Saint and the Fiction Makers (17 page)

‘It’s not planning a way to get you in that’s so hard,’ Simon said. ‘It’s figuring a way to get at least some of you out alive that’s got me stumped.’

Warlock looked at the faint, mocking smile on Simon’s lips and lost his temper.

‘No more of that, Klein! You’ll do your job just as the rest of us will, and you’ll stop trying to demoralize my men! If you don’t do as I tell you, you’ll have the fun of watching Nero cut up your girl friend for several days before she’s even put on the laser table!’

Simon had an almost overwhelming desire to put his hands around Warlock’s fat sweaty neck and squeeze off not only his flow of words but his breath and finally his last croak of life. It would have been a notable pleasure to feel that gross body shuddering through its last spasm in the grip of his fingers—but the time had not come yet. Warlock felt the Saint’s thoughts, though, and read them in the crystalline blue hardness of his eyes. The fat man shrank involuntarily against his own side of the car.

‘Nero has orders to start on her immediately if we’re not back safely,’ he blurted. ‘And that seat you’re in … all I have to do is push this button and it explodes with shotgun shells.’

Warlock’s hand was on the ashtray by his window.

‘I know,’ Simon said with forced restraint. ‘I wrote the book, remember? Sort of Damocles sword in reverse. But I don’t think you can afford to give me a permanent hot seat. You need me too much.’

Warlock’s hand remained on the ashtray then and for the rest of the twenty-minute drive to his estate.

‘I need you,’ he said, ‘but I’d kill you if you attacked me.’

The Saint sat back with folded arms and admired the countryside.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said absently. ‘I don’t need to attack you. You haven’t originality enough to keep yourself alive when the going gets rough anyway.’

Warlock could only sputter, and the rest of the trip took place without conversation. As soon as they had returned to S.W.O.R.D. headquarters, Monk and Frug escorted the Saint through the house towards his room. Galaxy Rose met them at the foot of the staircase in the big reception hall. She looked even more ravishing than usual in a scanty white blouse, a red mini-skirt, and white boots.

‘What would you like for lunch?’ she asked after they had exchanged greetings.

She was the kind of incorrigibly sexy woman whose hot eyes and pouting mouth made even a question like that sound positively lewd.

‘You?’ asked Simon politely.

She glowed with appreciation.

‘That might be arranged,’ she replied. ‘With or without dressing?’

The Saint glanced meaningfully at Monk and Frug, who were standing irritably by.

‘Let’s not discuss these things in front of the children,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a walk—and so forth—later this afternoon. In the meantime, Warlock’s putting me to work. I’m afraid I’ll have to settle for lobster Newburg and asparagus … much as I’d prefer fresh Galaxy on the half shell.’

‘You promise—about this afternoon?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely.’

She smiled happily and hurried away as Simon and his captors continued up the stairs.

‘The only trouble is,’ he remarked, ‘I’m not sure she wouldn’t slit my throat if Warlock told her to.’

‘That’s for her to know and you to find out,’ said Monk heavily.

Frug planted a bony hand in the centre of the Saint’s back and gave him a shove which almost made him stumble.

‘Right,’ Frug snapped. ‘I’ll slit your throat myself if you foul up this job.’

Without turning Simon performed a brief but highly effective manoeuvre with his right arm which landed his elbow in the centre of Frug’s lower thorax. Frug sat down abruptly on the top step, clutching his belly and chest and gagging for breath. Monk, who had understandably failed to detect the Saint’s lightning back-jab, stared down at his comrade with a puzzled frown.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ he rumbled to Frug.

Frug could only shake his head and gasp.

‘He’s in poor condition, obviously,’ Simon explained. ‘Can’t even make it all the way upstairs without losing his breath. While he’s recovering, may I go on to my room?’

‘You get on to your room,’ Monk commanded superfluously.

He accompanied Simon down the hall as Frug regained enough breath to croak out a few curses more obscene than dire and haul himself totteringly to his feet.

‘Thanks very much,’ Simon said to Monk as they reached his room. ‘And I do hope your friend will be feeling better soon.’

Amity was waiting for him just inside the door.

‘I saw you drive up,’ she said eagerly. ‘I’m so glad you’re back!’

Simon gave her the hug she was inviting, then let her help him off with his jacket.

‘I’m glad to be back,’ he said, ‘but next holiday let’s go somewhere different, what do you say? I get a little bored with the same view, same people …’

‘What happened?’ Amity asked anxiously. ‘How did it go?’

‘First, I didn’t escape and leave you in the frying pan,’ he said.

‘Thanks for that,’ Amity said wryly. ‘I realize how much more important Amos Klein is than me, and I’m grateful for any little crumb he throws my way—such as letting me stay alive another few hours.’

Simon kissed her lightly.

‘Don’t be bitter,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve figured out how to crack Hermetico—a possibility anyway. So before long we’ll all be rich and free and happy.’

He gave her a brief summary of the morning’s adventures.

Amity cast a warning look towards one of the concealed microphones.

‘Care to dance?’ she asked.

Simon shook his head, stretched his lean frame out in a chair, and crossed his ankles.

‘No need,’ he said. ‘From here on in everything’s for real. Frankly, I did have a half-hearted idea for using that visit to Hermetico as a way of trapping Warlock, but it didn’t work out.’ The Saint looked towards a mirror behind which he suspected there was a television lens. ‘Relieved to hear that, Mr. W?’ He turned his cool blue eyes back to Amity’s worried face. ‘So I used the trip for some genuine reconnaissance—and we’d better get down to work if Warlock’s expecting to lead his gallant little band in there tomorrow night.’

‘He won’t take us with him, I suppose?’ Amity asked.

‘No. We’re too unreliable. He’ll have to make do with some of the boys who came to him with better references. As I see it, the fewer people he takes in, the easier the job should be.’

‘You really are going to help him,’ the girl said incredulously.

‘Yes, I am. Or would you prefer being served up on that rich man’s barbecue grill he’s got downstairs?’

Amity shuddered.

‘By all means help him,’ she answered.

‘Right,’ said the Saint, getting to his feet. ‘Most of the gold in Hermetico was probably accumulated through foreign aid usury or some other form of respectable theft, or by characters without half your personal charm, my brains, or Warlock’s boyish enthusiasm. Why shouldn’t we have it instead of them?’

‘It’s all right with me,’ Amity said. ‘How do we get it?’

Simon’s answer was interrupted by the arrival of Galaxy Rose with the lunch he had ordered on his way up from the car.

‘Working hard?’ she asked with mild sarcasm, looking at Amity as she rolled the serving cart to the dining table.

‘Doing my best,’ said Amity.

Galaxy turned to Simon, standing so close in front of him that he had to lean back slightly in order to avoid a more intimate contact than he thought appropriate at the time.

‘Can I help?’ she purred.

‘May I help,’ Amity corrected. ‘Yes, you may, by serving lunch. Mr. Klein and I are starving.’

Amity sat down at the table and waited with an ail-too pleasant expression on her face. Galaxy compressed her lips and glowered.

‘I’m not your slave,’ she crackled. ‘Do it yourself.’

‘You’re Mr. Klein’s slave,’ Amity said sweetly. ‘And Warlock’s, too. So please do as you’re told and don’t keep us waiting.’

Galaxy Rose clenched her fists against her thighs.

‘Amos, make her stop it before I …’

Simon thought it wise to accept the invitation to mediate before he became ammunition in a feminine free-for-all.

‘Calm down, girls. I hate being fought over at mealtimes. Anyway, I have to work.’

He sat down at the dining table and proceeded to open the wine. Galaxy obediently but huffily served his and Amity’s plates.

‘I really could help you, Amos,’ she said pleadingly. ‘I’m sure I could do more than she could.’

‘I’m sure you have done more,’ Amity said, ‘but for the work Amos is doing you need something you haven’t got.’

‘And what’s that?’ demanded Galaxy.

‘An adult human brain.’

The Saint put his napkin to his mouth, stood up quickly, and ushered Galaxy to the door. He let his hand linger on her arm.

‘I’ll see you about four,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, but I do have to work now.’

‘On her,’ she said bitterly.

‘On Hermetico,’ he replied. ‘Be glad you’re better at playing than working. People ask much pleasanter things of you that way.’

Galaxy softened perceptibly.

‘We’ll play later, then. Bye-bye.’

Suddenly her lips touched his, and then she was gone. Amity rolled her eyes and groaned as he returned to the table.

‘I wonder what school for delinquent girls Warlock dredged her out of?’ she said, cracking down with unrestrained violence on a lobster claw.

Simon raised his eyebrows as he spooned some hollandaise sauce on to his asparagus.

‘You and Galaxy aren’t getting along so well lately, I gather.’

‘When did we get along? I’m just getting mightily sick of seeing her …’ She interrupted herself suddenly and looked at him. ‘You’re implying that I’m jealous, aren’t you?’

‘Not in the least,’ said the Saint gravely.

‘Well, I am!’ Amity said. ‘I’m sick of seeing her rub up against you every time she happens to pass through the same wing of the building.’

Simon raised both his hands above his plate helplessly, very much aware of the omnipresent microphones and television cameras.

‘I find myself in an awkward position,’ he said. ‘Flattering but very awkward, and if we use our vaunted brains, we will understand just why.’

The pointed tone of his last sentence got through Amity’s emotions to her reason.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I am acting like a child.’ Suddenly she sounded almost on the verge of tears. ‘Maybe it’s just the strain of … of not knowing …’

Simon touched her hand soothingly.

‘The strain doesn’t need to go on indefinitely,’ he said. ‘Let’s concentrate on making this Hermetico job a successful operation.’

Amity took a deep breath.

‘You’re right. It’ll get my mind off myself. Tell me what you found out.’

2

The Saint continued eating at a leisurely rate as he talked.

‘Hermetico has some of the defects of the Maginot Line,’ he said. ‘It’s too confident and it’s too rigidly oriented in a single direction. The management is so sure of the power of automation that they don’t watch the outer fence carefully enough. The only real problem is getting across the infra-red beams that protect the grass strip.’

‘The only real problem?’ his companion asked dubiously.

The Saint speared another snowy chunk of lobster, coated it with sauce, and savoured it luxuriously before he answered.

‘I mean it’s the only real problem involved in getting from outside the fence to the inner side of the mined strip.’

‘And how do you propose to get from outside the building to the vault?’ asked Amity.

‘For that matter,’ said Simon cheerfully, ‘how do we propose to get over or through a six-foot-high network of invisible beams, any one of which will set off a mine if you interrupt it?’

‘You could go over, I guess,’ Amity said.

She was beginning to take an interest.

‘You can’t go over because where the infra-red beams leave off six feet above ground there’s a radar system scanning the air. Nothing larger than a bird can go above the fence without setting off alarms.’

‘Is there some way to get at the radar system?’

Simon thought about it.

‘Not from outside. If we tried jamming it all we’d do would be to arouse suspicion and bring guards out all over the place before Warlock and his boys could even start to get over the fence.’

The two of them went on eating in silence for a while. Amity pushed away the emptied shell of her lobster and stared at it thoughtfully.

‘I wonder how many of those infra-red beams there are?’ she mused.

‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ said the Saint. ‘I noticed that even though the beams are crisscrossed up to six feet, my hat didn’t hit one and set off a mine until it was just a foot or so above the ground. It was sailing in at a slight angle, too, so that must mean that there are some fairly good-sized gaps in the network. I’m sure there’s no place a man could walk straight across, or even zigzag across …’

‘But maybe there’d be a channel somewhere, like a tunnel several feet above the ground, where no beams happened to cross,’ Amity interrupted.

‘It’s possible,’ said Simon. ‘I’m glad to see you getting so excited.’

Amity tried to change her expression abruptly.

‘I’m not excited.’

‘Well, please get excited. Maybe you’ll come up with some brilliant ideas—like how to find out if there’s a channel through the beams, and how to get through it.’

Those words were the beginning of an afternoon of non-stop thought, talk, and study. Amity’s cigarette stubs filled an ashtray and her smoke filled the room. Plans and charts covered the floor. Notes and calculations covered the tables. The Hermetico model was all but taken apart completely and put back together again several times.

It was almost four o’clock when Simon sighed, rubbed his eyes wearily, and stretched his arms, signalling a break in the labour.

‘Time for your walk?’ Amity asked with only a glimmer of sarcasm.

‘It’s pretty obvious that the only way to the vault is the ventilation shaft,’ he said, ignoring the remark.

‘But we’re still stuck with those damn infra-red beams,’ Amity sighed. ‘If only we could see them or something, then we could …’