Лесли Чартерис - The Saint

Emma blinked in disbelief.

“For a suicide pact, you need my permission.” Her voice trembled.

“Not suicide,” explained Simon, “survival.”

He started up the ladder, motioning her to follow. She balked.

“Would you rather suffocate?”

It was an easy decision. In the next second they were both hurrying up the ladder. He lifted the manhole cover again, and they slithered out under Ilya’s vehicle.

They lay there gulping fresh air, as a pair of black paraboots jumped down to the pavement. Soon several pair of loafers and Nikes appeared.

The American Embassy was one hundred yards away, and with the foot soldiers right above them, it felt like a hundred miles.

Emma was in despair; the Saint was in control.

“Trust me on this,” he whispered. “They’ll open the gate when they see you coming.”

“ They’ll open fire when they see you coming,” said Emma, referring to Ilya and the thugs.

“It will take less than ten seconds for you to get to safety,” insisted Templar.

“Me? What about you?” Emma was starting to panic. She popped another little pill.

“Consider me one of life’s little distractions,” he said, and before she could protest, he rolled out from under the vehicle. Simon sprang to his feet and strolled pleasantly past Ilya as if trying to brazen his way to freedom.

Stunned by this gambit, Ilya yelped like a wounded Pomeranian. Vlad and Igor jumped for Templar, and he allowed them to take him down.

Emma realized that she would never have a better moment to break cover, took a breath, and ran like hell for the embassy gates.

Ilya immediately realized what was happening and took off furiously after her.

The on-duty Marines behind the embassy gate helplessly watched as Ilya gained on Emma.

“American!” yelled Emma. “Open up!”

She was almost at the gate; Ilya was almost at her back.

The Marines did all they were allowed to do. They swung open the gate.

Emma’s legs pumped furiously as she ran fast, then faster, but Ilya’s outstretched arm was on her. He clutched her coat, pulling her back.

And Emma threw herself forward, arms back like an Olympic diver, and the coat peeled off in his grasp. She passed through the gate as if it were the finish line, triumphantly ringed by Marines.

“I’m an American citizen,” panted Emma breathlessly.

The Marines assured her of full protection and threw malevolent glares at Ilya.

“Back off from the gate — now!”

Ilya obeyed, but his eyes bored holes through the Marines’ uniform.

Emma had escaped, but Ilya had a consolation prize — the Saint.

Igor and Vlad held the battered, bruised, but exultant captive. Templar was about to prick Ilya with a witty insult, but a quick gun butt to the head canceled the remark and sent him sprawling to the pavement.

The trip was worth the pain — from this vantage point he could see the escaping gas cause visible ripples in the air as it billowed out of the open manhole beneath the Range Rover.

Ilya straddled him triumphantly. Concealing his gun with the flap of his open coat, he pressed the barrel to Templar’s temple and leaned down into his face.

“One shot left,” stated Ilya, his foul breath stinging Simon’s nostrils. “You can’t come all the way to Russia and not play Russian roulette.”

Templar felt the cold steel pressing against his head as he looked Ilya in the eye. Without knowing how quick the other was on the trigger, he estimated that he had a sporting chance of knocking the gun aside and landing an iron fist where it would obliterate Ilya’s nose. But there were still the other men to reckon with.

That moment’s swift and instinctive reckoning of his chances was probably what helped to save him. And in that time he also forced himself to realize that the fleeting pleasure of pushing Ilya’s front teeth through the back of his neck would ring down the curtain on his only hope of getaway. Besides, he had already initiated his preferred plan of escape. All he needed was a little more time.

Emma, safe but helpless behind the embassy gate, watched through a veil of tears.

As Ilya spun the cylinder. Templar’s hand moved slowly toward his bootheel.

“Before you shoot me, don’t you want to know where all the money is hidden?”

Ilya’s finger was already exerting pressure on the trigger. As Templar removed the penknife from his heel, the cylinder rolled and the hammer came down.

Click!

Empty chamber.

Ilya spun it again. There was no bullet visible. This was it.

“What money?” Ilya asked.

“Tretiak’s. Daddy’s. Your father’s got billions stashed and I know where it is,” lied Templar. “Let’s make a deal.”

Ilya didn’t trust him. They locked eyes, and Templar triggered the tiny hidden blowtorch into operation.

“Here’s your deal...” said Ilya with a sick sneer. He pressed the barrel tighter against Templar’s head.

Templar flicked the blowtorch under the Range Rover, and Ilya saw him do it. Before he could process the implications or pull the trigger, his world violently erupted in a searing fireball of flame.

The Range Rover was airborne in one direction, Ilya was thrown in the other, and Simon Templar was on his feet.

The Saint threw Emma one last look through the inferno and vanished behind the billowing smoke and crashing, incinerated auto parts.

The warmth and security of the American Embassy was, after the series of life-threatening episodes, haven of rest for Dr. Emma Russell.

Cleaned up and changed into loaned clothes a size too big, she was soon politely escorted through formalities by a few good Marines.

“You just have to fill out a form before we put you on a flight home,” explained her courteous, uniformed attendant as they passed the impressive embassy seal, flanked by flags. “Any medical conditions, that sort of thing.”

“Actually, my heart, I...” Emma paused and smiled at a sudden realization. “I haven’t taken a pill hours. I ran for my life and my heart wasn’t pounding. You’d think I would have dropped dead before I got to the gate.”

“Sometimes our bodies surprise us,” agreed the Marine. “We often underestimate our own survival skills.”

“No kidding,” Emma said with a laugh, “if you would have told me two days ago what I was going to go through, I never would have believed it.”

Her escort gestured at a processing center at the end of the corridor. It was crowded with other Americans also eager to leave Moscow’s mounting social turbulence.

“Get your form at window five,” he advised. “We’ll be back for you at nineteen-hundred hours — a full Marine escort to the airport.”

Before Emma could thank them, the two Marines crisply peeled off to the right. She continued toward processing, past numerous embassy officials aiding other travelers. As she approached window five, an affable bearded official came up beside her. He spoke in a strong Southern accent.

“Straubing.”

“I beg your pardon?” Emma didn’t understand.

He smiled and held out his hand. “Straubing.”

“What’s a straubing?”

“I am. That’s my name. Harold Straubing.”

Emma, embarrassed, blushed and felt foolish. “I’m sorry, Mr. Straubing, I’m a bit flustered. I’ve been through a lot in the last few days.”

“So, where does a nice little lady like you think she’s going?”

“Back to London...”

Straubing gently clasped his hand above her elbow and guided her away from window five.

“I don’t think that’s a wise idea,” he said, and his accent disappeared. She recognized the voice, and blinked at him in disbelief.