Frug and Nero were escorting Amity though the door to the hall.
“Good luck,” she said to Simon over her shoulder.
Her voice was unsteady but controlled.
“Don’t worry,” the Saint called after her. “It’ll be all right.”
“It had better be,” Warlock said soberly. “It had certainly better be. Now come along, Simon Templar, and get ready to prove that your plan really works.”
Chapter six
How Hermetico was breached, and Simon Templar did not have the last word
1
The expedition was ready to leave S.W.O.R.D. headquarters at one o’clock in the morning. Warlock was fuming over delays and shouting at his men as they gathered in the reception hall. Warlock and Bishop wore police uniforms, and the others — including Simon — wore black trousers and long-sleeved black sweaters. It was hoped that if the raid was interrupted, Bishop and Warlock might be able to pass themselves off as policemen who were in the process of apprehending and taking away the criminals.
“All of you except Monk go out to the truck,” Warlock commanded. “Go over the equipment checklist completely and test everything again. Mr. Simon Templar and I are going down to see that his lady love is comfortable. Monk, you come with us.”
As Simon followed Warlock to the cellar, with Monk guarding the rear of the little procession, the rest of the men trooped silently out the front door.
“I think you might need some last-minute inspiration, Mr. Templar,” Warlock said. “Go in, please.”
The Saint entered the cellar and saw Amity lying spread-eagled on the steel table, her ankles and wrists chained. Galaxy was lounging in a swivel chair eating chocolates and reading a vividly coloured paperback called Holiday Lust Spree. Amity raised her head and tried to smile at Simon as Warlock shot Galaxy an angry look.
“Must you read that trash? If you can’t pay attention to what you’re doing here, you could at least try improving your mind.”
“Assuming she has any mind to begin with,” Amity said.
Galaxy called her several names which even the author of Holiday Lust Spree would have been forced to delete from his manuscript.
“If we’re not back by three-thirty,” Warlock said, “you are to turn on this machine and eliminate Miss Little slowly but completely.”
“With pleasure!” Galaxy said.
“Isn’t that early?” Simon asked. “We could hardly be back by then anyway.”
“Of course we can,” Warlock said. “It’s five past one now. The trip to Hermetico takes twenty minutes. We’ll be there at one-thirty. I allow until two o’clock for us to have opened the building, and until three o’clock at the very latest to complete the loading. We’ll easily be here by three-thirty.” He smiled grimly at Amity’s helpless figure. “And besides I’m sure Galaxy won’t get the thing over with too fast. Even if we were five minutes late — which I guarantee we won’t be — there’d still be something left of Miss Little to save. Admittedly, the ultra-sonic waves would have destroyed that mind she seems to be so proud of, but her body would be quite intact.”
Amity lost her surface composure. She closed her eyes and lay back on the slab with a heavy shuddering sigh. Simon started to move towards her, but Monk intervened.
“No, Mr. Templar,” Warlock said. “No fond farewells. Concentrate instead on being sure of a reunion.”
“All right then,” the Saint replied icily. “Let’s not waste any more time. Try to relax, Amity.”
“Good luck,” she said.
“If you’ve got any ideas about starting to work on her before three-thirty, I promise to fix your face so that even dogs will run away from the sight of it.”
“Not very gallant of you, Mr. Templar,” Warlock said, as Galaxy merely gaped like a spoiled child whose hand has just been slapped for the first time. “Galaxy will obey her orders to the letter. And so will you. Let’s go.”
Five minutes later the van rolled out of the gates of Warlock’s grounds. Behind came the counterfeit police car; Bishop drove it, Simon sat next to him, and Warlock and Frug sat watchfully in the back seat. The pace was slow, and a winding route along back roads towards the rear of the Hermetico building necessitated considerable caution and flashing of brake lights on the part of Monk, who was driving the van. But at that hour of the night there was little traffic, and within the twenty minutes specified by Warlock they had reached the pasture they would have to cross in order to reach their goal, which was still half a mile away.
Nero Jones jumped from the van, clipped the wires of the low fence, and waved his arm to signal Monk to proceed. The van bounced slowly through the opening and rumbled off across the rocky field with Nero back inside. Ahead, as the police car followed, Simon could see the patch of forest which was their goal. There was no moon, but the sky was clear, and even though both the vehicles had turned off their lights the bright masses of stars gave a silvery illumination of the whole landscape which disposed of any problem about finding the way.
Warlock was leaning forward tensely, looking at the van.
“Why is the fool tearing along like that?” he fretted. “He’ll turn over.”
“He’s only going ten miles an hour,” Bishop said.
“Mind that rock!”
“I see it,” said Bishop.
A sulky cow plodded leisurely out of the way as the procession growled through its hitherto private territory. Warlock, taken by surprise, had yanked out his automatic before he realized the bovine nature of the lumbering shape.
“Good idea,” Simon said. “Work in a little big-game hunting and we’ll have steaks for breakfast.”
The cow gave a belligerent moo as it was left behind. Warlock snorted and shoved his pistol back under his coat.
“We’re coming up to the wood now,” he said. “Everybody be set to go.”
“I still don’t get why they don’t have lights all around the place,” Frug said.
“So if anybody decided to drop a bomb on it from a plane at night he wouldn’t have an easy time spotting it,” Simon answered.
“Oh, sure,” Frug sneered disdainfully. “Drop a bomb on it!”
“It could happen,” Warlock said. “This place is built to be completely safe even in war. Tend to your own business and don’t jabber so much.”
“At least none of us is nervous,” the Saint observed amiably.
“Shut up!” Warlock croaked. “Where are they? Where’s Monk off to?”
“In the trees,” Bishop replied.
The van had disappeared into the darkness of the forest, and the police car followed slowly. The shadows shut out most of the light of the sky, making it difficult to see anything.
“Keep up, then!” Warlock commanded. “Don’t lose them entirely!”
Suddenly the van loomed directly ahead of the police car, moving in reverse. Warlock waved his arms and fired off a broadside of orders.
“Stop! Watch out! Don’t run into him! Pull alongside!”
He rolled down his window and called harshly to Monk in the driver’s seat.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing? You’re going backwards!”
He was beginning to sound like an elderly schoolmarm in charge of her first picnic outing for juvenile delinquents, and yet that incongruity only lent an additional spine-chilling quality to the reality of what was happening.
“I know,” Monk said, not bothering to hold his voice down. “We’ve got to turn around here and back up to the fence!”
“Quiet!” Warlock ordered furiously. “You think you’re at a football match? Turn around, then. How far are we from the fence?”