O'Donnell, Peter - Modesty Blaise 02 - Sabre-Tooth, page 2
‘Where to?’
Carter waved a vague arm in a half-circle to north and east. ‘To where the backing is. Where the big wheels are. I wouldn’t know about thatand it’s a bad question, that is. I wouldn’t ask it again.’
‘Okay. Never mind where to. They put him on the next plane off the airstrip. What for?’
‘Guinea-pig,’ said Carter, and picked a shred of tobacco from his tongue. ‘You know what these bloody doctors are. Same everywhere. Always got things they want to try out.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like anything. A bit of nerve-gas, maybe. Or see how long you stay alive when they’ve switched your liver for a dog’s. Research, like. Only one bloke chose the guinea-pig plane. The word came round from Liebmann later that they’d taken the top of his head off and stuck electric needles in different bits of his brain.’
‘What for?’
‘Just to find out,’ Carter said irritably. ‘Something to do with … you know, brain stuff. Like they give him a jolt through one needle and he’s laughing, another and he’s crying, or maybe hungry. Or raving for a bint, with a beat up to his chin.’
‘Man, I don’t need bloody needles for that.’ The Afrikaner grinned. ‘It’s a good thing they’ve got the women laid on in that harem thing. What do they call it?’
‘The seraglio.’ Carter’s eyes narrowed lustfully. ‘Listen, I’ll lay a green ticket to a whitean all-night to a shorttime. Against Vallmanya. You on?’
‘Don’t lean on me too hard, you crafty bastard,’ the other said without heat. ‘I don’t bet without knowing the form.’
Sarrat came up the slope. He carried a bayonet in a sheath, an old French army sword-bayonet with a blade just under sixteen inches long. He tossed it to Vallmanya in passing. The Spaniard caught it deftly, drew out the bayonet and threw the sheath aside. He felt the edge and the point, gave a little nod of satisfaction, then took a careful grip on the hilt and stood waiting.
He had shed the slight air of bravado that hinted at concealed tension. Now he was a cold, nerveless fighter, survivor of a hundred brawls and a dozen battles, experienced and dangerous.
The murmur of talk among the spectators faded to silence. Karz looked at The Twins and nodded. Lok and Chu moved slowly, each taking a pair of black gloves from the pocket of his tunic. The gloves were of mail, interlaced chain of blued steel, so finely wrought that the gloves were limp as heavy velvet.
Liebmann watched The Twins. They moved as one now, with perfect co-ordination. This moment always fascinated him, the moment when Lok and Chu ceased to be separate, hate-filled enemies and became one creature of four arms and four legs, with one mind controlling the whole.
Lightly, walking in such precise unison that the strange artificial link joining them at the shoulder took no strain, The Twins moved into the arena. At four paces from Vallmanya they halted, their yellow faces calm and watchful, gloved hands open and held at chest height a little away from their bodies.
Bayonet poised, Vallmanya began to circle them, sidestepping with a quick, dancing movement. Lok moved with him, turning slowly and easily until he was back to back with his brother. Then he stood still. The steel-cored leather joint at the shoulder would allow no further movement. Chu did not turn his head.
Vallmanya took another long sidestep, as if to come in on the flank, then swerved back and lunged like a fencer for Lok’s throat. A mailed hand clashed against the blade, sweeping it easily aside, and there came a rasp of steel on steel as Vallmanya wrenched the bayonet fiercely from the closing hand.
On the stepped slopes the Afrikaner murmured an awed oath. ‘They’re quick… quick as a bloody whip, man.’
‘Pick flies out of the air, they can,’ said Carter.
The Spaniard moved to the right and came in fast on the flank. The Twins stood with their heads turned to watch him. As he lunged, two gloved hands flickered dartingly like great black dragon-flies. Lok’s hand deflected the thrust, Chu’s hand caught the turned blade a fraction of a second later. This time Vallmanya lunged again with the held blade, twisting it, trying to drive the point into Chu’s forearm.
Chu jerked as the lunge came in, and Lok’s hand slashed down edgewise on Vallmanya’s exposed wrist. There came a choking grunt of pain, then Vallmanya sprang back, empty-handed. Chu held the bayonet.
Lok turned, wheeling quickly so that The Twins stood shoulder to shoulder again, both facing Vallmanya. At once he circled rapidly so that his back was no longer to the brink of the rocky platform, and together The Twins wheeled smoothly to face him.
With a casual movement Chu tossed the bayonet up over his shoulder and Lok caught it as it dropped behind his back. The weapon passed across the front of The Twins, spinning from hand to hand in a bewildering juggle, as if a single mind controlled each nerve and sinew in both bodies. Abruptly Lok threw the bayonet hard, taking Vallmanya by surprise.
The heavy hilt thudded against his breastbone in a glancing blow as he twisted to dodge the throw. For a moment he staggered off-balance, then bent and snatched up the fallen bayonet, darting back out of distance. The Twins grinned.
‘They’re making the most of it,’ Carter said with approval. He had given up hope of a bet with the Afrikaner now. The other moved his shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t keep a fight going just for kicks. Not against a man with nothing to lose.’
‘It’s their medicine,’ Carter said, and watched with appraising eyes as Vallmanya crouched in a defensive posture, forcing The Twins to take up the attack. They moved in, the four legs co-ordinated as surely as the legs of a cat, steel hands poised.
Vallmanya lunged low for Chu’s groin, and again there came the clash of the blade against mail. At the same instant Lok rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder and jumped, both feet lashing out. One boot took Vallmanya on the side of the head, the other thudded against his ribs. He went down, dazed, rolling over and over to escape the follow-up, empty-handed again.
Chu held the bayonet now. Together the linked brothers moved forward. As Vallmanya came to his feet they were upon him, three mailed hands chopping with controlled force.
‘Softening him up,’ said Carter, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘They could break his neck with one chop if they fancied it that way.’
Vallmanya was reeling backwards round the arena like a punch-drunk boxer, trying blindly to duck or sidestep the sharp, punishing blows which were methodically numbing his arms and shoulders, draining breath from his heaving lungs and strength from his powerful body.
Suddenly all was still and the three men stood frozen as if in a tableau, Vallmanya swaying a little as he faced The Twins. He might have fallen had he not been held. The outer hand of each twin gripped one of his wrists, twisting hard to lock the arm rigidly. The inner leg of each twin was advanced, so that the legs crossed at the shins, with the feet turned to lock behind Vallmanya’s ankles. He stood utterly helpless now.
The inner hands of The Twins gripped the bayonet-hilt together. Slowly the blade came up until the point rested against Vallmanya’s heart. A quavering scream issued from the dry cavern of his mouth. The Twins turned their heads, smiled at each other, looked back at Vallmanya, then thrust steadily.
For a moment the scream grew shrill, then it ceased abruptly. Vallmanya sank to his knees, sightless eyes staring down at the bayonet driven through his body. The hilt rasped harshly on rock as he toppled forward.
Slowly, contentedly, The Twins drew off their gloves. With an arm about each other’s shoulders they moved towards Karz and his commanders. A long sigh rippled through the watching men, followed by a buzz of talk.
Karz looked at Liebmann and said: ‘Normal training this afternoon. Sections on parade at fourteen-thirty hours. Commanders’ meeting in H.Q. Control Room at fourteen hundred.’
He turned and moved down the rocky slope towards the jeeps, followed by his driver.
Under Liebmann as Chief of Staff there were two other commanders besides Sarrat, Hamid, and The Twins. One was a dark, stolid Georgian called Thamar. He was the only man, Liebmann believed, who felt no hint of fear in the presence of Karz. This was not a matter of courage but of chemistry. Somewhere in Thamar there was a malfunction of glands or nerves or brain-cells which made him immune to the emotion of fear. This created no problem, since he revered Karz as a dog reveres its master.
The other commander was Brett, a sleek-haired Englishman of medium height, seemingly made of whipcord, with bitter grey eyes and a caustic tongue.
Karz took the head of the table in the main H.Q. Control Room, which lay on the ground floor of the great palace. The others seated themselves, and Liebmann remained standing by the bank of filing cabinets.
‘The question of commanders,’ Karz said, his enormous hands resting on the table in front of him. ‘As you know, we require two more. They must be established here within four weeks.’ His eyes roved the faces of his commanders. ‘Do you make any recommendations from the ranks?’
There was silence for a while. At last Sarrat said : ‘Toksvig, in my section, is good. Excellent with all weapons. Reliable. Plenty of stomach and stamina––’
Karz’s hand flapped the table once, and Sarrat was silent.
‘These qualities mean nothing in themselves,’ Karz said. ‘Can he lead? Can he drive? Can he command, Sarrat? I would give fifty good followers for one good leader.’
Sarrat shook his head doubtfully. ‘I say Toksvig is the best prospect. No more than that.’
‘Not enough.’ Karz looked at Liebmann. ‘We have no more probable candidates on the files?’
‘Not for commanders. And only a dozen possibles. The standard is too exacting. And those of the right quality are precluded by other factors.’
‘Show me.’
Liebmann opened a steel cabinet and took out a dozen buff-coloured cards. He handed them to Karz, who began to look through them slowly, scanning the information given on each one. After a while he put aside all but two.
‘These are cross-referenced,’ he said. ‘One is a woman called Modesty Blaise. The other is a man, Garvin.’ He looked round the table. ‘Who knows them?’
‘She ran The Network.’ It was Brett who spoke. ‘Willie Garvin is her strong-arm man.’
‘Good?’
‘Which one?’
‘Both.’
‘I don’t know the woman. Only whispers about her. But I know a fair bit about Garvin, and I met him once.’ Brett looked at Chu and Lok. ‘I just might back him against The Twins.’
‘Can he lead?’ This was Thamar, stolidly holding to Karz’s point.
Brett shrugged, and Sarrat answered the question. ‘I knew Garvin in the.Legion. He has what you want, Karz. It did not show then, but after Blaise took him over he changed. It was something very strong. He handled many large operations for her.’
‘But the woman,’ said Hamid, staring. ‘Can we use a woman?’
‘I will use an ape or a camel if it can give what I want,’ said Karz coldly.
‘The Network was bigreally big,’ said Sarrat. ‘If she’s good enough for Garvin to follow, then I back her.’
Karz looked at Liebmann again, a query in the sloe-coloured eyes beneath the thick brows.
‘The quality is there,’ Liebmann said. ‘No question of it. I discussed these two with the Chief Recruiting Officer when we were at the planning stage. He has had close acquaintance with their activities in the past.’ Liebmann shook his head. ‘They would be ideal, but they are not for hire.’
‘Why not?’ Hamid asked sharply, and Karz silenced him with a curt gesture, nodding to Liebmann to go on.
‘They have retired and they are rich,’ said Liebmann. ‘Very rich. Also, they are not hirelings.’
Thamar said : ‘The rate for commanders is fifty thousand pounds sterling. Are they so rich?’
‘Yes. And even if they could be bought, there is another factor against them. They would be Unsound.’
There was a long silence in the room. An electric fan, fed by the power-plant established in the broad ravine at the back of the palace, whirred softly as it turned from side to side.
Karz broke the silence. His deep voice was remote, like a voice issuing from a stone idol and pronouncing an unchallengeable doctrine. ‘It is possible to use Unsound persons,’ he said, ‘providing complete control is secured. For those who cannot be bought with money, it may be possible to find a different coin … one that is more binding.’
‘A lever,’ said Liebmann. ‘But there is no information on our cards to indicate that such a lever exists.’
Karz looked at him. ‘An immediate message to the Chief Security Officer. He is to delegate the remainder of the selection and drafting to his four assistants. He is to concentrate only on the possibility of securing Blaise and Garvin in a way which establishes total control over them. Progress reports every seventy-two hours.’
Liebmann jotted on a pad and nodded. ‘If the thing is possible, do you want a capability-test run on them, Karz?’
Karz got to his feet, looking at Liebmann with bleak eyes.
‘I do not take any potential commander on hearsay alone, Liebmann,’ he said, and walked slowly from the room.
TWO
SIR GERALD TARRANT crossed the foyer of the tall block of flats standing on the north side of the park. Behind the curving desk of polished mahogany the commissionaire looked up.
‘Ah, good morning, sir. Miss Blaise said you’d be along. Will you go straight up, please?’
‘Thank you.’ Tarrant moved towards the small private lift which served the penthouse surmounting the building. As the doors slid to, he relaxed.
It had been a bad week, a week of minor failures and frustrations, culminating last night in the kind of news he dreaded most. With an effort made many times through the long years past, Tarrant relegated the week to history and thought of the day ahead.
It was Sunday. He wore a well-rubbed Lovat green sports jacket, corduroy trousers which he knew to be unfashionably wide, and stout golfing shoes. As the lift climbed smoothly a sense of glad anticipation grew within him. He was looking forward to this day with intense curiosity and the slightest touch of apprehension, for today he would see something he had often wondered about but had never before witnessed.
‘Come along to the penthouse after breakfast next Sunday,’ Modesty Blaise had said as they walked together from young Fareham’s box at Ascot down to the paddock. ‘Willie Garvin will be there and we’re driving down to the Riverside Club for nine holes, then over to The Treadmill for lunch.’
The Treadmill was the pub Willie Garvin owned, bought to help him settle down, but as an anchor it had proved a frail fetter. To the best of Tarrant’s knowledge Willie Garvin had spent the last three months flying photo-surveys for a wild-cat mineral prospecting firm in Canada.
The invitation had delighted Tarrant. And then, as he thanked her, Modesty Blaise added: ‘Willie can set you up for fishing later in the afternoon. He’s got a stretch of water there. Oh, and we’ll be having a work-out in his place at the back, if you’d like to watch.’
She was wearing a suit of ice-blue wild silk with a deep pink chiffon hat, looking utterly feminine and at home amid the elegant Ascot throng. Watching her as she studied the horses moving round the paddock, Tarrant had answered with simple honesty: ‘I’m not sure whether or not I shall like it, Modestybut I wouldn’t miss it.’
He knew Willie’s place at the back of The Treadmill. It was a very long low building of brick, windowless and soundproof. Tarrant had been privileged to enter that formidable building once, and knew that he was the only man to have done so.
Today he would see something still more formidable.
The lift slowed to a halt and the doors opened on to the wide foyer with its flooring of ceramic tiles. Beyond lay a slender wrought-iron balustrade broken by three steps down to the huge living-room with the floor-to-ceiling window at the far end.
Tarrant looked about him contentedly. It was always a joy to enter this room with its strangely satisfying blend of styles in décor and furnishing. As he descended the three steps, Modesty Blaise came through the plate glass door leading out on to the long L-shaped terrace.
Her black hair was drawn up into a chignon on the crown of her head. She wore a flared camel-hair skirt with a poplin shirt in fine yellow and white check. Her shoes were flat and of biscuit-coloured pigskin.
At sight of Tarrant her face was lit by a smile of pleasure, and she moved forward to greet him.
‘Sir Gerald. I’m so glad you were able to come along.’
‘I’m invariably selfish, my dear.’ He took her hand and bent over it. She raised it a little for him to touch his lips to it, and he was absurdly pleased.
‘Is it too early to offer you a drink?’ She moved to the little bar in an alcove, her feet treading the glowing Persian rugs scattered on the ivory-coloured tiles of the floor.
‘A very small whisky with soda, perhaps,’ Tarrant said. He wanted to look at the rugs, for they were balm to his soul; he wanted to study the new picture which hung with the others on the cedar-strip wallsit was a Chagall; he wanted to browse over the casually arranged little antique pieces on the broad, curving corner-shelves, knowing he would find new pleasures there, for she was always discarding and replacing these pieces. But though a dozen attractions tugged at his attention he looked at Modesty Blaise, watching the play of her hands and bare arms as she fixed his drink.
‘You’ve arranged fine weather,’ she said, and handed him the glass. ‘I didn’t realise the Foreign Office had such influence.’
‘We sacrificed two Civil Service maidens under a full moon last night,’ said Tarrant, and shrugged. ‘It seems to have worked better than some of our other operations recently,’ he added in a dry tone.
She looked at him quickly. ‘You’re tired. Are you sure you want to join us today?’
‘My dear,’ he said with profound sincerity, ‘I can’t remember when I’ve looked forward to a day so much.’
