Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

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,” Garvi 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.