Saint and the Fiction Makers (21 page)

The cow gave a belligerent moo as it was left behind. Warlock snorted and shoved his pistol back under his coat.

‘We’re coming up to the wood now,’ he said. ‘Everybody be set to go.’

‘I still don’t get why they don’t have lights all around the place,’ Frug said.

‘So if anybody decided to drop a bomb on it from a plane at night he wouldn’t have an easy time spotting it,’ Simon answered.

‘Oh, sure,’ Frug sneered disdainfully. ‘Drop a bomb on it!’

‘It could happen,’ Warlock said. ‘This place is built to be completely safe even in war. Tend to your own business and don’t jabber so much.’

‘At least none of us is nervous,’ the Saint observed amiably.

‘Shut up!’ Warlock croaked. ‘Where are they? Where’s Monk off to?’

‘In the trees,’ Bishop replied.

The van had disappeared into the darkness of the forest, and the police car followed slowly. The shadows shut out most of the light of the sky, making it difficult to see anything.

‘Keep up, then!’ Warlock commanded. ‘Don’t lose them entirely!’

Suddenly the van loomed directly ahead of the police car, moving in reverse. Warlock waved his arms and fired off a broadside of orders.

‘Stop! Watch out! Don’t run into him! Pull alongside!’

He rolled down his window and called harshly to Monk in the driver’s seat.

‘What the devil do you think you’re doing? You’re going backwards!’

He was beginning to sound like an elderly schoolmarm in charge of her first picnic outing for juvenile delinquents, and yet that incongruity only lent an additional spine-chilling quality to the reality of what was happening.

‘I know,’ Monk said, not bothering to hold his voice down. ‘We’ve got to turn around here and back up to the fence!’

‘Quiet!’ Warlock ordered furiously. ‘You think you’re at a football match? Turn around, then. How far are we from the fence?’

‘Not far. Fifty yards.’

‘Back up and give them room, Bishop,’ Warlock said.

The van grunted laboriously to and fro among the trees, and then moved very slowly in reverse in the direction it had originally been travelling.

‘We’ll stop here,’ Warlock said when the police car had followed another hundred feet. ‘Come along, Mr. Templar, and no tricks. I don’t need to remind you …’

‘No,’ Simon interrupted. ‘You don’t.’

‘Bishop, hurry on up and help them,’ Warlock ordered. ‘We’ll follow. Do you have your dart gun, Frug?’

‘Check,’ said Frug, crisply, slapping a bulge in his jacket.

‘It is just like a movie, isn’t it?’ Simon commented.

Bishop had already disappeared ahead. Warlock and Frug got out of the car and waited for the Saint to precede them.’

‘Hurry it up,’ Warlock said, ‘and no more comments.’

Monk and Nero Jones were already at work on Hermetico’s outer fence when Simon, Warlock and Frug came around the van to join them. Bishop was inside the van adjusting the exact height of the aluminiun bridge to match that of the hole his colleagues were making in the fence. For the first time since his involuntary joining of S.W.O.R.D., Simon was impressed with the professionalism of Warlock’s group. They went about their assigned tasks as quickly, quietly and efficiently as those automatic electrical devices of which Warlock was so fond. It was as if real ability lay coiled inside their unimpressive personalities, to be released only in the rare moments when it was needed for a specific job.

‘Careful,’ Warlock said unnecessarily to Jones. ‘One slip with those jumper leads and all hell will break loose.’

/Monk grunted and went on clipping through the fence as Jones bridged the gaps with wires which would prevent circuits from being broken and setting off an alarm. Simon scanned the scene around them. The big pale dome of the building itself, like the upper third of a monstrous tennis ball, rose not thirty feet away. From this rear view it was unlighted and almost completely featureless. It might have been made of solid rock, a fallen moon dimly reflecting the light of the night sky. Around the outside of the fence were signs illuminated by hooded bulbs; they warned in unspecific but emphatic terms of the dreadful fate which awaited anyone attempting to transgress on Hermetico’s premises.

The hole in the fence was complete. It was over three feet in diameter and about three feet above the ground level at its lower edge. Frug was passing around spectacles coated with the chemical that Warlock had provided. Simon put on his pair. Instantly the dark area between fence and white building was alive with bars of light, crisscrossing one another from earth to the top of the fence.

‘Good work,’ said Warlock.

He was looking through the hole in the fence along the tunnel which his men had found in the network of rays. It was not a very spacious tunnel, and it was not of uniform dimensions all the way through, but it was big enough for a prone man.

‘The bridge,’ Warlock grunted.

He motioned to Monk, who went into the cab of the van and backed it up until the open rear doors were within a foot of the fence. The engine of the van, which had been muffled by every means Warlock could contrive, still seemed as loud as the racket of a sawmill.

‘What if somebody looks out here?’ Frug muttered.

‘We’re all dead,’ Simon assured him.

‘Shut up!’ Warlock hissed. ‘Nobody’s going to look out. There aren’t any windows.’

Simon glanced hopefully at the tiny apertures around the upper part of the dome—scarcely visible except to one who was looking for them—and said nothing.

‘Now,’ Jones whispered, and Bishop pushed the lever which moved the bridge out from the rear of the van.

‘Easy,’ Warlock said. ‘Slowly. Easy does it now.’

The metal projection crept from the cavity of the van and nosed through the hole in the fence. It inched its way down the tunnel, precariously close to the irregularly spaced bands of light which formed the channel. Simon, like the others, felt compelled to stand as close to the bridge as he could and sight along it as it moved out across the deadly mine field. No one breathed. The night wind rustled the trees behind them. The sound of the electric motor which moved the vibrating bridge was a low whine in the background.

‘Stop!’ Warlock barked suddenly.

The head of the bridge had almost touched one of the beams. There was an adjustment within the van. The bridge crept on. Simon was almost touching it. With a sudden shove he could have set off explosions all across the green strip, but his chances of standing up to or even just escaping Warlock and his men, single-handedly and without a weapon, were infinitesimal. He would have to wait until the group had split up inside Hermetico’s grounds before he could make his move.

As the far end of the bridge reached the other side of the ray field there was a general intake of breath. A switch was thrown inside the van, and the two legs which were to support the suspended end of the bridge eased towards the ground just next to the concrete walk which surrounded the outside of the dome.

‘Are you sure it’s steady on those supports?’ Warlock whispered.

The others were sighting along the aluminium frame.

‘I can’t see a bloody thing,’ Monk grumbled.

‘What if it’s not steady?’ Frug asked. ‘It’ll swing over or something and blow us all to pieces.’

‘Not all of us,’ Warlock said shrewdly. ‘Just one of us. Let’s see the famous Saint demonstrate his talents. You go across first, Mr. Templar, and make certain that the bridge is in good shape. And please notice that when you get to the other side there’s absolutely nowhere for you to run in case you should have any lingering ideas about causing trouble. Nero and Frug will both have guns trained on you the whole time. They could finish you in two seconds. Now, go ahead. If anything feels wrong to you, stop.’

‘Everything feels wrong to me,’ Simon replied. ‘Is that all the information you need?’

‘Get on the bridge, Mr. Templar.’

The Saint mounted the rear of the van, looked down the narrow tunnel of darkness among the web of light rays, and lowered his body onto the track of metal rollers.

2

He felt the aluminium bridge shudder slightly, almost touching one of the light beams. But then there was a scraping creak as one of the legs on the far end adjusted its contact with the ground, and the whole frail structure steadied itself.

‘Go on, Templar,’ Warlock urged. ‘Remember what happens to your girl friend if we’re not finished here on time.’

Simon held his legs close together, extended his arms straight before him, and without further hesitation used the full strength of his fingers to pull himself quickly along the rollers. He slipped smoothly past the fence and out through the silent unwavering network of infra-red beams. A few seconds later his head and shoulders emerged from the wall of rays, and the rest of his body followed. He gratefully lowered himself back to solid support in the form of the cement walk which circled Hermetico’s dome.

Looking back, he saw that Bishop was ready to follow, making himself prone on the aluminium rollers at the edge of the truck bed. Down to the right about thirty feet was Nero Jones with a submachine gun strapped to his back and an automatic rifle aimed directly at the Saint. Frug, a few yards along the fence from the other side of the truck, covered Simon with a smaller automatic weapon. Even if he should make the bridge collapse by kicking away the supports with his feet, getting rid of a man or two with the resultant explosions, the Saint knew that he would be instantly cut down by Frug’s and Jones’s interlocking fire.

Such a move would accomplish nothing but the salvation of Hermetico’s treasures for Hermetico’s management and depositors —none of whom were uppermost in Simon’s mind at the moment. He was considerably more interested in squaring accounts with Warlock and his friends, and in the process saving himself and Amity Little. He would have to wait. In the meantime, he surreptitiously tried to weaken the stance of one of the bridge’s supporting legs by kicking it with his foot as he moved away from it. If the bridge should fall down while he was nowhere near it, who could blame him?

But unfortunately the support moved only a fraction of an inch. Bishop’s weight was already on the bridge. With a long canvas pack ahead of him on the rollers, he was inching out over the mine field.

‘Elbows in,’ Warlock said hoarsely. ‘Don’t raise your head.’

Whatever Bishop’s qualifications as an extra-legal professional man, he was obviously not very good at or very fond of crossing shaky aluminium bridges over highly explosive strips of earth. When he finally had both feet planted on the ground beside the Saint his face gleamed with sweat in the starlight and his hands were trembling visibly.

‘Come on now,’ he said condescendingly to the ones who still had the crossing to make, ‘there’s nothing to it.’

Across the bridge in slow procession came Monk, then Warlock, and finally Frug. With them they brought more canvas packs, the metal tanks which would fuel the acetylene torch, and a great coil of nylon rope.

‘Legs together,’ Warlock grated to Frug. ‘Easy does it, you idiot! Don’t drop the rope!’

Frug’s reaction to the crossing was more vehement than Bishop’s had been. He mopped his face with his sweater and swore.

‘I wasn’t half an inch from one of those beams at the end! Will I be glad to see those bloody things shut off!’

The sooner we get below, the sooner they’ll be shut off,’ Warlock said. ‘Move out now—around to the ventilation ducts.’

There was a muffled clanking as Monk shouldered the metal tanks.

‘Quiet, you fool!’ Frug squeaked.

‘Who d’you think you’re calling a fool!’ Monk rumbled.

‘Shut up, both of you!’ Warlock said. ‘Do your jobs and don’t think about anything else.’ He faced back towards the outer fence and whispered to Nero Jones as they passed his position. ‘Get to your post now. Don’t fire unless you’re absolutely sure something is wrong.’

Jones waved acknowledgement and headed off across the field, circling the outer fence parallel to the circle the rest of the group was making around the dome. He would post himself a hundred feet beyond the fence at a spot from which he could fire either on the side door or the front door of the Hermetico building. His pale face was an eerie circle of white when he glanced back over the shoulder of his black sweater. It had not occurred to anyone except the Saint that Jones should smear his face with blacking in order to camouflage it, and the Saint had somehow neglected to mention the idea.

‘Get a move on,’ Warlock said. ‘You can’t see anything with those glasses over your eyes now, Frug. All of you, get them off.’

Only Simon kept his glasses on. He pushed them down on his nose so that he could have a choice of seeing over them or through them. It was one of his more optimistic hopes that there were uncharted and unexpected infra-red beams within the confines of Hermetico itself. If that turned out to be the case, he would be the only one to see them. The S.W.O.R.D. group was so engrossed in its work that none of its members gave the least thought to the spectacles propped on the end of Simon’s nose.

Bishop and Frug led the way. Simon came next, with Monk and Warlock behind. They walked swiftly but quietly in single file around the featureless sloping wall of the building. The only sounds were the night breeze, the muffled clanking of the equipment the men carried, and the cautious scuff of their feet. Then there was a new noise which grew louder as they continued—a low buzzing roar.

‘Those are the ducts up ahead,’ Warlock said. ‘Easy does it.’

They had circled far enough around the building for the van to be out of sight. Then, as the roaring of the ventilation ducts grew louder, Simon discovered that his infra-red sensitive glasses served their purpose sooner than he had hoped. The S.W.O.R.D group was passing the side door of the Hermetico building, the only door beside the main entrance: it was made of riveted steel plate, undoubtedly bomb-proof, and it was recessed into the concrete wall of the dome. What interested the Saint about it was that he saw—and was the only one of the party who could see—a single beam of infra-red light crossing the threshold six inches above the ground. It was like a rope stretched across the entrance to trip an intruder who might step into the recess in an effort to open the door—except of course that instead of tripping anybody it would set off an explosion or an alarm or something equally inhospitable to an unsuspecting trespasser.