfast."
"My dear... thank you."
Tarrant put down the phone and moved to gaze out of the window, torn between hope and fear. In time past he had used her ruthlessly, and knowing the extent of her abilities he felt a surge of hope that she might indeed save Hallenberg. But although he would never have confessed it, his affection for her now could not have been deeper if she had been his daughter, and it chilled his blood to think what might happen to her if she made the smallest mistake in going up against the men who had killed John Nash so horribly.
At halfpast eight next morning he sat down with Modesty and Willie to a classic English breakfast served by her houseboy, Weng, and at nine moved with them into the big sittingroom overlooking Hyde Park. Modesty's hair was loose and tied back with a ribbon. Like Willie, she wore just a shirt and slacks, for they had been swimming in the pool below the penthouse block before Tarrant's arrival.
Now he said, "You're extremely civilised, banning all serious discussion during breakfast. I'm sure it enhances the digestion."
She gestured for him to take an armchair, and said, "I don't think as well as I might when I'm eating. That's probably because I enjoy it so much." She moved to another chair and picked up some embroidery on a tambourframe from a small table at her elbow, studying it for a moment with a frown before taking the threaded needle from where it had been lodged in the canvas.
Willie watched her start to work, seemed to understand some unspoken requirement, and sat down facing Tarrant. "Okay, Sir G., what've you got for us?"
Tarrant picked up the slim briefcase he had brought with him, opened it, and took out a photograph and a piece of paper, handing the photograph to Willie. "I had a man flown down to Cornwall last night. He had to get one or two people out of bed, but he managed to put together a good report on the situation. However, that picture and most of the background information were available from Ministry of Defence files."
Studying the photograph, Willie said, "This is Poldeacon?"
"And immediate surroundings. The picture isn't new, but the place hasn't changed in a century." Tarrant looked at the paper he held. "There's a wooded area that ends a couple of hundred yards from the front of the house. Cliffs drop down to a bay at the rear."
"Ideal place for 'em to be 'olding Hallenberg."
"Better than you can imagine, but we'll come to that in a moment. How did you and Modesty pinpoint this place?"
"Fraser told us Johnny Nash said the top man would be at that nutty do in Belgravia last night. He got us invitations and gave us the glove that was found with the body. It had the scent of a clerical gent called Bird, who was with another clerical gent called Mountjoy."
Tarrant stared. "Had the scent?"
"We've got an Aborigine friend with an ace hooter. He picked 'em out. We followed them, and they 'ad a good try at getting us crated like Johnny Nash. I don't know what the Church of England is coming to these days."
Tarrant said, "So you were blown?"
Willie nodded. "But they think we're crated and awaiting delivery to Poldeacon." He explained briefly what had happened at the empty hotel and how Tabby had been persuaded to tell what he knew. "So we reckon Poldeacon is where they've got Hallenberg, and the sooner we get 'im out the better. What does your report say about the place."
"A few years ago the Ministry of Defence were going to use it for one of their research laboratories. They built an outer wall round it and set up a radar alarm system. Then the idea fell through and the place became a white elephant," Tarrant looked up from the report, "until it was rented two months ago by a Mr Mountjoy. He has some ten men in residence there with him."
"Plus Hallenberg, that's for sure now. What's their cover, Sir G.?"
"Holy Orders. Mountjoy purports to have set the place up as a retreat for overworked clerics."
"Blimey. A whole team of the ungodly playing at vicars?"
Tarrant shrugged. "Bizarre, I agree. But clever. And I've been saving the bad news, Willie. Poldeacon was built over the ruins of a medieval castle with the usual primitive sanitary facilities. In this case a vertical shaft drops down to a good way below sealevel, where there's an influx of sea through the workings of a tin mine that was abandoned in the last century. The effect is that anything dropped down the shaft is carried out to sea by an undertow." He put the piece of paper aside. "The shaft is capacious enough to accept a body, and is believed to have done so more than once in the past, so Hallenberg could be gone within a minute of their alarm system warning them of a raid. In these circumstances I don't see how we can get him out alive."
"You reckon they'll 'ave put all the radar circuits in working order?"
"Yes. Why else choose that place? They're very efficient people."
"And that's it? The lot?"
"It's all I can tell you."
"Ah, well." Willie got up and moved to stand gazing out of the great picture window. After a while Modesty sighed, held her embroidery out at arm's length to study it, and said, "I try. I really do try, but it looks awful. I don't know what I'm doing wrong."
Willie moved from the window, took the embroidery she held out for him, and examined it carefully. "It's the stitches," he announced at last. "You do the stitches wrong."
"Oh well, if that's all..."
She got up and moved to the window where Willie had been standing, holding her elbows as she looked absently out across the park. Tarrant drew breath to speak, caught Willie's warning shake of the head, and let the breath out quietly. A full minute passed before she turned from the window, and now there was a sparkle in her eye. "Willie, can you get hold of the weird girl you were rubbing chests with at that gathering last night? The girl with the urgent glands?"
Tarrant saw sudden contentment in Willie as he put down the embroidery he had been wryly studying. "Sure, Princess. I've got 'er number."
Modesty said, "I think maybe she spoke to the vicars after we'd left, and blew us accidentally. But if she's got a black balloon she could be just what we want."

* * *

An hour before noon Willie was sitting with Lucy Fuller-Jones on a park bench and she was saying, "You do understand why I couldn't ask you to the flat, Willie?" She gazed sadly across the Thames. "I'm sure you're a very nice man, but it's with nice men that I don't quite trust myself."
Suppressing a powerful urge to take her by the ears and turn her head to face him, Willie said, "Sure. Fine. I love it 'ere in the park, Lucy. Love it. Okay? Now, did you listen to what I've just been telling you?"
Now she turned her head to regard him with large, doelike eyes. "Yes, of course I did, and it's a dreadful story, honestly, absolutely dreadful. How can people go around just killing other people like that? I mean, that poor Swedish man. I don't like to think about him."
Willie started to say, "Norwegian," then decided it didn't matter. Instead he said gently, "They 'aven't killed 'im yet, Lucy, and you don't have to think about 'im. Just help us get 'im out."
A touch of curiosity entered her gaze. "Are you a sort of policeman?"
"I'm sort of on their side."
She bit her lip, frowning in concentration. "Well... I know Daddy's frightfully keen on law and order, that's why he told me to go to that abolition thing to see what they were up to. I mean, he feels there are all sorts of people who ought to be hanged, and he's certainly been awfully sweet about buying me a new balloon, so I think I ought to."
"Ought to help?"
"Well yes, silly. It might be rather difficult but I'm sure we'll manage if you really can arrange transport and a launching team."
Willie offered up a silent prayer of thanks. "Anything you want, Lucy, including a military 'elicopter if need be. Anything."
She eyed him with anxiety. "But I won't be alone with you in the basket? Being up in a balloon is frightfully erotic, you know."
"We'll 'ave a chaperon. A girl. Honest."
She smiled brightly and stood up. "Well that's all right, then. I suppose we'd better hurry, hadn't we?"
He took her arm and began to walk briskly towards the park gate. "Yes. I expect Mr Hallenberg would like us to get a move on. He's due for the chop at dawn tomorrow."
She winced. "I'd rather not talk about him, Willie."
"All right. What do you do when you're not ballooning or meditating?"
"I go swimming a lot. Long distance swimming. It's much more lasting than cold showers."
Willie shook his head. "One day, Lucy," he said kindly, "I must 'ave a serious talk with you."

* * *

Two hours after sundown Tarrant stood in the narrow road that led through woods to Poldeacon. He was watching a jeep move slowly in reverse. A man holding a hand radio walked beside it with Fraser at his elbow. From a winch bolted to the floor behind the driver a thin wire cable ran out sideways from the jeep, rising at an angle of fortyfive degrees, vanishing into the moonlight above the woods.
The radio squawked. The man holding it spoke to the driver and the jeep stopped. The radio man spoke quietly into the instrument and a brief exchange with a female voice took place. When it was over, the radio man spoke to Fraser, who moved to join Tarrant by the car in which they had both travelled from the heliport at Plymouth. A great deal had been achieved in the last ten hours, and Tarrant was thankful that the government minister he answered to had used his authority forcefully during that time.
Fraser said, "Okay so far. They went up a thousand feet and the wind took them across the top of Poldeacon. They were winched back, but ended up a bit east of the place, so the jeep's just towed them west." He sniffed grudgingly. "I had that Fuller-Jones girl tabbed as a cardcarrying idiot, but she's been manoeuvring in three dimensions, fore and aft, laterally, up and down, and she's done a bloody good job. They're in position now and the wind's holding steady. Full moon, clear sky, and you can see a hell of a way. I don't know whether that's good or bad."
A hundred feet above the roof of Poldeacon Modesty and watched with mingled surprise and respect as Lucy Fuller-Jones juggled with the burner and the hot air release valve. They were both in black combat rig: calflength boots, slacks, Willie with his shirt unbuttoned for quick access to the twin knives sheathed in echelon on his chest, two small weighted wooden clubs clipped to his belt; Modesty with a tunic that fell to her thighs and covered the bolstered Colt .32, the kongo in a pocket, her hair tied back in a short club, a small haversack on one shoulder.
Lucy said, "Even if the wind doesn't veer, there's bound to be drift. I'll try to hold still, but you mustn't count on it, Willie."
"We know that, Lucy. No sweat."
Modesty said, "It would be nice if we could get Hallenberg out this way, Lucy, but if not we'll call in the cavalry."
"Oh, jolly good. What cavalry?"
"There's a squad of armed policemen standing by. Once we're in, and find Hallenberg, we should be able to keep him intact for ten minutes or so while they get here."
"Oh, I see. Jolly good."
In the glow of the burner Modesty saw Willie roll his eyes skyward. Lucy peered down, and the balloon sank gently towards the roof, which was partly gabled with flat areas between. At forty feet she said, "I don't think I can risk any lower."
Modesty dropped a light ropeladder over the edge of the basket. "That's fine, Lucy. You've done a great job." She swung a leg over and began to descend.
Lucy said thoughtfully, "Willie... have you known Modesty very long?"
"Quite a few years now."
"Oh. Well, I was just thinking, this sort of thing isn't very usual for a girl, is it? I mean, do you think this is her way of sort of sublimating her, you know, urges?"
Willie grinned and shook his head. "She doesn't believe in sublimating them, Lucy." He climbed over the edge of the basket and on to the ladder. At the bottom, ten feet above the roof, he hung by his hands and dropped beside Modesty, the balloon lifting as his weight was lost.
Above, Lucy adjusted a second time for the extra lift, then picked up the hand radio that hung from her neck. "This is me reporting," she said. "They've both landed safely."
On the roof, Modesty crouched by a door set in the stairs bulkhead that gave access from below. Willie watched as she probed gently in the keyhole with a lockpick. She shook her head, and he handed her a different probe from a set of six in a small leather wallet. Thirty seconds later the lock yielded, and when she eased the door open it made no sound.
She looked at Willie, saw him grimace in the moonlight, and could read his thoughts for they matched her own. Landing on the roof and getting into Poldeacon had been deemed that part of the operation which could most easily go wrong, yet it had all gone smoothly. From experience they both knew that when the hard parts went well it was likely that one of the easy parts would go sour on you. She shrugged, flickered an eyelid at him, and moved through the door.
For ten minutes they prowled silently through the dark top floor, using a pencil torch, seeking any indication of where Hallenberg might be held. They saw and heard nothing except distant music from below. Somebody was listening to a pop programme.
Three minutes later, on the floor below, they moved along a dark passage illumined only by a light from the far end where it joined a wider passage. At the corner Modesty took a small mirror on a thin metal arm from her haversack and edged it slowly out beyond the wall. Fifteen paces away a man in clerical wear sat in an easy chair facing a door with a light above it, reading a magazine.
She drew back, put her lips to Willie's ear and whispered, "One man guarding a room. Profile shot." He nodded, and took a sling from a thighpocket. Three slingshots were carried in a tube slotted into a narrow pocket down the seam of his slacks. Each was the size of a plum and was made of leadshot moulded in wax. Willie Garvin, ever fascinated by weaponry, had made a study of the sling and its usage from earliest times, and had discovered by long practice that it could be remarkably accurate.
He eased a shoulder and half his head round the corner, sighted the man in the chair, and started to spin the sling. After a moment or two, as expected, the whisper of noise or a glimpse of movement made the man turn his head. An instant later the shot took him squarely on the brow, just above the bridge of the nose, disintegrating as it struck home. Modesty was out in the wider passage and running soundlessly, the kongo in her hand ready to follow up, but the man sagged back limply in his chair and lay still, the girlie magazine slipping from his hand.
As Willie came up she pulled the man into a half lying position and pushed an anaesthetic noseplug into one nostril. She was beginning to go through his pockets when Willie said softly, "The key's in the door, Princess. It's a red carpet caper so far."
She rolled her eyes, miming wariness at such good fortune, and moved to the door. It opened into a comfortable bedsitting room with a large alcove containing a bed. Curtains were drawn back on each side of the alcove. Opposite the door was a window set in a deep bay with a builtin cushioned windowseat. An iron grille covered the window and the outer shutters were closed. In one corner of the room was a small wardrobe, a chair beside it; in the centre a table with a tray bearing a meal of cold meats, cheese, tomatoes, bread rolls, and a pot of coffee.
At the table, pausing in the act of buttering a roll, sat a tall greyhaired man with an air of quiet dignity who regarded his visitors with mild surprise.
Hallenberg. His photographs had been in every newspaper for the past few days. Willie closed the door, a prickle of unease creeping up his spine. So they had found Hallenberg just like that. No snags, no setbacks. Very ominous.
Hallenberg said, "Yes?" and resumed buttering his roll.
Modesty said, "Don't talk, please. Just come with us and try to move very quietly."
The man surveyed them both and clearly understood their presence but showed no sign of relief. He said, "Who are you?"
Willie thought, "Here it comes." This was the easy part going sour. He was much too experienced to offer any mental reproach to his second favourite female, Lady Luck. When she decided to torment you, you just had to smile at her whims. Resentment annoyed her deeply.
Modesty said, "Does it matter who prevents you from being murdered, Mr Hallenberg?"
He considered the question. Then, "Yes, I believe it does."
"You want credentials? Banker's references?"
Hallenberg put the roll on his sideplate and began to cut a piece of cheese. "Have you read any of my works, young woman?"
There was an edge to her voice as she said, "I'll start tomorrow. Will you stop eating and come with us now, please?"
He sighed regretfully. "If you had read my works, you would know that I deplore the ethos of opposing violence with violence. The men here have treated me with courtesy and respect. One of them guards that door. What have you done to him?"
"He's unconscious."
Hallenberg gestured as if his point had been made. She said, "But he's still alive. In a few hours these men will kill you. Is that what you want?"
"No," he said patiently, "but I will not betray my beliefs. Are you so different from these men?"
"You see no difference between what they intend to do and what we're trying to do?"
Wearily patronising, Hallenberg said, "It is the means, young woman. The means. Do not confuse motive with means. Dear God, I have spent thirty years trying to make the world grasp that simple truth." He put bread and cheese in his mouth and began to munch.
Modesty wiped out the anger that was trying to possess her and made a swift appraisal. They had a genius to cope with. A genius with a massive ego and all the common sense of a cockroach. It was impossible even to admire his courage, for clearly he could not imagine that he was to be killed. It was simply unthinkable that this could happen to him. Mountjoy and company had been treating him well. He might even be rather enjoying the situation, convinced that either the ransom would be paid or that his captors would release him because he was so wonderful. Well, one way or another she intended to take the man out of Poldeacon, but perhaps...
Willie reached the same conclusion at the same moment and said in Arabic, "Easier if he comes quietly. Worth gambling a few minutes if you can talk him round."
She gave a little nod and said to Hallenberg, "I'm sorry the world hasn't grasped your simple truth, Mr Hallenberg, but there's another simple truth. The dead stay dead, and the world urgently needs Tor Hallenberg alive." She smiled respectfully at him, took the other chair to the table and sat down facing him. "Could we talk about your latest work, please?"
Willie opened the door quietly and went out, moving along the passage to where a broad staircase led down to the ground floor. There he found a place in the shadows from which he could watch the empty entrance hall below and the two interior doors leading off the hall. Lovely job, that Hallenberg character, he told his second favourite female admiringly. Great fun. I don't know 'ow you come up with these ideas. You had to woo Lady Luck to win her favours, not whinge.
A hundred feet above the roof Lucy peered down in surprise. A scooter was chugging briskly up the track towards the house, an unmistakable figure in the saddle. She lifted her radio and said, "Excuse me, but there's a policeman coming towards the house on a motorscooter thing. I think he must have seen my balloon."
On the road through the woods Fraser said to the radio man, "Bloody hell! How did he get there? I thought your men had the road sealed off."
The radio man said, "They have, or he'd have come through here."
The jeep driver said, "There's a bridleway that cuts off the loop in the road. Maybe-"
Tarrant broke in sharply. "Never mind how. Tell the girl we have to get her away from the roof and we're letting the cable out."
The driver turned and hit the winch brake release. The cable raced out and they all heard Lucy's cry of protest over the radio. "I say! Steady!"
Fraser snarled, "Gently, you prick!" He snatched the radio as the driver eased on the brake. "Lucy? Lucy, are you all right?"
Tarrant unclenched his fists as her voice came through. "Well, golly, only just! I mean, there was a frightful lurch and I'm miles away from the roof now, well, not really miles away, but out over the sea actually, and I think the cable's got caught round something on the roof. Whatever's happening?"
Fraser said, "Sorry, but we had to get you away in a hurry, Lucy. Just stand by while we sort things out. If you're well away from the roof now you're quite safe." He released the switch and said grimly to Tarrant, "Or let's hope so. What now? That copper's going to blow the operation any minute and we can't give a warning. Willie's only got a matchbox transmitter for calling us. Oneway communication. Do we tell the weapons team to move in now?"
Tarrant shook his head. He had already calculated the pros and cons. "No. They don't appear to have found Hallenberg yet. That's the vital thing. They'll signal when he's safe in their hands."
"They can't get him out by the roof now."
"And we can't solve their problems for them," Tarrant said sourly. "She taught me that a long time ago. They don't expect a free ride. " He turned and walked away.
In the common room at Poldeacon Mountjoy had been playing chess with Simon Bird when the light began flashing in the alarm panel on the wall and a buzzer sounded. Mountjoy picked up the house phone at his elbow. "Yes?" A pause. "I see. Nothing else showing on the screen? Very well." He put down the phone. "A uniformed policeman is about to arrive. He's alone."
Bird stood up and reached under his jacket to feel the butt of the gun he loved so dearly. Mountjoy said, "I'm sure that won't be needed. We'll stay in character, Simon."
Two minutes later Bird opened the front door. Mountjoy smiled benevolently at the police sergeant who had rung the bell at the outer gate. "Oh, good evening to you, officer. Can we be of help?"
The sergeant was a wellbuilt man with a brisk manner. "Evening, sir. I was passing along the valley road and I saw this thing over your house. A balloon, sir." He waited, and when the two vicars stared at him blankly he added, "I mean a big balloon, with a basket."
Mountjoy blinked, then smiled in sudden comprehension. "Ah, the balloon. Yes, of course. I thought the local weather station would have informed you about it."
On the landing above, every word came clearly to Willie Garvin. He moved silently back as the policeman said, "I don't think we've had anything from them, sir."
"Really? Well, perhaps they didn't think it necessary. The experiment will only be lasting a few hours, I understand." A kindly smile. "But thank you for taking the trouble to call, sergeant."
In the room above, Hallenberg was pouring coffee for himself and saying, "Your argument has a false premise, young woman-" when the door opened and Willie said quietly, "We're blown. They're on to Lucy so the roof's no good. We've got a couple of minutes, with luck."
Modesty's hands shot across the small table to grip the collar of Hallenberg's jacket, wrists crossed, fists turning inwards to force knuckles into the jugulars. She stood as he half rose, his eyes bulging with shock and fear. One hand tugged feebly at her wrist, the other groped on the table, found a knife and raised it to strike. Willie took it from him a second before his body went limp.
"I must 'ave a chat with 'im sometime about opposing violence with violence, Princess."
"You're welcome," she said bleakly, and lowered Hallenberg to lie across the table. From her haversack she took a slim box containing a hypodermic and barbiturate ampoules. "Call in Tarrant's posse, Willie. We've got a busy ten minutes ahead, and the more distraction the better."
Willie took from his shirt pocket a piece of thick plastic. From one corner he drew out a short aerial, then spoke with the plastic close to his lips. "Bobeep calling. Move in now." He repeated the words three times, put the miniature transmitter away and grimaced. "Bobeep," he muttered in disgust.
In the hall Mountjoy pressed the remote control button to close the big gates after the departing policeman. Two other men in clerical wear had now joined Bird. Mountjoy said, "You and I will start from the roof, Simon." He looked at one of the other men. "Alert the rest of our flock, Roger. Check Hallenberg's room first and leave a man with him if he's still there. If not, we search the house." He looked at the second man. "Patrol the courtyard, Terry. If we have visitors on the premises they can't be in the courtyard yet or they would have made contact with the policeman, so they're in the house. Kill anyone who tries to get out."
A minute later Mountjoy and Bird stepped on to the roof, Bird with a gun in his hand. The balloon cable was easy to see, glinting in the moonlight. It extended from the front of the house in one direction and towards the sea in the other, trapped under a heavy bracket that had once supported an aerial on the roof. Mountjoy pointed seaward, where the cable rose gradually for two or three hundred feet to a huge black balloon hanging above the sea.
Bird took up a stance with feet astride, both hands on the gun, taking careful aim, but Mountjoy laid a restraining hand on his arm. "No, Simon. Much more urgent to deal with any visitors who may have landed."
In the room where Hallenberg had been held, two of Mountjoy's vicars gazed at an overturned chair and the coffeepot spilled across the table. A minute later, on the floor above, they met Mountjoy and Bird returning from the roof. One of the men said, "They've got him. They've taken Hallenberg. Looks like he made trouble. There's been a rumpus and we found one of his shoes in the passage." The man's voice was strained, and there was the dawning of fear in his eyes.
Mountjoy said without emphasis, "If you start running scared, Roger, I'll kill you. They haven't got him out yet, so let's find them, and fast. They probably have backup standing by, but once they're down the long chute with Hallenberg, and our guns, we can be singing hymns when the backup arrives."
On the last word there came a small sound of impact followed instantly by the rattle of leadshot falling to the floor. Roger's head jerked forward with the impact and he sagged to his knees before toppling sideways, unconscious.
Bird said, "Christ Almighty!" and fired into the shadows at the end of the corridor. On the floor below, Modesty heard the shot. It was not unexpected. She and Willie had split to wage guerrilla war against the enemy, and she guessed that Willie had just done a hitandrun job.
At this moment, here on the first floor, three men were working their way along the passages which ran north and south between two wider ones running east and west. The men were calling to each other from time to time, and one was shortly due in the narrow arched passage where Modesty was braced against the high ceiling, her feet against one wall, a shoulder against the other, her body curving up into the arch.
The man turned in from the wider passage and she dropped as he passed beneath her, catching him by the shoulder from behind to get her feet down first, and striking to his neck with the kongo as she landed, jerking him back towards her so that she was able to catch the gun as it fell from his hand. She laid him on his side, emptied the cylinder of the Smith and Wesson .38 Terrier, and put the cartridges in her haversack. Kneeling, she opened the man's jaws, slid the two-inch barrel into his mouth and closed it again, then moved to the wider passage with her mirror to seek fresh prey. She had given Willie the remaining anaesthetic noseplugs, but thought he would be pleased with the gun-in-mouth tactic. It was weird and chilling, and would give a morale-crushing impression of superiority.
Four minutes later she joined Willie at an agreed point where back stairs led down to the ground floor. They spoke in whispers.
"We're keeping 'em busy, Princess. I've dropped a couple."
"Plus two for me. Where do these stairs go, apart from down?"
"Don't know, but we can-" He broke off at the sound of voices drawing closer. Two men, and no facility for taking them by surprise when they turned the corner twenty paces away. Modesty jerked her head and they moved quickly down the stairs.
At the bottom a well-lit passage ran left and right. The voices were nearing the top of the stairs now. Modesty pointed and they ran to the right, passing a door on one side before reaching a second door at the end of the passage. Then they were through, closing the door behind them.
The light was on, revealing a large kitchen with tiled walls, well furnished and supplied but in a messy state. Unwashed crockery was piled in the sink. Jars, cans and bottles lay about on the units. The window was barred, the exterior shutters closed. There was no other door. They had reached a dead end.
Modesty said savagely, "What clown built this dump? All kitchens have back doors. You play dead, Willie." He nodded, picked up a bread knife, slipped the blade in the crack of a drawer and snapped it off an inch from the hilt. Stabbing what remained of the blade into a cake of soap on the draining board, he snatched up a bottle of ketchup and splashed it on his shirtfront and neck. Modesty said, "Fine." She was still looking about her. Willie could play dead, but there was no place for her to hide unless...
She saw the mincer. It was of the kind that fixed to the surface of a work unit by the rubber suction disc forming its base. As she turned the lever to release it she heard faint sounds from along the passage and guessed that the two men were checking the first room off it.
Willie saw the mincer in her hand and followed as she moved to the door. He still held the knife stuck in the cake of soap. She took his free hand, stepped up on his bent knee and swung round to step up again so that she was on his shoulders. Crouching there, she pressed the mincer against the tiled wall, close to the ceiling, and turned the lever to operate the suction disc.
Carefully she placed the edge of one foot on the edge of the doorframe lintel, lifted the other foot behind the first, and crouched there holding the mincer to prevent her toppling sideways.
It was less than a minute later that the door opened. Guns in hand, two vicars stopped short. Willie Garvin lay on his back by the sink. A breadknife, rising from the cake of soap buttoned beneath his shirt, appeared to be stuck deep in his chest. There was much blood on his shirt and neck, a trickle of it from one corner of his mouth. His halfopen eyes were glazed and still.
One man said, "Who's that? Who stuck him for Christ's sake?" He moved forward and bent to peer at Willie's face. A hand flashed up in a blur of speed and tore the gun away. The man screamed as a finger broke in the triggerguard. In the same instant Modesty dropped behind the second man from above the door and struck with the kongo to the nervecentre in the back of the neck. He was falling even before his brain had registered what was happening, and only milliseconds before his companion's scream was cut short by Willie's footstrike delivered from the floor.
Modesty began to empty cartridges from the two guns. Willie wiped his face and neck on a teatowel, and watched with pleased interest as she slid gunbarrels into mouths. "That'll spook 'em, Princess. I like it."
She said, "It may not matter much now, Tarrant's posse ought to be here any minute. I'm worried about Lucy, though. Let's go up and check." She paused, calculating. "Yes, the clerical brethren are down to seven now, so we shouldn't have too much trouble."
"I take it you didn't run into Mountjoy or Bird when we were keeping everyone busy?"
"No, goddammit and more's the pity. Not much chance now before Tarrant takes over."
They were on the roof, having met no opposition on the way, when the big wooden gates were smashed open by a bulldozer and a dozen men came running into the courtyard. A voice from a loudhailer announced the presence of armed police and began to give orders.
After a glance at the situation in front of the house Modesty and Willie moved to the back where the balloon cable ran over the edge of the low parapet and was now angled downwards, passing over the outer wall and the clifftop to the sea beyond. The moon was brilliant, bathing the whole area in light that was enhanced by reflection from the sea. A hundred yards out, Lucy's balloon had descended and now hovered with the basket just above the surface, light glinting on the balloonwire cable that angled down above the edge of the cliff.
Willie said, "She'll be okay. She's a long-distance swimmer for sublimation purposes."
Modesty said, "There's a small door in that back wall and it's open." She touched Willie's arm and pointed to the right of the cable. Beyond the wall two figures were moving briskly towards the edge of the cliff where a simple wooden railing seemed to indicate the top of steps or a path leading down to the bay. Even in silhouette the figures were easy to recognise. One was a very big man, moonlight gleaming on his white hair. The other was small, wearing a flat clerical hat.
Willie said, "Mountjoy and Bird. They've done a runner. Must 'ave a boat down in the bay. I reckon we've lost 'em."
"No." Modesty bent to pull up one trouser leg and unzip the calflength boot. "You stay and cover Hallenberg. I'll see to these bastards myself."
Her voice was quiet, but there was a metallic quality in it, a quality he had heard on very rare occasions before and which made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle, for he knew she was carrying the memory of Johnny Nash, horribly mutilated, in her mind, and was seeking a kill-or-be-killed opportunity to destroy. He said as she wrapped the leather upper of her boot round the balloon cable, "I was pretty close to them in London, Princess. Don't know about Mountjoy but I think Bird's carrying an armpit gun for a righthand draw, and I got the feeling he just might be a bit of an ace."
"Good. Thanks, Willie." She stood on the low parapet, both hands gripping the leather wrapping, and hooked the heel of her booted foot over the wire. It sagged only a little under her weight as she began to slide down the long slope. Willie turned and moved to the stairs bulkhead. He could now hear the loudhailer bellowing its warning somewhere within the house.
At the clifftop the cable ran only a few feet above the ground. Modesty touched down and surveyed the bay. A small landing-stage with a motorboat moored to it lay to her left. To the right she could see across the curve of the cliff to steps that wound down to the bay. Mountjoy and Bird were more than halfway down. Directly ahead, Lucy's basket was partly sunk in the sea now, with the balloon collapsing to one side of it. So much the better. It would provide a better anchor for the far end of the cable.
She tested the tension, decided it would do, and again began to slide down the wire, hanging by hands and one foot. This was a steeper angle, and the leather boot was smoking as she came to within a few yards of the sea's edge before dropping to the sand. Turning, she saw Mountjoy and Bird halt for a moment at sight of her, then they came on.
She lifted the hem of her tunic to clear the Colt .32 holstered beneath it on her right hip, and pulled the drawstring round the hem tight to hold it securely. Then the whole of her being focused on the approaching men, with no other thought or awareness intruding upon her concentration.
They halted six paces away. Mountjoy's hands were empty, his large face unreadable. Bird was smiling a little, a sparkle of eagerness in his eyes. Mountjoy said, "I have to point out that you are in our way."
She kept his hands within the cone of her vision, but her eyes were on Bird. She said, "Which of you is the expert with the boltcutters?"
Bird's smile widened. He lifted his right hand very slowly to take off his clerical hat, held it across his chest and said, "My pleasure."
Modesty said, "You're not fit to live, but they'll let you, of course. Just turn round now and we'll go back the way you came."
Bird gave a resigned shrug as if of compliance, then let the hat fall. His gun was out and the hat was at thigh height when her bullet grazed the thumbjoint and ripped his heart open. The impact rocked him back, and his gun fell to the sand as he went down. There were seconds of silence, then Mountjoy looked down at the dead man and said, "Poor Simon. It's just as well you killed him. His pride could never have survived defeat by a woman."
She studied Mountjoy for a few seconds, and knew the man carried no gun that he could reach swiftly. Bird's gun lay well away on the far side of his body. Stepping forward three paces, never taking her eyes off Mountjoy, she bent to lay the Colt on a small patch of flat rock showing through the sand.
"Or you can spend the next twenty years in gaol," she said, and stepped back, waiting.
The moonlight was on her face, and what Mountjoy saw in her eyes told him that if he moved he was a dead man, for she would be upon him long before he could reach the gun. He had male strength and was twice her weight, but he knew beyond doubt that she would be infinitely more skilled and carried death in her bare hands.
Mountjoy looked about him, at the sea, the cliffs, the sky, then at the woman before him. "Madam," he said, "will you permit me to see myself out?"
She looked at him without expression and said nothing. Very slowly he put thumb and finger into a waistcoat pocket and withdrew them pinched together. He put them to his lips, then lowered the hand with thumb and finger spread wide. For a moment he gazed at Modesty with open contempt. "I despise you, madam," he said. "Had the boot been on the other foot you would have died screaming."
His jaws clenched as if crunching something, then his head jerked back and his mouth gaped as he choked and panted convulsively. The big body crumpled to the sand facedown, twitched for perhaps ten seconds, then was still. Modesty moved forward, picking up the Colt. Gun aimed, she set her unshod foot on one of Mountjoy's wrists, then bent to feel with her free hand for the pulse in his neck.
There was nothing. The man was dead. She straightened up, bolstering the gun, then turned as she heard Lucy's voice calling, 
"I say...!" Lucy was wading in through the shallows, pushing wet hair back from her face. "I'm frightfully sorry not to be on the roof, Modesty, but they suddenly let the cable run and it must have got caught up there somewhere and I was absolutely stuck out over the sea, and then it sank, I mean the balloon did, so I thought I'd better swim ashore."
She came splashing out on to the sand, water streaming from her clothes. Modesty said, "You're all right, Lucy?"
"Well, I'm a bit miffed about the balloon. I mean, I hope we can get it back, or I don't know what Daddy will say." She stared at the two bodies, frowning. "I say, was that a vicar I saw trying to shoot you just now?"
Modesty said gravely, "I don't think he'd actually been ordained."
"Well, I should jolly well hope not. I mean, it would be a bit much, wouldn't it?"
Modesty felt laughter and an unexpected affection for Lucy rising within her. She took the girl by the arm and began to move towards the cliff steps. "Come and tell Willie about it being a bit much," she said. "He'll love it."

* * *

Two men wearing flak-jackets and carrying guns came into the room where Willie Garvin sat on the window-seat facing the door, a knife in his hand. One of them turned and called down the passage, "Here, sir!"
Tarrant appeared, followed by Fraser. The two armed men went out. Tarrant looked about the room, then at Willie. "We've found only two men capable of resistance," he said, "and they decided against it. Where's Modesty?"
Willie looked surprised. "I 'ad an idea you'd ask about Hallenberg first," he said, and slid the knife back into its sheath. "Mountjoy and his reverend brother did a bunk down to the bay. Modesty went after 'em."
Tarrant glared. "Then why the hell aren't you with her?"
Willie stood up. "Because, my little old civil servant, she told me to stay and look after your goodies." He pushed the cushion off the window-seat and opened the lid. Tarrant and Fraser moved forward to look down on Hallenberg lying unconscious inside. "He wouldn't come quiet," said Willie. "She tried to persuade him but then we got blown, so we gave 'im a shot and dumped the silly bugger 'ere while we 'opped about creating diversions for you. We figured the last place they'd look for 'im was in 'is own room."
Fraser nodded approval. "Better than being lumbered with him while you were hopping about. Why has he only got one shoe on?"
Willie smiled. "We left it just along the passage, where they'd find it and reckon it came off while we were taking 'im away- which they did." He shook his head. "That was the Princess. You can't believe 'ow fast she thinks when it's all 'appening." He looked down at Hallenberg and let the lid fall. "You're welcome to 'im."

* * *

It was just before dawn when Willie slowed the car to a halt outside the penthouse. Modesty was asleep beside him, her head on his shoulder. He patted her cheek and said, "You're 'ome, Princess."
She opened her eyes, yawned, sat up, reached for her handbag. She wore a duffel coat over her tunic now. Willie made a move to get out but she put a hand on his arm. "Thanks, Willie love. Don't get out." She turned to where Lucy sat sleepily in the back. "Bye, Lucy, and many thanks. We'll arrange about a new balloon and equipment."
"Well, jolly nice of you, Modesty. Thanks."
Modesty opened the door, paused, looked back. "Willie, I've got tickets for the Royal Ballet on Thursday if you're not doing anything."
He nodded. "That's great. I always 'ave a good laugh at the ballet."
She smiled, reached out to ruffle his hair, then got out and closed the door. Willie said, "Right. I'll drop you off 'ome now, Lucy."
Ten minutes later he was opening Lucy's front door for her. In that time she had not spoken and was clearly deep in thought. Willie handed her the key and said, "You don't fancy asking me in for breakfast?"
She gazed at him with large, longing eyes. "I'm sorry, Willie, but I am trying to achieve the Golden Plateau of Serenity, and I know how one thing leads to another because of my glands."
He patted her shoulder reassuringly. "Sure, Lucy, that's okay. Thanks for 'elping out, you've been great."
He had started to move away when she said, "Willie, aren't you and Modesty...? I mean, well, you know. You and Modesty?"
He shook his head with mock solemnity. "Definitely not."
"But... I mean, why not, if you don't mind my asking? It seems frightfully strange."
"Not to us, Lucy. It's just not on the cards."
"Oh." She was still baffled. After a moment she said, "Well, goodnight Willie. It was all jolly exciting, and I do understand about Official Secrets and all that. I'll keep absolutely mum, honestly."
"Good girl."
He had only gone half a dozen steps when she came hurrying after him, beaming happily. "Oh gosh, I really am a bit slow sometimes, aren't I? Do come in and have a bit of breakfast with me, Willie. It's quite all right."

* * *

It was during the interval at Covent Garden two days later that Willie said, "I was a bit slow myself, Princess, and I didn't catch on till we were up in Lucy's flat. Then I realised that because of you and me, she reckoned I must be gay."
Modesty choked slightly on the glass of wine she held. "You? Oh, Willie, she didn't."
"Straight up, Princess." He gazed into space with a reminiscent smile and sighed happily. "Lucy's glands didn't 'alf get a lovely surprise."