Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

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.

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.