The Saint began to sense an uncertainty in Hakim’s movements. The terrorist’s pace was slowing and his steps faltered as he frantically looked in every direction for a way of escape. Inexorably Simon increased the pressure. Hakim glanced back over his shoulder, and the sight of the Saint so close on his heels made him dredge up the last of his reserves of stamina. He attempted one final spurt, but the strength had left his legs and after a few yards he stumbled and almost fell.
The Saint realised that the chase was over. What for him had been a fairly healthy workout appeared to have reduced Hakim to the semblance of a wet Arabian nightshirt. He reeled against the low wall between the road and the line of jetties, desperately sucking in air and wiping the sweat from his forehead and eyes.
Simon Templar slackened his stride to a walk as Hakim stayed and slumped against the wall, and came up to stand behind him.
“Had enough?” he asked mockingly. “There’s no where to run, Hakim. Nowhere else to hide.”
Hakim did not answer. His back was turned to the Saint and his hand cradled in the crook of his right elbow, the crowbar he had picked up somewhere in the warehouse still slackly held in the same hand. The Saint reached out a hand towards his shoulder and in the same instant Hakim spun round, the crowbar slicing through the air in a murderous arc.
9
Only the Saint’s whiplash reflexes saved him from a fractured skull. He recoiled instinctively, stepping backwards and arching his body sideways.
The speed and ferocity of Hakim’s attack was too great for his own equilibrium, and he stumbled forward. The Saint straightened, perfectly poised on the balls of his feet and smiled into the Arab’s face.
“Naughty, naughty,” he taunted reprovingly and sent a straight left flicking into the other’s nose.
The terrorist winced at the pain as he quickly backed out of reach of a follow-up punch, and wiped away the trickle of blood with the back of his hand. He glared at the Saint with fear and hatred in his dark eyes. His lips drew tight against his teeth as he sprang forward, again scything the air with the crowbar.
It was a contest between the boxer and the barroom bully, only in slightly different terms, and although he never doubted the inevitable outcome, the Saint did not underestimate the desperation of his cornered opponent. He simply felt entitled to a little sporting exercise in return for the trouble he had been given.
Simon Templar danced. With his arms hanging loosely at his sides, he relied on sheer speed and agility to escape the murderous assault Hakim mounted. He bobbed and weaved and rode the blows measuring distance to the micro-fraction of an inch. And all the time he smiled impudently at his assailant; and the more he smiled, the more angry the Arab became and the more erratic his attacks.
The commotion had attracted the inevitable crowd that always seems to appear as if from the air when seconds before there was no one in sight. They gathered at a safe distance, gaping at the spectacle but not eager to get involved.
It could have been great fun for all, but it had to be cut short. The Saint quickly moved in and proceeded with some relish to take the terrorist apart with a few bruising body punches that ended Hakim’s wild swings and drove the Arab cowering back against the cold stone of the river wall. The Saint felt no pity: Hakim was more than just one man, one murderer. He symbolised his breed; so brave when faced with helpless hostages, the young and old and weak, with the job of planting a bomb to go off when he was well away, but with no stomach for face-to-face conflict on equal terms.
At that moment the Saint was aware of the unmistakeable throaty growl of the Hirondel. It stopped beside them with a scream of protesting rubber and he turned to see Yakovitz climb out of the driver’s seat.
“Here’s your excess baggage,” he called out, and while Yakovitz opened the rear door he sent a final left hook jolting into the point of Hakim’s chin.
As the Arab slid earthwards, the Saint caught him by the collar and the seat of the pants to throw him headfirst into the car. Yakovitz jumped in on top of him, and the Saint slid in behind the wheel and took the big car roaring away, scattering the spectators from its path.
The entire spontaneous pickup was accomplished as neatly as if they had rehearsed it, and the Saint chortled with delight.
“Right on cue! I was beginning to wonder what I was going to do with him. What happened back there?” he asked as he forced a way through the traffic clogging Southwark Bridge.
Yakovitz answered slowly as if embarrassed to admit his failure.
“Captain Zabin stayed to deal with the third man while I chased Masrouf and Khaldun. They split up, and I followed Masrouf, but I lost him in the alleys, so I went back to help her. By the time I got to the market again there was no sign of her, but two policemen were arriving. I went back to your car and came looking for you.”
“And you have no idea what happened to Leila?” Simon asked, frowning.
Yakovitz shook his head.
“No. As I said, when I got back after losing Masrouf there was no sign of her. She may have slipped away when the police came, or she could have followed the other man somewhere. I did not see your friend Harry, either.”
“That’s some consolation, anyway,” Simon remarked. “Harry isn’t the sort of person who’d join in, but neither is he the type who cuts and runs when the going looks rough. I hired him to follow and watch, and that’s probably just what he did, he’ll make contact later. He should be able to tell us where Leila went.”
“Captain Zabin is one of our most experienced operatives,” said Yakovitz stiffly. “I am sure she will be all right.”
“So am I,” Simon agreed.
He could tell that Yakovitz’s assumption of his superior’s safety was based more on loyalty than logic, and he also was somewhat less confident than he cared to show.
He drove through the City and headed east until they reached the main Newmarket road. After a few miles the long lines of houses and shops began to peter out and they entered the brown and green woodland of Epping Forest.
“Do you know how to find the house that Captain Zabin was talking about?” he asked presently.
“If you find the Bell Post House first, I can direct you.”
The Saint had once stopped at the hotel at Bell Common, and with that as an easy landmark, he could relax for a while into almost automatic driving. There were no interruptions from Hakim, but from certain movements that he occasionally glimpsed in the rear-view mirror, he had the impression that Yakovitz was taking such steps as were necessary, from time to time, to ensure that the terrorist remained in the comatose state to which the Saint’s punishment had reduced him.
The woods gradually gave way to fields of wheat and corn that stretched away into the distance with only an occasional tree or barn breaking the shallow contours of the landscape. As they moved farther from the forest and deeper into the farmlands it was almost impossible to believe that they were only an hour from the centre of London.
Yakovitz seemed disinclined for idle conversation, and the Saint used the silence to assess the situation. Whichever way he looked at it, he realised that the game was still far from over. They had succeeded in grabbing Hakim, and therefore whatever happened next, they held the trump card. They had the added advantage that Masrouf and company could have no idea where they were taking Hakim. Leila was the only problem; and the more Simon considered her disappearance, the more uncertain he became that his side would be able to completely dictate the next move.