Лесли Чартерис - The Saint

When he applied makeup and costume, he was a man of his own design — limited in purpose, disposable as the lighters flicked in Moscow’s Red Square.

There had been a time when he defined himself as a joyous, swashbuckhng crusader for justice, but that heroic self-perception died in a Hong Kong orphanage a quarter century ago.

The hero of his reckless youth. Knight Templar, had bequeathed to him only a name — one name among many — and a bravado exterior polished and refined through practice.

Having removed his disguise, Templar checked his awaiting phone messages. As with his other high-tech toys, the answering machine stored messages originally received by numerous phones in diverse countries, and intended for several distinct identities.

“This is Galbraith Stride calling,” began one angry caller, “and I’ll be hanged if you think—”

Simon pressed the delete key.

“I think; you should be hanged,” muttered Templar.

Countess Anusia Marova called to complain that she couldn’t find her yacht, and Simon smiled knowingly before deleting her as well.

Templar raised an eyebrow at the sound of George Kestry of the NYPD calling to confirm tickets to the Detective Endowments Association’s annual fund-raiser, and he laughed aloud at an entrepreneur’s enthusiastic request for several million dollars to bankroll a “Conquest of America” tour for Grand Theft, a has-been rock band from the 1970s.

The balance of the messages were couched in tones either seductive or vindictive, depending on the caller’s gender and how recently they had discovered a sudden absence of family heirlooms, precious stones, or negotiable bearer-bonds.

He glanced around at his DBS television system, infrared remote controls. Power Pentium laptop PC, and a wardrobe of astonishingly expensive suits. If his boyhood hero wore chain mail and steel, this Knight Templar preferred armor forged of cashmere and silk.

Simon Templar had no illusions of altruism, romance, or selfless service. Too brave and mighty to be merely a rebel without a cause, he was a Templar devoid of king or crusade.

He was also without regrets.

“I may not know who I am,” admitted Templar to the mirror, “but I know what I am — the first great outlaw of the twenty-first century.”

He spun from the mirror and grabbed the television remote, wielding it as one would a pistol. He surfed through fifty channels in half that number of seconds, pausing briefly to watch a scene from an old black-and-white detective movie starring George Sanders. The debonair cad was cracking a safe by using only deft touch and focused concentration.

“My, my,” murmured Simon, “this must be the educational channel.”

The TV went dark in favor of a turbo-powered laptop with wireless modem. Within moments Templar was accessing the National Bank of Geneva’s private accounts site.

The laptop’s screen filled with detailed information of his personal Swiss bank account. A long column of deposits, each in the range of one to three million, gave him a combined total of slightly over $47,000,000.

He drummed his fingers impatiently on the keyboard and glanced at the sweep-second hand on his custom-crafted watch. It was time to be paid.

He waited.

The figures suddenly rearranged, and the screen reflected a new deposit and a revised total: $49,000,000.

“Can’t seem to break fifty million,” said Templar aloud as he shut down the laptop. He punched a button on his universal remote. A CD changer automatically selected something by Mahler as Simon stripped for a quick shower.

Towel-dried and freshly scrubbed, Simon slid into black silk pajamas and returned to his laptop.

Too tired to sleep. Templar began browsing cyberspace for his next high-yield heist.

“When I reach fifty million,” he once promised himself, “I’ll retire right out of sight.”

The area of the Internet habitually visited by Simon Templar was not one usually glimpsed by the casual web-surfer. The access numbers to many of these bulletin board, ftp, html, and http sites were far from common knowledge.

Speeding along the Criminal Infobahn, he suddenly hit the brakes and pulled over. There was a single item on a page all its own. Simon leaned closer and read slowly.

DOES HUMAN FLY WANT TO EARN MORE FLYPAPER? GIVE ME A BUZZ. BORIS THE SPIDER.

Russians?

Templar logged on as “Human Fly” and began to respond.

IF YOU LEAVE ONE MILLION DOLLARS ON DEPOSIT, THEN I KNOW A ROMANTIC LITTLE SPOT IN BERLIN CALLED ‘TEMPLEHOPF’ WHICH HAS A COZY LITTLE TRANSIT LOUNGE.

In reality, the Communist bloc architecture of Templehopf airport was stark and devoid of inviting ambiance. To get inside, everyone had to walk through metal detectors. It was, therefore, cozy only from the standpoint of personal safety.

Simon Templar, dressed as an aristocratic young German, passed easily through the detectors to mingle with international business types, cut-rate tour groups, and a bevy of Nordic beauty queens on their way back to Bergen.

He scanned the crowd for signs of “Boris the Spider.” He saw nothing. On guard, his jaw was tight.

Then he heard something.

Laughter.

It was the laugh of one small, curly-haired girl whose innocent giggle was as bright and crisp as summer morning wind chimes. For that moment, Simon was far away. His face softened, the jaw relaxed, and an honest smile almost touched his lips.

The little girl’s mother grabbed her hand, reprimanding her in some foreign tongue. As the child was dragged from view. Templar instinctively turned away.

He was face-to-face with Ilya.

The Russian looked him over carefully, trying to decide if this aristocrat was the same man who eluded him in Moscow. Simon helped him out by making a face and puffing out his cheeks.

Had they been in a cartoon, Ilya’s jaw would have clanged noisily to the floor while his eyeballs shot rocketlike from their sockets. Instead, he merely gulped and, clacking a walking stick, briskly backed up several steps to where another man sat reading the comic section of The International Herald Tribune.

The man admiring the funny pages was Tretiak, the megalomaniac orator and would-be ruler of the New Russia.

Tretiak folded the funnies, set them on the table, and stood to greet Templar.

His handshake was firm, but quick to release.

“It’s always a pleasure to meet a man so skilled in any profession. But tell me, Mr.... uh... Fly, for whom do you work? CIA or MI6? Some multinational corporation, or a terrorist state perhaps?”

The response was curt but accurate.

“I work for me.”

“Good,” said Tretiak with a thin smile. “Then no one will complain if I kill you?”

“Well, my investment broker will be devastated,” admitted Templar, and Tretiak chuckled.

“We could kill you and stroll away, even here in this transit lounge... but” — the Russian pretended to weigh options — “today, I wish to hire you instead. Allow me to buy you coffee?”

Simon allowed. Ilya followed behind like a trained Doberman as they strolled to the food service.

Templar allowed Tretiak to buy the coffee, and he also allowed him to do the talking.

“That’s a marvelous microchip you stole from me. It could regulate oil flow, pressure, which pipeline...”

“Everything except artificially inflate the prices?”

“The human element is, as you note, required for certain specifics,” continued Tretiak. “The Japanese are miffed at having to build a new prototype. I mean really miffed — you’d think we invaded Manchuria again.”

“What do you mean ‘we,’ Boris?” asked Simon, reinforcing any emotional distance between them.