O'Donnell, Peter - Modesty Blaise Pieces Of Modesty, page 6
She saw the flat tyre, saw the chauffeur alighting. Willie was already out of the van. He glanced at her without interest and she gave him a fractional nod. From long years of working dangerously together their minds were sensitively attuned. His glance had simply asked for her confirmation to go ahead with what they both knew was the only way to snatch Okubo from disaster.
Willie would meet the chauffeur at the rear of the Daimler
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and offer to help. When the chauffeur opened the boot, Willie would drop him with a body-jab at close quarters. And while Modesty, anxious and fluttering, tapped on the Daimler window to tell De Souta his chauffeur had apparently fainted, Willie would get Okubo out of the boot and into the van.
The whole move was electric with danger, but it would take only five seconds and there was no other option now. A car hooted and swung out past Modesty. She made an apologetic gesture, started the engine and stalled as soon as it fired. The chauffeur had spoken to his master and was moving round to the rear of the Daimler. With an air of hopeful cupidity Willie said in German, ‘You want a hand with it?’ The chauffeur looked slightly surprised. Then, grasping that goodwill was not the motive, he nodded indifferently and bent to open the boot. As he lifted the lid Modesty saw Willie’s rigid hand poised to stab forward, his body hiding it from any passing pedestrian. Then he froze.
She could see into the boot, and it was empty. No Okubo. The chauffeur began to winch down the spare wheel from its resting place. Willie rubbed his chin and turned his head so that his gaze passed idly across her. Now what? She gave a little backward jerk of her head, then started the Skoda and moved off, turning down Leipziger Strade. Anger, relief and speculation all battled for a place in her mind.
An hour later Willie drove the van into Toller’s yard. She was waiting for him in the big garage, and said, ‘We’re alone. It’s safe to talk.’
He began to take off his overalls and said grimly, ‘Where’s the little bastard now?’
‘Back where he started. Up in Toller’s room.’
‘You found ‘im still in the lock-up garage?’
‘Yes. He changed his mind at the last minute, he tells me, so he hid under a tarpaulin there when the chauffeur came to get the Daimler out.’
‘Changed ‘is mind? He wants to go back to Moscow?’
She shook her head. ‘Changed his mind about accepting our plan for getting him out. I managed to smuggle him into the Skoda without anyone seeing, and I brought him back here.
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Toller was ripe to kill him when we turned up.’
Willie took off the beret and inserted the rubber pads in his cheeks. His movements were taut and precise. She knew that he was boiling with anger. Her own fury had had time to cool now. She said, ‘It could have been worse, Willie love. I know that flat tyre was a million-to-one chance, but it happened. We might have scooped Okubo out of the boot and into the van safely, but we could only have brought him back here.’
Willie let out a long breath and nodded reluctant agreement. ‘Did you tell Okubo what ‘appened?’
She grimaced. ‘No. He’s bad enough without being given a chance to say I-told-you-so. I just tore him apart for fouling up the plan, but I’m female so he hardly listened. He just wants to know what the next move will be.’
‘I wouldn’t mind knowing that meself,’ Willie said bleakly, and put on his plain-glass spectacles.
‘I told him that we’d have to lay on a major operation, but that it would take a few days to organize.’
Willie stared. ‘Activating Tarrant’s lot?’
‘Yes. That’s what Okubo wants. A big show. I thought we might let him believe he’ll get it.’
Willie relaxed, gazing at her curiously, trying to mesh with her thoughts. Then his eyebrows lifted and he gave a little nod of comprehension. ‘Yes. You could be right, Princess.’
His anger had vanished now. They stood in silence for a while, their minds mutually preoccupied. At last Willie said, ‘Tarrant should’ve got the message last night. It’ll make ‘im sweat when Okubo doesn’t ‘op out of that Daimler.’
‘Yes.’ She gave a wry shrug. ‘He’s used to sweating. We’ll get another message to him tonight.’
‘Same way?’
‘The same way. I don’t want to use couriers. I don’t want to rely on anybody but us. And Toller. We’ll use the pamphlet bomb again. Toller says they’re firing nightly for the next two weeks at least.’
Willie grinned. The idea was Modesty’s, and he thought it a knock-out. Toller printed the propaganda pamphlets and packed them in papiermache ‘bombs’ which were fired over the border from crude mortars. He made a delivery of bombs
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nightly to gun sites along a four-mile stretch of the border south of Berlin.
It was easy to make a stronger bomb, a container which would not burst and scatter its contents. It would contain no pamphlets but would carry a homing device transmitting on a set frequency and activated by the shock of the discharge. Toller would deliver that bomb, with the usual issue, to a prearranged site. On the other side of the border, Tarrant had men on permanent listening watch, to get a cross-reference on the homing device in the fallen bomb. It would be located within minutes of landing, and it would contain whatever message Modesty wished to send.
Toller had been entranced by the idea. He hated using couriers, and the thought that the East German propaganda gunners would be acting as messengers gave him a pleasure that was rare in the unremittingly grey and dangerous life he lived.
Willie said, his grin fading, ‘So all we’ve got to do is figure another way of getting Okubo out.’
‘Just that small item.’
He sighed. ‘There’s only one good thing ‘appened this morning,’ he said gloomily. ‘I got a dollar tip from that chauffeur for ‘elping change the wheel.’
Throughout the rest of the day they made no conscious efforts to formulate a plan, but simply left their minds open to recognize any opportunity. This was their method, and this was how Willie had hit upon the first plan, several days ago, when he had seen the United Nations car pass by on its daily journey through Checkpoint Charlie.
When night came they were still without inspiration. Modesty lay in bed and reviewed the chances of using the same escape plan again, except that this time they would knock Okubo unconscious before putting him in the boot. But his cooperation would be needed until the last moment, and she knew they could not fool him for long enough to ensure that cooperation.
It was eleven o’clock. Within the next hour or two the East Germans would obligingly shoot her message to Tarrant over the border. It would be some relief to him to know that even
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though one attempt had failed, at least they had not been caught…
An association of ideas made her thoughts dart off at a tangent. She drew in a quick breath and sat up, her mind racing. The idea seemed hare-brained, but it might work. Yes … it just might. Willie would know, and he could make it work if it was in any way possible.
She got out of bed, pulled on a dressing-gown and went through the communicating door into his room. He woke at the faint sound of the door opening, sat up in bed and put on the bedside light. She beckoned him through to the bathroom and turned on the shower. It was possible the rooms were bugged, but unlikely that this included the bathroom. If so, then the sound of the shower would make the bug ineffective.
Willie sat beside her on the edge of the bath, his eyes eager, knowing she had an idea. She put her lips close to his ear and began to whisper. After the first ten seconds he suddenly hunched forward, a frantic expression on his face, then rammed the fingers of one hand into his mouth and closed his teeth on them, rocking back and forth in agonized struggle as he fought to subdue the gust of laughter that convulsed him, laughter so stupendous that if he had given vent to it the sound would have been heard through the walls.
She stared at him almost indignantly for a moment, then punched his arm gently in remonstrance. He shook his head in speechless apology, and doubled up again. Somehow he straightened, the breath rasping round the gag of his fingers. He looked at her, his face empurpled with strain, then nodded again and again, lifting his free hand to make a confirmatory circle with finger and thumb.
A new spasm gripped him, and suddenly she caught the infection. The same convulsive laughter welled up within her. Eyes closed, tears squeezing from under the lids, lips tightly compressed, she leaned against him and hugged her forearms across her stomach in the desperate struggle to keep silent.
Tarrant handed the sheet of paper to Berlin Control and fingered his moustache. Berlin Control read the message twice, a variety of expressions chasing one another over his face. At
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last he said simply, ‘They must be joking.’
‘That’s the first impression one gets,’ Tarrant agreed. ‘But it’s not tenable. So let’s assume that this is just a typically unorthodox idea. We’re going to comply with what they ask.’ It was two days since the earlier message had come through, giving no details but stating baldly that the first plan had failed and that another would be devised. Now this new message had come over the border. Berlin Control read it once again and said, ‘It won’t be easy to get this organized.’
Tarrant eyed him coldly. ‘It’s a bloody sight easier than what she and Willie have to organize, don’t you think?’
‘We only have thirty-six hours.”
‘Then that will have to be long enough.’ Tarrant frowned, trying to trap a fleeting thought of something he had seen or read in the last few days. He identified it and said, ‘There’s a man in the States called John Dall. A tycoon with all kinds of diverse interests. Get him on the phone for me.’
Til try. Tycoons usually have a screen of secretaries to shield them.’
‘Give my name and say it concerns Modesty Blaise,’ Tarrant said. ‘You’ll get through that screen as fast as if you were the President.’
It was an hour later, and four am in New York, when Tarrant picked up the phone and heard Dall’s voice. ‘Tarrant?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour’
‘Never mind. Have you got her into another peck of trouble?’
‘I could have stopped her by putting her in a straitjacket, perhaps.’
He heard Dall give a sigh of resignation. Then, ‘OK. I know what you mean. What can I do?’
‘I believe you have a major interest in a film company which has a unit here at the moment, shooting scenes which include the Wall. They have, or can obtain, certain facilities she wants me to provide.’
There was a silence. Tarrant knew that Dall wanted to ask if Modesty was on the wrong side of the Wall, but would not do so on an open line. He said, ‘Yes, she is, John.’
Dall said, ‘Oh, my God. All right, the unit director is a guy
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called Joe Abrahams. I’ll call him now. He’ll make contact with you within the next couple of hours and he’ll be under your orders for - how long do you want?’
‘Thirty-six hours, please.’
‘OK. Where does he contact you?’
Tarrant gave the address and number of a small travel agency. Dall said, ‘I’ve got that. Will you have her ring me as soon as she’s able to, please?’
‘Of course. And thank you.’ Tarrant put down the phone and looked at Berlin Control. ‘I’ve seen them shooting scenes close to the Wall. They must have permission for it from the West Germans.’
‘Yes. Are you going to ask the Gehlen Bureau for help? They have a lot of pull.’
‘I don’t think we need it now we have the film-location cover, and the fewer people involved the better.’ Tarrant pointed to the message Berlin Control had picked up from the desk. ‘Study that sketch map and the figures, then go and look at the site and see how best to set the scene.’
Okubo sat in the brown van with Modesty, in a lay-by on the Dresden road fifteen miles south of Berlin. It was just after half past eight, and night had fallen.
‘There is to be a full conference?’ Okubo said.
‘Yes. Nobody likes the idea, but I persuaded them that we’d have to set up a major operation to get you out.’
‘So I have said all along. What is the plan?’
‘I don’t know yet. It’s to be settled tonight.’
‘It must have my approval.’
‘That’s why you’re here now and out of cover,’ Modesty said dryly. ‘It’s dangerous for you and it’s bad security for our people, but they’ve accepted the risk.’
An enormous furniture truck came rumbling along the road. It pulled into the lay-by behind them. The headlights were switched off, and Willie Garvin, dressed in overalls and a beret, climbed down from the cab of the truck and moved to the van. He nodded to Modesty. She said to Okubo, ‘We move into the truck now.’
The little Japanese got out of the van and followed her
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round to the rear of the tall truck. A tarpaulin hung down from the back of the rectangular roof to join the tailboard. Willie lowered the tailboard and Okubo mounted it. He said, ‘It is to be a mobile conference, then?’
‘The Group Controller decided it was the safest way,’ Modesty said, and followed Okubo as he ducked under the hanging tarpaulin.
There was nobody in the truck, but the vast bulk of some strange object filled it almost completely fore and aft, leaving a passageway on each side. Okubo stared in the darkness. The thing seemed to be an enormous cylinder, tapering slightly and angled up towards the rear of the truck. The cylinder was set on some kind of mounting or low carriage which seemed to be bolted to the floor.
It was a gun. A cannon. A caricature of a cannon. It was of metal and had once been brightly painted, but most of the paint had peeled off. The barrel was absurdly large. Large enough to take a man…
Watching, Modesty saw Okubo freeze with incredulity for a moment. Then he turned and sprang at her in the narrow gap between the side of the truck and the circus cannon. He jumped high, and one foot lashed out for her heart in a skilled karate kick. It was a reaction far quicker than she had anticipated, but instinct gave her a split-second warning of it.
She twisted, and his heel scraped her upper arm. She blocked the follow-up chop of his hand with an elbow driven paralysingly against his forearm; and then, as he landed, she was inside his guard and the kongo in her fist rapped home sharply under his ear. He fell like an empty sack.
Behind her, Willie Garvin said, ‘Karate man, eh? And a lively little Professor all round. Caught on fast, but didn’t fancy the idea much.’
‘It’s not a very dignified way of going over the Wall,’ Modesty said, and took the hypodermic Willie handed her. ‘It ought to be dramatic enough for him, but there’s a certain loss of face about it. Did you test the cannon again today?’
‘Three times on a set trajectory, with a sack of sand the same weight as Toller gave us for Okubo. There wasn’t more than thirty inches variation on landing. If Tarrant fixes the net
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on the measurements we want, Okubo ought to land pretty well dead centre. And the size of net we asked for allows a margin of sixteen feet on width, and twice as much on length.’
Willie Garvin sounded very confident. The circus he had worked for long ago had boasted a Human Cannonball act, and one of Willie’s jobs had been to check and test the cannon, and to load it with the compressed air which provided the firepower.
Two days ago, undisguised and purporting to represent a Russian circus, Willie had visited the farm again and bought the cannon. He had spent a full day there, stripping down and adjusting the firing mechanism, scouring the inside of the barrel to mirror smoothness, getting the necessary compressed air cylinders, testing the cannon, and hiring the furniture truck.
The farmer had been mildly surprised, but this brusque circus man was a Russian, and one did not argue with one’s allies and protectors.
There was a crash-helmet to protect Okubo’s head, a stiff leather collar for his neck, and a small tarpaulin in which to wrap him up and so protect his limbs, since he would be unconscious while making the flight. The tarpaulin was oiled on the outside to give a smooth exit from the great barrel of the cannon. With the lightweight Okubo as projectile, the cannon’s range was greater than usual. It had tested out well at just under ninety yards.
Modesty completed the injection of pentothal and straightened up. She said, ‘All right, Willie. Let’s get him loaded.’
Willie Garvin reached for the crash helmet and tarpaulin, and as he bent to the task his body shook with silent laughter.
Fifteen miles away, and on the other side of the Wall, Tarrant stood with Joe Abrahams in a side-street near Brunen-strade. Abrahams was a lean, eager man of great energy. At first resentful of interference by Dall from above, he had become ecstatic about the project as soon as Tarrant explained what was wanted. His only regret was that there was no film in the three cameras set up to cover the scene they were pretending to shoot.
Abrahams had conjured up a net, flown in from Bonn, after
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an urgent call to his property man there. It was forty yards long and fifteen wide. At this moment it lay carefully folded on top of three big tracks which stood facing the open ground between the end of the side-street and the Wall.
There was the usual apparent confusion that inevitably surrounds a film unit. Lights were being set up, powered by long cables run out from a generator. Peoples sat around in canvas-backed chairs, drinking coffee served from a canteen-van. Others called instructions or made chalk marks on the ground for the actors to take up position when shooting began.
Abrahams ran his fingers through an untidy mop of hair and said, ‘Your artillery friends had better be spot on ten-fifteen. When we run that net out, the guys in the watchtowers won’t see it because we’ve fixed the lighting that way. But it’ll only take maybe five minutes before the West German cops get around to making guesses and having us take it down.’
