Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

As he did so the phone rang, and Garvi answered it. The colonel listened intently for a few minutes, and smiled thinly at the Saint and Leila as he replaced the receiver.

“We have a report from Tel Aviv,” he informed them. “Everything he has told us checks out.”

“Good,” said the Saint, and took over the telephone. He began to dial the number on the back of the snapshot. “Then you agree to let me take over, Colonel?”

Garvi compressed his lips.

“I agree. At your own risk.”

“It seems to me I’ve been at my own risk most of the time,” said the Saint amicably.

Then the number was ringing, and in a minute or so a feminine voice answered.

“Yasmina?” he said, and on receiving the hesitant confirmation, he went on in a studiously impersonal tone: “I am calling for your friend Abdul Hakim. He is being released by the people who detained him. He wishes you to join him in going to a safe place. Do you know the Highgate Cemetery — did he ever show you the tomb of Karl Marx there?”

“Yes.” The response was scarcely audible, and he felt a twinge of pity for her as he pictured her in the shabby flat where she lived.

“Good. Go there. At four o’clock this morning. Exactly. Hakim will be waiting for you. After that, everything will be as Allah wills. Understand?”

“Yes... but...”

The Saint hung up and looked across at Hakim. Whatever stimulant Yakovitz had pumped into him appeared to be having a miraculous effect. He was sitting upright now and looking at his surroundings in the hazy way of someone roughly aroused from a deep sleep, but it was unlikely that he had heard or understood much of the conversation.

“Officially, I have heard nothing, and I know nothing,” Garvi said expressionlessly. “Captain Zabin and Yakovitz may volunteer to stay with you, on the same understanding. Unfortunately I cannot do the same. It would be most embarrassing politically if anything went wrong and I was seen to be involved. But whenever you want, you can contact me at the embassy.”

Simon Templar regarded him with a touch of quizzical challenge.

“Is that all you can say, Leon?” he taunted.

Colonel Garvi hesitated for one second, and then held out his hand.

“Mazel tov,” he said.

London’s Highgate Cemetery is a horror-film producer’s dream. Victorian Gothic memorials to mortality cracked open by the weather vainly strive to rise above a wilderness of tall grass and tangled shrubs. Even in daytime it is a lonely and desolate spot, but in the pre-dawn moonlight it becomes charged with a sinister atmosphere of its own that can be felt by even the most cynical and unsuperstitious realist.

Leila shivered involuntarily as she surveyed the scene, but the Saint only grinned as he brought his lips close to her ear and breathed: “Not afraid of ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties, are we?”

She walked disdainfully away from the teasing voice and was the first to go through the gates. Simon reached her side in a couple of long strides and led the way along the maze of overgrown paths between tombs and headstones. Yakovitz brought up the rear, prodding Hakim forward with the business end of his automatic.

The Arab was completely recovered by now, and the scent of possible freedom had made him excited and nervous, although they had told him nothing except that he was to meet Yasmina as a reward for his co-operation.

The tomb of Karl Marx consists of a pillar on which is mounted a massive stone head which, with its flowing beard and wild hair makes him look more like an Old Testament patriarch than an instigator of revolution. He lies snugly at rest, surrounded in death by the Victorian capitalists and imperialists whom he loathed so much in life. The area immediately around the pillar is always carefully maintained, and attracts more pilgrims than the average saint’s shrine. With floral tributes strewn at its feet, the monument to the man who regarded religion as the opium of the people takes on an incongruous air of holiness.

Simon Templar stopped and gave it an irreverent salute. “Good morning, Karl,” he murmured. “I’ve brought along one of your disciples to pay his respects.”

Yakovitz pushed Hakim forward so violently that he lost his footing and sprawled at the base of the pillar. The Saint looked down at him with a cynical smile playing at the comers of his mouth.

“No need to overdo the kowtowing,” he drawled. “Just a polite bow would have done.”

Hakim picked himself up and brushed the dirt from his clothes as he glanced anxiously around.

“Where is Yasmina?” he demanded accusingly. “You said she would be here.”

“Don’t worry, she will be,” Simon replied, and glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. “In less than ten minutes, if she’s punctual. I’m sure it will be a very moving reunion, so we’ll withdraw to a discreet distance.”

He was turning away when Hakim called him back, his apprehension clearly sounding in his voice.

“You are going to leave me here alone?”

Simon gazed at him with cold contempt.

“I thought you’d feel comfortably at home surrounded by death. It’s your favourite scene, isn’t it? Anyhow, Yasmina will soon be here to hold your hand. But if you try to move away before she arrives, I shall take great pleasure in kicking you back.”

Without giving the other time to reply, the Saint turned again and walked away down the path with Leila and Yakovitz a step behind him.

As soon as they had rounded a corner and were out of Hakim’s line of sight, he stopped and indicated positions to them from which they would be able to keep watch on Hakim and the area around the Karl Marx memorial.

Simon himself moved off at a tangent, and circled back as silently as a cautious cat among the shadows, flitting like a wraith from tomb to tomb until he was so close to Hakim that he could even hear the terrorist breathing. The night seemed to swallow him as wholly and completely as a ghost.

He stood as still as the headstone beside him as the minutes dragged by, while Hakim paced up and down, only two or three jerky steps each way, starting in alarm every time the wind rustled the grass.

At last the Saint’s sensitive ears picked up the kind of sound he had been waiting for. It was no more than the faint crunch of a dry twig, but it told him that the first part of his plan had succeeded. By sound alone he followed Yasmina’s progress down the path; but Hakim, confused and frightened, did not see her until she rounded the nearest comer.

At the sight of her lover she began to run.

“Abdul! Abdul!”

Yasmina stumbled into the Arab’s outstretched arms, crying with relief, holding him tightly as if she feared he would vanish if she released him.

Simon hardly spared the couple a glance. He was looking past the girl, towards the bend in the path around which she had come, and silently drew his automatic and eased off the safety catch as he heard other footsteps approaching.

This time Hakim also heard them. He stared in wide-eyed panic as Masrouf, Khaldun, and one of the men who had helped to guard Leila at the factory appeared.

Masrouf walked in the centre flanked by his two aides and the guns of all three were drawn and aimed directly at Hakim. Yasmina turned and screamed.

“No! No!”

“Stand aside, Yasmina,” Masrouf commanded. “We do not want to hurt you.”

Hakim released the girl, but she did not move.

In the same chilling voice of a judge pronouncing sentence Masrouf continued: “Abdul Hakim, you are a traitor to the cause and to your people.”

Masrouf raised his gun, and the action snapped Hakim from the spell that had transfixed him from the moment he had caught sight of the three men. In the same instant that Masrouf’s finger tightened on the trigger, he grabbed Yasmina and pulled her backwards to cover his body with hers.