He went on as fast as he dared. He could see Mary Bannerman’s small car, and a few feet beyond it, tied alongside the low bank, a grayish-looking, medium-sized cruiser with lights glowing behind the curtains of its portholes. There were no other cars. Apparently the boat had been moved there from another mooring up or down the river after its occupants had driven to it. Maybe the two from the churchyard were not there, although it seemed likely they should have hurried out to report their failure to Peterson.
There was not much to be gained by mere speculation. Between Simon and the boat, separating the pasture from the tow-path, was a ramshackle fence put together of wire and iron posts. The only inconspicuous way for him to get through was on his hands and knees. Holding his gun at ready, he dropped to the ground and started through an opening below the last strand of wire.
That was when a voice behind him said: “Stop there, Templar, or I’ll blow your head off!”
9
There was no room for argument. The Saint was not in a position to move quickly or even to see behind him. His main emotion was sheer rage at himself. He had been in a thousand more dangerous situations, but rarely in one which he could blame so completely on his own carelessness.
“Just hold it there,” the voice said. Then it rose to a shout. “Come on, Benson!”
The tall man from the churchyard appeared on the deck of the boat and jumped ashore.
“Drop the gun!” he ordered.
Simon obeyed, continued on through the fence, and stood up. Jeff Peterson came out of the trees carrying a rifle. The man called Benson picked up the Saint’s pistol.
“On to the boat,” Peterson said. “Tie him up.”
The hefty man from the churchyard came up from the boat’s cabin, and Mary was with him.
“You’re very observant,” Simon called to her cheerfully. “I thought I’d kept out of sight most of the way.”
“She didn’t need to be observant,” Peterson said. “Benson was watching the road.”
Benson’s rough-faced companion grabbed the Saint’s arm and shoved him toward the boat. Simon yielded, and then with a sudden shift of balance pushed the man with a splash into the narrow space between the side of the boat and the short perpendicular drop of the bank. Amid the general consternation and cursing, Simon continued obediently — mindful of the two guns pointed at him — down into the cabin.
“Lie down on your face in the bunk,” Peterson said.
Simon followed the order, and Benson tied his hands.
“Now I’ve got no clothes to put on and what am I going to do?” bellowed the man the Saint had shoved. “I’d like to bash...”
He was coming down the companionway, but the cabin, with a bunk on either side, was scarcely large enough for the four people who were already in it.
“Never mind, Rogers,” Peterson interrupted. “Go pace around up top until you’re dried out.”
“It’s foggy! It’s freezing! What’ll I do?”
“Try catching pneumonia,” suggested the Saint.
The man lunged at him, but Peterson pushed him back.
“Let’s keep our heads,” Peterson said. “There’s no point getting this far and then fouling things up.”
“We don’t need him!” Rogers said. “Let’s drown the blasted nosey...”
Mary Bannerman broke in. Her voice was full of panic.
“What’s the point?” she asked. “I mean, what’s the point to any of this? Haven’t we done enough?”
Simon rolled over on his side so that he could see the speakers without twisting his neck.
“Not as long as Liskard’s still on his throne!” Peterson said.
“Or until your father is on it?” Simon asked.
Peterson turned on him.
“What do you know about my father?”
“Quite a lot. I think you could find a better cause than trying to avenge him. He may have been an able man, but he was sick.”
“No sicker than Liskard’s own wife,” said Peterson.
“Liskard’s wife isn’t helping run a government,” Simon said. “Even if your father got a rough deal, it’s no reason to try to wreck your own country.”
“Getting rid of Liskard would be a favor to my country,” Peterson said.
“Amen,” said Benson.
Simon nodded with new and somewhat sad understanding.
“I see. You people are the sturdy band of young patriots who are going to cast out the tyrant and make your country free, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Tom Liskard is a tyrant!” Mary said to the Saint.
“I don’t agree,” Simon answered. “I’ve been there, you know, and I’ve seen Nagawiland. Without Liskard, the place would fall apart... at least, right at this moment. I’m not saying he’s indispensable forever.”
“You’re damned right he’s not,” Jeff Peterson put in. “The sooner we get rid of him the better it’ll be.”
Mary Bannerman looked at him with worried eyes.
“I wish you wouldn’t put it that way,” she said. “You promised me there wouldn’t be any getting rid of anybody. I mean, discrediting Tom is one thing, and I agreed. That’s why I gave you the letters. But...”
“If you think he’s got dangerous ideas about Liskard,” Simon said, “wait till you see what he does to me.”
“What will you do, Jeff?” she asked.
“Let him go when we’ve finished.”
Peterson did not sound very convincing.
“And what’ll I do?” the Saint gibed. “Recommend you for a knighthood? If you let me go you’ll get ten years in jail.” He looked at the girl. “Don’t you see where this is leading? If you’re really just after revenge, haven’t you had it? If you quit the whole thing now it won’t be...”
Suddenly Peterson’s hand lashed out and struck Simon’s face so hard that he was knocked back against the wall of the boat.
“Jeff!” the girl screamed. “Stop it!”
“I’m going,” Peterson said, avoiding the Saint’s steady, burning eyes. “The letters will have gotten to Liskard’s wife by now.”
“You sent them?” Mary Bannerman asked in astonishment. “You said he’d have two days, and it’s not...”
“That’s not the point, is it?” Peterson asked crisply. “The point is to bring him down, and there’s timing involved.”
“What kind of timing?” the girl asked, puzzled.
The three men — Benson, Rogers, and Peterson — looked at one another. None of them answered Mary Bannerman’s question.
“Keep her here,” Peterson said, jerking his head toward her. “I want to be in town when this breaks. I’ll take her car and I’ll be at her flat. Even if anybody thinks I’m involved I should be safe enough there, and I’ll be near a phone.”
“Involved in what?” the girl asked desperately.
“Involved in the revolution,” he said coldly.
She stared.
“Revolution? What...”
“Call it what you like,” Peterson said. “You don’t think we could bring down Liskard without replacing him, do you?”
“But that’s no revolution. There are men who’ll take over automatically...”
“And be no better than Liskard.”
“If you turn this into a racial thing, Peterson — stirring up the people down there, playing on the Africans’ grievances — you’ll have another Congo blood bath.”