To survive in The Squad, you first had to survive Lembick and Cawber’s tender ministrations.
Certainly Albert Nobbins would never have come through; Simon felt sure of that when he met him, on the second day. But the few non-combat staff, luckily for them, were exempted from the process.
By the morning of his sixth day, the Saint’s resilient system had adapted completely to the physical slog — even though his beauty sleep had again been interrupted for a silent excursion over the wall to give Ruth Barnaby what small crumbs of useful new information he had been able to gather. She asked about missions, dates, plans; and he had to tell her that he still knew practically nothing. Missions simply weren’t discussed beforehand, except with the men who were to take part. And even supposing the Saint could have found one prepared to engage in casually indiscreet conversation, his own schedule while in training just wouldn’t have left room for it. Aside from what he had seen on his tour — and that added nothing to what Nobbins had already competently reported — there was hardly anything useful he could report.
Which is not to say that nothing happened. A few things did. To begin with, he met Nobbins.
It was a fairly unspectacular event, in view of their later connection. Nobbins raised his pink bespectacled face from his papers for an instant, looked vaguely at Simon, murmured “How do you do?” politely, and that was the end of that. There was not even the smallest wisp of a flicker of anything that anyone might have taken as acknowledgement of a fellow infiltrator. Which confirmed that he had not been told the true identity of Gascott’s impersonator.
That was a decision of Pelton’s which the Saint approved of. Nobbins’ cover in the name of Mike Argyle had been cobbled together in less than a week, and was liable to wear through at any moment. And Nobbins would not be likely to withstand the sort of pressure that could be put on him if he were caught. He might easily be forced to unburden himself of everything he knew. In which event the Saint much preferred that the role of Gascott wasn’t included in that knowledge.
Another thing that happened during the first four days was that Ungill’s performance fell steadily even further behind, and the castigations of him by Lembick and Cawber grew more raucous and savage.
“You’re a disgrace, Ungill — a disgrace to The Squad!”
Lembick yelled at him on the third day, his features set in livid fury, as Ungill tripped exhausted on the fourth consecutive round of the obstacle course. “You let me down in front of the new man. You’ve been working under me for ten days. He’s been here three. And look at him!” He used the swagger stick he sometimes carried to point at the Saint, who looked fresh and unhurried; and then he belaboured Ungill across the shoulders with it. “A disgrace, Ungill! D’ye know what you’re heading for?”
“Quitter classification, that’s what,” supplied the other member of the training duo in his Bronx twang. “And you know what happens when you’re classified a quitter!”
And on the day after that Ungill wasn’t seen at breakfast.
Nor again.
The Saint, who had advised him to give up and get out, inquired what had happened to him — hoping he had taken the advice and asked to be discharged. But Lembick and Cawber grinned evilly, and Cawber said:
“He decided to take a holiday. A real long one.”
Exit Ungill.
Maybe he had asked for it, as maybe anyone did who joined that organisation without having his eyes tightly closed. But the Saint couldn’t help feeling that this was one recruit who had lacked not only the physical stamina but also the vicious streak that service with The Squad demanded; and he mentally added it to the tally of scores that he heartily hoped he would someday have the pleasure of settling with Lembick and Cawber.
The only relief from their physical persecution was given by the few training sessions that interrupted their sovereignty. Once, Rockham delivered a talk on the organisation — revealing little that Simon didn’t already know. Twice they were given some small-arms instruction, to him superfluous, of the “naming of parts” variety. And there was a short practice stint each day on the shooting-ranges, although that was supervised by that same tyrannical pair.
Even while he was heroically resisting a frequent impulse to reply to some of Lembick’s acts of sneering tyranny with the persuasive retort of a smashing fist, he was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to resist indefinitely, and the question was how long he could avoid some kind of showdown.
It happened on that sixth morning. The group had just finished a practice session with Lembick on the judo mat — a session in which Simon had been singled out for the privilege of being hurled repeatedly to the canvas, ostensibly to illustrate a throw from which it just happened to be almost impossible to break-fall painlessly.
And he was still hopping mad from his role as literal fall-guy in that little set-up when Lembick’s eye turned to two black-handled dirks mounted on the wall in a letter-X shape.
Lembick took one of them down. He flipped it in the air and caught it.
“The Scottish dirk. Myself I prefer the Gaelic name, the sgian dubh.” It sounded like “Skee-an due” as he pronounced it. “The black knife. For close combat, one of the finest weapons ever.”
His flinty eyes roamed over the faces of the group, and stopped where he had already decided they would stop — at Simon Templar. He pointed.
“You. Gascott. Now, I want you to come at me. No games, no holding back. Come hard.”
He tossed the knife to Simon. Simon caught it by the handle. Lembick stood on the canvas mat a few yards in front of him, balanced easily on the balls of his feet, waiting.
The Saint said slowly: “There could be a nasty accident.” Lembick’s eyes were like slits of carborundum. “I’m waiting for you, Gascott,” he said intently. Simon. shrugged and edged forward across the mat towards him, aware of the audience.
Suddenly he made an overhand lunge — in less than deadly earnest, and knowing that it was not the attack of an expert knife fighter.
But Lembick wasn’t pulling his own punches. He took a half-pace forward to meet the mock attack; and then the downward looping arc of the Saint’s wrist was terminated abruptly and jarringly by the blocking V of a virtually impenetrable barrier formed by Lembick’s crossed forearms. And then, without an instant’s pause, one of those forearms smashed hard and sickenly into the side of the Saint’s neck.
He dropped the knife and for a moment he saw a fantasia of coloured lights that would have brought tears to the eyes of a firework display organiser. For a longer moment he heard a high-pitched little buzzer singing in his ears like some demented gnat: and then as that sound died away he heard himself say, with an icy inclemency of purpose: “I don’t think I quite got that — laddie. Do you think we might try it once more?”
The challenge was unmistakable. Lembick’s craggy features were impaled on two spear-points of frozen blue that were the Saint’s eyes.
Lembick’s lips curled back in a smile that was also a snarl.
“Pick it up, then.” He indicated the knife. “And let’s have you!”