Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

“Simon, I’m sorry, but I have to go. In any case there is little more I can tell you. Captain Zabin will give you any additional information you may require. Here is the file on Hakim. The first thing you must do is set up a base away from the embassy. Let me know as soon as you have chosen a convenient place.”

They shook hands, and Simon waited until Garvi had left before turning to Leila.

“Well,” he said, “let’s get started”

Leila hesitated.

“Where are we going?”

“To set up our base as the good colonel told us.”

She made to bar his way but he sidestepped past her. Yakovitz still leant against the door and showed no indication of moving. For a moment their eyes met, and almost as if a telepathic message passed between them the blond man stepped aside and allowed them through into the reception lobby.

“Come along. I’ll give you directions as we drive.”

Leila and Yakovitz had no alternative but to follow, but as he descended the stairs he felt their eyes scorching the back of his head and smiled.

The Volvo was still outside, but there was no sign of the dark-haired chauffeur. As Yakovitz walked towards the driver’s door the Saint laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“I’ll drive.”

Yakovitz looked questioningly at Leila, who replied with a shrug of indifference. Reluctantly he handed over the keys.

The Saint guided the car through the Kensington traffic towards Knightsbridge.

“Is this the first time you’ve been to London, Captain?”

“Yes.”

“You must allow me to give you a guided tour.”

“Thank you, Mr. Templar, but I think not. We are here on business, not on holiday.”

“Your loss, Leila. Still, I have a feeling you’ll be seeing quite a bit of it even if it is on business.”

He shot the car between a bus and a taxi with an inch to spare on either wing, smiling at the Anglo-Saxon epithets that flowed from both sides.

“You said that Hakim’s own men are hunting him. Do we know anything about them?”

He sensed Leila’s relief that the conversation had returned to business, and wondered at the brittle quality of her screen of toughness.

“All we are certain of is that three of them arrived as seamen yesterday on a freighter at the West India Dock. We’re not sure, but we believe one of them is a man named Masrouf. He and Hakim were in on the start of the R.S.”

Simon nosed the Volvo into the stream of traffic negotiating Hyde Park Corner.

“So he’d know where to go looking while we run around in circles?”

“You are here to make sure that we don’t,” she said coldly.

“Let’s get this straight. An Arab terrorist is somewhere in London. A handful of gunmen are looking for him so that they can help him on his way to Allah. We are also turning over the paving stones hoping something will crawl out. All good fun — but where does British Intelligence come into all this?”

“They don’t. This is a private affair.”

He laughed as he pictured the scene that would be enacted in offices in Scotland Yard and Whitehall once their activities became known.

“I don’t think the Special Branch would agree with you.”

“My concern is Abdul Hakim — not your Special Branch, your D16, or your government.”

Simon spun the wheel and turned into Upper Brook Street, screeching under the radiator of a Rolls and almost giving the ducal personage in the back apoplexy.

In a few moments he slowed and turned into a small courtyard behind the buildings that fronted the thoroughfare, braking outside a mews terrace converted to whitewashed two-storey houses. Before he had switched off the engine, Yakovitz was out of the car, his eyes darting from window to window.

Leila considered the house with the same disapproving frown with which she had greeted the Saint. Simon unlocked the front door and led the way inside.

They entered directly into a long, open-plan lounge, with an iron spiral staircase rising from the centre of the room to connect with the bedrooms above. It was furnished with the miscellaneous mementoes collected in years of wandering to every part of the world, and might have given an interior designer palpitations had not each individual piece carried the unmistakeable stamp of its owner’s good taste.

Leila shook her head.

“Very nice. You live well. But hardly the place for an operational headquarters.”

“Exactly, which makes it ideal. Of course, if you prefer, we could always advertise by hanging out the Israeli flag.”

“I do not find your humour appropriate, Mr. Templar. I would not have chosen such a place, but for the present I must accept your argument.”

She turned to Yakovitz, who had stayed in the doorway watching the street

“Do what you have to.”

The agent unlocked the car trunk and brought out a small metal detector and began to systematically scan the walls.

“Most professional, but really quite unnecessary,” Simon remarked. “The house isn’t bugged.”

Leila ignored him, and wandered over to the collection of weapons displayed above the fireplace. They were a strange assortment of deadly instruments that ranged from a Zulu assegai to a harpoon gun, taking in a staggering variety of firearms on the way. She removed a kukri and carefully tested its sharpness with her thumb.

“You keep an impressive arsenal, Mr. Templar.”

He took the knife from her and replaced it with a chuckle.

“I hope you’re not superstitious, Captain. They say that a kukri should never be drawn unless blood is shed.” He waved his hand to encompass the collection. “Weapons I have not been killed with. Some day I’ll tell you the stories behind them. Now, shall we christen the new headquarters?”

Leila turned to face him.

“Mr. Templar, let us get one thing quite straight. I am in command here. You are the guide. Is that clear?”

He walked over to a side table and considered the bottles that covered it.

“Now let me guess — vodka?”

She could not quite master the anger in her voice.

“I don’t drink. Did you hear me, Mr. Templar?”

“I heard you, Captain. Now why don’t you check in with Garvi while your friend brings in the cases. There are only two bedrooms, so Yakowatsit here will have to kip on the couch. Unless of course we can think of an alternative idea.”

Again his gaze travelled the length of her body and he was pleased at the flush of embarrassment it brought. It was the first strictly female emotion she had shown.

“That arrangement will be perfectly suitable.”

While she telephoned and Yakovitz carried the cases upstairs, Simon relaxed on the soft leather couch and flicked through the folder Garvi had given him. Most of the information simply documented Hakim’s terrorist activities, his personal appearance and habits, and was of little use as far as their current job was concerned. More important were the two photographs. They showed a man of about thirty with crinkly black hair and a Zapata moustache, who even on film managed to convey a feeling of tension and danger. One was a straight head and shoulders picture, the other a snap of him taken on a rooftop with an attractive girl about ten years his junior.

Simon was still studying it when Leila finished her call and joined him.

“Colonel Garvi approves of your choice,” she said with visible reluctance. “He appears to place great trust in you, Mr. Templar. But I must ask you to take this operation more seriously. I do not know if it is a defence mechanism because I am a woman, but I find your attitude to this important mission” — she searched her vocabulary for a correct word — “slap-happy? You have scarcely looked at that file. Instead of being concerned with drinks and... er... sleeping accommodation, you should be deciding where our search should begin.”