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From the Bell Post House, he followed Yakovitz’s directions until they swung onto a rutted, unpaved road that wound through a thin belt of trees to peter out before a pair of tall iron gates that were the only break in a high redbrick wall. Beyond the gates, a gravel drive swept in a wide arc for some three hundred yards until it reached an elegant white stone house of the sort that real estate agents are moved to call a luxurious country residence.

As soon as the Hirondel stopped at the gates, two men emerged from the shelter of the wall. Both carried shotguns, and while one levelled his weapon at the occupants of the car, the other opened one gate and walked over to the driver’s side of the car. He scrutinized the pass that Yakovitz extended and finally nodded to his companion, who lowered his gun and opened the other gate. The man who had come out spoke briefly into a two-way radio that he took from his breast pocket and waved them through.

Hakim was beginning to come around once again by the time they pulled up at the portico but he offered no resistance when Yakovitz dragged him roughly from the car and half carried, half dragged him up the wide steps.

Inside, the air was stale and heavy with the tang of mothballs and sickly smell of fresh paint. The furniture was hidden under white dust sheets, and there were ladders propped against the walls. Their footsteps echoed as they crossed the uncarpeted hall and went through a rear door to the kitchen. The room contained only a table and a few plain wooden chairs, a gas stove on which simmered a battered coffeepot, and an open larder whose shelves were stacked high with tinned food. A telephone and a small radio transmitter slightly larger than the one worn by the guard at the gate stood on the table.

Two men rose to greet them as they entered. Yakovitz dumped his prisoner in a chair and while one of the men tied the Arab’s hands and feet he told them the basic details of what had happened.

The Saint poured himself a cup of coffee and sat in a chair opposite Hakim. The Arab was wide awake now, and Simon could see the fear behind the defiant set of his features. It was a unique experience, for him, to have the privilege of observing a thoroughly terrified terrorist, and after the wanton assault on his home he wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

“So what do we do now?” he enquired genially. “Is it going to be castration with red-hot spoons or a simple force-feeding with boiling oil? Or do you boys have something more scientific to offer?”

He saw Hakim’s larnyx take a gulp, and grinned encouragingly.

“Don’t worry, Abdul, old camel. They tell me you don’t give a damn after the third hour.”

Neither of the two Israelis on duty had previously paid much attention to the Saint, assuming that he was merely Yakovitz’s aide and therefore a minor member of their organisation. They looked enquiringly at Yakovitz, who grudgingly related the Saint’s role before and during Hakim’s capture. The Saint acknowledged the account with a bow, and the other two agents regarded him with new respect but no extravagant display of friendship.

“As I said, what happens now?” Simon repeated.

Yakovitz smiled faintly, as if he had already been framing the answer to the Saint’s question. The way in which the other two men reacted to him showed that he was their superior, and he was obviously enjoying being in charge for the time being, instead of acting as just an assistant to Leila and the Saint.

“That does not concern you, Mr. Templar,” he said. “Your job is now completed. You have done us great service, and I am sure our government will show its appreciation. I now arrange for you to be taken back to London.”

The Saint shook his head.

“You forget that this is now my game too,” he returned calmly. “After last night I’ve got a personal score to settle with Masrouf and his cronies, and if Hakim the Horrible can tell us anything about where I may be able to find them, then I want to hear it. Also, the way I see it, my job isn’t completed until I know that Captain Zabin is safe. She should have telephoned here before we arrived, and obviously she hasn’t. So I think I’ll just hang around.”

Yakovitz’s face reddened at the challenge to his authority.

“You are not permitted to do anything except what you are told. Any action you take against Masrouf is your business, but I am afraid you cannot stay here.”

The Saint stretched out his legs and settled more comfortably into his chair.

“And which of you is going to be the first to try and move me?” he queried interestedly.

He appreciated that he was actually in no position to argue with whatever Yakovitz decided. One against three were odds he had tackled before, but even with his supreme confidence in his own abilities he recognised the fact that they were armed and probably trained in unarmed combat as well. His one real hope of staying was that Yakovitz was unsure of the limits of his authority.

Yakovitz hesitated, conscious that his men were looking to him for a lead, but whatever that directive would have been was never known. The radio on the table buzzed and Yakovitz flicked a switch.

“Yes?”

The voice of the guard at the gate made itself heard above the crackle of static.

“Colonel Garvi has arrived, sir.”

Yakovitz almost visibly deflated as he realised that his role was about to revert once again to that of a subordinate.

Simon smiled.

“Well, perhaps we should wait and let the good colonel decide what’s to be done with me.”

There was about a minute of awkward silence before Garvi strode into the room. He looked first at Hakim and then at Yakovitz and the Saint.

“You have both done very well,” he said.

“We try to please,” murmured the Saint ironically.

Yakovitz began to give his report on the morning’s events, but the colonel cut him short.

“I know, I know. Masrouf telephoned the embassy. They have Captain Zabin. They want to do a deal, an exchange of prisoners.”

It was no more than the Saint had dreaded to hear, but the confirmation of his fears brought an empty feeling to the pit of his stomach.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I stalled, there was nothing else I could do. I arranged for them to contact me here, after I had verified that you had Hakim.” His gaze travelled from his watch to the telephone. “They should be coming through soon. But Simon, there can only be one answer. An exchange is out of the question. Hakim is too important.”

The Saint stood up, and his eyes slashed like a sword through the middle of the other’s sentence.

“And Leila? What about her? Or is she expendable for the good of the cause?”

Garvi turned away and stared down at Hakim. When he faced Simon again he was markedly paler and looked years older than he had twenty-four hours before. In any other circumstances the Saint might have felt sorry for him for the decision he had had to make.

“If it were just a matter of a life for a life, I might have to agree. But it is not that simple. The information that this man can give us may save hundreds of lives. Innocent lives. Captain Zabin understood this, she knew the risks when she volunteered for the job. I know her, Simon. I know her far better than you do, and I know she would not thank us for saving her if that was the price we had to pay.”

“So you’re not even going to give her a chance, Colonel.”

Garvi replied softly, almost pleading for understanding: “Simon, I have no choice.”