The Saint in Trouble (15 page)

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 Mm! 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 leav ing 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 Mm 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 Gty 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.