He was turning away when Hakim called him back, his apprehension clearly sounding in his voice.
“You are going to leave me here alone?”
Simon gazed at him with cold contempt.
“I thought you’d feel comfortably at home surrounded by death. It’s your favourite scene, isn’t it? Anyhow, Yasmina will soon be here to hold your hand. But if you try to move away before she arrives, I shall take great pleasure in kicking you back.”
Without giving the other time to reply, the Saint turned again and walked away down the path with Leila and Yakovitz a step behind him.
As soon as they had rounded a corner and were out of Hakim’s line of sight, he stopped and indicated positions to them from which they would be able to keep watch on Hakim and the area around the Karl Marx memorial.
Simon himself moved off at a tangent, and circled back as silently as a cautious cat among the shadows, flitting like a wraith from tomb to tomb until he was so close to Hakim that he could even hear the terrorist breathing. The night seemed to swallow him as wholly and completely as a ghost.
He stood as still as the headstone beside him as the minutes dragged by, while Hakim paced up and down, only two or three jerky steps each way, starting in alarm every time the wind rustled the grass.
At last the Saint’s sensitive ears picked up the kind of sound he had been waiting for. It was no more than the faint crunch of a dry twig, but it told him that the first part of his plan had succeeded. By sound alone he followed Yasmina’s progress down the path; but Hakim, confused and frightened, did not see her until she rounded the nearest comer.
At the sight of her lover she began to run.
“Abdul! Abdul!”
Yasmina stumbled into the Arab’s outstretched arms, crying with relief, holding him tightly as if she feared he would vanish if she released him.
Simon hardly spared the couple a glance. He was looking past the girl, towards the bend in the path around which she had come, and silently drew his automatic and eased off the safety catch as he heard other footsteps approaching.
This time Hakim also heard them. He stared in wide-eyed panic as Masrouf, Khaldun, and one of the men who had helped to guard Leila at the factory appeared.
Masrouf walked in the centre flanked by his two aides and the guns of all three were drawn and aimed directly at Hakim. Yasmina turned and screamed.
“No! No!”
“Stand aside, Yasmina,” Masrouf commanded. “We do not want to hurt you.”
Hakim released the girl, but she did not move.
In the same chilling voice of a judge pronouncing sentence Masrouf continued: “Abdul Hakim, you are a traitor to the cause and to your people.”
Masrouf raised his gun, and the action snapped Hakim from the spell that had transfixed him from the moment he had caught sight of the three men. In the same instant that Masrouf’s finger tightened on the trigger, he grabbed Yasmina and pulled her backwards to cover his body with hers.
The bullet entered just above her heart. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but only a whimpered cough escaped before she sagged limply forward.
It was one of the most callous acts of total selfishness that the Saint had ever been forced to witness. And since he could only hold himself responsible, in essence, for having made it happen, the first duty of vengeance had been abruptly bequeathed to him.
He felt his blood turn to slow rivers of ice, and he fired.
A neat black-rimmed hole appeared in Hakim’s forehead. Yasmina slipped from his grasp and he pitched over, falling across her body, and lay still.
Masrouf spun around and fired wildly in the direction of the Saint, but the bullets zipped harmlessly above Simon’s head. The Saint took careful aim again, but before he could fire, Leila and Yakovitz opened up from the positions where he had left them. Khaldun clutched at his belly, floundered, and went down. The third terrorist had barely started to run when a bullet bowled him over like a rag doll. Masrouf, somehow unscathed by the fusillade, was still searching blindly for a target when the Saint released his last shot with no more compunction than the grenade that had been flung through the window of his living room the night before.
13
The electric light was weak against the strengthening sun and the room was chilly. In Kensington Gardens, outside the embassy, first one bird and then another heralded the morning until the air was ringing with their song. The Saint stared silently at the black liquid in bis cup while Leila finished her report.
Garvi turned to the Saint and smiled.
“So your plan worked out perfectly,” he said. “It was an ideal ending.”
“Tell that to Yasmina,” Simon returned stonily, and the smile faded from Garvi’s face.
“It was a pity about her, Simon. But she knew the sort of people she was associating with. You knew the risks when you set your trap, but you must not blame yourself for what happened to her.”
“Yasmina was Masrouf and Co.’s only remaining link with Hakim,” said the Saint. “Having lost him it was a pretty safe bet that they’d go after her again as soon as they’d got their car working again, and follow her when she left her flat. Leila and I used the guns I’d taken from them at the factory, and we swapped guns around before we left so that the police will think it was just a private shoot-out between terrorists.”
He rose slowly to his feet, finally allowing the strain of the past two days to show.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I must be going home. I’ve still got to get some redecorations organised. After which I’ll be looking forward to keeping my promise to show Leila some of the more cheerful sights of the town, as soon as she feels up to it.”
Leila looked away from him, studying her hands and avoiding his eyes. Garvi shifted awkwardly in his chair.
“I’m sorry, Simon,” he said, and sounded as if he meant it. “But Captain Zabin is under orders to return at once to Tel Aviv. There is nothing I can do about it.”
The Saint walked over to her and gently ruffled her hair. He bent over and kissed her lightly on the lips before walking to the door. He turned and smiled ruefully.
“Some other time, then,” he said gently. “Shalom, Captain Zabin.”
Leila looked up at him and did not try to hide the moisture clouding her eyes.
“L’chayim, Mr. Templar,” she whispered.