Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

“We are going to do exactly what they told me. We are going to take Hakim along and swap him for Leila. They’ve given me no choice and I’m giving you none. But the rendezvous isn’t until eight. That gives us four hours to work out a plan. And four hours for me to find Leila and get her away. It shouldn’t be completely beyond us.”

Garvi seemed suddenly more relaxed, as if he almost welcomed the Saint’s pre-emptive intervention.

“Very well, Simon,” he said quietly. “Put the gun away. We’ll play it your way — until eight.”

“Your word, Colonel?”

“You have it.”

Simon lowered the automatic, but tucked it into his belt instead of returning it to Yakovitz. Garvi accepted the Saint’s reservation without comment.

“We also have four hours to find out what we can from our prisoner,” he remarked.

“Help yourselves,” said the Saint hospitably. “Just don’t do anything that leaves marks, in case he has to be exhibited.”

Hakim had been following the action and dialogue in swivel-eyed silence, but now he protested for the first time.

“You cannot make me talk. They would kill me.”

Yakovitz cuffed him across the ear with the back of his hand.

“If they don’t, I might,” he snarled. “Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to open it.”

He was about to say more when the phone rang again, and Garvi picked it up. He listened for a moment and then held it out to the Saint.

“For you. Someone who seems to expect you to be here.”

Simon took over the instrument.

“Harry?” The bite in his voice was belied by the sparkle in his eyes. “What the hell happened to you? Where are you?”

Harry’s reply came in an injured whine.

“That was unfair, Mr. Templar. You didn’t say nothin’ about a shooting match. I was goin’ to clear off when I see them grab the girl, so I followed. I couldn’t call you before in case I lost them.”

“Where are you?”

“It’s goin’ to cost, Mr. Templar. This ain’t what you ordered originally.”

“Tell me where the girl is, and I’ll give you enough to keep the bookies singing until Christmas.”

“Straight?”

“Straight. Now make it snappy.”

“They’ve taken her to an old factory, back of the Union Canal in Bethnal Green.”

“How many are they?”

“Five, I think. There was the three that brought her an’ another two met ’em when they arrived. Might be more inside for all I know.”

“Right. Stay with them, Harry. I’ll be there as soon as I can — in a couple of hours with luck. Tell me exactly where this place is.”

When he was sure that he could find the hideout, Simon hung up and turned to the others.

“Gentlemen,” he announced happily, “we are in business.”

The Saint pressed his foot down and the big car surged forward on the instant that an obstructive traffic light turned green. For the first time since he had been summoned to the embassy and become involved in a duel that was not of his choosing, he felt relaxed and in total control of his actions. The events of the day had combined to uncomplicate the proceedings. The hunt was over, the intrigue finished. The whole affair had been stripped of its complexities and clutter and reduced to the basics upon which an adventurer builds the structure of his career. There were villains to be thwarted and a damsel in distress to be rescued. He asked for nothing better.

The plan he had settled on with Garvi after Harry’s call was the essence of simplicity, and if he was aware that its execution would prove more difficult than its conception he did not allow the thought to worry him. Garvi and Yakovitz would take Hakim to the bridge and follow the terrorists to their hideout where the exchange would be made. As the rendezvous was taking place, he would enter the factory alone and try to get Leila out while the garrison was at least reduced.

Garvi’s only rider had been that if anything went wrong he would keep Hakim and leave both the Saint and Leila to their fates, and Simon had agreed to it. Secure in the knowledge that Garvi would not double-cross him now, he had taken the time for a quick snack before leaving. Unlike Napoleon’s quoted army, he did not necessarily march on his stomach, but he knew that no man’s efficiency is improved by the hypoglycemia of hunger.

Although bent on making the best time he could, he scrupulously observed every speed limit and traffic regulation. To be stopped for any technical infringement would more than cancel out the few minutes he might have gained. He had left Garvi the Hirondel, as it would be more easily recognised by the terrorists, and had taken instead the embassy Mercedes, from which he had removed the conspicuous “CD” badge. Now with the cool breeze fanning his cheek through the open window he even hummed a tune, and the eyes that swept the road ahead were bright with the light of battle.

His hands caressed the wheel as he drove along the long straight stretches of Forest Road. The headlights bored a tunnel through the twilight, throwing the trees along the roadside into sharp silhouette; beyond them there might have been nothing at all. The blood seemed to throb through his veins as if keeping in time with the roar of the engine. All too soon open road was left behind, and he was forced to cut his speed as he entered the East London suburbs and followed Harry’s directions towards his goal.

It was nearing seven-thirty by the time he reached his destination and glided to a standstill behind Harry’s van. He made a rapid final check of the automatic he had taken from Yakovitz before climbing out of the car and taking stock of his surroundings.

The district, in the grandiose language of the local authority, was scheduled for redevelopment, and consequently they had blitzed it more effectively than the Luftwaffe could ever have done, and then, for some reason known only to the planners who decide such things, had left it alone and apparently forgotten about it.

Acres of rubble now stretched where once there had been houses, shops, and a community of people. Fences made of old doors sectioned off what had once been blocks of buildings. The streets that ran between them were no more than continuous lines of potholes; the pavements were cracked and broken, and in some parts had ceased to exist altogether. What few buildings remained standing were often without roofs or windows, and no one had bothered to repair the street lamps that had long since been shattered by itinerant vandals.

Simon walked slowly around the next comer, keeping to the shadow of the fence as he waited for Harry to show himself.

“Psst!”

He stopped and looked around but there was no way of telling where the sifflation had come from.

“Over here,” croaked a hoarse voice.

This time he managed to locate its source, and stepped through a gap in the fence to where Harry-the-Nose was standing. Harry beckoned the Saint to follow him across to the far side of the site, where he clambered up to the top of a pile of rubble and the Saint joined him.

From there it was possible to see over the top of the next hoarding, and they had a clear field of vision on every side.

“You took your time, Mr. Templar,” Harry said aggrievedly. “I’m starving, I ain’t had nothing for hours.”

“My stomach bleeds for you,” commiserated the Saint. “Where are they?”

Harry pointed to a large building that the bulldozers appeared to have missed.

“Over there. I saw a light on the third floor about half an hour ago, but nothing since.”

“Any comings or goings?”

“Two of ’em left in a car about five minutes before you got ’ere. But the twist wasn’t with ’em.”