He had a fleeting glimpse of the forger running past him towards Hakim, before he crashed backwards into a pile of crates that collapsed with the impact and sent him sprawling against the concrete floor. The air was forced from his lungs in one long gasp, and a kaleidoscope of flashing lights danced before his eyes as his head touched the ground.
He felt every bone in his back and shoulders jar with the impact, and only the responses of a veteran fighter saved him as the giant waded in for the kill. Instinctively he rolled to one side and the kick that should have sent him to join all the historic saints actually parted the top of his hair.
As his vision cleared, he saw the giant poising himself to resume the attack. The sheer bulk of the man made him ponderously slow, but the Saint was all too aware that just one blow squarely landed from those huge fists could prelude the end of the contest.
With one hand flat on the ground, he pushed himself up into a squat and dived sideways at the gorilla’s legs. His arm folded under the man’s knees as his shoulder cannoned into his thighs. The giant swayed for a moment as he tried to maintain his balance, but the Saint’s momentum was too great and he toppled backwards to land flat against the concrete with his arms flailing the air as he tried clumsily to break the force of his fall.
The Saint was on his feet again in an instant. There was no time for the niceties of the brawl that should have followed. Already he could see Hakim and Parton concluding their transaction and in a few seconds the Arab would be beyond his reach.
Parton stared blankly at the Saint as if he could hardly believe that he was still a threat. The forger’s face was disfigured by a strip of sticking plaster that ran from the corner of his right eye to the side of his mouth. Beneath it the skin was puffed and black. The sight raised a large question mark in the Saint’s mind, but he had no spare time just then to spend on speculating about that interesting embellishment.
He started to run past the fallen giant, but the man flung out a wild arm that half tripped him. As he reached out for anything to save him from falling, his hand fastened on the top of a tier of packing cases. As he recovered his balance he yanked the top crate free. The bodyguard stared up in horror as the heavy wooden box plummeted down with the Saint augmenting the force of gravity with his own strength, but there was nothing he could do to break its fall. His whole frame went rigid as it smashed on his head, and his participation in the further proceedings discontinued.
Without waiting to administer first aid, Simon hurdled the obstacle and raced towards the main aisle, roughly shoving aside the gaping spectators who had been attracted to the commotion.
Hakim had turned and fled as soon as he saw the Saint rise, and Parton was not much slower off the mark in sprinting in an opposite direction. Simon ignored the forger and followed Hakim. The terrorist ran back into the road beside the coach. For a moment he wavered, unsure of his next move, and the Saint rapidly closed the gap between them.
He could see Yakovitz rushing across the cathedral precincts while Leila moved in from the other end of the street. Yasmina had deserted her children and was running towards her lover, frantically waving her arms and shouting a warning in some language the Saint did not understand.
Hemmed in on three sides, there was only one possible escape route left open and Hakim took it. He turned and tore down the road leading to the river front behind the cathedral.
Simon was about to follow when he heard a shot, and he had dodged for the cover of a parked lorry before he realised that he was not the target. The bullet shattered the glass of a street lamp as Hakim ran beneath it.
The Saint spun around as the blue station wagon screeched to a halt and Masrouf, Khaldun, and the man he had seen outside Yasmina’s flat the previous afternoon, jumped out. It was clear that they had eyes only for Hakim and appeared unaware of either Leila or Yakovitz closing in behind. All three men carried revolvers, and Yakovitz and Leila had also brought their guns into the open.
When the lamp glass shattered, Hakim increased his speed, bending low and swaying from the hips as he ran, but the three terrorists did not fire again. Simon scooted around the lorry and came out on the other side as Hakim disappeared around the corner to where the Hirondel was parked. Masrouf and Khaldun ran after him, leaving their companion to bring up the rear and cover them.
The Saint sprinted back into the market, dodging between the wire cages and following a diagonal route that brought him out into a road running at right angles to the one Hakim had taken. The sound of more shots reached him, but he had no way of knowing who was firing at whom.
He stopped for a moment to get his bearings before crossing the road and entering a lane sloping off to the right. After about fifty yards it opened into a large cobbled square that served as a parking and unloading area for the warehouses that lined it on every side. The only other exit was an alley in the far comer, and the Saint ran towards it.
He was halfway across the square when Hakim emerged from the alley. He stopped as soon as he saw the Saint, and looked desperately in every direction. The sound of shouts and running feet echoed from the passage behind him. Unable to go either forward or back, he jumped onto the loading bay of the nearest warehouse and plunged blindly into the shadowy interior.
The Saint leapt after him and had barely gained the shelter of the platform before Masrouf and Khaldun burst into the square. They stopped just outside the mouth of the alley, uncertain of their next move, but the decision was made for them when a bullet clipped the brickwork above their heads. Masrouf turned and fired a reply without taking aim, and the two men dashed across the cobbles to disappear down the lane from which the Saint had emerged a few seconds before.
Inside the warehouse, Simon turned from watching Yakovitz chase the fleeing Arabs and looked for Hakim.
The loading bay led into a cavernous storeroom stacked almost to the ceiling with wooden crates. At the far end a wide flight of iron steps led up to a gantry that circled the walls. There was no sign of Hakim. The Saint moved soundlessly in a narrow passage between the crates, every nerve taut, his eyes and ears straining to catch any sight or sound that might reveal Hakim’s hiding place. He reached the stairs and slowly began to climb, intending to use the gantry to gain a bird’s-eye view of the storeroom below.
As he reached the first landing the Arab broke cover and ran back towards the loading bay. There was an iron crowbar clutched in his hand, and two workmen who had just climbed in, rapidly backed away as he approached.
Simon cursed the luck with which he had been eluded, and returned to the floor in two leaps.
Hakim must have been in fair condition and had made good use of his few minutes’ rest in the warehouse to recover his breath. He set a fast pace across the square, and doubled back down the alley heading for the river.
The Saint settled his stride and prepared for a lengthy pursuit, content to gradually whittle down the other’s lead and sap his strength. By the time Hakim reached the wider road that separates the warehouses from the wharves Simon was only about thirty yards behind.
The road ran straight until it passed under the arches of Southwark Bridge a quarter of a mile farther on. On the right, a low wall divided the road from the landing stages that serve the barges bringing cargo from the large freighters in the Pool beneath the Tower to the warehouses upriver from London Bridge. On the left was an unbroken line of buildings with not even an alley between them to provide an alternative bolthole.
The river sparkled in the sunlight, distorting the reflection of the trains pulling slowly into Cannon Street Station. In midstream a tug was nursing a flotilla of heavily laden barges. A couple of pleasure boats crammed with camera-clicking tourists chugged sluggishly beneath the arches of London Bridge. The passengers peered and pointed as they listened to the guide’s running commentary on the sights to be seen along the south bank, trying to pinpoint the site of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre while completely unaware of the contemporary drama that was being played under their eyes.