The Saint in Trouble (19 page)

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 tumed 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 ths 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.