The Saint in Trouble (22 page)

“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-ssalaama,” 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,” Gam 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.