The Saint in Trouble

Original Teleplay by John Kruse

Adapted by Graham Weaver

1

A fine drizzle blurred the sharp outlines of the sprawling pile of concrete and glass boxes that is Heathrow Airport. The midday sun was hidden by a low canopy of grey-black cloud. A brisk breeze lifted the litter of empty cigaret packets and assorted paper wrappings that are a feature of most British public places and skimmed them across the desolate expanse of runways and cargo yards.

The plane taxied slowly to a halt, shuddering slightly as the engine died. Simon Templar wiped the mist from the window, and grinned wryly as he surveyed the dismal scene.

“Oh to be in London, now that autumn’s here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He turned to the middle-aged matron in the next seat who was trying to untangle her portly frame from the confines of her safety belt. She had spoken little during the flight from Nice, and he had been extremely grateful for her taciturnity. There was an aura surrounding such heavily powdered and perfumed dowagers which he found conducive to claustrophobia.

“I said it’s good to be back.”

The woman ceased her struggles and regarded him with an expression that was a mixture of amazement and concern.

“If you think that, young man, then I can only conclude that the Riviera sun has been too strong for your brain.”

He laughed and reached across and released the clasp of her seat belt. She spared him a final parting frown before heaving her bulk upright and pushing her way into the file of passengers inching their way along the aisle.

He was not surprised at her reaction. London is a city that is either loved or loathed; it brooks no indifference. It has been compared to hell and it has also been said that when a man is tired of London he is tired of life. Simon Templar placed himself squarely in the latter camp.

He could appreciate London because he was able to compare it with most of the other great cities of the world. It was true that he had seen more beautiful ones, admired the splendour of more ancient ones, relaxed in the serenity of more peaceful ones, and fought in more violent ones, but only in London did the individual characteristics that make other cities interesting merge together to form one unique entity.

It was the one spot on the globe that he truly regarded as home. It had been the scene of some of the most memorable episodes in his swashbuckling career, and in his more reflective moments he sometimes wondered if it would be the backdrop to his last.

Not, it should be stated, that he believed that day to be imminent. As he strolled leisurely into the arrival terminal he had no more nefarious intention in mind than a change of clothes and dinner with a friend about whose identity he was not in the least particular, as long as her eyes reflected the candlelight, her hair shone and curled, and her shape curved in the correct places and proportions.

At passport control, the man at the desk said nothing, but simply glanced at the Saint, then at the picture, flicked over the pages, and handed the book back with a look that said “I know who you are and so something must be wrong, but I can’t find it.”

He waited with the rest of the passengers until the baggage arrived. Most of them were returning from holiday; and if any recognised the tall tanned man in their midst they did not, in true British fashion, make the fact obvious, even though all but the most myopic must have seen those same clear blue eyes smiling at them from the front page of every French newspaper less than forty-eight hours before. He retrieved his suitcase and walked through to the customs hall. A British passport clearly states that Her Britannic Majesty requires all whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely, without let or hindrance. This does not however apply to the said Britannic Majesty’s customs officers, who, like the Ancient Mariner, stoppeth one in three. The Saint looked along the line of people ahead of him in the queue and was already resigned to his fate before he lifted his suitcase onto the counter.

He studied the list held before him and gravely considered each item.

“No. No. No. Certainly not. Also I’m afraid I’ve spent all my counterfeit coins, smoked the last of my opium, and all my meat and poultry is fully cooked.”

The officer gave him a look which placed him somewhere in the lower regions of the insect world.

“Open the case, please, sir.”

He opened the case and watched as the contents were riffled. The official searched with professional diligence, and only when he was convinced that every shirt had been creased did he close the lid and scrawl his mark across it.

“Thank you, sir.”

Only a well-trained British civil servant can make a statement of gratitude sound like an insult. The Saint bestowed his most dazzling smile upon him and moved on to merge with the procession flowing out to join the crowd of waiting friends and messengers in the main concourse.

He had not covered a dozen yards before he felt rather than heard the two men behind him. His instinct for danger was so finely honed by years of living on a knife’s edge that he sensed their approach even among the crash of people around him. He stopped so abruptly that the two men had to swerve to avoid cannoning into him. He turned on his heel.

“Okay, brothers, and what can I do for you?”

“Brothers” was an apt description, for the two men facing him could easily have shared the same parents. Both were tall and powerfully built, their expensively tailored light grey suits failing to hide the breadth of their shoulders or the slight bulge beneath their left arms. The only real difference was the colour of their hair, one blond, the other a jet black, but this dissimilarity had been reduced by the close-cropped style they both affected. Despite the overcast sky their eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.

The Saint put down his case and stood with his arms hanging loosely by his sides, as deceptively relaxed as a coiled snake.

The blond man spoke first.

“Mr. Templar?”

“Me? No, sorry. McFiggin’s the name.”

The dark-haired twin bent and read the tag on his suitcase. He nodded to his companion.

“Come with us, please.”

As he spoke, the man lifted the case and made a move towards the exit. The Saint’s hand flashed out, fingers of steel gripping his arm and staying him in mid-stride.

The Saint’s voice was soft and reasonable.

“Now hold it. What is this? Who are you?”

The dark-haired man made no attempt to return the case, and the Saint felt the muscles beneath his grasp tighten.

“We have orders to collect you.”

“Orders? From whom?”

The blond man stepped between them, looking around quickly as if the delay worried him.

“Shh. Please, no fuss, Mr. Templar.”

The Saint’s tone was conversational but his words were edged with a menace neither man could fail to appreciate.

“Fuss? You tell me what is going on, or I’ll raise the roof clean off this airport.”

“Our orders are simply to collect you, not to explain. You are needed urgently in a confidential matter.”

“By whom?”

The blond man’s voice fell to a whisper.

“Colonel Leon Garvi.”

The revelation of the identity of his would — be host told the Saint many things, not least the reason for the two men’s caution. Slowly he released his grip.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Lead on.”

The blond man carried his case, and the Saint followed him out of the building, while his colleague walked a few paces behind, his eyes constantly scanning the surrounding area, his hand resting lightly on the top button of his jacket.

Outside the terminal they stopped by a blue Volvo that had been left in the middle of a No Parking zone. A few yards away a policeman scowled impotently at the small CD badge beside the rear number plate. The blond man put the case in the trunk and slid in behind the wheel while the other joined the Saint in the back. Neither man appeared inclined to volunteer any further information, and Simon did not press them.

He used the drive into town to run through all he knew of Colonel Leon Garvi.

They had met a couple of times in the past, first in Tel Aviv and later in Zurich, and on both occasions he had had the opportunity of watching the colonel at work and had developed a deep respect for his abilities. Garvi was a born hunter, and his quarry was invariably human. He had gained his reputation tracking down war criminals before turning his attention to terrorists. His name never appeared in official reports or the newspapers, but he was famed and feared in those circles in which he chose to move. It was said that he never failed to find the man he sought, and he was held in almost supernatural awe both by those who feared him and those who served him.

Simon could think of no reason why Garvi should want to see him, but he knew that the explanation when it came would be an interesting one. The Saint had no qualms about accepting the invitation. He had long ago ceased to question the vagaries of fate. He had followed the promise of adventure to Cannes and had not been disappointed; that the prospect of mayhem should present itself so soon did not surprise him. Things happened to him not only because he looked for them, but because he brazenly expected them. He had set his feet on the road to adventure and was prepared to make room and find time for it wherever and whenever it appeared, taking every moment as it came.

At that particular moment he was being chauffeured to London, which was where he wanted to go and in a vehicle that was more comfortable than the taxi he would otherwise have taken. He asked for no more.

Outside, the factories flashed by in a blur of smoky dullness. Beyond them, the neat and tidy streets of suburbia stretched in orderly ranks into the far distance. As they drew nearer the centre, blocks of fading Victorian terraces replaced the smart semis until they were cruising through Hammersmith towards Kensington.

They crawled along Kensington High Street between the tall blocks of department stores and pavements overflowing with shoppers and harassed office workers in search of tea and sandwiches, finally turning into Palace Green and stopping outside the Israeli embassy.

He was taken in by a secondary entrance, through elaborate security precautions which cannot be detailed here, to the third floor where a single door led from a small reception area. Beside it, a mountain of a man sat behind a desk. The blond man smiled a greeting that was not returned.

“Mr. Templar.”

The mountain pressed a button on the console in front of him, and almost immediately a green light flashed above the door. The blond man held it open and the Saint walked through.

The inner office was long and narrow and ultrafunctional. One wall was entirely taken up by banks of filing cabinets, the other by maps which hung from ceiling to floor and were covered in a multitude of tiny colored flags. Garvi sat behind an expanse of leather-topped desk at the far end, and through the windows behind it Simon could see the tops of the trees in Kensington Gardens. There was a deceptive air of peace about the room, and he did not care to shatter it by thinking of the actions that might have been planned within its walls.

Garvi rose as the Saint approached, smiling and stretching out his hand. He was in his mid-fifties, tall with the supple strength of a big cat. His steel-grey hair was cut cleanly around the ears and neck, and his face was lean and tanned. But the most dominant of his features were the eyes. They had an almost hypnotic appeal, as if they were capable of penetrating a man’s brain and reading his innermost thoughts.

“Simon, it’s good to see you again.”

They shook hands, and the Saint smiled.

“And you, Colonel. It’s been a longish time.”

“Too long. Please sit down.”

“What do you want to see me about? Your men were very insistent.”

He was aware that the blond man had followed him into the room and was leaning against the door. Garvi nodded towards him.

“This is Yakovitz, one of my top operatives. He will be helping you.”

“Helping me do what, Leon? What’s this all about?”

“R.S.”

The Saint’s eyes narrowed. He had heard of the Arab “Red Sabbath” organization, but then who capable of reading a paper or listening to a news broadcast had not? They had bombed and machine-gunned their way into the headlines in a raid on a kibbutz three years before, and since then had never been out of them for long. They claimed to be fighting a holy war that would destroy the state of Israel. Their weapons were terror, and their victims the weak and the defenceless and the innocent A school bus blown apart, an airport departure lounge machine-gunned, aircraft hijacked and passengers held for ransom. They were the worst kind of enemy to fight-unpredictable fanatics, prepared, even eager, to die for their cause.

Garvi continued.

“One of their top men, Abdul Hakim, has defected.”

“So?”

“He’s here in London. We are after him, Simon, but so far — no luck. We think he’s heading for South America, but that he’s been held up, maybe through lack of money, passport, visa, we don’t know, but we have got to find him.”

The Saint began to see the first strands of the web that was being spun around him.

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m not heading any murder squad, Leon.”

Garvi’s reassuring smile never reached his eyes.

“No, no, you don’t understand. We need him alive. This is their first defection. He knows all their top men. Don’t you see what that information could do for us? We could destroy the whole group! This man is deep underground, his own people are after him too, they want to try and silence him before we get to him. He’s buried himself in the city jungle — a jungle that you know like the back of your hand. Right?”

The Saint was hesitant.

“Right.”

“Well, Tel Aviv has drafted in one of our top counterterrorist officers, Captain Zabin, to track him down. But the captain doesn’t know London. Now do you see? We want you as a guide, Simon.”

The Saint was still unconvinced.

“This man’s a killer. So if we catch up with him he’s going to shoot it out, isn’t he?”

Garvi shook his head slowly, as if the action alone would dispel the Saint’s doubts.

“I know what you’re thinking, but you must believe me. I respect this city as much as you do. If there is shooting, it will not be from us. I have given strict orders. My solemn word. Will you help us?”

His eyes searched the Saint’s face as if trying to read the answer before it was spoken.

Simon recalled the pictures he had seen of twisted bodies in shattered buildings, of young lives sacrificed to a hate they did not understand.

Slowly he nodded.

Garvi visibly relaxed, and the Saint realised what an effort it had cost him to ask the aid of an outsider.

“Thank you.”

He looked beyond the Saint to Yakovitz.

“Ask Captain Zabin to come in.”

Simon heard the door open, and rose to greet the officer. And a look of total astonishment replaced the bland expression of polite cordiality into which he had conventionally composed his features.

2

Captain Zabin stopped a yard away, and seemed almost as startled as the Saint.

She wore a military-style blouse and knee-length pleated skirt, but even the severely functional line of her clothes could not completely mask a figure that undulated in all the right places. Her smooth skin was tinged with a light tan, her features delicate but conveying a subtle strength. Like Garvi’s, her eyes shone with a strange, disquieting intenseness. Her black hair was brushed back and fastened by a tortoise-shell clip at the nape of her neck.

She eyed the Saint with undisguised disapproval, and looked questioningly at her superior.

“Is this the man?”

The colonel grinned.

“Captain Leila Zabin, allow me to introduce Simon Templar.”

She made no attempt to conceal her disappointment.

“From what you told me, I was expecting someone much more...”

As she faltered, the Saint stepped forward, smiling as his eyes flickered over her body in candid approval.

“Me too, Captain. But who’s grumbling?” he murmured. “Simon Templar, at your service.”

The ringing of the telephone split a stillness that threatened to become uncomfortable.

Garvi lifted the transreceiver, listened for a few moments, and then replaced it. He turned back to the Saint and shrugged an apology.

“Simon, I’m sorry, but I have to go. In any case there is little more I can tell you. Captain Zabin will give you any additional information you may require. Here is the file on Hakim. The first thing you must do is set up a base away from the embassy. Let me know as soon as you have chosen a convenient place.”

They shook hands, and Simon waited until Garvi had left before turning to Leila.

“Well,” he said, “let’s get started”

Leila hesitated.

“Where are we going?”

“To set up our base as the good colonel told us.”

She made to bar his way but he sidestepped past her. Yakovitz still leant against the door and showed no indication of moving. For a moment their eyes met, and almost as if a telepathic message passed between them the blond man stepped aside and allowed them through into the reception lobby.

“Come along. I’ll give you directions as we drive.”

Leila and Yakovitz had no alternative but to follow, but as he descended the stairs he felt their eyes scorching the back of his head and smiled.

The Volvo was still outside, but there was no sign of the dark-haired chauffeur. As Yakovitz walked towards the driver’s door the Saint laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“I’ll drive.”

Yakovitz looked questioningly at Leila, who replied with a shrug of indifference. Reluctantly he handed over the keys.

The Saint guided the car through the Kensington traffic towards Knightsbridge.

“Is this the first time you’ve been to London, Captain?”

“Yes.”

“You must allow me to give you a guided tour.”

“Thank you, Mr. Templar, but I think not. We are here on business, not on holiday.”

“Your loss, Leila. Still, I have a feeling you’ll be seeing quite a bit of it even if it is on business.”

He shot the car between a bus and a taxi with an inch to spare on either wing, smiling at the Anglo-Saxon epithets that flowed from both sides.

“You said that Hakim’s own men are hunting him. Do we know anything about them?”

He sensed Leila’s relief that the conversation had returned to business, and wondered at the brittle quality of her screen of toughness.

“All we are certain of is that three of them arrived as seamen yesterday on a freighter at the West India Dock. We’re not sure, but we believe one of them is a man named Masrouf. He and Hakim were in on the start of the R.S.”

Simon nosed the Volvo into the stream of traffic negotiating Hyde Park Corner.

“So he’d know where to go looking while we run around in circles?”

“You are here to make sure that we don’t,” she said coldly.

“Let’s get this straight. An Arab terrorist is somewhere in London. A handful of gunmen are looking for him so that they can help him on his way to Allah. We are also turning over the paving stones hoping something will crawl out. All good fun — but where does British Intelligence come into all this?”

“They don’t. This is a private affair.”

He laughed as he pictured the scene that would be enacted in offices in Scotland Yard and Whitehall once their activities became known.

“I don’t think the Special Branch would agree with you.”

“My concern is Abdul Hakim — not your Special Branch, your D16, or your government.”

Simon spun the wheel and turned into Upper Brook Street, screeching under the radiator of a Rolls and almost giving the ducal personage in the back apoplexy.

In a few moments he slowed and turned into a small courtyard behind the buildings that fronted the thoroughfare, braking outside a mews terrace converted to whitewashed two-storey houses. Before he had switched off the engine, Yakovitz was out of the car, his eyes darting from window to window.

Leila considered the house with the same disapproving frown with which she had greeted the Saint. Simon unlocked the front door and led the way inside.

They entered directly into a long, open-plan lounge, with an iron spiral staircase rising from the centre of the room to connect with the bedrooms above. It was furnished with the miscellaneous mementoes collected in years of wandering to every part of the world, and might have given an interior designer palpitations had not each individual piece carried the unmistakeable stamp of its owner’s good taste.

Leila shook her head.

“Very nice. You live well. But hardly the place for an operational headquarters.”

“Exactly, which makes it ideal. Of course, if you prefer, we could always advertise by hanging out the Israeli flag.”

“I do not find your humour appropriate, Mr. Templar. I would not have chosen such a place, but for the present I must accept your argument.”

She turned to Yakovitz, who had stayed in the doorway watching the street

“Do what you have to.”

The agent unlocked the car trunk and brought out a small metal detector and began to systematically scan the walls.

“Most professional, but really quite unnecessary,” Simon remarked. “The house isn’t bugged.”

Leila ignored him, and wandered over to the collection of weapons displayed above the fireplace. They were a strange assortment of deadly instruments that ranged from a Zulu assegai to a harpoon gun, taking in a staggering variety of firearms on the way. She removed a kukri and carefully tested its sharpness with her thumb.

“You keep an impressive arsenal, Mr. Templar.”

He took the knife from her and replaced it with a chuckle.

“I hope you’re not superstitious, Captain. They say that a kukri should never be drawn unless blood is shed.” He waved his hand to encompass the collection. “Weapons I have not been killed with. Some day I’ll tell you the stories behind them. Now, shall we christen the new headquarters?”

Leila turned to face him.

“Mr. Templar, let us get one thing quite straight. I am in command here. You are the guide. Is that clear?”

He walked over to a side table and considered the bottles that covered it.

“Now let me guess — vodka?”

She could not quite master the anger in her voice.

“I don’t drink. Did you hear me, Mr. Templar?”

“I heard you, Captain. Now why don’t you check in with Garvi while your friend brings in the cases. There are only two bedrooms, so Yakowatsit here will have to kip on the couch. Unless of course we can think of an alternative idea.”

Again his gaze travelled the length of her body and he was pleased at the flush of embarrassment it brought. It was the first strictly female emotion she had shown.

“That arrangement will be perfectly suitable.”

While she telephoned and Yakovitz carried the cases upstairs, Simon relaxed on the soft leather couch and flicked through the folder Garvi had given him. Most of the information simply documented Hakim’s terrorist activities, his personal appearance and habits, and was of little use as far as their current job was concerned. More important were the two photographs. They showed a man of about thirty with crinkly black hair and a Zapata moustache, who even on film managed to convey a feeling of tension and danger. One was a straight head and shoulders picture, the other a snap of him taken on a rooftop with an attractive girl about ten years his junior.

Simon was still studying it when Leila finished her call and joined him.

“Colonel Garvi approves of your choice,” she said with visible reluctance. “He appears to place great trust in you, Mr. Templar. But I must ask you to take this operation more seriously. I do not know if it is a defence mechanism because I am a woman, but I find your attitude to this important mission” — she searched her vocabulary for a correct word — “slap-happy? You have scarcely looked at that file. Instead of being concerned with drinks and... er... sleeping accommodation, you should be deciding where our search should begin.”

The Saint removed the picture and tossed the rest of the contents of the folder on the table as he rose. He affected surprise at her comments.

“Oh, that? I thought that was obvious.”

“Obvious?”

“The snapshot of him in London.”

She took the photograph from him and considered it carefully.

“That is London? How can you tell?”

He pointed to a small rectangle on the far left of the frame.

“The tower at Kings Cross station.”

“Oh! We thought it was a chimney pot.”

The Saint clicked his tongue in mock reproof.

“How very... er... slap-happy of you, Captain.”

He took a large-scale map of inner London from the bureau and spread it out on the table.

“Now the Kings Cross tower is on the far left, so if we draw a line along the Euston Road we have one boundary.”

His finger stubbed at the map.

“There’s a church there, but no sign of the steeple in the photograph. Therefore we can rule out the area east of Fartingdon Street. There’s no natural third boundary, so we’ll have to join up the two extremes.”

He drew a line from Holborn Viaduct diagonally across the map to link up with the station.

“The sun is high, therefore the picture was taken from the west. And judging by the smallness of it in the picture, the tower is a fair way in the distance, which means we can eliminate these.”

He shaded in the roads immediately before Kings Cross. A small triangle of about a dozen major roads and twice as many side streets remained.

“The picture was taken somewhere within that area,” he said, “so I suggest we start looking there. The photograph is three years old, so it’s a long shot, but it’s the best lead we have at the moment.”

Leila smiled for the first time since they had met.

“Very efficient, Mr. Templar. I am impressed.”

The Saint half bowed.

“All part of the service, Captain. Now I too must make a telephone call.”

He dialled, and drummed his fingers on the desk top until his ring was answered.

“Hullo, Harry. This is the Saint. I’ve got a job for you. The mark’s a bloke called Hakim, and somebody’s doing him a ticket. I want to know who. Also he may be trying to buy a persuader. Three other sheikhs who want to talk to him might be asking questions as well. I want everything you can get, but particularly the I.D. of the inkman. A couple of ponies for starters, and I’ll raise you if it’s official. Yes, I know it’s a tall one. No, I’m not expecting miracles. Just do your best. I’ll see you in the usual at ten.”

He had been watching Leila while he talked, and had seen her expression change from admiration to suspicion.

“Who was that?”

“An acquaintance of mine, one Harry-the-Nose. Not the sort of chap one takes home to mummy, but has a lot of friends and may be able to save us some time.”

“And do you usually talk to your acquaintances in code?”

For a moment her meaning escaped him; and then, as the light dawned, he laughed.

“Code! Yes I suppose that’s really what it is when you stop to think about it. The trouble with you is that the English you’ve been taught is too perfect. Only BBC announcers ac-tu-ally speak like that,” he mimicked. “That wasn’t code I was speaking in — it was jargon. In his own field Harry is a professional, and just like any other professional — lawyers, stockbrokers, doctors, or whatever — he uses a different language. All I told him was that Hakim was looking for someone to forge him a passport. I asked him to find out who, and I also mentioned that he might be trying to obtain a firearm and that three other Arabs were enquiring as to his whereabouts.”

“And the horse?”

“The horse? Oh, you mean the ponies, that’s his fee. Fifty pounds.”

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” Leila said, almost sheepishly.

“Think nothing of it,” Simon said cheerfully.

He folded the map and slipped it into his pocket. From a corner cabinet he took a powerful pair of binoculars.

“Okay, let’s go.”

“Go?” she echoed. “Go where?”

The Saint smiled.

“I’m taking you to church,” he said.

3

Leaving Yakovitz to take any calls, the Saint and Leila drove back towards Hyde Park Comer, turning down Constitution Hill and onto the broad red carpet of the Mall.

The rain had stopped, and a watery afternoon sun was managing to break through the clouds. Leila’s head was turned towards the Saint, but her gaze travelled past him as she took in the splendour of Buckingham Palace and its scarlet-tunicked guardsmen, and the elegant lines of the Mall’s Georgian terraces with their tall windows and stately white columns. Ahead of them, Admiralty Arch straddled the road, and through its gateway she could see the lions and fountains grouped at the foot of Nelson’s Column.

As they became enmeshed in the traffic clogging Trafalgar Square, she turned to the Saint and smiled.

“You live in a beautiful city, Simon.”

There was a new warmth to her voice, and he was glad to note that another barrier had been broken down by the use of his first name.

“Yes, it is beautiful. But London isn’t just imposing buildings and monuments, it’s people. I hope you get the chance to meet some of them.”

“So do I. Now please, Simon, just where are we going?”

They were cruising past the Law Courts and entering Fleet Street and he pointed straight ahead.

“There,” he said. “St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

For a while she was silent as she looked up at the black dome with its golden cross that soared above the surrounding offices and shops.

“But why?”

“For the finest view in London. We’ve narrowed the location of that picture down to a fairly small area, but it’s still big enough for a person like Hakim to lose himself in. We can’t simply wander around the streets hoping he’s going to pop out for a packet of cigarets just as we drive by. I’m hoping that by getting a bird’s-eye view we can draw a finer bead on that rooftop.”

He left the car near Ludgate Hill, and as they walked up towards the cathedral he pointed out the balconies that encircle the bottom and top of the dome.

“We’ll start at the Golden Gallery, that’s the one immediately below the cross, and try to get a general fix with the binoculars,” he said. “Then we can go down to the Stone Gallery and use the telescopes there to try and pinpoint it more exactly.”

Side by side they climbed the sweeping flight of stone steps and entered through the main doors. Leila stopped as she passed beyond the shadows of the portico and was suddenly confronted by the spacious grandeur of the white and gold interior.

“It’s magnificent!” she said.

Simon took her arm and led her past the tombs and monuments until they reached the foot of a curving stone staircase cut into the south wall.

“The view is even better from the Whispering Gallery,” he said. “But I’m afraid we really can’t spend too long looking around.”

Leila nodded, but there was genuine regret in her voice.

“No, I suppose not.”

St. Paul’s is 365 feet high and there are 528 steps to the top. The Saint took them two at a time as far as the Whispering Gallery. From there the spiral stone stairway becomes narrower at each turn, and he was forced to bend almost double under the low ceiling. When they finally emerged into the sunlight, even his superbly trained muscles were beginning to protest.

Far below them the streets of London stretched into the distance like the strands of a giant spider’s web. The Saint walked slowly around the north side and leant on the stone balustrade as he adjusted the focus of the binoculars. Leila held out the map and photograph so that he could see them without moving the glasses.

“It has to be somewhere between Grays Inn Road and Kings Cross Road. Beyond the Royal Free Hospital and to the east of the church, but not as far as Bryant Street, or the tower would appear much larger.”

He was talking more to himself than to Leila, and as he spoke he shaded in more of the map, gradually making the triangle smaller and smaller until only three or four streets remained. Finally he lowered the glasses and rubbed the water from his eyes.

“We’re getting closer,” he told her. “The trouble is that from this height all the blocks of houses look roughly the same size, but you can see from the photograph that behind the roof they were standing on there’s a street of buildings a storey taller. If we can use the telescope to locate one of these roads where the houses are lower than those they back onto, then we’ve scored a bull’s-eye.”

Leila was staring out across the skyline, concentrating on the area the Saint had been scanning a few moments before. Her eyes were half closed against the sun, and he could almost feel the tautness of her body. She reminded him of an eagle hovering in the air before swooping on its prey. Her fist clenched, but without crumpling the photograph.

“We must find it,” she said. “There is no time to lose.”

She turned and led the way back down the stairs, walking around the Whispering Gallery without stopping to admire the view it offered. He followed more slowly, and she was already standing beside the telescopes by the time he again came out into the daylight.

A rapid change had come over her with the prospect of getting closer to her quarry. The sharpness had returned to her voice, and the light he had found so unsettling at their first meeting shone again from her eyes. On the drive from his home, she had mellowed from being a soldier to being a woman; now, just as quickly and unpredictably, she had switched back again. He sensed that there was something more behind her dedication than mere patriotism and a hatred of her country’s enemies, something that verged on the fanatical. He had hunted many men, but only a few of them had he truly hated; more than most men he understood the subtle difference between crusade and personal vendetta. At that moment he found Captain Leila Zabin a more interesting enigma than the man they were pursuing.

He angled the telescope and pressed a coin into the slot. The lens cleared to give a needle-sharp view over the rooftops. He was aware of Leila pacing impatiently behind him as he moved the telescope by fractions of a degree until he had studied every inch of the unshaded area on the map.

“Not Caxton Street,” he said, letting her share his thoughts as they came to him, “because they’re five-storey tenements. And it can’t be Swans Court, because they are only two. All the buildings in Alma Street have pitched roofs, so therefore that only leaves Little Claymore or one of the alleys running from it. Yes, that’s it, Little Claymore Street. It’s got to be.”

He straightened and stretched away the cramp from his shoulders. Leila took the map and located the street for herself.

“Are you sure?” she insisted.

The Saint shrugged.

“No, I’m not absolutely sure, but I’d lay odds on it.”

“Good. Let us see if you would win your bet,” she said briskly, and tamed on her heel to lead the way back.

While it may appear on the map as a sprawling metropolis with no clear-cut boundaries except the river that divides north from south, London is really only a collection of villages that have been squashed together. Like a giant amoeba the city has flowed around and absorbed them but never quite managed to crush their separate identities. Although to the visitor it may seem that only the names remain — Kensington, Camberwell, Hackney, Hampstead and the rest — something of the original still exists in each. Consequently extremes are never far apart, with streets of tenements running into avenues of mansions. Only the villagers are aware of the dividing lines, although they are as real as any national frontier.

Clerkenwell lies on the northern doorstep of the City. It begins less than a mile from the Bank of England, yet for all the resemblance the two districts bear to each other they might as well be on opposite sides of the country.

It is an area of back streets, of small shops and factories. Little Claymore Street is the same as the roads that surround it, a narrow backwater running between banks of decaying terraces. The Victorian villas designed for large middle-class families and their maids have long since been converted into warrens of tiny bed-sitters that mainly provide a cheap roof for the ever shifting population of students and immigrants. The iron railings that line the front steps are rusted and bent, the plaster cracked, and the paint peeling from windows and doors.

“The other face of London,” Simon observed as they turned Into the street and he slowed the car to a crawl.

Leila made no reply. She was sitting eagerly forward in her seat, her eyes sweeping the buildings on either side. They were halfway along the street when she grabbed his arm.

“Look!” she exclaimed.

At the far end, a group of men and women were staring up at a third-floor window. Most were Pakistanis, a few West Indians, and whatever was going on behind the drawn curtains had obviously upset them.

“Don’t raise your hopes, Leila,” he cautioned her. “Lots of things happen every day in an area like this. It could just be an eviction. And if it’s not, we may already be too late.”

She turned to him, her eyes blazing with irrational anger.

“Can you think of a better place to start?”

“No,” he admitted, and eased the car into the kerb.

He had come to find the scene in the photograph and was quite prepared to force his way into every house if necessary. At least this one had its front door already open.

The group of bystanders fell silent and backed away as he and Leila climbed out of the car and ran up the steps and into the hall. The Saint leapt nimbly up the uncarpeted stairs with Leila at his heels. From outside came the prolonged sound of a car horn, and he remembered the new station wagon that had been parked farther along the street and wondered.

As they gained the top landing a woman screamed. Simon reached the door in a single stride and did not bother trying the handle but launched his whole body forward, twisting as he did so. His shoulder smashed into the worm-eaten wood, shattering the lock and sending the door crashing open. His momentum carried him a yard into the room before he could recover his balance. He straightened and stopped in his tracks, his arms held out from his sides to prevent Leila from passing.

A girl sat facing him. Her long black hair was dishevelled, her eyes wide with fear. On her cheek the dark skin still showed the imprint of the hand that had slapped it, and there was an ugly swelling on the side of her chin.

Two dark-skinned men stood on either side of her. Both wore roll-necked jumpers and jeans, army flak jackets stretched tight across their shoulders. If it came to a fight they would each concede him a couple of inches in height and reach, but would be at no obvious disadvantage as far as weight and muscle were concerned. The Saint looked down the muzzles of the two automatics levelled at his chest and seemed to find something amusing there.

“If you use those popguns,” he said calmly, “you’ll have to shoot your way out floor by floor. My men are on every landing.”

With no way of checking the bluff, the two men hesitated. And then, as if to underline his warning, came the tramp of feet on the stairs as some of the crowd from outside summoned enough courage to find out what was happening.

The smaller and heavier of the two jerked his head towards an open door at the far end of the room, through which the Saint could see the flat rooftop pictured in the photograph. Still keeping their guns trained on the Saint and Leila, they backed towards it. Simon waited until they had reached the roof and disappeared from view around the corner of the house before moving.

He turned to Leila.

“Look after the girl and get rid of the sightseers,” he ordered.

“Simon, be careful.”

The words followed him without effect as he went through the door by which the two Arabs had departed.

The narrow frontage of the house belied its depth. The girl’s room was a former attic directly beneath the pitched roof which was the only one visible from the road. The flat area onto which the two men had run and where the picture had been taken was the top of the remainder of the house, which stretched back until it almost joined the rear of the buildings in the next street.

As the Saint stepped outside, he was all too aware of the perfect target he offered. A flicker of movement on his left caught his eye, and he sank to a crouch as he turned, perfectly balanced on his toes and ready to dive for cover at the first sign that the two men had decided to fight it out. The roofs of the adjoining houses were separated only by low brick walls from each of which rose a cluster of chimney pots.

Four houses away, the two terrorists were standing obviously uncertain of their next move. The Saint sprinted for the first dividing wall and cleared it in a flying leap that brought him safely behind the chimney stack of the house next door. The men spun around at the noise, but he was already hidden. Exposing only as much of his head as he needed to peer around the sheltering brickwork, he saw the smaller of the two point to the alley separating Little Claymore Street from the next road, and as his companion headed for a drainpipe, the smaller man ran on towards the end of the terrace.

The Saint flipped a mental coin that landed in favor of the man remaining on the roof. He swung over the next wall and then the one following that, darting from chimney to chimney as he went, without taking his eyes off the man he was pursuing, relying on his speed and sense of timing to ensure that every time the Arab turned he was already out of sight. He held the advantage of not having to worry where the chase led, while the other was constantly searching for a way of escape.

Gradually the gap narrowed until he was only a house away from his quarry.

The terrorist was kneeling at bay in the shadow of the next dividing wall no more than six yards away. The Saint ducked back behind his protective chimney stack, unable to make another move without inviting a bullet. He cursed himself for not bringing a gun, as he scanned the immediate area for anything that might serve as a weapon.

A ladder was propped against the attic roof, a pile of slates at its foot. The Saint slowly slid down until he was below the level of the wall and began to inch his way towards them. He drew level and gingerly reached out his hand. His fingers had touched and gripped the top slate before a shot rang out, kicking brick dust from the wall barely an inch from his thumb.

Simon grabbed up the slate and spun around. With only an instant in which to aim, he sent it hurtling through the air. It sliced into the gunman’s wrist, sending the automatic clattering away across the roof.

Almost casually the Saint rose to his feet and brushed the dust from his hands.

“Why don’t we see how brave you are without a gun or a bomb to rely on?” he drawled.

He placed one hand on top of the wall and vaulted over without taking his eyes off the Arab.

The terrorist stared at him like a snake hypnotised by a mongoose. He looked into two blue eyes that were as cold and passionless as an iceberg, and he felt his blood chill. He may have faced death many times, but always it had spurted from the end of a barrel, instant and acceptable. Clearly he had no stomach for the kind of manual punishment which he could happily dish out himself to a helpless girl, and which he could now see promised in the chiselled lines of this man’s face.

He backed away as the Saint approached, frantically looking in every direction for an escape route. His heel caught against the frame of a skylight set in the roof. For a moment he swayed uncertainly and then he jumped, plunging down to land on the floor of the room below in a shower of glass and splintered wood.

Simon jumped forward and grasped an edge of the skylight frame that was free of jagged glass to swing himself through the opening, but the Arab was already out of the room and racing down the stairs. The noise had alarmed all the other residents of the house, and they crowded out of their rooms onto the stairs, blocking the Saint’s path. Roughly he pushed them aside, but he already knew that the delays would prove long enough to allow the other’s escape.

He reached the ground floor and sprinted out onto the pavement just in time to see the station wagon skid to a halt and the terrorist climb in.

The door had barely closed before the driver was taking the next corner on two wheels, and the Saint had no alternative but to stand and listen to the roaring engine fading into the distance.

4

The Saint accepted the setback philosophically. There would be a next time, and at least they had found the place they were looking for and knew how close their opponents were.

As he strolled back to the other house, he was glad to see that the crowds had dispersed as quickly as they had formed. No one seemed inclined to loiter at the scene of trouble, which meant that they were even less likely to summon the police.

Leila was bending over the girl, holding her chin in one hand and gently bathing the bruises with a wet cloth. She looked up hopefully as he entered, but he had to shake his head.

“They got away,” he confessed.

“Damn,” she said. “One was Masrouf, the other I think was his henchman Khaldun. At least we know that they too are still looking for Hakim.”

She turned back to the girl, and he made a tour of the room, examining it in detail.

A single bed stood against one wall, a wardrobe and sofa against the other. The far end had been curtained off to hide an ancient gas stove. A single tap stuck out of the plaster above a chipped porcelain sink, beside which was the door leading to the roof. There was a musty damp smell that hung heavy on the air, and the boards beneath the threadbare carpet protested at every step.

The walls had been painted white and decorated with brightly coloured prints and posters. Shelves of books had been fixed above the bed and sofa. Paisley drapes hung by the window. There was something rather pathetic about the personal touches that had been added. Instead of making the room more cheerful, they only served to underline its squalor.

A pile of school exercise books stood on the plain pine table in the centre of the room. Simon flicked through the top one, making a mental note of the name and address of the school.

“You teach mathematics?” he asked the girl they had rescued.

“Yes.”

She tried to twist her head around to look at him, but Leila retained her grip although she had finished tending the injuries.

“There, that should take care of most of the swelling,” Captain Zabin said crisply. “Now, what did you tell them?”

The girl was near to breaking point but managed to choke back her tears as she tried to meet Leila’s piercing gaze.

“What could I tell them? I have never heard of this... this... you see, I don’t even know his name.”

Leila’s voice was as hard as tungsten as she cut the girl short.

“Don’t waste your tears on me.”

“But I swear to you...”

“Nor your lies. Who is this?”

Leila thrust the photograph in front of her face. The girl grabbed at it but Leila drew it away.

“Where did you get that?” cried the girl.

“It was found after a Red Sabbath murder squad raided a village school,” Leila replied coldly. “Thirteen people were slaughtered. Teachers like you, children like the ones you teach. Killed by that man and others like him.”

“No! No, he wouldn’t—”

The girl was sobbing, the tears running freely down her face, and the Saint realised that she was very close to hysteria.

“Who is he?” Leila pushed the girl’s head back and held it so that she could not look away.

“He was no one. Rashid, a Mend from Amman.”

“That is Abdul Hakim. He is somewhere in London, and you know where. You will tell us.”

The girl knocked Leila’s arm aside and struggled to her feet. She swayed, and had to grip the back of a chair to save herself from falling.

“I don’t care what you say about him! You have no right to question me like this. First those men, and now you. I am getting out of here!”

She crossed to the wardrobe, pulled out a battered suitcase, and began throwing her clothes into it.

Without moving, Leila said: “It doesn’t interest you that your friend is a terrorist and a murderer?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Listen,” Leila said unemotionally, “this is a dangerous game you’re playing. Your friend has killed a lot of innocent people. He’ll kill a lot more unless he’s stopped.” The girl closed her case and made for the door, but Leila barred her way. “Think carefully. Talk to us, and we’ll protect you. If we don’t those men will track you down.”

“They won’t find me.”

The Saint stepped forward and gently moved Leila aside. He stood in front of the girl and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. His voice was soft and understanding.

“I’m afraid they will, Yasmina,” he said. “My name is Simon Templar. If you change your mind or need help, call me at this number.”

He took a card from his wallet and handed it to her. She stared at the name.

“The Saint!”

He smiled and held the door open for her.

“The same. Go away and think about it when you’ve calmed down.”

He waited until the sound of her footsteps had died away before closing the door and turning to confront Leila. He could sense her fury, and he held up his hands in a gesture of peace.

“Before you sound off, think about it,” he said. “She wasn’t going to tell us now, and beating it out of her isn’t in our line. There’s been enough uproar around this neighbourhood for one day, and I have a nasty feeling that the lads in blue may arrive before too long — which is the last thing we want.”

Leila relaxed fractionally and nodded.

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” she admitted grudgingly. “But how did you know her name? She wouldn’t tell me.”

“It’s written inside her books. Now there is something very important to do next.”

“What? Follow her?”

“No. Eat. I haven’t had a bite since breakfast, and that seems an eternity ago.”

“But what about the girl?” Leila objected.

“I know where to find her if we need her. Now come on, or we’ll have half the Metropolitan Police banging on the door, and I feel like something more substantial than porridge.”

Despite her protests they drove back to the Saint’s house, where Yakovitz informed them that no one had telephoned. Simon waved his hand in the general direction of the kitchen.

“The larder and the fridge are fully stocked, though I’m not sure how much of it is kosher,” the Saint told him. “Or you can phone the local chop suey parlour and have them send something around. I’m taking your boss out to dinner.” He winked at Leila. “Whether she likes it or not.”

They dined in a small restaurant near Beauchamp Place. It was one of the Saint’s favourite eating houses and had the added advantage of catering mainly to the nightclub trade, so that at that early hour of the evening it was almost deserted. They sat in a shadowed corner eating by the light of discreetly shaded candles. He remembered what his intention had been on leaving the plane from Nice, and was not dissatisfied with the way in which it had materialised.

The Saint attacked a rare entrecote of noble proportions, while Leila picked at and toyed with her salmon. She initiated very little conversation, and he was content to carry most of the burden until the plates had been cleared away and they sat facing each other across coffee and cognac.

“Don’t look so worried, Captain,” he said at length. “We haven’t made bad progress for just half a day’s work. There’s nothing more you can do tonight.”

Leila stirred her coffee, looking down into the black liquid as if it possessed the same properties as a crystal ball.

“In our army we have a saying that to do nothing is to do something positively wrong. Don’t you think perhaps we should be out looking for the girl Yasmina?”

The Saint sighed and sipped his brandy.

“You’re a workotic, you know that?” Despite the mockery of his words his voice was sympathetic. “You’re a one-track-minded object lesson of what goes wrong when you’re brought up in a kibbutz.”

He had expected a reaction, but nothing quite as heated as the one he evoked. Leila looked up, her face flushed, and she almost bit out her reply through clenched white teeth.

“How dare you!”

“I dare because I’m not afraid to face facts, even if you are,” he said imperturbably. “You’ve been so long with the boys that you’ve forgotten they’re boys and that you’re a beautiful woman.”

He watched the anger drain away from her face, but her voice was still sharp.

“I’ve forgotten nothing. What I look like... what I am — boy, girl, or mutant — is unimportant. I am...”

“I know, you’re a soldier,” he said. “And it’s a shame that that’s all there is to your life.”

He waited for another angry outburst, but it never came. Leila stared at the tablecloth for a long time, and when she raised her head and looked at him he saw that there were tears in her eyes.

“There is something else to it, Simon. Something more important than dining in a fine restaurant and a night in bed with you. There’s my family and the memory of how they died. Mowed down with machine guns at Fiumicino airport. Father, mother, brother. I was eighteen.”

Her voice had sunk to a whisper and was on the verge of breaking. He was angry with himself for having forced the declaration out of her when he had already half guessed her background that afternoon at the cathedral.

Simon reached across and gently took her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Forgive me. But I had to know. If we’re to work well together, it was important to know.”

She drank her coffee and smiled back at him across the rim of the empty cup.

“It’s all right. Perhaps I should have told you straight away. And you are right, there is nothing more we can do until the morning.”

He called for the bill and paid it and did not speak again until they were back in the car.

“Actually, you misheard me,” he said. “I didn’t say there was nothing more we could do tonight. I said there was nothing more you could do. As fax as I’m concerned, the night is still young.”

“What do you mean?”

Simon smiled as he engaged the gears and turned the Hirondel towards Knightsbridge.

“Remember my friend who talks in code? Well, I have an appointment with him at ten of the clock, which is in precisely half an hour’s time.”

“And you don’t intend to take me with you?”

“I didn’t intend to,” answered the Saint carefully. “I don’t want to be specially noticed, and a gal with your looks is about as inconspicuous as a baked ham at a bar mitzvah.”

He sensed that she was trying to be angry with him again but somehow couldn’t quite take him seriously enough.

“You will take me with you,” she commanded, with a delightful assumption of authority. “I refuse to be left behind.”

The Saint laughed and placed an arm around her shoulders, drawing her slim body closer as he snaked the Hirondel through the traffic with one hand, which is not an example for other drivers to follow. He pushed his foot nearer the floor, and the big car surged forward towards the lights of Piccadilly.

He felt totally relaxed, but as alert and awake as if he had just slid from between the sheets after a good night’s sleep.

“You just talked me into it,” he said. “How could I disobey the orders of such a lovely officer? Of course you can come along. After all, I did promise to introduce you to some Londoners, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I hope you’re feeling fit, because we’re likely to run into a spot of mayhem before morning.”

5

The crowded streets and flashing neon of Leicester Square and the Strand were soon left behind, and with the assurance of a captain in familiar waters the Saint plotted a course through the sleeping backwaters of the City until the solid dignified shapes of the banks and insurance offices had disappeared behind them, to be replaced by a bewildering maze of dimly lit side roads lined by darkened shops and warehouses.

Leila watched the changing scenery without comment. She had hardly spoken for some time, and he could feel her tenseness returning.

“What’s worrying you now?” he asked.

She straightened away from him and eyed his profile searchingly.

“It’s just that there are so many questions we don’t know the answers to,” she said restively.

“Such as?”

“We had the picture and your knowledge of London to help us, but how did Masrouf and his men find Yasmina so quickly?”

Simon shrugged.

“Hakim and Masrouf were buddies in arms, remember? So it’s quite possible that Hakim talked about her. Even if Masrouf didn’t already have her address, the Arab community in London is a pretty small one, and he’d know where to go for information.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she admitted. “But that only makes our task more difficult. We always seem to be one step behind.”

“But Masrouf and Co. won’t see it like that,” explained the Saint patiently, “because they can’t know how far we’ve got already. Masrouf didn’t look surprised to see you, but he didn’t know who I was, and it’s my guess that that’s worrying him. Right now, he’s trying to find out who I am and what my part is — which promises well for future fun and games. Also it’s a complication for him, and the longer we can distract him the more the odds swing in our favour.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said, but she didn’t sound Convinced.

Simon smiled and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before changing down through the gears.

“So do I,” he said optimistically.

As the car slowed, he spun the wheel in a right turn that took them through an alley between two warehouses and out into a narrow lane running parallel to the major road they had just left. It consisted mainly of tiny shops and derelict houses separated occasionally by fenced-off patches of weed-covered rubble where buildings had been demolished and not replaced. Simon berthed the car in a pool of darkness between two street lamps and cut the engine.

For a moment he sat and carefully took stock of their surroundings, satisfying himself that the lane was temporarily deserted, while he took a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from the glove compartment and put them on. Then he got out and reached into the back seat for a mackintosh that might once have been a smart sandy beige but had long ago given up the straggle against the city grease and grime, and rammed a trilby of equally hard-worn lineage onto his head. The shabby raincoat covered up the elegant tailoring of Savile Row, and the thick frames of the glasses under the down-turned brim of the battered hat took the finely cut piratical edge off his features.

Leila had been watching the process of transformation with a puzzled frown.

“What is all that for?” she demanded.

“The hostelry I’m headed for is somewhat different from the one we just left,” he explained, “and I don’t want to be specially noticed. Or even recognised, except by the bloke I’m meeting,” he added.

He went around to her side of the car, and she started to open her door, but he firmly closed it again.

“This is one place you can’t come with me,” he said. “It’s a place where women are quite rudely made unwelcome. You’ll just have to wait here. I’ll only be about fifteen minutes. Wind up the window and keep the doors locked, and if anyone comes by, try to keep your pretty face hidden.”

Resentfully, but bereft of any effective argument, she watched him slouch off down the lane at a brilliantly different gait from his normal athletic stride, and was forced to concede to herself, professionally, that his technique of subtle camouflage outpointed anything that could be done with elaborate props of the false-beard school.

The only signs of life in the lane were the lighted windows of the Carpenter’s Arms. Simon pushed open the door of the public bar and entered like a regular, without looking around, ambling directly to the counter.

The interior was as unattractive as the red-tiled Victorian facade. The floor was covered with cracked linoleum and bordered with half a dozen heavy iron tables with marble tops the size of butchers’ slabs, surrounded by hard wooden chairs. The wallpaper was so nicotine-stained that it was almost impossible to discern a pattern, and the decorations consisted chiefly of old photographs of coach outings and fixture lists for the darts team. The air was rank with the smell of stale beer and tobacco smoke. The handful of patrons looked up torpidly as the door opened, but seeing nothing remarkable about the newcomer, returned to their talk or their cribbage.

The Saint leant on the bar and ordered a half pint of best bitter. Only when the required measure had been dispensed and paid for did he appear to take an interest in his surroundings. The man he had come to meet was sitting alone at the far end of the room, and Simon allowed a couple of minutes to elapse before strolling across to join him.

Harry-the-Nose stood out against the seediness of his background like a carnival poster. He was a small, dapper figure who might even have been described as elegant if the check of his cut-price suit had been a trifle less dazzling, his tie a less conflicting array of stripes, or his socks a more harmonious hue. A synthetic diamond the size of a bottle cap sparkled from the centre of his tie, while a heavy gold signet ring weighted the little finger of the small meticulously manicured hand that held his whisky glass. His thinning hair was carefully brushed over the bald top of his head and kept in place by a glossy coating of pomade.

Members of what is popularly called the underworld have a tradition that is otherwise usually found only in barrack rooms and school playgrounds: a legal name is rarely considered sufficient by itself to identify its owner, and some graphic auxiliary is adopted or conferred. The most apparent reason for Harry’s particular cognomen was his outstanding facial feature, a nasal organ of such prominence that it cast the lower part of his face into permanent shadow. An even less flattering connotation of the sobriquet was his insatiable propensity for prying into other people’s business and acquiring information which could be available to interested parties at a price.

Harry-the-Nose knew and accepted the title his peers had bestowed on him, but it was not wise to mention it in his presence. If he had ever heard of Cyrano de Bergerac he would have felt an immediate kinship, for his sensitivity also had caused him to fight duels in honour of the offending appendage, although instead of flashing rapiers at dawn he preferred a dark alley at midnight and a length of bicycle chain.

The Saint had collected Harry many years ago as part of his routine practice of making the acquaintance of anyone who might some day prove useful. Harry had demonstrated his worth on a number of occasions; and a bond had developed between them which, if it was not exactly welded by affection, was at least held together by mutual profitability.

Harry-the-Nose was valuable to the Saint because among his activities was the supply of tools for others to finish the job. When Mr. Public reads in his morning paper that a gang of bank robbers died in an ambulance or that a man escaped from custody with the aid of a capsule of knockout gas, he marvels at the criminals’ cunning but rarely stops to wonder how they obtain the necessary equipment. It was Harry’s boast that he knew where to get anything from a driver’s licence to a diving-bell, with no questions asked, and the Saint had no reason to doubt him. Harry’s expertise was in constant demand, and there was rarely anything happening about which he did not know something.

The Saint sat down and took a pull at the liquid in his tankard, which tasted as if it might have been watered down with a mixture of liver salts and cold tea.

“Well, Harry,” he prompted, “what’s the feeling?”

“Greasy,” was the laconic reply. “Know what I mean?”

“Not exactly, but I can guess.”

“These wogs are a funny lot,” Harry opined. “Close knit, like, and dangerous. Talk their own lingo and don’t mix. Nobody wants to deal with ’em. Unreliable.”

“So what have you managed to find out?”

“Sammy Parton’s doing the passport and visa. The order was placed by a twist, but it sounds like the one you’re after.”

The Saint nodded.

“It makes sense. Go on.”

“That’s about it, Mr. Templar. There was a bint last week who was asking around about getting a shooter. Somebody had told her where to go, but the lads didn’t want to know. Too risky.”

“And the other three I mentioned?”

“Ain’t heard nothing about ’em. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, Harry,” said the Saint. “Now listen, I’ve got another job for you...”

He outlined his commission, and then repeated the main points to make sure they had registered.

“Could be done,” Harry said eventually, rubbing his salient feature reflectively. “But it’ll cost you.”

The Saint took a cigaret pack from his coat pocket and put it down beside his now empty tankard.

“There’s the fifty quid I promised you, and another fifty on account. Don’t worry, I’ll see you through if the going gets rough.”

He rose and walked away, leaving the cigaret package on the table for Harry-the-Nose to casually transfer to his own pocket before he reached the door.

6

Simon threw his hat and coat into the back of the car before sliding in behind the wheel and relaying the conversation to Leila. She was less than impressed.

“But how does that help us?”

He had already started the engine and turned the car around, heading back towards the main road.

“First,” he informed her patiently, “we know the identity of the man who’s forging the passport. Therefore he may be able to tell us where to find Hakim. Second, we know that he probably isn’t armed. Third, Masrouf and his merry men have not been sniffing around, and so we have this particular field to ourselves. It’s not sensational, but it’s not bad for starters.”

“And now we are going to this Parton man?”

“Correct. You catch on fast.”

She scowled at his irony before turning her head away and concentrating on her own thoughts.

He was glad of the silence as it relieved him of the responsibility of projecting a confidence that he was far from feeling. He had obtained all the information he had hoped for from Harry, but he was all too conscious of how little it really was. There were so many loose ends that the slightest mishap could unravel the plan he was weaving.

Now he was zigzagging west and north towards Islington, drawing on a knowledge of London’s unsystematic streets unmatched except by professional taxi drivers. Presently he braked in front of a grubby stationers’ shop a couple of miles from the Carpenter’s Arms as only a crow could have flown it, and was pleased to see that a light was burning in the flat above.

Leila looked at the shuttered shop window.

“This is Parton’s?”

“Yes.”

He opened the door and was about to climb out but she caught his arm.

“You are not leaving me behind again,” she said.

For a moment the Saint hesitated. He knew she was a trained agent accustomed to violence and danger, yet he found it hard not to be protective. He realised that he was still hopelessly fettered to certain old-fashioned attitudes, and forced himself to remember that the times had changed and were never going to change back again. The mere fact that the girl beside him was a genuine army captain was a symptom that would have made Sir Galahad writhe in his armour.

“Very well,” he said shortly. “But you’ll have to do exactly as I say. And be careful. Parton keeps a tame gorilla on hand to discourage unfriendly callers, and he will consider us very unfriendly indeed.”

He led the way past the shops and down a narrow passage between it and the next building. A seven-foot-high wall broken only by a door with no outside keyhole or handle enclosed what might have been the house’s back garden and hid the ground floor of the building from view.

Bracing his back against the brickwork, he cupped his hands and motioned Leila to climb up, but she ignored his offer of help, took two steps back, and sprang for the top of the wall. He watched in admiration as she pulled herself up by her fingertips and in one flowing movement jumped down on the other side.

A few seconds later he landed beside her. Enough light came through the kitchen window curtains to show that they were in a neglected back yard in which amorphous stacks and mounds of undistinguished rubbish had prevailed over any other cultivation. The Saint stepped over to the kitchen door, and swore silently to himself as the testing pressure of his expert fingers indicated that the mortise lock was reinforced by a bolt which had been securely shot home. He moved along to the kitchen window, and after listening with an ear to the glass for any sound inside he carefully slid the thin blade of a penknife between the sashes until it grated against the catch. Pushing the blade further in he pressed sideways while his ears strained to pick up any warning sound that might mean that their intrusion had been spotted.

Slowly the catch began to move, and he applied more pressure until finally the blade met no resistance and he was able to press both hands against the glass and inch the window up. The rasping of the frame against its surround sounded as loud as a drum roll, and several times he stopped and waited to be sure that the noise had not disturbed the household.

He parted the curtains and listened again for the sound of anyone coming to investigate. Only when he was completely satisfied that his break-in had gone unheard, he swung himself over the sill and turned to help Leila to follow him. The instinctive courtesy was quite superfluous: almost disdainfully, she slid through the opening with hardly a touch on his proffered hand, and he grinned wryly at the remainder of her uncompromising competence.

Signalling her to let him stay in the lead, he moved to the door on the opposite side of the room and inched it open. A hall lit by an unshaded bulb stretched before him. Two doors led off from the left of the passage, while a staircase to the flat above took up most of the space on the right.

He beckoned Leila to follow and stepped into the corridor, treading warily along the edges of the bare boards to reduce the risk of their creaking. Leila followed his example and they had reached the foot of the stairs when the door of the back room was flung open.

The Saint spun around to find himself staring up into the face of one of the biggest men he had ever seen.

His lighthearted description of Parton’s bodyguard as a gorilla suddenly seemed too accurate for comfort. The man filled the doorway, completely obscuring the interior of the room, and had to twist his body sideways to allow his shoulders through the opening. The Saint’s sinewy seventy-four inches seemed insignificant compared to the man he faced. Simon guessed he was nearer six feet nine than eight, and on the heavier side of three hundred pounds.

But he did not spare the time to enquire if his estimate was correct. When it came to giving away that kind of weight and reach, Simon Templar’s interpretation of sportsmanship and the Queensberry Rules was uninhibitedly elastic. Without an instant’s hesitation, his foot streaked upwards and buried itself in the other’s midriff.

The man grunted and sagged, his arms folded across his stomach, and as his head bowed forward the Saint moved in to hit him exactly as if he had been a punching bag with a lightning succession of blows — a left to one side of the jaw, a right to the other, and an uppercut to the chin to complete the symmetry.

Demonstrating the verity of the old adage that the bigger they are the harder they fall, the colossus stiffened and fell forward, with a kind of aggrieved expression on his face, hitting the floor with a force that seemed to shake the whole house.

Slowly the Saint came down off his toes, in no doubt that it would be many minutes before his opponent returned to an awareness of the world. He stepped over the body and joined Leila on the stairs.

She leant close to his ear and whispered: “Very efficient.”

“Thank you,” he murmured modestly.

His voice was almost at its normal level, and as they climbed the stairs he made little further effort to mask the sound of their progress, which he felt reasonably sure would now be attributed to movement of the immobilized bodyguard.

Three doors led from the landing above the hall, and the clanking of machinery indicated the one they required.

Sammy Parton turned around as he heard the door open, and froze in startlement as the Saint and Leila entered. Simon switched off the small printing press that had been making the noise and snapped his fingers in front of the forger’s face.

“Wake up, Sammy! Anybody would think you weren’t pleased to see us.”

Parton stepped back, still staring at his two uninvited guests. He was small and fat, with a pointed face and sparse grey hair that brought to mind an ageing, overfed rat.

“ ’Ow did you get in ’ere?” he demanded stupidly.

“We came in through a window,” answered the Saint, as if to any normal question. “Your pet gorilla thought we shouldn’t disturb you, but we managed to persuade him not to interfere.”

Parton finally made a partial recovery.

“Orl right, Templar,” he growled. “Wot d’yer want?”

“So you do remember me,” said the Saint happily. “How very nice. And after all this time, too. How long has it been, Sammy? Three years? Four?”

“Five. And I ain’t likely to forget, am I?”

“I suppose not. But you did get remission?”

Parton drew a packet of cigarets from the pocket of his ink-stained overalls and lit one.

“So wot do yer want?” he repeated. “I’m clean this time.”

Simon smiled as his gaze travelled around the dirty print room and even dirtier printer, but there was no cordiality in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t mind a couple of tickets for the cup final next year,” he replied. “But failing that, just the answer to a simple question.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong bloke.”

“You can’t say that till you’ve seen the question,” argued the Saint. He turned to Leila. “Show him.”

Leila held up the picture of Yasmina and Hakim, and the forger was too slow to hide the recognition in his eyes.

“So thanks for the answer,” Simon remarked. “Now, where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

The top drawer of the desk that Parton was standing next to was slightly open, and the little man’s hand was slowly edging towards it. The Saint affected not to notice the movement as he pressed on with his interrogation.

“The passport that you are so artistically creating for the gent in the photo,” he said.

“I dunno wot yer talkin’ about,”

Parton insisted stubbornly. His fingers had reached the lip of the drawer. “You come in ’ere... break in ’ere...” Parton stepped forward, putting his body between the drawer and the Saint. It was a perfectly natural move, and it was almost a pity to spoil the performance.

The Saint’s hand landed squarely in Parton’s chest, and as the little man staggered backwards, Simon’s right foot kicked the drawer closed. Parton squealed as his fingers were trapped.

Simon eased the pressure sufficiently to allow the other to remove his hand but not to extract the gun he had been groping for. While Parton massaged his bruised fingers, the Saint retrieved the automatic, removed the magazine, ejected the cartridge in the firing chamber, and tossed the weapon into a wastepaper basket.

“Any more tricks like that, Sammy,” he warned, “and I shall get upset. Now, where’s the passport? Or do I have to tear this rat hole apart and you with it?”

The forger’s eyes burned with hate, but there was a lift of triumph in his voice.

“Go ahead,” he jeered. “Enjoy yourself. It won’t do you a bit of good. It ain’t under this roof.”

“I see,” Simon deduced. “So when a job’s finished, you put it in a safe place where the client can’t come and pick it up with a gun instead of cash.”

Parton puffed sullenly at his cigaret without replying.

“All right,” said the Saint. “The passport’s ready. You’ve said as much. Now I want the place and date of delivery.”

“Templar, some day you’ll get it through your head that I don’t grass on customers.”

Leila stepped forward, and Parton turned to give her his full attention for the first time.

“Suppose I buy this man’s passport from you for double what he would pay?” she asked.

Parton shook his head as if he was genuinely sorry to disappoint her.

“Lady, I do that and I’m a goner. This ain’t the usual run of client.”

The Saint’s voice came low and hard: “Yes, he’s a killer. But then you knew that, didn’t you?”

The little fat man was sweating, torn between fears of what the Saint might do if he refused to answer and what others would certainly do if he did.

“Templar, put yourself in my place. A bloke such as you describe orders a passport. I don’t talk about it. If anything goes wrong at the market tomorrow when I make the drop, I’ll be gettin’ measured for a coffin.”

“Which market, Sammy?” Simon pounced on the word remorselessly.

Parton wiped the sweat from his forehead and lit a new cigaret from the butt of the old one.

“Market? Did I say market? Just leave me alone, will you? Clear off and leave me alone!”

The Saint’s sensitive ears picked up sounds of movement in the hall below that could only have come from one source. Parton obviously heard them too, and his confidence began to return.

“You’d better get out of here, Templar, while yer still can,” he threatened.

The Saint smiled, and his hand reached across and patted the other’s cheek in a mockery of affection.

“Thanks for the help, Sammy,” he responded. “We’ll see you around.”

He turned towards the door, but Leila stood in the way without moving.

“Surely,” she protested. “You’re not...”

Simon shook his head.

“No, I’m not. Staying for Goliath, that is. Not until we can book Wembley Stadium and sell tickets. But here and now, there’s nothing more in it for us. Believe me.”

He took her by the arm and led her out of the room and down the stairs. The bodyguard was sitting with his back against a wall, gingerly feeling his jaw and shaking his head muzzily. He glared up at them vengefully, but was still in no condition to make any move to stop them as the Saint found the door to the shop, took Leila through it, unlocked the front door, and led them out into the street.

Leila sat in prickly silence as he headed the car back towards the West End. He could feel the anger building up inside her, and tried to dampen the fuse.

“Think it through a bit further before you blow your top, darling,” he said quietly. “The passport isn’t there, and short of tying up Goliath and sticking pins under Sammy’s fingernails we couldn’t have found out how it’s to be delivered. But if we could have made Sammy tell us, the delivery would have been off. As it is, we know he’ll be meeting Hakim tomorrow, and Hakim is the guy we really want. We’ll just have to make sure that we’re there when they get together.”

“You are the guide,” she retorted coldly. “I am forced to count on you to make certain that we are there.”

The suspicion remained in her voice, and confirmed him in a mildly malicious decision not to dispel it by going into details.

“Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully. “I shall.”

They completed the drive without speaking again. The Saint was thinking about other things. He was quite satisfied with what they had achieved that night, and was perfectly content to let the morrow wait for itself. Hakim, Masrouf, and even Leila were far from uppermost in his thoughts when he turned the Hirondel into the mews.

The cul-de-sac was lit only by a solitary lamp at the far end, and he was into it before he saw the station wagon outside his house, facing towards him. Even so, its identity took a second to register, and by then it was too late.

He stamped on the brake as something shattered the glass of his sitting room window. The station wagon leapt forward and came swerving past them just as a terrific explosion blew out the rest of the front ground-floor windows.

7

As the station wagon careered past them he had barely a glimpse of two swarthy faces in it — Khaldun, probably, in the driver’s seat, his head stretched forward over the wheel, while the man beside him, looking back over his shoulder at the destruction he had caused, could have been Masrouf.

Leila Zabin moved with startling speed, reacting to the situation with reflexes sharpened by intensive training. While the Hirondel was still rocking to a standstill, her hand dived into her purse and a small automatic was in her grasp by the time it righted itself. Before the Saint could stop her, she was out of the car and taking two-handed aim. She fired as soon as her outstretched arms reached the level of her shoulders, but could only crack off two hasty rounds as the station wagon turned the corner.

The Saint threw himself out of the car and grabbed her around the waist as she began to sprint for the opening.

“Don’t be a fool,” he snapped. “You’ll never catch them now.”

She shook him off but made no move to continue her pursuit. Slowly she lowered the gun.

“For God’s sake put that thing away,” he said.

One or two windows overlooking the mews were opening, and Leila saw the sense of his advice. She pushed the automatic into the waistband of her skirt, where her coat would cover it. Nevertheless, whether from timidity or the apathy of the big city, there was as yet no rash of inquisitive neighbours to gawp at whatever the big bang might have produced to gawp at.

Simon realised that as loud as the detonation had seemed to him, because he had been so close and seen its immediate effect, anyone a little farther away might have dismissed it, perhaps wishfully, as merely an especially loud backfire or a major collision of vehicles. But in retrospect he was now fairly sure that he could tell what it had been: an ordinary hand grenade.

By that time he was opening the door of the house, with Leila close behind him.

The bomb had gone off near the middle of the room, fortunately in an area where surrounding armchairs and a couch had absorbed the brunt of its havoc. This had not entirely saved the walls and ceiling from being pockmarked by fragments of flying metal, the shattering of some ornaments and picture frames, and the gouging in the carpet of a shallow, smouldering crater which no shampooing and weaving service was ever going to restore. All the same, the blast had not been severe enough to cause any radical structural damage.

The Saint stood completely still as he surveyed the debris through the dust and smoke that lingered in the air. There was a strange, unnatural calm about him that was somehow more frightening than a torrent of threats against those responsible could ever have been. As far as he was concerned, there could be no more standing on the sidelines. The conflict of tribes and ideologies about which he had previously felt only a biased neutrality was suddenly of secondary importance. Now his own home had been violated. Furniture could be quickly replaced, and surfaces patched up, but the savage invasion of his most private territory had created a personal debt that could only be personally repaid.

There was also another person to think of — such a recent and secondary addition to his concerns that the Saint had momentarily forgotten him.

“Yakovitz!” Leila’s tensely anxious voice was his reminder.

“Yakovitz?” Simon echoed her mechanically.

There was certainly no trace of her subordinate in the shattered living room, which could have been a hopeful sign. And then a low moan, hardly above a whimper, came from the kitchen.

Yakovitz was lying face down on the kitchen floor in a litter of broken crockery and overturned utensils. As the Saint knelt down and felt for his pulse, he stirred and opened his eyes. He shook his head slowly and pulled himself up until he was half sitting, half kneeling.

“Take it easy,” said the Saint. “Keep still.”

His fingers gently probed the other’s body, but Yakovitz didn’t flinch. Satisfied that there was no serious injury, he soaked a towel and tried to wipe away the dust and stains from the man’s face, but Yakovitz took it away and did it himself.

“I am all right,” he growled. “I was only knocked-out.”

Apparently he had been brewing himself some coffee when the grenade smashed through the window, and enough of the blast had come through the open doorway to throw him across the kitchen, and he had hit his head as he fell. Aside from one or two scratches, he had suffered nothing worse than a mild concussion.

Simon helped him back to the living room and into one of the still serviceable armchairs.

“He’s a lucky lad, is your Yakovitz,” he told Leila. “A few minutes earlier or later, and we’d probably have been scraping bits of him off the walls.”

“Lucky,” Yakovitz said stoically, “I have a thick head.”

Most of the bottles and glasses on the hospitality table were in smithereens, but the Saint found a bottle of cognac and a glass that had miraculously survived, and poured Yakovitz a hefty tot.

“While that’s making your head thinner,” he said, “I’d better do something about making our drama less public.”

Outside the front windows there were brightly painted shutters hinged to the wall, ostensibly to give the house a pleasantly rustic air, but they were also functional. Simon had just closed and secured them when a blue-uniformed figure loomed up at his shoulder.

“Would this be where that explosion was?” enquired the Law.

“Oh, did you hear it, or did somebody phone in?” countered the Saint ingenuously, giving himself a moment in which to think.

“Must’ve been here,” returned the police sergeant, thoughtfully crunching some of the telltale shards of glass on the cobblestones under his feet.

He was clearly nearing retirement age, and the expression on his plump face as he tried ineffectually to peep through the shutter louvres suggested that he was more accustomed to feeling collars than coping with terrorists.

“Sounded quite like a bomb, it did,” he mentioned stolidly.

“I know,” said the Saint. “The theory is that I, being me, have a great many enemies who wish to enrol me in the celestial choir, and this was obviously the work of one of them. Sorry to disappoint you, but it was nothing so sensational. We must have had a small leak in the gas oven. A friend of mine who doesn’t have such a good sniffer went into the kitchen and struck a match, and it went off with a bang. Fortunately, he wasn’t hurt. Just a few broken dishes, and all this glass blown out.”

“I see,” said the sergeant, as if he rather regretted it. “But since there’ll have to be a report, now, would you mind coming around to the station and making a statement?”

“If I can be any help to the Metropolitan Police,” said the Saint resignedly, “nothing is too much trouble. Just let me make my excuses to my guests.”

It was almost two hours before he eventually arrived home again, to find Leila curled up on the settee asleep. Her slender figure was wrapped in his own silk dressing-gown, and she looked so innocent and vulnerable that he found it hard to credit that a little earlier she had been wielding a pistol with the cold professionalism of a seasoned commando.

She awoke with a start at the clink of glass on glass.

“Simon! Well? What happened?”

He settled on the arm of the chair opposite and sipped his brandy before replying.

“I believe the official phrase is ‘helping the police with their enquiries.’ I have been going through the charade of dictating a statement and waiting for it to be typed by some one-fingered truncheon wielder who was as meticulous as if he’d been bidding for a Nobel Prize. I have been signing same and answering a hundred and one questions arising therefrom, all designed to trap me into admitting some kind of guilt or of knowing some guilty person. Of course, I stuck by my gas-leak story, since you and Garvi want to keep the cops out of it.” He took another sip. “How’s Yakovitz?”

“All right. But I ordered him to bed.”

Simon glanced around the room again.

“While you did the housework,” he said. “Thanks for cleaning up the mess, Leila.”

“It was the least I could do. Your beautiful home, wrecked, because of us...”

She stood in front of him, and there was a mistiness in her eyes that he had not expected.

“Simon, I’m sorry about how I have spoken to you sometimes.” Her voice trembled slightly. “But when my work here is finished—”

He drew her close and smothered the rest of her words with a kiss. When their lips finally parted she made no move to leave his embrace.

“When your work here is finished, we’ll have time to talk of many things,” he said.

She was about to speak again, but he placed a finger against her lips.

“But not now,” he said. “And the business talk will keep till breakfast. Go on up to bed, and I’ll doss down here.”

Despite the strain of the long night, the Saint was still the first to rise. He had long ago cultivated the ability to keep firing with only a minimum of sleep. He had slumbered peacefully and awakened refreshed at the reveille of his own mental alarm clock, to shower and change his clothes before he roused the others.

Leila came down to the invigorating aroma of percolating coffee and sizzling bacon. Yakovitz followed more slowly, but his step was steady and his eyes clear.

“I hope my heathen habits won’t spoil your appetites,” Simon apologised as he seated them. “But you can still eat the eggs.”

Leila had changed back to the fawn tailored suit she had worn when they met, and its faintly military style helped her return to outward impersonality.

“I telephoned Colonel Garvi and told him everything that has happened,” she stated, as if making a formal report.

“And has he any jolly new ideas?” asked the Saint.

Leila nodded.

“Yes. As soon as we have Hakim we are to take him to another base, a house the embassy owns near Epping. I have written down the address.”

“Why?”

She looked surprised at the question.

“For interrogation,” she answered. “We can’t ask you to let us keep him here, and the embassy is not suitable.”

The Saint shrugged.

“What you do with him is your affair,” he said callously. “My job finishes when we catch him. After that, I’m going to have a few scalps of my own to collect.”

“Simon, how do you think Masrouf knew where to find us?”

The Saint buttered another slice of toast.

“That’s been puzzling me too. The only answer I can think of is that he did an about — turn after we scared him off yesterday, and followed us when we left the flat. I’m afraid it didn’t occur to me that he might have got back on our tail so quickly. For which I’ve been taught a damn good lesson.”

“Colonel Garvi said I should tell you that of course we shall pay for the damage.”

“I’m sure you will,” said the Saint. “But you can’t write a cheque for everything I’m holding against the Red Sabbath. Never mind that for now. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

“What is your plan?” Leila asked.

“We keep close to Yasmina. My guess is that it’ll be her job to make the contact with Parton, but that Hakim won’t be very far away. So eat up, or we’ll be late for school.”

The Hirondel had survived the explosion with no more serious damage than a few scratches in the paintwork caused by flying glass. They drove east, following a similar route to the one they had taken the night before. They passed through White-chapel into Stepney and stopped at last opposite the gates of a modem primary school. The only other vehicles in the road were a yellow van parked a few yards behind a small coach.

Yasmina stood by the gates shepherding children into the coach. In the yellow van, a man sat low in the driving seat with his face buried in the racing pages of a morning newspaper.

The Saint turned to Leila.

“Do you know the phone number of that house at Epping?”

She told him, and he scribbled a few words on a visiting card which he handed to Yakovitz.

“Walk over the road,” he said, “and drop this through the driver’s window of that van as you pass. Then come back.”

Yakovitz obeyed without asking for a reason or even reading the card.

As they watched the maneuver being completed, Leila asked: “Who is in that van?”

“That is Harry-the-Nose,” said the Saint. “Last night I told him to follow Yasmina and report back everything she did, but that was before I found out that the drop was to be today. Still, there’s no reason why he can’t follow her too as a sort of double insurance, in case we get separated for any reason. I gave him the phone number in Epping in case I have to go there with you.”

Yakovitz climbed back into the car as the last of the children boarded the coach. As it moved off, the Saint slid smoothly in behind it, keeping an eye on the rear view mirror to be certain that the yellow van had joined the convoy.

They headed for the Commercial Road and back towards the City, edging their way slowly through the crawling traffic. They skirted the Tower and swung left over London Bridge, turning sharply across to the right as soon as the south bank of the river was reached. As the coach pulled into the kerb beside Southwark Cathedral, the Saint drove on and stopped out of sight around the next corner.

The Borough Market is a mini Covent Garden standing beside Southwark Cathedral in the shadow of London Bridge. Traders conduct their business from open pitches beneath a glass roof supported by thick iron pillars. It is situated in the centre of two access roads leading from the main thoroughfare of Southwark Street. Between the market and the riverside sprawls a web of narrow lanes that twist between towering blocks of warehouses and depositories. The air is thick with the smell of rotting fruit and the distinctive ozone of the Thames. From dawn until midday it is a bedlam of noise and hurrying people.

The Saint looked up at the plaque fixed to the wall on the opposite side of the lane where he had parked, and grinned.

“Clink Street. I can think of quite a few people who think I should have stopped here years ago.”

Leila frowned.

“I do not understand.”

“I’ll explain some other time,” he said hastily.

“Yakovitz, you find a spot on the stairs leading from the front of the cathedral to the bridge. From there you should get a clear view of everything that moves. Leila, you take the viaduct arches so that you can watch the entrance to the cathedral without too much risk of Yasmina spotting you.”

“And you?”

“I’ll go through the market and try and find Parton. Our best chance lies in jumping Hakim when he shows to collect the passport. Yakovitz, you go now. Leila, you follow in a minute. We’ll be too obvious if we keep together. Okay?”

They both nodded, and Yakovitz got out of the car. The events of the night had combined to place the Saint in charge of the operation, and neither of the others thought to question his command.

Yakovitz strolled back into the road that separated the market from the cathedral, and turned in through the wrought-iron gates to cross the precinct immediately in front of the church. Except for Yasmina and her charges standing outside the main doors waiting for their guide, and a couple of tramps asleep on the benches, the area was deserted.

Simon stood at the top of the bridge steps and watched Leila walk past, using the coach to screen her from Yasmina. Behind the coach, Harry was lounging in his van, resuming his studies of the racing columns, apparently oblivious of everything else.

The Saint strode quickly through the back lanes, memorising every twist and turn until he reached the rear entrance to the market.

Two main aisles divide the market into quarters, which are then split into irregular sections by the tall wire pens from which the traders sell. Simon stopped at the junction of the two aisles; from there he had a clear view of the entrance roads on either side. The coach stood opposite the end of the east aisle.

The driver left his seat and climbed down to the pavement. For a while he stood looking across at Yasmina and the children before turning towards the market. As he did so he pushed his peaked cap to the back of his head, and the Saint found himself staring at the face of Abdul Hakim.

8

Hakim stood beside the coach glancing nervously each way before crossing the road and entering the market. He looked older than in the photograph. The cheeks were more hollow and the forehead more lined. The mass of curly hair was uncombed and he had not shaved for a couple of days. He wore a zipper jacket of black leather and tight black corduroy trousers. He moved with the furtive grace of an outcast cat poised to fight or run at any instant, but his eyes had the shifty look of the hunted rather than the hunter.

Simon stepped back into a narrow passage between some piled-up crates and waited as Hakim walked slowly down the main aisle towards him. All around him the porters and traders continued with their noisy everyday business; a few of them looking curiously at the Saint as they passed. He took a notebook from his pocket and pretended to count the boxes and tick them off on an imaginary list while he listened to the sound of Hakim’s footsteps coming nearer.

He was somewhat surprised by the ease with which the trap was preparing to be sprung. Simply to have to wait until Hakim walked into his arms seemed almost an anticlimax after the events of the preceding twenty-four hours, but he had no wish to quarrel with the Fates for smoothing his path.

The clamour of the market, which had seemed almost deafening at first, had now adjusted itself in his hearing into a permanent background which he could screen out of his consciousness while he followed Hakim’s waxy progress along the aisle. Quite apart from that generalised noise, his ears recorded a sound of footsteps approaching from behind him, but his brain was a split-second slow in reacting to them as a danger signal.

He had only half turned when the massive arms of Parton’s bodyguard closed around his chest in a suffocating bear hug. In the same moment he felt himself lifted clear of the ground and hurled through the air as if he weighed no more than a child’s doll.

He had a fleeting glimpse of the forger running past him towards Hakim, before he crashed backwards into a pile of crates that collapsed with the impact and sent him sprawling against the concrete floor. The air was forced from his lungs in one long gasp, and a kaleidoscope of flashing lights danced before his eyes as his head touched the ground.

He felt every bone in his back and shoulders jar with the impact, and only the responses of a veteran fighter saved him as the giant waded in for the kill. Instinctively he rolled to one side and the kick that should have sent him to join all the historic saints actually parted the top of his hair.

As his vision cleared, he saw the giant poising himself to resume the attack. The sheer bulk of the man made him ponderously slow, but the Saint was all too aware that just one blow squarely landed from those huge fists could prelude the end of the contest.

With one hand flat on the ground, he pushed himself up into a squat and dived sideways at the gorilla’s legs. His arm folded under the man’s knees as his shoulder cannoned into his thighs. The giant swayed for a moment as he tried to maintain his balance, but the Saint’s momentum was too great and he toppled backwards to land flat against the concrete with his arms flailing the air as he tried clumsily to break the force of his fall.

The Saint was on his feet again in an instant. There was no time for the niceties of the brawl that should have followed. Already he could see Hakim and Parton concluding their transaction and in a few seconds the Arab would be beyond his reach.

Parton stared blankly at the Saint as if he could hardly believe that he was still a threat. The forger’s face was disfigured by a strip of sticking plaster that ran from the corner of his right eye to the side of his mouth. Beneath it the skin was puffed and black. The sight raised a large question mark in the Saint’s mind, but he had no spare time just then to spend on speculating about that interesting embellishment.

He started to run past the fallen giant, but the man flung out a wild arm that half tripped him. As he reached out for anything to save him from falling, his hand fastened on the top of a tier of packing cases. As he recovered his balance he yanked the top crate free. The bodyguard stared up in horror as the heavy wooden box plummeted down with the Saint augmenting the force of gravity with his own strength, but there was nothing he could do to break its fall. His whole frame went rigid as it smashed on his head, and his participation in the further proceedings discontinued.

Without waiting to administer first aid, Simon hurdled the obstacle and raced towards the main aisle, roughly shoving aside the gaping spectators who had been attracted to the commotion.

Hakim had turned and fled as soon as he saw the Saint rise, and Parton was not much slower off the mark in sprinting in an opposite direction. Simon ignored the forger and followed Hakim. The terrorist ran back into the road beside the coach. For a moment he wavered, unsure of his next move, and the Saint rapidly closed the gap between them.

He could see Yakovitz rushing across the cathedral precincts while Leila moved in from the other end of the street. Yasmina had deserted her children and was running towards her lover, frantically waving her arms and shouting a warning in some language the Saint did not understand.

Hemmed in on three sides, there was only one possible escape route left open and Hakim took it. He turned and tore down the road leading to the river front behind the cathedral.

Simon was about to follow when he heard a shot, and he had dodged for the cover of a parked lorry before he realised that he was not the target. The bullet shattered the glass of a street lamp as Hakim ran beneath it.

The Saint spun around as the blue station wagon screeched to a halt and Masrouf, Khaldun, and the man he had seen outside Yasmina’s flat the previous afternoon, jumped out. It was clear that they had eyes only for Hakim and appeared unaware of either Leila or Yakovitz closing in behind. All three men carried revolvers, and Yakovitz and Leila had also brought their guns into the open.

When the lamp glass shattered, Hakim increased his speed, bending low and swaying from the hips as he ran, but the three terrorists did not fire again. Simon scooted around the lorry and came out on the other side as Hakim disappeared around the corner to where the Hirondel was parked. Masrouf and Khaldun ran after him, leaving their companion to bring up the rear and cover them.

The Saint sprinted back into the market, dodging between the wire cages and following a diagonal route that brought him out into a road running at right angles to the one Hakim had taken. The sound of more shots reached him, but he had no way of knowing who was firing at whom.

He stopped for a moment to get his bearings before crossing the road and entering a lane sloping off to the right. After about fifty yards it opened into a large cobbled square that served as a parking and unloading area for the warehouses that lined it on every side. The only other exit was an alley in the far comer, and the Saint ran towards it.

He was halfway across the square when Hakim emerged from the alley. He stopped as soon as he saw the Saint, and looked desperately in every direction. The sound of shouts and running feet echoed from the passage behind him. Unable to go either forward or back, he jumped onto the loading bay of the nearest warehouse and plunged blindly into the shadowy interior.

The Saint leapt after him and had barely gained the shelter of the platform before Masrouf and Khaldun burst into the square. They stopped just outside the mouth of the alley, uncertain of their next move, but the decision was made for them when a bullet clipped the brickwork above their heads. Masrouf turned and fired a reply without taking aim, and the two men dashed across the cobbles to disappear down the lane from which the Saint had emerged a few seconds before.

Inside the warehouse, Simon turned from watching Yakovitz chase the fleeing Arabs and looked for Hakim.

The loading bay led into a cavernous storeroom stacked almost to the ceiling with wooden crates. At the far end a wide flight of iron steps led up to a gantry that circled the walls. There was no sign of Hakim. The Saint moved soundlessly in a narrow passage between the crates, every nerve taut, his eyes and ears straining to catch any sight or sound that might reveal Hakim’s hiding place. He reached the stairs and slowly began to climb, intending to use the gantry to gain a bird’s-eye view of the storeroom below.

As he reached the first landing the Arab broke cover and ran back towards the loading bay. There was an iron crowbar clutched in his hand, and two workmen who had just climbed in, rapidly backed away as he approached.

Simon cursed the luck with which he had been eluded, and returned to the floor in two leaps.

Hakim must have been in fair condition and had made good use of his few minutes’ rest in the warehouse to recover his breath. He set a fast pace across the square, and doubled back down the alley heading for the river.

The Saint settled his stride and prepared for a lengthy pursuit, content to gradually whittle down the other’s lead and sap his strength. By the time Hakim reached the wider road that separates the warehouses from the wharves Simon was only about thirty yards behind.

The road ran straight until it passed under the arches of Southwark Bridge a quarter of a mile farther on. On the right, a low wall divided the road from the landing stages that serve the barges bringing cargo from the large freighters in the Pool beneath the Tower to the warehouses upriver from London Bridge. On the left was an unbroken line of buildings with not even an alley between them to provide an alternative bolthole.

The river sparkled in the sunlight, distorting the reflection of the trains pulling slowly into Cannon Street Station. In midstream a tug was nursing a flotilla of heavily laden barges. A couple of pleasure boats crammed with camera-clicking tourists chugged sluggishly beneath the arches of London Bridge. The passengers peered and pointed as they listened to the guide’s running commentary on the sights to be seen along the south bank, trying to pinpoint the site of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre while completely unaware of the contemporary drama that was being played under their eyes.

The Saint began to sense an uncertainty in Hakim’s movements. The terrorist’s pace was slowing and his steps faltered as he frantically looked in every direction for a way of escape. Inexorably Simon increased the pressure. Hakim glanced back over his shoulder, and the sight of the Saint so close on his heels made him dredge up the last of his reserves of stamina. He attempted one final spurt, but the strength had left his legs and after a few yards he stumbled and almost fell.

The Saint realised that the chase was over. What for him had been a fairly healthy workout appeared to have reduced Hakim to the semblance of a wet Arabian nightshirt. He reeled against the low wall between the road and the line of jetties, desperately sucking in air and wiping the sweat from his forehead and eyes.

Simon Templar slackened his stride to a walk as Hakim stayed and slumped against the wall, and came up to stand behind him.

“Had enough?” he asked mockingly. “There’s no where to run, Hakim. Nowhere else to hide.”

Hakim did not answer. His back was turned to the Saint and his hand cradled in the crook of his right elbow, the crowbar he had picked up somewhere in the warehouse still slackly held in the same hand. The Saint reached out a hand towards his shoulder and in the same instant Hakim spun round, the crowbar slicing through the air in a murderous arc.

9

Only the Saint’s whiplash reflexes saved him from a fractured skull. He recoiled instinctively, stepping backwards and arching his body sideways.

The speed and ferocity of Hakim’s attack was too great for his own equilibrium, and he stumbled forward. The Saint straightened, perfectly poised on the balls of his feet and smiled into the Arab’s face.

“Naughty, naughty,” he taunted reprovingly and sent a straight left flicking into the other’s nose.

The terrorist winced at the pain as he quickly backed out of reach of a follow-up punch, and wiped away the trickle of blood with the back of his hand. He glared at the Saint with fear and hatred in his dark eyes. His lips drew tight against his teeth as he sprang forward, again scything the air with the crowbar.

It was a contest between the boxer and the barroom bully, only in slightly different terms, and although he never doubted the inevitable outcome, the Saint did not underestimate the desperation of his cornered opponent. He simply felt entitled to a little sporting exercise in return for the trouble he had been given.

Simon Templar danced. With his arms hanging loosely at his sides, he relied on sheer speed and agility to escape the murderous assault Hakim mounted. He bobbed and weaved and rode the blows measuring distance to the micro-fraction of an inch. And all the time he smiled impudently at his assailant; and the more he smiled, the more angry the Arab became and the more erratic his attacks.

The commotion had attracted the inevitable crowd that always seems to appear as if from the air when seconds before there was no one in sight. They gathered at a safe distance, gaping at the spectacle but not eager to get involved.

It could have been great fun for all, but it had to be cut short. The Saint quickly moved in and proceeded with some relish to take the terrorist apart with a few bruising body punches that ended Hakim’s wild swings and drove the Arab cowering back against the cold stone of the river wall. The Saint felt no pity: Hakim was more than just one man, one murderer. He symbolised his breed; so brave when faced with helpless hostages, the young and old and weak, with the job of planting a bomb to go off when he was well away, but with no stomach for face-to-face conflict on equal terms.

At that moment the Saint was aware of the unmistakeable throaty growl of the Hirondel. It stopped beside them with a scream of protesting rubber and he turned to see Yakovitz climb out of the driver’s seat.

“Here’s your excess baggage,” he called out, and while Yakovitz opened the rear door he sent a final left hook jolting into the point of Hakim’s chin.

As the Arab slid earthwards, the Saint caught him by the collar and the seat of the pants to throw him headfirst into the car. Yakovitz jumped in on top of him, and the Saint slid in behind the wheel and took the big car roaring away, scattering the spectators from its path.

The entire spontaneous pickup was accomplished as neatly as if they had rehearsed it, and the Saint chortled with delight.

“Right on cue! I was beginning to wonder what I was going to do with him. What happened back there?” he asked as he forced a way through the traffic clogging Southwark Bridge.

Yakovitz answered slowly as if embarrassed to admit his failure.

“Captain Zabin stayed to deal with the third man while I chased Masrouf and Khaldun. They split up, and I followed Masrouf, but I lost him in the alleys, so I went back to help her. By the time I got to the market again there was no sign of her, but two policemen were arriving. I went back to your car and came looking for you.”

“And you have no idea what happened to Leila?” Simon asked, frowning.

Yakovitz shook his head.

“No. As I said, when I got back after losing Masrouf there was no sign of her. She may have slipped away when the police came, or she could have followed the other man somewhere. I did not see your friend Harry, either.”

“That’s some consolation, anyway,” Simon remarked. “Harry isn’t the sort of person who’d join in, but neither is he the type who cuts and runs when the going looks rough. I hired him to follow and watch, and that’s probably just what he did, he’ll make contact later. He should be able to tell us where Leila went.”

“Captain Zabin is one of our most experienced operatives,” said Yakovitz stiffly. “I am sure she will be all right.”

“So am I,” Simon agreed.

He could tell that Yakovitz’s assumption of his superior’s safety was based more on loyalty than logic, and he also was somewhat less confident than he cared to show.

He drove through the City and headed east until they reached the main Newmarket road. After a few miles the long lines of houses and shops began to peter out and they entered the brown and green woodland of Epping Forest.

“Do you know how to find the house that Captain Zabin was talking about?” he asked presently.

“If you find the Bell Post House first, I can direct you.”

The Saint had once stopped at the hotel at Bell Common, and with that as an easy landmark, he could relax for a while into almost automatic driving. There were no interruptions from Hakim, but from certain movements that he occasionally glimpsed in the rear-view mirror, he had the impression that Yakovitz was taking such steps as were necessary, from time to time, to ensure that the terrorist remained in the comatose state to which the Saint’s punishment had reduced him.

The woods gradually gave way to fields of wheat and corn that stretched away into the distance with only an occasional tree or barn breaking the shallow contours of the landscape. As they moved farther from the forest and deeper into the farmlands it was almost impossible to believe that they were only an hour from the centre of London.

Yakovitz seemed disinclined for idle conversation, and the Saint used the silence to assess the situation. Whichever way he looked at it, he realised that the game was still far from over. They had succeeded in grabbing Hakim, and therefore whatever happened next, they held the trump card. They had the added advantage that Masrouf and company could have no idea where they were taking Hakim. Leila was the only problem; and the more Simon considered her disappearance, the more uncertain he became that his side would be able to completely dictate the next move.

From the Bell Post House, he followed Yakovitz’s directions until they swung onto a rutted, unpaved road that wound through a thin belt of trees to peter out before a pair of tall iron gates that were the only break in a high redbrick wall. Beyond the gates, a gravel drive swept in a wide arc for some three hundred yards until it reached an elegant white stone house of the sort that real estate agents are moved to call a luxurious country residence.

As soon as the Hirondel stopped at the gates, two men emerged from the shelter of the wall. Both carried shotguns, and while one levelled his weapon at the occupants of the car, the other opened one gate and walked over to the driver’s side of the car. He scrutinized the pass that Yakovitz extended and finally nodded to his companion, who lowered his gun and opened the other gate. The man who had come out spoke briefly into a two-way radio that he took from his breast pocket and waved them through.

Hakim was beginning to come around once again by the time they pulled up at the portico but he offered no resistance when Yakovitz dragged him roughly from the car and half carried, half dragged him up the wide steps.

Inside, the air was stale and heavy with the tang of mothballs and sickly smell of fresh paint. The furniture was hidden under white dust sheets, and there were ladders propped against the walls. Their footsteps echoed as they crossed the uncarpeted hall and went through a rear door to the kitchen. The room contained only a table and a few plain wooden chairs, a gas stove on which simmered a battered coffeepot, and an open larder whose shelves were stacked high with tinned food. A telephone and a small radio transmitter slightly larger than the one worn by the guard at the gate stood on the table.

Two men rose to greet them as they entered. Yakovitz dumped his prisoner in a chair and while one of the men tied the Arab’s hands and feet he told them the basic details of what had happened.

The Saint poured himself a cup of coffee and sat in a chair opposite Hakim. The Arab was wide awake now, and Simon could see the fear behind the defiant set of his features. It was a unique experience, for him, to have the privilege of observing a thoroughly terrified terrorist, and after the wanton assault on his home he wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

“So what do we do now?” he enquired genially. “Is it going to be castration with red-hot spoons or a simple force-feeding with boiling oil? Or do you boys have something more scientific to offer?”

He saw Hakim’s larnyx take a gulp, and grinned encouragingly.

“Don’t worry, Abdul, old camel. They tell me you don’t give a damn after the third hour.”

Neither of the two Israelis on duty had previously paid much attention to the Saint, assuming that he was merely Yakovitz’s aide and therefore a minor member of their organisation. They looked enquiringly at Yakovitz, who grudgingly related the Saint’s role before and during Hakim’s capture. The Saint acknowledged the account with a bow, and the other two agents regarded him with new respect but no extravagant display of friendship.

“As I said, what happens now?” Simon repeated.

Yakovitz smiled faintly, as if he had already been framing the answer to the Saint’s question. The way in which the other two men reacted to him showed that he was their superior, and he was obviously enjoying being in charge for the time being, instead of acting as just an assistant to Leila and the Saint.

“That does not concern you, Mr. Templar,” he said. “Your job is now completed. You have done us great service, and I am sure our government will show its appreciation. I now arrange for you to be taken back to London.”

The Saint shook his head.

“You forget that this is now my game too,” he returned calmly. “After last night I’ve got a personal score to settle with Masrouf and his cronies, and if Hakim the Horrible can tell us anything about where I may be able to find them, then I want to hear it. Also, the way I see it, my job isn’t completed until I know that Captain Zabin is safe. She should have telephoned here before we arrived, and obviously she hasn’t. So I think I’ll just hang around.”

Yakovitz’s face reddened at the challenge to his authority.

“You are not permitted to do anything except what you are told. Any action you take against Masrouf is your business, but I am afraid you cannot stay here.”

The Saint stretched out his legs and settled more comfortably into his chair.

“And which of you is going to be the first to try and move me?” he queried interestedly.

He appreciated that he was actually in no position to argue with whatever Yakovitz decided. One against three were odds he had tackled before, but even with his supreme confidence in his own abilities he recognised the fact that they were armed and probably trained in unarmed combat as well. His one real hope of staying was that Yakovitz was unsure of the limits of his authority.

Yakovitz hesitated, conscious that his men were looking to him for a lead, but whatever that directive would have been was never known. The radio on the table buzzed and Yakovitz flicked a switch.

“Yes?”

The voice of the guard at the gate made itself heard above the crackle of static.

“Colonel Garvi has arrived, sir.”

Yakovitz almost visibly deflated as he realised that his role was about to revert once again to that of a subordinate.

Simon smiled.

“Well, perhaps we should wait and let the good colonel decide what’s to be done with me.”

There was about a minute of awkward silence before Garvi strode into the room. He looked first at Hakim and then at Yakovitz and the Saint.

“You have both done very well,” he said.

“We try to please,” murmured the Saint ironically.

Yakovitz began to give his report on the morning’s events, but the colonel cut him short.

“I know, I know. Masrouf telephoned the embassy. They have Captain Zabin. They want to do a deal, an exchange of prisoners.”

It was no more than the Saint had dreaded to hear, but the confirmation of his fears brought an empty feeling to the pit of his stomach.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I stalled, there was nothing else I could do. I arranged for them to contact me here, after I had verified that you had Hakim.” His gaze travelled from his watch to the telephone. “They should be coming through soon. But Simon, there can only be one answer. An exchange is out of the question. Hakim is too important.”

The Saint stood up, and his eyes slashed like a sword through the middle of the other’s sentence.

“And Leila? What about her? Or is she expendable for the good of the cause?”

Garvi turned away and stared down at Hakim. When he faced Simon again he was markedly paler and looked years older than he had twenty-four hours before. In any other circumstances the Saint might have felt sorry for him for the decision he had had to make.

“If it were just a matter of a life for a life, I might have to agree. But it is not that simple. The information that this man can give us may save hundreds of lives. Innocent lives. Captain Zabin understood this, she knew the risks when she volunteered for the job. I know her, Simon. I know her far better than you do, and I know she would not thank us for saving her if that was the price we had to pay.”

“So you’re not even going to give her a chance, Colonel.”

Garvi replied softly, almost pleading for understanding: “Simon, I have no choice.”

The shrill ringing of the phone split the tense atmosphere in the room. Before anyone else could move, the Saint snatched up the transceiver. He held up his other hand for silence as he waited for the caller to speak first.

“Garvi?”

“Yes.”

The Saint knew that his mimicking of the colonel’s tone would not have fooled anyone for long, but he was gambling that the call to the embassy had been the first time the terrorists had spoken to their chief enemy.

The caller appeared satisfied. He spoke quickly and with such a thick accent that it was all the Saint could do to make out his words:

“This is the last call you will receive. Either you agree to an exchange, or Captain Zabin dies.”

“How do I know she’s still alive?”

There was a long pause, and the Saint began to fear that the caller had hung up. Then suddenly Leila’s voice came over the line, the words tumbling out as she tried to get her message across before she was silenced.

“Simon, forget me. Keep Hakim. Make him talk.”

The sound of a scuffle followed before the Arab spoke again.

“Satisfied? If you want her back, come to Waterloo Bridge tonight at eight. A car will be parked in the middle of the bridge facing north. Stop and flash your lights three times, then follow it. Do exactly as you are told. Understand?”

“Yes.”

The phone went dead, and Simon dropped the handset back into its cradle. He looked at Garvi.

“I’ve agreed to a deal,” he stated flatly.

“You cannot complete it. You have no authority.”

Yakovitz was standing on the Saint’s left but looking towards his boss; his coat was unbuttoned, and Simon could clearly see the automatic in its shoulder holster. The Saint moved so swiftly that no one was aware of his intention until it was too late. As his fingers closed around the butt and pulled the gun from its spring clip, he stepped back and placed himself where he could cover all four men at the same time.

“How’s this for authority?” he suggested mildly. “And if any of you have an idea that I don’t know how to use it, you can ask the colonel for a reference.”

“Simon, don’t be a fool.” Garvi was rigidly unemotional. “You’ll never get out of the grounds. And even if you did manage it somehow, you couldn’t take Hakim with you.”

“Colonel,” said the Saint, just as reasonably, “the name of this game seems to be catch the hostage. If your men know you’ll be the first to cash in, they won’t be so quick to start shooting. Now, there is one thing I could do. I could blow the lid off this whole illegal operation. I could create a stink that’d smell from Whitehall to the Wailing Wall. But that isn’t my idea at all.” He paused for a moment, deliberately, and they waited. They had very little option; but now he held their attention with more than the gun in his hand.

“We are going to do exactly what they told me. We are going to take Hakim along and swap him for Leila. They’ve given me no choice and I’m giving you none. But the rendezvous isn’t until eight. That gives us four hours to work out a plan. And four hours for me to find Leila and get her away. It shouldn’t be completely beyond us.”

Garvi seemed suddenly more relaxed, as if he almost welcomed the Saint’s pre-emptive intervention.

“Very well, Simon,” he said quietly. “Put the gun away. We’ll play it your way — until eight.”

“Your word, Colonel?”

“You have it.”

Simon lowered the automatic, but tucked it into his belt instead of returning it to Yakovitz. Garvi accepted the Saint’s reservation without comment.

“We also have four hours to find out what we can from our prisoner,” he remarked.

“Help yourselves,” said the Saint hospitably. “Just don’t do anything that leaves marks, in case he has to be exhibited.”

Hakim had been following the action and dialogue in swivel-eyed silence, but now he protested for the first time.

“You cannot make me talk. They would kill me.”

Yakovitz cuffed him across the ear with the back of his hand.

“If they don’t, I might,” he snarled. “Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to open it.”

He was about to say more when the phone rang again, and Garvi picked it up. He listened for a moment and then held it out to the Saint.

“For you. Someone who seems to expect you to be here.”

Simon took over the instrument.

“Harry?” The bite in his voice was belied by the sparkle in his eyes. “What the hell happened to you? Where are you?”

Harry’s reply came in an injured whine.

“That was unfair, Mr. Templar. You didn’t say nothin’ about a shooting match. I was goin’ to clear off when I see them grab the girl, so I followed. I couldn’t call you before in case I lost them.”

“Where are you?”

“It’s goin’ to cost, Mr. Templar. This ain’t what you ordered originally.”

“Tell me where the girl is, and I’ll give you enough to keep the bookies singing until Christmas.”

“Straight?”

“Straight. Now make it snappy.”

“They’ve taken her to an old factory, back of the Union Canal in Bethnal Green.”

“How many are they?”

“Five, I think. There was the three that brought her an’ another two met ’em when they arrived. Might be more inside for all I know.”

“Right. Stay with them, Harry. I’ll be there as soon as I can — in a couple of hours with luck. Tell me exactly where this place is.”

When he was sure that he could find the hideout, Simon hung up and turned to the others.

“Gentlemen,” he announced happily, “we are in business.”

10

The Saint pressed his foot down and the big car surged forward on the instant that an obstructive traffic light turned green. For the first time since he had been summoned to the embassy and become involved in a duel that was not of his choosing, he felt relaxed and in total control of his actions. The events of the day had combined to uncomplicate the proceedings. The hunt was over, the intrigue finished. The whole affair had been stripped of its complexities and clutter and reduced to the basics upon which an adventurer builds the structure of his career. There were villains to be thwarted and a damsel in distress to be rescued. He asked for nothing better.

The plan he had settled on with Garvi after Harry’s call was the essence of simplicity, and if he was aware that its execution would prove more difficult than its conception he did not allow the thought to worry him. Garvi and Yakovitz would take Hakim to the bridge and follow the terrorists to their hideout where the exchange would be made. As the rendezvous was taking place, he would enter the factory alone and try to get Leila out while the garrison was at least reduced.

Garvi’s only rider had been that if anything went wrong he would keep Hakim and leave both the Saint and Leila to their fates, and Simon had agreed to it. Secure in the knowledge that Garvi would not double-cross him now, he had taken the time for a quick snack before leaving. Unlike Napoleon’s quoted army, he did not necessarily march on his stomach, but he knew that no man’s efficiency is improved by the hypoglycemia of hunger.

Although bent on making the best time he could, he scrupulously observed every speed limit and traffic regulation. To be stopped for any technical infringement would more than cancel out the few minutes he might have gained. He had left Garvi the Hirondel, as it would be more easily recognised by the terrorists, and had taken instead the embassy Mercedes, from which he had removed the conspicuous “CD” badge. Now with the cool breeze fanning his cheek through the open window he even hummed a tune, and the eyes that swept the road ahead were bright with the light of battle.

His hands caressed the wheel as he drove along the long straight stretches of Forest Road. The headlights bored a tunnel through the twilight, throwing the trees along the roadside into sharp silhouette; beyond them there might have been nothing at all. The blood seemed to throb through his veins as if keeping in time with the roar of the engine. All too soon open road was left behind, and he was forced to cut his speed as he entered the East London suburbs and followed Harry’s directions towards his goal.

It was nearing seven-thirty by the time he reached his destination and glided to a standstill behind Harry’s van. He made a rapid final check of the automatic he had taken from Yakovitz before climbing out of the car and taking stock of his surroundings.

The district, in the grandiose language of the local authority, was scheduled for redevelopment, and consequently they had blitzed it more effectively than the Luftwaffe could ever have done, and then, for some reason known only to the planners who decide such things, had left it alone and apparently forgotten about it.

Acres of rubble now stretched where once there had been houses, shops, and a community of people. Fences made of old doors sectioned off what had once been blocks of buildings. The streets that ran between them were no more than continuous lines of potholes; the pavements were cracked and broken, and in some parts had ceased to exist altogether. What few buildings remained standing were often without roofs or windows, and no one had bothered to repair the street lamps that had long since been shattered by itinerant vandals.

Simon walked slowly around the next comer, keeping to the shadow of the fence as he waited for Harry to show himself.

“Psst!”

He stopped and looked around but there was no way of telling where the sifflation had come from.

“Over here,” croaked a hoarse voice.

This time he managed to locate its source, and stepped through a gap in the fence to where Harry-the-Nose was standing. Harry beckoned the Saint to follow him across to the far side of the site, where he clambered up to the top of a pile of rubble and the Saint joined him.

From there it was possible to see over the top of the next hoarding, and they had a clear field of vision on every side.

“You took your time, Mr. Templar,” Harry said aggrievedly. “I’m starving, I ain’t had nothing for hours.”

“My stomach bleeds for you,” commiserated the Saint. “Where are they?”

Harry pointed to a large building that the bulldozers appeared to have missed.

“Over there. I saw a light on the third floor about half an hour ago, but nothing since.”

“Any comings or goings?”

“Two of ’em left in a car about five minutes before you got ’ere. But the twist wasn’t with ’em.”

Simon Templar drew a deep satisfied breath.

“Okay, Harry, you’ve done a good job. I’ll recommend you for a Star of David.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Templar,” Harry said. “But what about me money?”

“Tomorrow night, usual place, same time. Now toddle off and get some food.”

The man needed no further prompting. The Saint waited until he had heard the van’s engine splutter into life before he swung himself over the fence and started towards the building Harry had indicated.

What had seemed at first like a profligate squandering of priceless time now justified itself; the dusk had finally deepened into dark, and the operation that he contemplated cried out for the co-operation of nightfall. Furthermore, now that two of the Ungodly had set off in plenty of time to meet the deadline on Waterloo Bridge, the numerical odds against him had been significantly reduced.

And it still wasn’t going to be easy.

The factory was a perfect example of Victorian utility architecture at its most hideous, but he needed only a brief look to understand its attractions for the terrorists. It stood four storeys tall, surrounded by high walls on three sides and flush with the canal on the fourth. Between the factory and its perimeter boundaries was a wide courtyard, the whole of which was clearly visible from any of the windows at the front. The building itself was flat-fronted and featureless except for the rows of small barred windows that marked the different levels of the floors, giving it more the look of a prison than a place of work. Not, he reflected wryly, that there was probably much difference between the two when the towering chimneys at either end of the building had belched smoke for the first time.

The only entrance to the courtyard was through a wide archway, and there was nothing between it and the factory that even a cat could have used for cover. The Saint considered the problem.

“Looks like we have to risk getting wet,” he decided.

He picked his way carefully between the piles of rubble and knee-high nettles, and followed the wall around the side of the factory until he reached the canal.

The water was blacker than the sky and smelt like an unventilated sewer. The bank was littered with chunks of rusting iron, rotting furniture, and heaps of assorted household refuse. The top of an old car was just visible above the top of the water.

The rear of the factory rose sheer from the water’s edge, except for the crumbling remains of a short wooden jetty in the centre and a narrow catwalk that linked it with each end of the building. Above it on every floor were doorways, each with its own hoist, that had once served to transfer the company’s goods to and from the canal barges.

The rear wall of the building looked ready to slide into the water the first time a stiff wind blew, but the chance of a fall was less uninviting than the probability of collecting a bullet in a frontal assault, and he saw little attraction in being the moving target in a shooting gallery. He stepped onto the catwalk, pressed his back against the wall, and started to edge sideways towards the jetty.

The stone under his feet had been worn smooth by the weather, and the subsidence of the building had caused the ledge to tilt downwards so that every step was an individual performance in the art of balancing that would not have disgraced a tightrope walker. The Saint pressed the flat of his hands against the wall, drawing an absurd sense of security from the feel of his fingers probing the shallow cracks between the bricks, in the same way that a soldier under shellfire hides behind a bush.

His progress was agonizingly slow, and all the while he was aware that time was ticking away. With every minute spent trying to find a way in, his chances of reaching Leila and getting out again before the terrorists arrived back diminished. At one spot a yard of the ledge had completely broken away, and he had to turn on his toes until he was facing the wall and search for crevices in the brickwork large enough for him to curl his fingers into. He stepped into space supported only by the fingertips of one hand while his other desperately tried to find a similar hold. A loose brick dislodged by his probing slid from the wall and landed with a splash in the water below, and then his foot touched the ledge again and he was able to take the strain from the muscles of his hand and arm.

The ledge widened as it reached the jetty and he was able to turn sideways onto the wall as he tested the strength of the planking by pushing out one leg and slowly lowering his weight onto it. The board creaked in protest but held. He glanced at his watch and was shocked to learn that it had taken him nearly fifteen minutes to travel twice that number of yards. It was a quarter to eight. Already the rendezvous would have taken place and in fifteen minutes, possibly less, they would have arrived back.

Two heavy doors led from the jetty into the factory. A thick iron chain and padlock had been passed through the handles and he swore swiftly as he knelt and examined the barrier. Despite the thick coating of rust it was still strong enough to resist anything short of a sledgehammer. The handles themselves offered brighter prospects. They too were of iron, but much older and more corroded than the chain, and the wood to which they were fixed was badly rotted. They moved slightly when he pulled against them with both hands, and he glanced around desperately for anything that could be used as a lever.

At each end of the jetty were fixed wooden posts about four feet high that had once supported a gate designed to prevent sacks slipping into the canal. He grasped the top of the nearest one, spreading his legs apart and bending his knees to brace himself, and applied every ounce of his strength as he pulled. The post tore free of its fastening, and he toppled backwards and only just managed to stop himself tumbling off the platform.

He slipped the post through the door handle, placed one foot against the door, and threw his whole weight backwards.

The handle took a jagged square of wood with it as it came away with a crash that splintered the still night air like a gunshot, at the same time dragging the door open.

The Saint slipped through the gap and into the factory, drawing his gun as he went.

He found himself in a high-ceilinged room that appeared to take up the whole of the ground floor. The only light was provided by the pale rays of the moon that filtered through the glassless windows high above his head. Beside the jetty doors a stone staircase curved upwards to link with the floors above, and he waited at the foot of it until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom.

It was impossible for the noise of his entrance not to have been heard by the men in the building. But there was a fair chance that they would attribute it to the spontaneous collapse of one of the rotting timbers, or to some outside happening, instead of to a break-in. Harry had indicated the third floor at the front, and if they were still there they might not have been able to identify the sound accurately. At any rate, that was what he had to hope for.

He climbed the stairs to the next floor without incident. It was similar to the one below, except that the ceiling was lower and he could just make out partitioned sections at one end that had previously served as offices.

In the second floor, the staircase led to a corridor, and he followed it to the front of the building. The boards creaked as he moved although he kept close to the wall, unable in the half light to determine whether the darker patches in the centre of the passage were merely pools of shadow or holes. He glanced into the rooms on either side, but all were empty and derelict and in many the floor had partially collapsed and he could see through to the floor below. The corridor merged into another wider one that ran the length of the front of the building to a staircase at either end. His watch showed 8:05 as he turned left and quickened his step.

If punctuality was any virtue of guerillas, the Waterloo Bridge contact should already have been made.

He took the stairs two at a time and was on the halfway landing when the noise of a door slamming somewhere immediately above made him freeze in mid-stride. The beam of a torch stabbed a circle of light on the wall above his head and grew wider as the man approached. Bending almost double, Simon leapt up the remaining steps. The man was no more than a dozen feet from the top of the stairs. Crouched by the wall, the Saint held his breath as he waited for him to draw level.

A rat scuffled somewhere in the darkness below, and the man stopped and turned his head. The Saint needed no better invitation.

He stepped out directly into the man’s path.

“Good evening,” he said courteously.

The man’s mouth opened, but whether to emit an equally well-mannered reply or shout the Saint did not wait to find out. His fist swung upwards with a force that lifted the recipient off his feet, and the Saint caught him as he fell and lowered him gently to the ground, prising the torch from his grasp in the process.

“And then there were two,” he observed to his strictly personal audience.

A ribbon of light beneath a door at the far end of the passage indicated his destination. Now he did not bother to muffle the sound of his approach, confident that the men inside would assume that it was their colleague returning. He turned the handle and entered as casually as if he were in his own home.

Leila sat in a chair in the centre of the room, her arms and legs tightly bound. Khaldun was at the window looking down into the courtyard, while another man whom the Saint had not seen before sat on an upturned packing case cleaning a rifle.

Khaldun turned as the door opened, and at the sight of the Saint recoiled as if he had been hit. The rifleman dropped his cloth and stared in amazement. Only Leila managed to contain her surprise.

“I thought you were never going to get here,” she said calmly.

The Saint smiled.

“You didn’t leave a forwarding address,” he complained. “Excuse me...”

His automatic barked, and the rifle flew from its cleaner’s grip and clattered to the floor with the Saint’s bullet embedded in its stock.

“That was your first and only warning,” he said quietly. “Both of you face down on the floor, now. Move!”

The men did as they were told, and he knelt between them to relieve Khaldun of a revolver and his companion of a small, snub-nosed automatic. He put both guns in his pockets as he stood up. Without taking his eyes off the two men, he untied Leila’s wrists and gave her the automatic to control the situation while he freed her legs.

“Have either of these specimens done anything to you?” he asked gently.

Leila shook her head as she vigorously rubbed the circulation back into her arms and flexed her legs.

“No. I think they were keeping that for later.”

“What was the plan?”

“When Hakim arrived, I was to walk across the courtyard towards him so that it would look as if they were keeping their bargain. As soon as we met in the middle they were going to start shooting — Khaldun and this one up here with rifles, another of them downstairs, plus the two in the car.”

“Quite an ambush,” Simon observed reflectively. “It seems almost a pity to spoil it.”

While she kept the two Arabs covered, he picked up the lengths of rope that had bound her, and expertly tied the new captives together, passing the cords from their ankles and wrists behind their backs to finish around their necks. He regarded his handiwork with grim satisfaction.

“You can have great fun trying to unravel yourselves,” he told them, “though I wouldn’t try too hard if I were you. One pull in the wrong direction, and you’ll find that breathing is only a memory.”

The two men lay perfectly still, and the Saint’s smile widened as he bowed and touched his forehead and lips in the traditional salute.

“Maha-ssaldama,” he murmured with genial derision, and turned back to Leila. “Come on, darling — let’s keep that date.”

He led the way down the stairs to the front door and pulled it open, and they stood together just inside the opening.

“Simon,” she said huskily, “I don’t know how you got here, but it was so wonderful—”

The roar of two approaching cars cut off her words. The station wagon swung into the courtyard, but the Hirondel stopped just outside the entrance. Yakovitz and Hakim climbed out and stood beside it; Garvi himself got out of the driving seat. The Red Sabbath car pulled up a few yards from the factory door.

The Saint pressed his lips to Leila’s ear.

“Do just as they told you,” he whispered. “And good luck.”

Leila took his hand off her shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze, and began to walk towards the centre of the courtyard as Hakim approached awkwardly from the other side. The converging headlights of the Hirondel and the wagon lit up the scene like a macabre stage set.

There was only a yard between Leila and Hakim when the Saint yelled: “Now!”

Leila brought up her automatic and pushed it into Hakim’s chest. The terrorist wavered in blank bewilderment, but whatever she said combined with the menace of the gun to make him turn and run back towards the courtyard entrance with her at his heels.

In the same instant that he shouted the Saint had also moved. He burst out of the doorway with a gun in each hand, firing at the station wagon. Having heard the terrorists’ plan, he was more concerned with creating a diversion that would get Leila Zabin to safety than with making target scores. He saw the wagon’s windscreen shatter, but it was Impossible to tell if either of the men inside was hit. But even if unscathed, they could only have been in a state of shock after finding themselves the targets instead of part of the supporting fire.

Simon only paused in his run across the courtyard to place a bullet accurately in each of the station wagon’s front tires.

He saw Yakovitz bundling Hakim into the back of the Hirondel, as Garvi opened the front passenger door for Leila. The Saint grabbed Garvi by the arm.

“You in the back, too!” he snapped. “I’ll drive.”

He threw himself in behind the wheel and hit the accelerator in one continuous movement, to take the car hurtling away.

11

The Hirondel — if any fault in such a classic vehicle can be acknowledged — was never designed to be a family car, adaptable to the transport of friends, relatives, and/or assorted offspring. The nominal rear seat might, at a pinch, have accommodated a couple of not too well-nourished children; but with the combination of Yakovitz, Hakim, and Garvi the pinch became a highly painful compression. But their ordeal lasted less than a minute, while the Saint whisked them around to where he had left Garvi’s Mercedes. There was no pursuit from the factory.

“You’d better take your own car back,” he said as he braked behind it, “even if it won’t be so cosy.”

While Yakovitz, as poker-faced as ever, hustled Hakim into the back of the Mercedes, Garvi found a moment to smile.

“Well done, Simon. You too, Captain. You both gave me some very worrying moments back there. What happened?”

The Saint condensed the account of his actions up to the moment when Leila had started her walk across the courtyard into three rapid sentences.

“I’ll keep Leila for company,” he concluded. “But I’ll stay on your tail back to Epping — just in case of anything.”

Following the rear lights of Garvi’s car, Simon drove mechanically without consciously noticing the route as his mind raced ahead to consider questions that still had to be answered. Leila sat silently beside him with her eyes closed, and he wondered just how much the events of the day had cost her in terms of stamina.

Although there could have been no contest either between drivers or their automobiles, Garvi set a fast pace, and they were soon swinging off the highway and bumping along the narrow track towards the house. The Saint glanced at his watch as he brought the Hirondel to a halt outside the gates and waited a moment for the guards to identify Garvi and let them in. He was surprised to see that there were still several minutes left before nine o’clock.

Leila opened her eyes and sat upright as he parked the car in the driveway. He speculated whether she had slept or if she too had been considering the prospects ahead. She gave him no clue as she turned her head to look at him, but her voice was strangely distant and once again he had a sense of barriers being raised between them.

“I have not thanked you for coming to my rescue,” she said.

He leant across and kissed her, but there was little response from her lips.

“Let’s call that a down deposit,” he suggested lightly, but she did not return his smile.

“Simon, when this is over...” she began hesitantly, but he cut her short by placing a finger against her lips. The gesture recalled the previous night, and the memory brought back the same disquieting emotions he had felt then.

“We’ll worry about it later,” he said softly, and pointed towards Garvi and Yakovitz, who were half dragging, half carrying Hakim up the steps. “Come on, or they’ll start the party without us.”

They filed into the house and gathered in one of the downstairs rooms. The dust sheets had been removed and the ladders and paint pots tidied away in a hurried attempt to make it habitable. A trolley laden with sandwiches and drinks had been added to the furnishings.

Yakovitz kept as close to Hakim as his own shadow, but the terrorist was clearly in no condition to cause any further trouble. His steps faltered, and his head lolled against his shoulder as if it was too heavy for him to support. He looked around through clouded, uncomprehending eyes, and offered no protest when Yakovitz pushed him roughly into a chair, but simply slumped forward with his head cradled on his knees. Yakovitz stood behind him while Leila sat in an armchair opposite. One of the agents the Saint had seen in the kitchen during the afternoon followed them into the room and took up a position with his back to the door.

The Saint poured himself a drink and handed Garvi a similarly stiff measure of malt. He regarded Hakim with detached interest as he asked: “How long before he starts singing again?”

“Not long,” Garvi replied grimly. “One more injection should be sufficient. I will attend to it personally.”

Simon selected a sandwich and took an experimental bite.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to it,” he yawned. “It’s been a busy day, and I could use a little peace and quiet. Let me know as soon as you’ve finished.”

Garvi nodded, and the man at the door stood aside.

The Saint went out and found an adjacent room whose furnishings included a sofa of sufficient size for his length. After finishing his sandwich and his drink, he stretched himself out and in a few seconds had dropped into a light but restful sleep.

He slept because it seemed the most intelligent way to spend the time. The only alternative would have been to attend the interrogation; and although he cared nothing about the procedure to which Hakim was being subjected, neither would he have derived any pleasure from the spectacle. But in anticipation of what further activities might be to come, even his tungsten constitution would be refreshed by a nap.

Peacefully as he slept, his eyes flicked open the second the door handle turned, and he was standing by the time Garvi reached the centre of the room. His watch informed him that he had been asleep for only a little over an hour, but he was as alert and clear-headed as any cat roused from its nap by the smell of a mouse.

Answering the Saint’s unspoken question, Garvi said: “We have what we wanted. It was quicker than I expected, but despair frequently helps to lower the subject’s resistance. Right now we are checking the names he gave us. They have been relayed to the embassy, and from there they can be confirmed with Tel Aviv.”

“How long will it be before you’re certain that Hakim has spilled the real barbecue beans?”

“Another half hour at the most.”

“So soon?” the Saint queried in surprise.

“Much of what he said only confirmed what we already suspected but he has supplied many details we needed. And the filing system at my headquarters is very efficient.”

“I’m sure it is, Colonel,” Simon concurred. “But what happens once you’re satisfied that Hakim has no more haricots to unload?”

Garvi shrugged.

“He is of no further use to us,” he answered carelessly.

“But he’s still a problem,” the Saint insisted; and before Garvi could reply, he continued: “You can’t take him back to Israel for a show trial, however much you might like to, because if you did there’d by no way you could hide the extent of your activities in London — an illegal operation, remember. And while the British Government would probably be pleased at the outcome, they couldn’t do anything but condemn the methods used, and your bosses won’t want to risk a diplomatic incident. So the only practical alternative is a concrete swimsuit and a midnight dip in the Thames. Am I right?”

“Whatever we decide, Simon,” Garvi hedged, “I promise you won’t be implicated.”

The Saint snorted derisively with a scornful laugh.

“The hell with being implicated, I am implicated! I was implicated the moment Yakovitz and his buddy hijacked me at the airport. You’ve got what you wanted. As far as you’re concerned, the operation has been one hundred per cent successful and it’s all because of me. Now you can settle the account. I want the last act left in my hands.”

Their stares crossed like rapiers — the Saint’s intense and unyielding; Garvi’s suspicious, uncertain.

“What do you have in mind?” Garvi asked.

“You’ve got what you wanted from Hakim, but that doesn’t mean you’ve forgiven his former comrades. And neither have I. I have this odd prejudice against people who try to blow me up and destroy my property,” the Saint explained.

“But your plan?”

Simon smiled.

“You know what they say, Colonel. If you want to shoot a tiger, tether a goat.”

When he had finished outlining his scheme, Garvi shook his head doubtfully.

“It’s a risk, Simon.”

“So is crossing the road,” the Saint retorted, and before Garvi could begin to put forward objections he turned on his heel and walked towards the door. “Let’s have a look at the goat.”

They went back to the room where the interrogation had been completed. Hakim sat in a chair with his chin on his chest, completely oblivious to his surroundings. Leila and Yakovitz were sitting at a table sipping black coffee. The Saint pulled Hakim’s head up so that he could look into his face.

“Do you have something in that medicine kit of yours that will bring him back to the land of the living quickly?” he asked Garvi.

The Israeli looked puzzled.

“Yes. But it would mean a large dose, and that could be dangerous, even fatal.”

“Your sudden concern for the patient is very touching,” Simon commented sarcastically. “Give it to him. I want him back in working order as soon as possible.”

Yakovitz looked questioningly at his superior, but Garvi only nodded.

“Do as he says,” he instructed; and with ill-concealed reluctance the agent opened a doctor’s-type black satchel and began to fill a syringe.

The Saint rummaged through the small pile of Hakim’s effects that were spread out on the table, and finally found what he sought written on the back of a snapshot of Yasmina.

As he did so the phone rang, and Garvi answered it. The colonel listened intently for a few minutes, and smiled thinly at the Saint and Leila as he replaced the receiver.

“We have a report from Tel Aviv,” he informed them. “Everything he has told us checks out.”

“Good,” said the Saint, and took over the telephone. He began to dial the number on the back of the snapshot. “Then you agree to let me take over, Colonel?”

Garvi compressed his lips.

“I agree. At your own risk.”

“It seems to me I’ve been at my own risk most of the time,” said the Saint amicably.

Then the number was ringing, and in a minute or so a feminine voice answered.

“Yasmina?” he said, and on receiving the hesitant confirmation, he went on in a studiously impersonal tone: “I am calling for your friend Abdul Hakim. He is being released by the people who detained him. He wishes you to join him in going to a safe place. Do you know the Highgate Cemetery — did he ever show you the tomb of Karl Marx there?”

“Yes.” The response was scarcely audible, and he felt a twinge of pity for her as he pictured her in the shabby flat where she lived.

“Good. Go there. At four o’clock this morning. Exactly. Hakim will be waiting for you. After that, everything will be as Allah wills. Understand?”

“Yes... but...”

The Saint hung up and looked across at Hakim. Whatever stimulant Yakovitz had pumped into him appeared to be having a miraculous effect. He was sitting upright now and looking at his surroundings in the hazy way of someone roughly aroused from a deep sleep, but it was unlikely that he had heard or understood much of the conversation.

“Officially, I have heard nothing, and I know nothing,” Garvi said expressionlessly. “Captain Zabin and Yakovitz may volunteer to stay with you, on the same understanding. Unfortunately I cannot do the same. It would be most embarrassing politically if anything went wrong and I was seen to be involved. But whenever you want, you can contact me at the embassy.”

Simon Templar regarded him with a touch of quizzical challenge.

“Is that all you can say, Leon?” he taunted.

Colonel Garvi hesitated for one second, and then held out his hand.

“Mazel tov,” he said.

12

London’s Highgate Cemetery is a horror-film producer’s dream. Victorian Gothic memorials to mortality cracked open by the weather vainly strive to rise above a wilderness of tall grass and tangled shrubs. Even in daytime it is a lonely and desolate spot, but in the pre-dawn moonlight it becomes charged with a sinister atmosphere of its own that can be felt by even the most cynical and unsuperstitious realist.

Leila shivered involuntarily as she surveyed the scene, but the Saint only grinned as he brought his lips close to her ear and breathed: “Not afraid of ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties, are we?”

She walked disdainfully away from the teasing voice and was the first to go through the gates. Simon reached her side in a couple of long strides and led the way along the maze of overgrown paths between tombs and headstones. Yakovitz brought up the rear, prodding Hakim forward with the business end of his automatic.

The Arab was completely recovered by now, and the scent of possible freedom had made him excited and nervous, although they had told him nothing except that he was to meet Yasmina as a reward for his co-operation.

The tomb of Karl Marx consists of a pillar on which is mounted a massive stone head which, with its flowing beard and wild hair makes him look more like an Old Testament patriarch than an instigator of revolution. He lies snugly at rest, surrounded in death by the Victorian capitalists and imperialists whom he loathed so much in life. The area immediately around the pillar is always carefully maintained, and attracts more pilgrims than the average saint’s shrine. With floral tributes strewn at its feet, the monument to the man who regarded religion as the opium of the people takes on an incongruous air of holiness.

Simon Templar stopped and gave it an irreverent salute. “Good morning, Karl,” he murmured. “I’ve brought along one of your disciples to pay his respects.”

Yakovitz pushed Hakim forward so violently that he lost his footing and sprawled at the base of the pillar. The Saint looked down at him with a cynical smile playing at the comers of his mouth.

“No need to overdo the kowtowing,” he drawled. “Just a polite bow would have done.”

Hakim picked himself up and brushed the dirt from his clothes as he glanced anxiously around.

“Where is Yasmina?” he demanded accusingly. “You said she would be here.”

“Don’t worry, she will be,” Simon replied, and glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. “In less than ten minutes, if she’s punctual. I’m sure it will be a very moving reunion, so we’ll withdraw to a discreet distance.”

He was turning away when Hakim called him back, his apprehension clearly sounding in his voice.

“You are going to leave me here alone?”

Simon gazed at him with cold contempt.

“I thought you’d feel comfortably at home surrounded by death. It’s your favourite scene, isn’t it? Anyhow, Yasmina will soon be here to hold your hand. But if you try to move away before she arrives, I shall take great pleasure in kicking you back.”

Without giving the other time to reply, the Saint turned again and walked away down the path with Leila and Yakovitz a step behind him.

As soon as they had rounded a corner and were out of Hakim’s line of sight, he stopped and indicated positions to them from which they would be able to keep watch on Hakim and the area around the Karl Marx memorial.

Simon himself moved off at a tangent, and circled back as silently as a cautious cat among the shadows, flitting like a wraith from tomb to tomb until he was so close to Hakim that he could even hear the terrorist breathing. The night seemed to swallow him as wholly and completely as a ghost.

He stood as still as the headstone beside him as the minutes dragged by, while Hakim paced up and down, only two or three jerky steps each way, starting in alarm every time the wind rustled the grass.

At last the Saint’s sensitive ears picked up the kind of sound he had been waiting for. It was no more than the faint crunch of a dry twig, but it told him that the first part of his plan had succeeded. By sound alone he followed Yasmina’s progress down the path; but Hakim, confused and frightened, did not see her until she rounded the nearest comer.

At the sight of her lover she began to run.

“Abdul! Abdul!”

Yasmina stumbled into the Arab’s outstretched arms, crying with relief, holding him tightly as if she feared he would vanish if she released him.

Simon hardly spared the couple a glance. He was looking past the girl, towards the bend in the path around which she had come, and silently drew his automatic and eased off the safety catch as he heard other footsteps approaching.

This time Hakim also heard them. He stared in wide-eyed panic as Masrouf, Khaldun, and one of the men who had helped to guard Leila at the factory appeared.

Masrouf walked in the centre flanked by his two aides and the guns of all three were drawn and aimed directly at Hakim. Yasmina turned and screamed.

“No! No!”

“Stand aside, Yasmina,” Masrouf commanded. “We do not want to hurt you.”

Hakim released the girl, but she did not move.

In the same chilling voice of a judge pronouncing sentence Masrouf continued: “Abdul Hakim, you are a traitor to the cause and to your people.”

Masrouf raised his gun, and the action snapped Hakim from the spell that had transfixed him from the moment he had caught sight of the three men. In the same instant that Masrouf’s finger tightened on the trigger, he grabbed Yasmina and pulled her backwards to cover his body with hers.

The bullet entered just above her heart. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but only a whimpered cough escaped before she sagged limply forward.

It was one of the most callous acts of total selfishness that the Saint had ever been forced to witness. And since he could only hold himself responsible, in essence, for having made it happen, the first duty of vengeance had been abruptly bequeathed to him.

He felt his blood turn to slow rivers of ice, and he fired.

A neat black-rimmed hole appeared in Hakim’s forehead. Yasmina slipped from his grasp and he pitched over, falling across her body, and lay still.

Masrouf spun around and fired wildly in the direction of the Saint, but the bullets zipped harmlessly above Simon’s head. The Saint took careful aim again, but before he could fire, Leila and Yakovitz opened up from the positions where he had left them. Khaldun clutched at his belly, floundered, and went down. The third terrorist had barely started to run when a bullet bowled him over like a rag doll. Masrouf, somehow unscathed by the fusillade, was still searching blindly for a target when the Saint released his last shot with no more compunction than the grenade that had been flung through the window of his living room the night before.

13

The electric light was weak against the strengthening sun and the room was chilly. In Kensington Gardens, outside the embassy, first one bird and then another heralded the morning until the air was ringing with their song. The Saint stared silently at the black liquid in bis cup while Leila finished her report.

Garvi turned to the Saint and smiled.

“So your plan worked out perfectly,” he said. “It was an ideal ending.”

“Tell that to Yasmina,” Simon returned stonily, and the smile faded from Garvi’s face.

“It was a pity about her, Simon. But she knew the sort of people she was associating with. You knew the risks when you set your trap, but you must not blame yourself for what happened to her.”

“Yasmina was Masrouf and Co.’s only remaining link with Hakim,” said the Saint. “Having lost him it was a pretty safe bet that they’d go after her again as soon as they’d got their car working again, and follow her when she left her flat. Leila and I used the guns I’d taken from them at the factory, and we swapped guns around before we left so that the police will think it was just a private shoot-out between terrorists.”

He rose slowly to his feet, finally allowing the strain of the past two days to show.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I must be going home. I’ve still got to get some redecorations organised. After which I’ll be looking forward to keeping my promise to show Leila some of the more cheerful sights of the town, as soon as she feels up to it.”

Leila looked away from him, studying her hands and avoiding his eyes. Garvi shifted awkwardly in his chair.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” he said, and sounded as if he meant it. “But Captain Zabin is under orders to return at once to Tel Aviv. There is nothing I can do about it.”

The Saint walked over to her and gently ruffled her hair. He bent over and kissed her lightly on the lips before walking to the door. He turned and smiled ruefully.

“Some other time, then,” he said gently. “Shalom, Captain Zabin.”

Leila looked up at him and did not try to hide the moisture clouding her eyes.

“L’chayim, Mr. Templar,” she whispered.