Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

He saw Hakim’s larnyx take a gulp, and grinned encouragingly.

“Don’t worry, Abdul, old camel. They tell me you don’t give a damn after the third hour.”

Neither of the two Israelis on duty had previously paid much attention to the Saint, assuming that he was merely Yakovitz’s aide and therefore a minor member of their organisation. They looked enquiringly at Yakovitz, who grudgingly related the Saint’s role before and during Hakim’s capture. The Saint acknowledged the account with a bow, and the other two agents regarded him with new respect but no extravagant display of friendship.

“As I said, what happens now?” Simon repeated.

Yakovitz smiled faintly, as if he had already been framing the answer to the Saint’s question. The way in which the other two men reacted to him showed that he was their superior, and he was obviously enjoying being in charge for the time being, instead of acting as just an assistant to Leila and the Saint.

“That does not concern you, Mr. Templar,” he said. “Your job is now completed. You have done us great service, and I am sure our government will show its appreciation. I now arrange for you to be taken back to London.”

The Saint shook his head.

“You forget that this is now my game too,” he returned calmly. “After last night I’ve got a personal score to settle with Masrouf and his cronies, and if Hakim the Horrible can tell us anything about where I may be able to find them, then I want to hear it. Also, the way I see it, my job isn’t completed until I know that Captain Zabin is safe. She should have telephoned here before we arrived, and obviously she hasn’t. So I think I’ll just hang around.”

Yakovitz’s face reddened at the challenge to his authority.

“You are not permitted to do anything except what you are told. Any action you take against Masrouf is your business, but I am afraid you cannot stay here.”

The Saint stretched out his legs and settled more comfortably into his chair.

“And which of you is going to be the first to try and move me?” he queried interestedly.

He appreciated that he was actually in no position to argue with whatever Yakovitz decided. One against three were odds he had tackled before, but even with his supreme confidence in his own abilities he recognised the fact that they were armed and probably trained in unarmed combat as well. His one real hope of staying was that Yakovitz was unsure of the limits of his authority.

Yakovitz hesitated, conscious that his men were looking to him for a lead, but whatever that directive would have been was never known. The radio on the table buzzed and Yakovitz flicked a switch.

“Yes?”

The voice of the guard at the gate made itself heard above the crackle of static.

“Colonel Garvi has arrived, sir.”

Yakovitz almost visibly deflated as he realised that his role was about to revert once again to that of a subordinate.

Simon smiled.

“Well, perhaps we should wait and let the good colonel decide what’s to be done with me.”

There was about a minute of awkward silence before Garvi strode into the room. He looked first at Hakim and then at Yakovitz and the Saint.

“You have both done very well,” he said.

“We try to please,” murmured the Saint ironically.

Yakovitz began to give his report on the morning’s events, but the colonel cut him short.

“I know, I know. Masrouf telephoned the embassy. They have Captain Zabin. They want to do a deal, an exchange of prisoners.”

It was no more than the Saint had dreaded to hear, but the confirmation of his fears brought an empty feeling to the pit of his stomach.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I stalled, there was nothing else I could do. I arranged for them to contact me here, after I had verified that you had Hakim.” His gaze travelled from his watch to the telephone. “They should be coming through soon. But Simon, there can only be one answer. An exchange is out of the question. Hakim is too important.”

The Saint stood up, and his eyes slashed like a sword through the middle of the other’s sentence.

“And Leila? What about her? Or is she expendable for the good of the cause?”

Garvi turned away and stared down at Hakim. When he faced Simon again he was markedly paler and looked years older than he had twenty-four hours before. In any other circumstances the Saint might have felt sorry for him for the decision he had had to make.

“If it were just a matter of a life for a life, I might have to agree. But it is not that simple. The information that this man can give us may save hundreds of lives. Innocent lives. Captain Zabin understood this, she knew the risks when she volunteered for the job. I know her, Simon. I know her far better than you do, and I know she would not thank us for saving her if that was the price we had to pay.”

“So you’re not even going to give her a chance, Colonel.”

Garvi replied softly, almost pleading for understanding: “Simon, I have no choice.”

The shrill ringing of the phone split the tense atmosphere in the room. Before anyone else could move, the Saint snatched up the transceiver. He held up his other hand for silence as he waited for the caller to speak first.

“Garvi?”

“Yes.”

The Saint knew that his mimicking of the colonel’s tone would not have fooled anyone for long, but he was gambling that the call to the embassy had been the first time the terrorists had spoken to their chief enemy.

The caller appeared satisfied. He spoke quickly and with such a thick accent that it was all the Saint could do to make out his words:

“This is the last call you will receive. Either you agree to an exchange, or Captain Zabin dies.”

“How do I know she’s still alive?”

There was a long pause, and the Saint began to fear that the caller had hung up. Then suddenly Leila’s voice came over the line, the words tumbling out as she tried to get her message across before she was silenced.

“Simon, forget me. Keep Hakim. Make him talk.”

The sound of a scuffle followed before the Arab spoke again.

“Satisfied? If you want her back, come to Waterloo Bridge tonight at eight. A car will be parked in the middle of the bridge facing north. Stop and flash your lights three times, then follow it. Do exactly as you are told. Understand?”

“Yes.”

The phone went dead, and Simon dropped the handset back into its cradle. He looked at Garvi.

“I’ve agreed to a deal,” he stated flatly.

“You cannot complete it. You have no authority.”

Yakovitz was standing on the Saint’s left but looking towards his boss; his coat was unbuttoned, and Simon could clearly see the automatic in its shoulder holster. The Saint moved so swiftly that no one was aware of his intention until it was too late. As his fingers closed around the butt and pulled the gun from its spring clip, he stepped back and placed himself where he could cover all four men at the same time.

“How’s this for authority?” he suggested mildly. “And if any of you have an idea that I don’t know how to use it, you can ask the colonel for a reference.”

“Simon, don’t be a fool.” Garvi was rigidly unemotional. “You’ll never get out of the grounds. And even if you did manage it somehow, you couldn’t take Hakim with you.”

“Colonel,” said the Saint, just as reasonably, “the name of this game seems to be catch the hostage. If your men know you’ll be the first to cash in, they won’t be so quick to start shooting. Now, there is one thing I could do. I could blow the lid off this whole illegal operation. I could create a stink that’d smell from Whitehall to the Wailing Wall. But that isn’t my idea at all.” He paused for a moment, deliberately, and they waited. They had very little option; but now he held their attention with more than the gun in his hand.