She knew Templar was somewhere in the crowd, and her gaze soon found his bald head and thick glasses. The sight of him sitting next to Inspector Teal almost made her drop her notes.
She paused, composed herself as if searching for just the right phrase, and continued.
“But difficult childhoods, I believe,” said Emma, looking directly at the Saint, “create the most interesting adults.”
As not to be obvious, she turned her attention to another section of the theater.
“And today, I’m here to tell you that although practical application of cold fusion is still speculative, still years away...”
She turned back toward Templar, and the Saint was gone. Her voice involuntarily caught in her throat, and Teal noticed she was looking directly at him — almost.
The detective turned to the empty aisle seat beside him, then back to Emma on stage. A slight flush of pink appeared on his portly cheeks as he processed the unavoidable implication.
“Recent events in Russia,” continued Dr. Russell, “have dramatically demonstrated that, in a theoretical sense at least, cold fusion has finally come of age.”
Teal slowly unwrapped a fresh stick of spearmint gum, and muttered softly under his breath.
“Hell, let Dorn find the Saint himself.”
Outside the theater, Simon Templar strolled undeterred toward his awaiting Volvo C70. Passing through the parking lot, he discreetly discarded the baldcap wig and geeky glasses, both of which went sailing into the nearest trash can.
He turned the ignition key and piloted the C70 out into traffic.
The businessman whose Canadian passport identified him as James Westlake of Windsor, Ontario, drove his Volvo to Heathrow in full compliance with the rules of the road. He couldn’t risk a traffic ticket, and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while listening to the BBC. The reporter detailed the current status of the restablized democratic regime in Russia, and confirmed that the notorious Simon Templar, alias the Saint, was, despite his recent heroics, still wanted for questioning in numerous international cases of high-tech theft.
Someday, Templar fancied, he would take Teal to tea and explain to him the entire sordid story. Someday. Not today, not with half of Scotland Yard and British Intelligence searching for him with arrest warrants, not with Interpol awaiting him in any country which had ever signed an extradition agreement with the United Kingdom.
“In other news,” continued the BBC reporter, “a nonprofit research foundation has been established to develop cold fusion technology. Funded by an anonymous donation of fifty million dollars, the foundation is chartered to develop ‘inexpensive, clean energy for the benefit of all mankind...’ ”
Epilogue
The St. Ignatius Home for Boys was neither as large nor as foreboding as Simon Templar remembered it from his childhood.
Viewed from an adult perspective, the rooms were small, the desks were tiny, and the hallways narrow.
He arrived without appointment one sunny spring day and simply asked to see the headmaster. The nun who greeted him was warm and personable. She bade him be seated.
Memories flooded his senses, bringing to the fore every emotion associated with his years at St. Ignatius.
He looked out the window and saw something he did not expect — children playing happily on an elaborate outdoor swing-set. He heard laughter and giggles, shouts of glee and delight. A smile began to light his eyes and spread to the corners of his mouth.
“The Father will see you now.”
Simon smiled pleasantly at the friendly Sister and stepped inside the headmaster’s office.
It was not Father Brennan whose face he saw, but the big bearded visage of a joyous, barrel-chested priest with a bearlike build.
His handshake was firm and his demeanor gregarious.
“Welcome, welcome to St. Ignatius,” he began. “I’m the headmaster. What can I do for you?”
“I’m... I’m a graduate, or former student, or former...”
“Inmate?”
The blunt but accurate noun came as a surprise.
“Well, yes, honestly...”
“What’s your name, son?”
Simon Templar looked the priest square in the eye and played a hunch.
“My name is not John Rossi. Never has been, never will be.”
A thunderclap of recognition flashed across the priest’s face. “Simon! Simon Templar!”
The Saint was swept up in the manly hug of a lifetime.
“Don’t you see who’s behind this fuzzy beard? It’s me, Bartolo!”
“I thought so, but I wasn’t sure — the beard!”
“ ’Tis I, indeed, my Saintly crusader — hey, still breaking and entering?”
“Old habits... no pun intended,” said Templar, and he recalled their friendship from years gone by.
The man who was Bartolo gave Templar the complete tour of the new and improved facility, ending at a small garden in the courtyard — a garden named in memory of Agnes.
“I never expected this,” admitted Templar.
“Nothing stays the same forever, and neither do people. We all form our lives and build our futures on the experiences of the past. Take us, for example: You ran away and became a thief. I stayed and became a priest.”
“I saw a movie like that once,” joked Simon Templar. “You were Pat O’Brian and I was James Cagney.”
“Pat O’Brian, indeed.” Bartolo laughed. “You’re too debonair for Cagney.”
Templar looked at his old friend with heartfelt admiration. It was as if the years between them melted away. He could have sworn it was just last night that they raided the pantry.
“Brennan?” said Templar, and he needn’t have said more.
Father Bartolo shrugged and cocked his head. “If I told you” — he smiled coyly — “you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Now you must tell me,” insisted Templar.
Bartolo began walking around the garden. “One day, not long after you... you left, he became enraged about something... or nothing... it doesn’t matter.”
He stopped.
“The dogs turned on him. They almost ripped him to shreds. It was horrible.”
“Dead?”
“No. And I’m sure he’d like to see you.”
There was a sudden sinking feeling in Templar’s stomach. “Like to see me?”
Bartolo motioned toward a simple bench at the edge of the garden and checked his watch. “Let’s sit. He’ll be along shortly.”
The two childhood pals sat down in the sun. Laughter of boys and girls at play echoed off the high stone walls. In a few minutes a tiny man came shuffling toward the garden carrying a pink plastic watering can.
“Is that him?”
A nod.
Templar stood.
He walked toward the garden, coming to a stop beside Father Brennan.
How small he seemed, barely reaching the mid-most part of Simon’s chest.
The old man’s eyes crinkled above the long-healed scars of what must have been a most vicious and ferocious attack. He poured water on the budding flowers and smiled up at Simon Templar. “Hello.”
“Hello.”
Simon stared at Brennan. Gone was the evil tyrant. Here was only an aged, infirm gardener.
“You’re Father Brennan, aren’t you?”
He stopped watering, and a gracious smile illumined his hard-bitten features.
“Yes, yes, I am. Do I know you?”
“Yes. I was a student of yours, years ago. I’m afraid we gave each other some rather unpleasant memories.”
Templar’s gaze turned involuntarily to the garden. He still wanted to punch Brennan in the nose.