“We are?” Simon asked solemnly, building up his part.
“We are,” Warlock said. “And your brain is going to tell us how it can be done.”
“Do you think I could? Even if I...”
“I know you can,” Warlock said flatly. “I know you will.”
“All right,” said the Saint. “Where is this king-size piggy bank?”
Chapter three
How Warlock made his pitch, and Simon Templar took a walk
1
“It’s called Hermetico,” Warlock said. “Have you heard of it?”
“No,” Simon lied.
He knew of the existence of the place, but until now he had taken no special interest in it. He relaxed in his chair as Warlock took charge of a small table draped with purple velvet which had been rolled over next to the long conference table. Out of the corner of his eye Simon noted the strained, attentive faces of the other men. Their tension made for interesting speculation. Had Warlock, who apparently had money in large supply, not only gained their loyalty by paying them plenty, but possibly by recruiting them from prisons whose wardens had viewed the men’s departure with surprise and alarm rather than that warm satisfaction which comes of seeing the regenerate and rehabilitated outlaw leave for a better life at the end of a fully served term? If that were the case, then well-justified fear, if not gratitude, would considerably enhance their devotion to S.W.O.R.D. and its leader.
“This is a model of Hermetico,” Warlock said.
Frug, the more skimpy but most intelligent-looking of Warlock’s minions, lifted the purple covering from the table, revealing a monolithic white building surrounded by fences.
“There’s not much to it, is there?” Simon remarked nonchalantly.
“It’s like an iceberg,” Warlock answered. “Only the least important part shows above the surface. Hermetico was formerly the Templedown Colliery in North Wales, and now...”
“You’ve had it moved down to your property for a fish pond,” the Saint interrupted pleasantly.
Warlock darted him a look which did not say much for Warlock’s sense of humour. Simon looked repentant.
“I just meant,” he explained, “that you seem to be able to work miracles, so I wouldn’t be surprised at anything you’ve done now.”
Warlock was somewhat appeased, though still suspicious.
“The Templedown Colliery,” he continued, “was bought by a private company who have converted it into an underground depository for hyper-valuables.”
“Hyper-valuables?” Simon asked innocently. “What are hyper-valuables?”
Warlock turned impatiently from his model.
“Hyper-valuables are... very valuable things. I got the word from one of your books.”
“Oh,” Simon said, embarrassed. “Well, even Homer nods.”
“For example, two of the Middle East countries store their gold reserves there.”
“One of them keeps its crown jewels there,” Frug volunteered.
Warlock nodded.
“And three of De Beer’s subsidiaries keep diamond stocks there,” he said.
“And Oppenheimer’s, too,” said Frug.
By now everybody in the room was looking at the white model building as if it itself were made of diamonds. Warlock reverently touched its domed roof.
“So you can see, Mr. Klein, that it’s a worthy target for your talents.”
Simon stood with his hands clasped behind him and looked down at the model treasure-house.
“There’s just one thing wrong for a start,” he said.
“What’s that?” Warlock asked.
“Where does Charles Lake come in? He’s my hero, remember? He’s supposed to keep people from doing things like this, not cheer them on while they steal some poor potentate’s family jewels.”
Warlock was not taken aback.
“I could not create Charles Lake even if I wanted to. One cannot create an individual, but one can create an organization. And having created this organization, and all the resources and equipment with which your imagination endowed it on paper, I can only be glad that there is no such person as a Charles Lake in the real world.” Warlock’s small mouth smiled faintly, a dark crevasse in the snowy hills of his face. “S.W.O.R.D. actually exists. Charles Lake does not. And there’s your answer, Mr. Klein. If you’re worried about the moral considerations, let’s discuss those later.”
“All right,” said Simon. He nodded towards the model. “Go ahead, please. I’m interested in the problem of cracking this place... just in theory, of course.”
Warlock gave him a delighted glance and put his hand once more on the white dome of the little building.
“The surface structure is bomb-proof. Conventional bombs, I mean. Only the subterranean levels are proof against atomic bombs, and it’s at those levels, far below the ground, that the valuables are stored.” Warlock’s stubby finger touched the fence which surrounded the building. “Twelve feet high, barbed, and every strand wired to the alarm system. Between the fence and the narrow walkway surrounding the building there’s an area crisscrossed with electromagnetic beams. If one of the beams is interrupted an alarm goes off and a buried mine explodes at the point at which the beam was broken.”
The Saint bent over the model.
“Sounds formidable enough,” he commented.
“The place is supposed to be absolutely theft-proof,” Warlock said proudly.
“Maybe we could start with something easy,” the Saint said. “Like the Bank of England.”
“I’m glad you’ve learned to say ‘we’ so quickly,” Warlock responded. “I can see that you find the project interesting.”
Simon had used the ‘we’ as an ocean fisherman uses bits of chopped fish to attract and put his prey off guard before he drops his hook. Having decided that his best strategy was to pretend to be tempted by Warlock’s proposition, he might as well stay on that tack. For the moment there was nothing to be gained by resisting, and there might be a great deal to be learned by ostensibly co-operating.
“It’s interesting,” he said. “And challenging.”
Warlock turned the table around, showing that the underground sections of Hermetico had also been incorporated into the model, extending below tabletop level. He removed half of the surface model, so that now a complete cross-section view of the Hermetico complex was visible — the low building at ground level, the narrow vertical shaft, and the spreading chambers, like the roots of a tree, at the bottom.
“In the surface building,” Warlock said, “are business offices, switchboard, and controls for the surface security complex.” His fingers followed the long shaft downwards. “Here, an elevator, of course, and near the lower mouth of the shaft, the central control room. There are grilles of steel bars at intervals throughout the storage area, each with a different locking system and automatic sealing device. In the event of an alarm, the whole storage area can be flooded. The whole thing is automated.”
Bishop, the constable of the night before, had been standing respectfully by.
“Not the friendliest place in the world,” he volunteered chattily.
Warlock gave him a chilling glance as Simon straightened up after a close inspection of the lower chambers.
“Automated?” he asked. “You mean there aren’t any guards?”