"O'Donnell, Peter - Modesty Blaise 12 - Cobra Trap" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Peter)

"Yes, she came in to check 'ow we were doing."
"Did she say anything?"
"Not to me. I'd been awake a couple of minutes, but I made like I was out and gave 'er a chop. Then I was carrying you out to see if I could find a dinghy, or if not make a swim for it, but I ran into a Red Indian with a carbine and a mercenary type with a Uzi, so I brought you back in and took Sandra out."
She smiled and moved to sit beside him, giving him a pat on the knee. "You've been a busy lad, Willie love."
"And stupid, too, letting myself get picked up at Epsom." He frowned. "Who's Paul Crichton? I don't remember you mentioning 'im."
"I met him only a few days ago. And don't brag, I'm just as stupid as you are. He's from Kenya. I asked him to come to the cottage, then wondered why. He's very macho. A hunter-" She broke off.
Willie said, "A hunter?" They looked at each other with new speculation.
After a while Modesty said, "Well, I don't suppose it'll be long before we find out."

* * *

Crichton sat at the wardroom table polishing the steel buttplate of a hunting rifle, already burnished by years of use. A little way from him sat the big man with the Uzi, smoking, his gun lying on the table in front of him. Occasionally he glanced at Crichton with a shade of contempt. On the port side of the wardroom was a man in a wheelchair with a blanket over his knees. His hair was white, his face lined and the colour of putty. He sat with hands clasped in front of him, sunken eyes fixed on the door.
It opened, and Modesty Blaise came into the wardroom followed by Willie Garvin with a carbine at his back. The redskin moved to one side and stood watching them, the carbine at his hip. Modesty and Willie surveyed the wardroom thoughtfully, then stood with eyes on the man in the wheelchair. After a moment or two he said in a throaty voice, "Well...?"
Realisation came with a shock. They looked at each other, then at the man again, and Willie said cheerfully, "'Allo, Bellman. How's your luck?"
Bellman spoke in a voice that was shaken by weakness and passion. "Hard to recognise me, is it? A few years of hell in the mines and I'm an old man. An old man."
Modesty said, "I've seen junkies a lot younger who looked worse. Your clients."
For all the reaction he showed, Bellman might not have heard. He said hoarsely, "I've waited a long time for this. It was all that kept me alive. Now you're going to die, God damn you!"
He did not take his eyes from Modesty as he went on, "These are your hunters. Charlie Brightstar, Choctaw Indian. Best hunter in the States. Sooner kill a paleface than a bear. Van Rutte. Seven years a mercenary in black Africa. Good killing machine. Crichton... big game. A hunter with all the trophies except a man or a woman."
The door opened and Sandra came in. Bellman said in a gentle voice, "Are you all right now, darling?"
"Just a headache." She moved to face Willie, her eyes hostile. "You still don't recognize me?"
He looked at her searchingly. "Wait a minute... ah, yes, you've changed your hair colour. Lima, wasn't it? The girl on the bed." He smiled apologetically. "I didn't get much of a look at you that night. Not your face, anyway."
She looked at him coldly, then turned away and moved across the wardroom to stand beside Bellman, a hand on his shoulder. He reached up to rest a hand on her own, eyes dark with hate as he stared at Modesty. "You hunted me," he said with bitter rage. "You hounded me across the world... and then you framed me! I was innocent!"
"Innocent?" Modesty shook her head. "You want us to bleed for you, Bellman? You handled threequarters of a ton of heroin every year. You ran a training school, teaching your pushers how to get the kids hooked." Willie saw Sandra stiffen, and it seemed to him that fury and shock were at odds within her as she looked uncertainly down at Bellman, then at Modesty again as she went on: "You've killed them by the thousand, Bellman... but slowly. You rotted their souls. But you wouldn't ever see that end of it. You were just the big supplier. You didn't see the kids crawling to your pushers for a fix, ready to lick boots, steal, kill, anything-"
"Stop the bitch!" cried Bellman in a quavering scream, and Crichton came out of his chair fast, hitting Modesty hard across the mouth with the back of his hand, eyes alight with pleasure. Her lip was cut, and she lifted her hands, pressing the back of a wrist against her mouth to stem the bleeding.
Willie looked at Crichton and said mildly, "What was the name again?" In contrast to the voice there was something so truly chilling in his eyes that Crichton stepped quickly back. Then he recovered and forced a laugh. "You won't come looking for me, Garvin. I'll soon be looking for you."
Van Rutte said, "And he won't be the only one. Here's your gear." He picked up a haversack beside his chair and emptied it on to the table: a colt .32, a bowie knife, a waterbottle, and handcuff keys on a string.
In a voice trembling with malice and selfpity Bellman said, "You hunted me! Now you'll learn what it feels like. You'll be put ashore on an island at ten. It's small, nobody lives there. You'll have your favourite weapons, Colt thirtytwo for you, Blaise, a knife for Garvin. A bottle of water. Keys for the handcuffs." Van Rutte put the items back in the haversack as they were named, and Bellman went on, "You'll have two hours, then they'll be coming to hunt you down... and kill you!" His voice cracked on the last words and he swayed in his chair, panting, looking about him with crazed eyes. Sandra held his shoulder to steady him, deeply troubled.
Modesty said quietly, "It wasn't the labour squad that ruined you, Bellman. It was having no guts. You just gave up, because you're a whinger and a quitter."
Bellman tried to speak, but no word emerged. Sandra looked at the two captives with savage anger, then at Charlie Brightstar. "Take them away," she said. "I don't want to hear any more lies."

* * *

Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin stood on a flat stretch of rock that made a natural landing place, watching the small launch as it headed back towards the ship anchored offshore. On leaving her they had noted that she carried a Panamanian flag and was called Ambato. They were still handcuffed, and Willie was carrying the haversack. For a few seconds they studied their surroundings, noting the lie of the land, the distance to the ship, the set of the current, and estimating the time it would take to swim to the Ambato if at some stage they so decided.
Modesty gave a little nod, and together they turned and moved inland, up a short rocky slope then down into a hollow where they would be hidden from anyone watching with fieldglasses from the ship. Willie took keys from the haversack and unlocked Modesty's 'cuffs, eyebrows lifting with a touch of surprise. "I thought Bellman might be 'aving us on," he said. "Wrong keys."
"They could well have been." Modesty took them from him and freed his wrists. "Bellman's half crazy. Eaten away inside."
"Like a few thousand of 'is old customers, if they're still alive." Willie took out the Colt and passed it to Modesty. As she checked the cylinder to see that it was loaded he rested the bowie knife across one finger to assess the balance. "How d'you want to play it, Princess?" he asked.
"The long way, I think. Find a hole and disappear, maybe for a couple of days while they get swiveleyed and impatient. Alternatively, we might swim to the ship after dark and take it over, leaving the Three Musketeers on the island. We don't want to prove anything, do we?"
"Well... not exactly."
He spoke reluctantly, and when she saw him glance at her badly swollen mouth she knew his mind and said, "Well, let's find a hole first, then see how things go."
"Okay. We've got the best part of two hours." He put the handcuffs in the haversack, the keys in a pocket of his dinner jacket.
Modesty said, "We can pick up a little food to keep us going. Just easy stuff. Rock seaweed, shellfish, and maybe some nettles or dandelions."
Willie grimaced. "I might go on a fast. I was the least squeamish kid in the orphanage, but I wish I 'ad your stomach."
She smiled and picked up the hem of her skirt. "I had early training in diet. Hack this off short for me, Willie. It's a pity I wasn't wearing slacks."
He dropped to one knee and began to cut the skirt to above midthigh. There might be no immediate need for this if they were going to ground, but she was taking nothing for granted, and if action came sooner than expected she wanted no skirt to hamper her movements. When he had finished Willie put the cut fabric in his haversack on the principle that it might be useful. In circumstances like these, you could never tell.

* * *

At noon the ship's launch headed for the shore, an Asiatic seaman at the tiller. Brightstar sat with the carbine across his knees, silent and impassive. Crichton carried his hunting rifle and wore a widebrimmed hat with a strip of leopard skin round the crown. Van Rutte nursed his Uzi and had changed his baseball cap for a camouflaged steel helmet.
On the deck of the Ambato Bellman sat in his wheelchair with Sandra beside him. A pace or two away, watching them uneasily, was the ship's master. Captain Ricco Burrera was a worried man with an ingratiating manner. He was well aware that whatever was about to happen was entirely illegal, in fact that it almost certainly involved a double killing, and he was concerned that this might, if discovered, be held against him.
He cleared his throat noisily to make his presence known and said, "I hope there will be no troubles afterwards, senor."