“You keep an impressive arsenal, Mr. Templar.”
He took the knife from her and replaced it with a chuckle.
“I hope you’re not superstitious, Captain. They say that a kukri should never be drawn unless blood is shed.” He waved his hand to encompass the collection. “Weapons I have not been killed with. Some day I’ll tell you the stories behind them. Now, shall we christen the new headquarters?”
Leila turned to face him.
“Mr. Templar, let us get one thing quite straight. I am in command here. You are the guide. Is that clear?”
He walked over to a side table and considered the bottles that covered it.
“Now let me guess — vodka?”
She could not quite master the anger in her voice.
“I don’t drink. Did you hear me, Mr. Templar?”
“I heard you, Captain. Now why don’t you check in with Garvi while your friend brings in the cases. There are only two bedrooms, so Yakowatsit here will have to kip on the couch. Unless of course we can think of an alternative idea.”
Again his gaze travelled the length of her body and he was pleased at the flush of embarrassment it brought. It was the first strictly female emotion she had shown.
“That arrangement will be perfectly suitable.”
While she telephoned and Yakovitz carried the cases upstairs, Simon relaxed on the soft leather couch and flicked through the folder Garvi had given him. Most of the information simply documented Hakim’s terrorist activities, his personal appearance and habits, and was of little use as far as their current job was concerned. More important were the two photographs. They showed a man of about thirty with crinkly black hair and a Zapata moustache, who even on film managed to convey a feeling of tension and danger. One was a straight head and shoulders picture, the other a snap of him taken on a rooftop with an attractive girl about ten years his junior.
Simon was still studying it when Leila finished her call and joined him.
“Colonel Garvi approves of your choice,” she said with visible reluctance. “He appears to place great trust in you, Mr. Templar. But I must ask you to take this operation more seriously. I do not know if it is a defence mechanism because I am a woman, but I find your attitude to this important mission” — she searched her vocabulary for a correct word — “slap-happy? You have scarcely looked at that file. Instead of being concerned with drinks and... er... sleeping accommodation, you should be deciding where our search should begin.”
The Saint removed the picture and tossed the rest of the contents of the folder on the table as he rose. He affected surprise at her comments.
“Oh, that? I thought that was obvious.”
“Obvious?”
“The snapshot of him in London.”
She took the photograph from him and considered it carefully.
“That is London? How can you tell?”
He pointed to a small rectangle on the far left of the frame.
“The tower at Kings Cross station.”
“Oh! We thought it was a chimney pot.”
The Saint clicked his tongue in mock reproof.
“How very... er... slap-happy of you, Captain.”
He took a large-scale map of inner London from the bureau and spread it out on the table.
“Now the Kings Cross tower is on the far left, so if we draw a line along the Euston Road we have one boundary.”
His finger stubbed at the map.
“There’s a church there, but no sign of the steeple in the photograph. Therefore we can rule out the area east of Fartingdon Street. There’s no natural third boundary, so we’ll have to join up the two extremes.”
He drew a line from Holborn Viaduct diagonally across the map to link up with the station.
“The sun is high, therefore the picture was taken from the west. And judging by the smallness of it in the picture, the tower is a fair way in the distance, which means we can eliminate these.”
He shaded in the roads immediately before Kings Cross. A small triangle of about a dozen major roads and twice as many side streets remained.
“The picture was taken somewhere within that area,” he said, “so I suggest we start looking there. The photograph is three years old, so it’s a long shot, but it’s the best lead we have at the moment.”
Leila smiled for the first time since they had met.
“Very efficient, Mr. Templar. I am impressed.”
The Saint half bowed.
“All part of the service, Captain. Now I too must make a telephone call.”
He dialled, and drummed his fingers on the desk top until his ring was answered.
“Hullo, Harry. This is the Saint. I’ve got a job for you. The mark’s a bloke called Hakim, and somebody’s doing him a ticket. I want to know who. Also he may be trying to buy a persuader. Three other sheikhs who want to talk to him might be asking questions as well. I want everything you can get, but particularly the I.D. of the inkman. A couple of ponies for starters, and I’ll raise you if it’s official. Yes, I know it’s a tall one. No, I’m not expecting miracles. Just do your best. I’ll see you in the usual at ten.”
He had been watching Leila while he talked, and had seen her expression change from admiration to suspicion.
“Who was that?”
“An acquaintance of mine, one Harry-the-Nose. Not the sort of chap one takes home to mummy, but has a lot of friends and may be able to save us some time.”
“And do you usually talk to your acquaintances in code?”
For a moment her meaning escaped him; and then, as the light dawned, he laughed.
“Code! Yes I suppose that’s really what it is when you stop to think about it. The trouble with you is that the English you’ve been taught is too perfect. Only BBC announcers ac-tu-ally speak like that,” he mimicked. “That wasn’t code I was speaking in — it was jargon. In his own field Harry is a professional, and just like any other professional — lawyers, stockbrokers, doctors, or whatever — he uses a different language. All I told him was that Hakim was looking for someone to forge him a passport. I asked him to find out who, and I also mentioned that he might be trying to obtain a firearm and that three other Arabs were enquiring as to his whereabouts.”
“And the horse?”
“The horse? Oh, you mean the ponies, that’s his fee. Fifty pounds.”
“I’m sorry I doubted you,” Leila said, almost sheepishly.
“Think nothing of it,” Simon said cheerfully.
He folded the map and slipped it into his pocket. From a corner cabinet he took a powerful pair of binoculars.
“Okay, let’s go.”
“Go?” she echoed. “Go where?”
The Saint smiled.
“I’m taking you to church,” he said.
3
Leaving Yakovitz to take any calls, the Saint and Leila drove back towards Hyde Park Comer, turning down Constitution Hill and onto the broad red carpet of the Mall.
The rain had stopped, and a watery afternoon sun was managing to break through the clouds. Leila’s head was turned towards the Saint, but her gaze travelled past him as she took in the splendour of Buckingham Palace and its scarlet-tunicked guardsmen, and the elegant lines of the Mall’s Georgian terraces with their tall windows and stately white columns. Ahead of them, Admiralty Arch straddled the road, and through its gateway she could see the lions and fountains grouped at the foot of Nelson’s Column.
As they became enmeshed in the traffic clogging Trafalgar Square, she turned to the Saint and smiled.
“You live in a beautiful city, Simon.”
There was a new warmth to her voice, and he was glad to note that another barrier had been broken down by the use of his first name.