Лесли Чартерис - The Saint

“I vote for b, ” she interjected, “and the sooner the better.”

“I don’t believe we can count on b as a realistic expectation,” commented Templar politely.

She drained the dark bottom of her plastic coffee cup and eyed her visitor.

“What makes you think c is more realistic? Toli said one word and—” Her voice caught in her throat and she clenched her jaw.

Simon came around the counter and put a warm and welcome hand on her shoulder.

“Put your faith in me, Frankie. We can do it.”

She wanted to believe him, wanted to pin her hopes and dreams on this charismatic buccaneer who offered no assurances beyond his own dynamic personality.

“Other men have tried,” commented Frankie as if she were attempting to tease, “stronger men, braver men...”

“Assuming for the moment that such men ever existed,” interrupted Templar with slightly forced joviality, “you’ve never met anyone luckier or more daring than I. With your help, we can melt Tretiak’s plot like last year’s snow.”

She ordered her lips to smile while her eyes glistened. “We make it hot for that rat, Tretiak?”

“Absolutely,” confirmed Simon.

“You got some secret rat remover formula or something?”

Templar smiled and patted his coat pocket. “As a matter of fact, Frankie, my secret formula arrived a half-hour ago by fax. Pm being straight with you. This is a country under reconstruction. Together we’ll make a positive contribution to the collective effort of remodeling and beautification.”

The mansion of Ivan Tretiak was the only comfortably heated home in Moscow, and it, too, was under construction. A daily army of workers, staff, and cleaning women swarmed over the estate while Tretiak, Ilya, and their crooked compatriots plotted the overthrow of the government.

Despite the depleted coal supplies, the tragic and supposedly inexplicable demise of Russia’s hydroelectric plants, the lack of natural gas hues except in the most prestigious diplomatic neighborhoods, and the much touted oil shortage, Tretiak enjoyed all the comforts of a well-heated domicile.

He also enjoyed the taste of black caviar and the aroma of impending victory while discussing strategies with the edgy General Sklarov. Ilya attempted appearing important, mostly by barking orders at the cleaning crew.

“I can count on my troops,” asserted the general, “but I was led to believe you’d soon unveil a great miracle to galvanize the mob.”

Tretiak waved his hand as if all of this were of no concern. He crunched a cracker smeared with dark fish roe and spoke with his mouth full.

“Like the Miracle of Communism, the Miracle of Cold Fusion failed.” He moistened his mouth with a gulp of vodka. “But it doesn’t matter. We have duped Karpov one way or another. If our recent ruse worked, we will get billions out of him before we strike. The stink of failure will be all over him, not me. Before he can scrub it off, you mobilize the army and together we take over.”

Tretiak brushed crumbs from his shirt as the general helped himself to more caviar.

Sklarov’s many years in Russia’s military had taught him all manner of duplicity and corruption. His clandestine support of Tretiak, coupled with a dedicated legion of Special Forces within the military itself, placed him in a delicate yet powerful position.

“You realize that once the coup is attempted, it must be swift and victorious, not like that botched attempt a few years back,” insisted Sklarov.

Tretiak chewed and gloated. He had it all figured out.

“I promised Karpov that the opposition would cease if he funded cold fusion.” Tretiak laughed. “But once the billions are in my pocket, what can he do? Every night the demonstrations become bigger, more violent, and the citizens are too cold to think clearly. When the time is right, we will synchronize a massive rally and media event with the sudden strike of your Special Forces.” Tretiak’s voice boomed with confidence and megalomania. “Within an hour or less, all of Russia and its vast resources and power will be ours!”

Tretiak halted his diatribe when a stooped old babushka from the cleaning crew shuffled in and waved a feather duster over an antique loveseat.

Ilya immediately asserted his illusory authority.

“Not now, old witch! We’re working! Git before I boot your ancient ass outa here!”

She turned and humbly scooted out, but not before dropping a subminiature microphone-transmitter not much bigger than a dust mote onto the bookshelf behind the conspirators.

With the mission accomplished, the stooped and disguised Simon Templar hurried down the hall, ducked into a doorway, and concealed himself in what was obviously Ilya’s room.

Hip-Hop CDs, porno magazines, and “white power” propaganda were scattered across the floor. In the corner, leaning against the wall, was Ilya’s walking stick.

Templar stared at it, remembering Tretiak’s pompous warning:

“We could kill you and stroll away, even here in this transit lounge...”

A quick, careful examination of the tapered tip revealed a retractable needle which, if augmented with poison, would be discreetly lethal.

“Walking death,” murmured the Saint.

Returning his concentration to the tasks at hand. Templar stole a peek out the doorway. He saw a newly delivered shipment of chemicals being carried upstairs by a liveried servant.

As for Ilya, he stood in the foyer sniffing the air like a dog. There was something about the old woman that unnerved him, something naggingly familiar.

Templar striped off his rags. Beneath them he wore a painter’s outfit. He stuffed the babushka disguise in a formerly concealed gallon paint can and reemerged into the main area of the mansion. When the servant descended the stairs and Ilya had moved on. Templar went up to Botvin’s lab.

The little scientist was dispiritedly hooking a length of palladium wire to a electrolyte cell when he heard the creak of the opening door.

“You’re not allowed in here,” Botvin told the painter in Russian. “All the work is out there.”

“The work could be in here, you know,” said Templar in English as he maneuvered to get a better look at Botvin’s setup.

“You better go quick, whoever you are,” advised the nervous physicist, attempting to block Templar’s view.

“You’re not really doing anything up here except playing with lightbulbs. This is a sham — a bad Tretiak joke on the same folks who’ve pinned their hopes on him. You know it and I know it.”

Botvin was close to tears. He didn’t know what to say, or to whom he would be saying it.

“Nothing but props,” continued Templar evenly. “But you wish they worked with all your heart, don’t you? Isn’t that what you really want?”

“My heart? No... with all my dusha, my soul... people are freezing to death, you know.”

“Not in this house, I notice,” remarked Templar. He held up the faxed printout of Emma’s cold fusion formula.

“Look at this and tell me if it means anything to you.”

Botvin squinted at the paper. His glasses began to fog.

He answered, and his voice was a constricted whisper.

“It clarifies Dr. Russell’s seven cards... How did you get this? Who are you?”

Templar’s eyes seemed to pierce Botvin’s lenses.

“A friend of Dr. Russell’s, which also means I’m no friend of your boss — and neither are you. In truth, you’re a man of science, not brute force.”

Botvin gingerly took the printout and began reading it carefully. When he spoke, it was in subdued, awed tones.

“For the first time, I think I understand what she was getting at...”

Botvin’s pure heart pounded in his chest. He thought not of fame or glory, but only of his freezing countrymen.