Лесли Чартерис - The Saint

Tretiak laughed like a wheezing pig.

“My name, as you know, is not Boris. I am Tretiak, but I assume you are familiar with my face.”

“I’ve seen it on television. You were in Red Square saying rude things about Hollywood.”

“Yes, a terrible corruption of the arts...” Tretiak stopped, pondering perhaps whether he was being teased. “But enough talk of degenerate American influences.”

Simon cast a glance at Ilya. “Speaking of which...”

Tretiak suppressed a wince. “Ilya is my son, a good son. He follows orders. Hence, I love him dearly.”

“How totalitarian of you.” Templar smiled. “I wish you much happiness.”

Ilya paced and glared. He clutched his tapered walking stick, tapping out an irritating tattoo on the pavement.

Templar eyed him casually. The young Russian walked gingerly — too gingerly — and free from limp or other infirmity requiring cane support. As Ilya’s fashion sense was no more highly evolved than his critical thinking abilities, Templar rightly regarded the stick as a deadly weapon rather than style accessory.

Tretiak renewed the conversation.

“I assume you saw today’s newspaper.”

“The headlines or the comic section?”

Tretiak forced a grin.

“The headlines were all about me, my call to Russian rearmament, and my new nationalist movement.”

Templar shrugged. “Politicians bore me.”

“Very well. We will get down to business. Do you know what cold fusion is?”

“Of course,” replied Simon. “It’s an imaginary form of nuclear fusion at room temperature. Cheap, free energy forever.”

“Exactly,” Tretiak confirmed, and this time his smile was genuine.

Templar shook his head. “As science, cold fusion ranks right up there with astrology. Those who claim to have achieved it have never seen their experiments duplicated.”

Tretiak’s face took on an air of triumph. “Until now, my daring friend, until now. There is a Dr. Russell working at Oxford... a woman... very difficult. She has made a breakthrough. Your job will be to obtain her formula.”

Templar allowed his eyes to look off into the distance as if pondering a price. He knew his price before he passed through security.

“Three million dollars.”

“Ridiculous!” Tretiak balked.

“Really? A monopoly on the world’s energy? It’s less than a nickel for every million you’ll make.”

Tretiak pretended to reconsider. He knew he would agree to the price before he left home for Templehopf.

“This is not for us,” said Tretiak. “It is for Mother Russia.”

“My bank account is in Mother Zurich,” countered Templar.

The game completed, Simon provided Tretiak with an account number for deposit. The Russian handed Templar three pages of sparse typewritten notes about Dr. Russell of Oxford.

“This woman,” added Tretiak, “is not going to be easy to get close to. Many of our best agents have repeatedly tried to befriend her. They all failed. She is very cagey.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Simon as he prepared to leave, “she simply has immaculate taste.”

He started to stroll away, but stopped and turned back.

“Oh — the chip I was hired to steal from you. It’s in the possession of a Mr. Miyaki... supposedly.”

Tretiak lifted his hand. Between his fingers was an identical chip.

Templar smiled. “I assume I passed my audition.”

“Sayõnara,” replied Tretiak, and Simon Templar vanished into the crowd.

Ilya stomped over to his father, demanding an explanation. “What if I had killed him in Moscow?”

“I would hire someone you couldn’t kill,” answered Tretiak dispassionately.

Ilya’s face reddened. “What if he had killed me? ”

Tretiak put an arm around his wayward son. “He was instructed not to kill you; it was part of the job.”

The boy didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed.

“Come, Ilya,” instructed Tretiak. “Our thief has gone to work, and so must we.”

The mid-twelfth-century university town of Oxford, a city of 115,000, was situated fifty-five miles northwest of London in the heart of Oxfordshire, England, where the River Thames joins the Cherwell River.

Students and townsfolk co-existed in contemporary ease, but clashes between town and gown killed many students in the fourteenth century. In the sixteenth century, three students were burned at the stake for their opposition to the Roman Catholic church. None of them, of course, were made Saints.

While Oxford was no longer infamous for violence and disorder, campus events continued to generate significant media coverage by journals and magazines catering to a wide spectrum of specialized interests.

Displaying credentials from Scientific American, eccentric investigative reporter Roger Conway ventured from London to Oxfordshire for the singular purpose of investigating Dr. Emma Russell’s controversial claims regarding cold fusion.

The balding journalist was running slightly behind schedule when he nervously arrived at the Oxford science building. Well-dressed researchers and a handful of scientists sat informally around a room which was half laboratory and half lecture hall. They listened in rapt attention to an academic woman of sixty drone on about matters scientific and obscure.

Conway, doing his best to not disturb the proceedings, quickly sat down behind an exceptionally attractive young woman.

As he seated himself, she took a small pill from a bottle and swallowed it.

“Excuth me mith,” lisped Conway softly, “can I have one of thothe?”

“They’re for my heart. I don’t suggest eating them like candy.” She was, at least, courteous.

He took her hand and the bottle to check the label. He was lucky she didn’t slap him.

“You’re a very pretty lady,” Conway said as if it would be news to her. It wasn’t.

Her nose crinkled in mild, ill-concealed disdain.

“Who are you... exactly?”

For a moment, the “exactly” almost threw him.

“I’m Roger Conway, a writer for Thientific American, I have to interview Dr. Ruthell — expothe her for the fraud thee ith.”

The woman looked quizzical. “Thee ith?”

“Yeth.”

She blinked, shook her head, and turned away.

The journalist pulled a pencil and small notepad from his pocket.

“You don’t buy any of thith cold futhion mumbo jumbo, do you?” The pencil was poised to record her response.

She ran her eyes over him as if he were gravel and she was a monster truck.

“Actually, I do.”

The boring academian at the podium ground her introductory remarks to a much anticipated climax.

“It is, therefore, my privilege to introduce our guest today — our visiting research fellow and the foremost expert in the field — Dr. Emma Russell.”

Conway nudged his reluctant acquaintance. “You ever theen Ruthell before?”

“Every day, first thing in the morning,” replied Emma Russell, and she stood up to take the stage.

Despite being in disguise, Simon was mortified. Thankfully, no one noticed that the sudden blush of his cheeks did not spread to his fake bald head. Everyone’s eyes were riveted on Emma Russell’s simple, exquisite beauty. Everyone’s, including Simon’s.

Emma began quietly, awkwardly.

“I didn’t really prepare any special remarks. Maybe I should just take questions.”

A student put up his hand. She nodded at him.

“Dr. Russell, can you please explain the actual process of fusion — the theory of it?”

“Sure.” Emma smiled, warming to the subject. “Thermonuclear fusion usually depends on high energies, but the possibility of low-energy, low-temperature nuclear fusion is, I believe, about to become a reality. Back in 1989 Stanley Pons of the University of Utah and Martin Fleischmann of the University of Southampton first described their cold fusion experiments...”