Saint and the Templar Treasure Read Online Free Page A

anticipated any trouble. As Simon reached them the big man lashed out at the place where the Saint’s head should have been. But the target was no longer there. The Saint ducked low, his left hand catching the man’s wrist as his right arm flashed between his legs. The man yelled in pain as the Saint’s arm jarred up into his crotch, and in the same fluid movement Simon rose out of his crouch and the man felt his feet lose contact with the ground as he was held in an excruciating parody of a fireman’s lift, before the Saint stepped out from under him and left the force of gravity to help the unlucky arsonist return to earth.
    The Saint looked inquiringly at his leather-clad side-kick, but the latter turned and scooted towards the Citroen. Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw Pascal make a grab for him and shouted: “Leave him. There’s an extinguisher in my car, get it.”
    He pointed to a standpipe at the corner of the barn.
    “And you should know where to find a hose. Tell Jules!”
    Without waiting to watch his orders carried out, he plunged into the barn.
    The open door had created an updraught that had pushed the eddying billows of smoke back up into the roof and the Saint was able to see the general layout and take stock of the situation. It was worse than he had feared.
    The flames he had seen from the outside were nothing compared to those rapidly engulfing the triangles of beams supporting the roof. The far end of the barn where the fire had clearly been started was already an inferno, and an open loft stacked with wickerwork hoppers was beyond saving. Even as he watched he saw the plank floor sag and heard the timbers crack under the strain. Sparks from the beams had kindled half a dozen smaller fires among heaps of baskets by the walls, which in turn were igniting a line of wooden hand-carts.
    A truck was parked in the centre of the building facing the double doors and he made his way towards it. The deeper he moved into the barn the denser the smoke became, and by the time he reached the lorry his eyes were running with water. He knelt down and sucked the fresher air nearer the floor into his lungs while he considered his next move.
    The barn had been stocked with everything needed for the coming harvest. The baskets and hoppers would be used to carry the grapes from the fields to where the truck would transport them back to the chai for pressing. He remembered Pascal’s talk of the recent accidents that had plagued the vineyard and smiled grimly.
    It was obvious that the building was doomed, but he refused to admit total defeat so quickly.
    “Whatever makes anyone want to be a fireman?” he asked himself as he wiped the water from his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and stood up.
    As he did so the floor of the loft finally gave way and crashed down in an explosion of sparks. Some of the burning spars fell across the open door, cutting off any attempt at retreat in that direction. The entire roof was alight now and the heat scorched his face as he ran to the cab of the truck.
    The vehicle was of pre-war lineage, and he cursed as he realised that self-starters had been considered a luxury when it had first been put on the road. He pulled himself up into the cab and gave silent thanks when he saw that at least the key had been left in the ignition. He turned it and jumped out again. The smoke was becoming thicker every second and it was all he could do to see his way to the front of the radiator. Every breath was becoming a painful effort, and he knew that if the starting handle was not already in place there would be no time to search for it. But again the gods were with him, and he took hold of it and began to crank the engine.
    At the first turn the engine coughed. At the second it spluttered briefly and died again. Sparks rained down on him and threatened to singe his hair and clothes. His chest felt as if he had swallowed vitriol, but he calmly swung the handle a third time, stubbornly refusing