The Saint in Trouble (12 page)

The girl stopped, looking at him accusingly.

“You mean you stole it?”

The Saint laughed.

“Let’s just say I believe in making sure that good deeds are properly rewarded and so now does Gaby. He’ll probably start up his own fleet of taxis with his share.”

A little farther west he steered her away from the Croisette, up the Rue Commandant Andre.

“Where are we going?”

“To Mere Besson’s, the best Provencal restaurant on this coast, for the best meal she can provide, courtesy of Sir William.”

Emma snuggled against his shoulder.

“I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you for what you did,” she said.

The Saint smiled and put an arm around her.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Between us, we’ll probably think of something.”

II

The Red Sabbath

1

A fine drizzle blurred the sharp outlines of the sprawling pile of concrete and glass boxes that is Heathrow Airport. The midday sun was hidden by a low canopy of grey-black cloud. A brisk breeze lifted the litter of empty cigaret packets and assorted paper wrappings that are a feature of most British public places and skimmed them across the desolate expanse of runways and cargo yards.

The plane taxied slowly to a halt, shuddering slightly as the engine died. Simon Templar wiped the mist from the window, and grinned wryly as he surveyed the dismal scene.

“Oh to be in London, now that autumn’s here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He turned to the middle-aged matron in the next seat who was trying to untangle her portly frame from the confines of her safety belt. She had spoken little during the flight from Nice, and he had been extremely grateful for her taciturnity. There was an aura surrounding such heavily powdered and perfumed dowagers which he found conducive to claustrophobia.

“I said it’s good to be back.”

The woman ceased her struggles and regarded him with an expression that was a mixture of amazement and concern.

“If you think that, young man, then I can only conclude that the Riviera sun has been too strong for your brain.”

He laughed and reached across and released the clasp of her seat belt. She spared Mm a final parting frown before heaving her bulk upright and pushing her way into the file of passengers inching their way along the aisle.

He was not surprised at her reaction. London is a city that is either loved or loathed; it brooks no indifference. It has been compared to hell and it has also been said that when a man is tired of London he is tired of life. Simon Templar placed himself squarely in the latter camp.

He could appreciate London because he was able to compare it with most of the other great cities of the world. It was true that he had seen more beautiful ones, admired the splendour of more ancient ones, relaxed in the serenity of more peaceful ones, and fought in more violent ones, but only in London did the individual characteristics that make other cities interesting merge together to form one unique entity.

It was the one spot on the globe that he truly regarded as home. It had been the scene of some of the most memorable episodes in his swashbuckling career, and in his more reflective moments he sometimes wondered if it would be the backdrop to his last.

Not, it should be stated, that he believed that day to be imminent. As he strolled leisurely into the arrival terminal he had no more nefarious intention in mind than a change of clothes and dinner with a friend about whose identity he was not in the least particular, as long as her eyes reflected the candlelight, her hair shone and curled, and her shape curved in the correct places and proportions.

At passport control, the man at the desk said nothing, but simply glanced at the Saint, then at the picture, flicked over the pages, and handed the book back with a look that said “I know who you are and so something must be wrong, but I can’t find it.”

He waited with the rest of the passengers until the baggage arrived. Most of them were returning from holiday; and if any recognised the tall tanned man in their midst they did not, in true British fashion, make the fact obvious, even though all but the most myopic must have seen those same clear blue eyes smiling at them from the front page of every French newspaper less than forty-eight hours before. He retrieved his suitcase and walked through to the customs hall. A British passport clearly states that Her Britannic Majesty requires all whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely, without let or Mn-drance. This does not however apply to the said Britannic Majesty’s customs officers, who, like the Ancient Mariner, stoppeth one in three. The Saint looked along the line of people ahead of him in the queue and was akeady resigned to his fate before he lifted his suitcase onto the counter.

He studied the list held before Mm and gravely considered each item.

“No. No. No. Certainly not. Also I’m afraid I’ve spent all my counterfeit coins, smoked the last of my opium, and all my meat and poultry is fully cooked.”

The officer gave Mm a look which placed him somewhere in the lower regions of the insect world.

“Open the case, please, sir.”

He opened the case and watched as the contents were riffled. The official searched with professional diligence, and only when he was convinced that every shirt had been creased did he close the lid and scrawl his mark across it.

“Thank you, sir.”

Only a well-trained British civil servant can make a statement of gratitude sound like an insult. The Saint bestowed his most dazzling smile upon Mm and moved on to merge with the procession flowing out to join the crowd of waiting friends and messengers in the main concourse.

He had not covered a dozen yards before he felt rather than heard the two men behind him. His instinct for danger was so finely honed by years of living on a knife’s edge that he sensed their approach even among the crash of people around him. He stopped so abruptly that the two men had to swerve to avoid cannoning into him. He turned on his heel.

“Okay, brothers, and what can I do for you?”

“Brothers” was an apt description, for the two men facing him could easily have shared the same parents. Both were tall and powerfully built, their expensively tailored light grey suits failing to hide the breadth of their shoulders or the slight bulge beneath their left arms. The only real difference was the colour of their hair, one blond, the other a jet black, but this dissimilarity had been reduced by the close-cropped style they both affected. Despite the overcast sky their eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.

The Saint put down his case and stood with his arms hanging loosely by his sides, as deceptively relaxed as a coiled snake.

The blond man spoke first.

“Mr. Templar?”

“Me? No, sorry. McFiggin’s the name.”

The dark-haired twin bent and read the tag on his suitcase. He nodded to his companion.

“Come with us, please.”

As he spoke, the man lifted the case and made a move towards the exit. The Saint’s hand flashed out, fingers of steel gripping his arm and staying him in mid-stride.

The Saint’s voice was soft and reasonable.

“Now hold it. What is this? Who are you?”

The dark-haired man made no attempt to return the case, and the Saint felt the muscles beneath his grasp tighten.

“We have orders to collect you.”

“Orders? From whom?”

The blond man stepped between them, looking around quickly as if the delay worried him.

“Shh. Please, no fuss, Mr. Templar.”

The Saint’s tone was conversational but his words were edged with a menace neither man could fail to appreciate.

“Fuss? You tell me what is going on, or I’ll raise the roof clean off this airport.”

“Our orders are simply to collect you, not to explain. You are needed urgently in a confidential matter.”

“By whom?”

The blond man’s voice fell to a whisper.

“Colonel Leon Garvi.”

The revelation of the identity of his would-be host told the Saint many things, not least the reason for the two men’s caution. Slowly he released his grip.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Lead on.”

The blond man carried his case, and the Saint followed him out of the building, while his colleague walked a few paces behind, his eyes constantly scanning the surrounding area, his hand resting lightly on the top button of his jacket.

Outside the terminal they stopped by a blue Volvo that had been left in the middle of a No Parking zone. A few yards away a policeman scowled impotently at the small CD badge beside the rear number plate. The blond man put the case in the trunk and slid in behind the wheel while the other joined the Saint in the back. Neither man appeared inclined to volunteer any further information, and Simon did not press them.

He used the drive into town to run through all he knew of Colonel Leon Garvi.

They had met a couple of times in the past, first in Tel Aviv and later in Zurich, and on both occasions he had had the op-portunity of watching the colonel at work and had developed a deep respect for his abilities. Garvi was a born hunter, and his quarry was invariably human. He had gained his reputation tracking down war criminals before turning his attention to terrorists. His name never appeared in official reports or the newspapers, but he was famed and feared in those circles in which he chose to move. It was said that he never failed to find the man he sought, and he was held in almost supernatural awe both by those who feared him and those who served him.

Simon could think of no reason why Garvi should want to see him, but he knew that the explanation when it came would be an interesting one. The Saint had no qualms about accepting the invitation. He had long ago ceased to question the vagaries of fate. He had followed the promise of adventure to Cannes and had not been disappointed; that the prospect of mayhem should present itself so soon did not surprise him. Things happened to him not only because he looked for them, but because he brazenly expected them. He had set his feet on the road to adventure and was prepared to make room and find time for it wherever and whenever it appeared, taking every moment as it came.

At that particular moment he was being chauffeured to London, which was where he wanted to go and in a vehicle that was more comfortable than the taxi he would otherwise have taken. He asked for no more.

Outside, the factories flashed by in a blur of smoky dullness. Beyond them, the neat and tidy streets of suburbia stretched in orderly ranks into the far distance. As they drew nearer the centre, blocks of fading Victorian terraces replaced the smart semis until they were cruising through Hammersmith towards Kensington.

They crawled along Kensington High Street between the tall blocks of department stores and pavements overflowing with shoppers and harassed office workers in search of tea and sandwiches, finally turning into Palace Green and stopping outside the Israeli embassy.

He was taken in by a secondary entrance, through elaborate security precautions which cannot be detailed here, to the third floor where a single door led from a small reception area. Beside it, a mountain of a man sat behind a desk. The blond man smiled a greeting that was not returned.

“Mr. Templar.”

The mountain pressed a button on the console in front of him, and almost immediately a green light flashed above the door. The blond man held it open and the Saint walked through.

The inner office was long and narrow and ultrafunctional. One wall was entirely taken up by banks of filing cabinets, the other by maps which hung from ceiling to floor and were covered in a multitude of tiny colored flags. Garvi sat behind an expanse of leather-topped desk at the far end, and through the windows behind it Simon could see the tops of the trees in Kensington Gardens. There was a deceptive air of peace about the room, and he did not care to shatter it by thinking of the actions that might have been planned within its walls.

Garvi rose as the Saint approached, smiling and stretching out his hand. He was in his mid-fifties, tall with the supple strength of a big cat. His steel-grey hair was cut cleanly around the ears and neck, and his face was lean and tanned. But the most dominant of his features were the eyes. They had an almost hypnotic appeal, as if they were capable of penetrating a man’s brain and reading his innermost thoughts.

“Simon, it’s good to see you again.”

They shook hands, and the Saint smiled.

“And you, Colonel. It’s been a longish time.”

“Too long. Please sit down.”

“What do you want to see me about? Your men were very insistent.”

He was aware that the blond man had followed him into the room and was leaning against the door. Garvi nodded towards Mm.

“This is Yakovitz, one of my top operatives. He will be helping you.”

“Helping me do what, Leon? What’s this aE about?”

“R.S.”

The Saint’s eyes narrowed. He had heard of the Arab “Red Sabbath” organization, but then who capable of reading a paper or listening to a news broadcast had not? They had bombed and machine-gunned their way into the headlines in a raid on a kibbutz three years before, and since then had never been out of them for long. They claimed to be fighting a holy war that would destroy the state of Israel. Their weapons were terror, and their victims the weak and the defenceless and the innocent A school bus blown apart, an airport departure lounge machine-gunned, aircraft hijacked and passengers held for ransom. They were the worst kind of enemy to fight-unpredictable fanatics, prepared, even eager, to die for their cause.

Garvi continued.

“One of their top men, Abdul Hakim, has defected.”

“So?”

“He’s here in London. We are after him, Simon, but so far-no luck. We think he’s heading for South America, but that he’s been held up, maybe through lack of money, passport, visa, we don’t know, but we have got to find Mm.”

The Saint began to see the first strands of the web that was being spun around him.

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m not heading any murder squad, Leon.”

Garvi’s reassuring smile never reached his eyes.

“No, no, you don’t understand. We need him alive. This is their first defection. He knows all their top men. Don’t you see what that information could do for us? We could destroy the whole group! This man is deep underground, his own people are after him too, they want to try and silence him before we get to him. He’s buried himself in the city jungle-a jungle that you know like the back of your hand. Right?”