The Day of the Jackal

by Frederick Forsyth

  The Belgian reached into the drawer of the desk and pulled out a box of a hundred bullets. The seals of the packet had been broken, and six shells were missing.

  ‘These are for practice,’ said the armourer. ‘I have taken six others out for converting them to explosive tips.’

  The Jackal poured a handful of the shells into his hand and looked at them. They seemed terribly small for the job one of them would have to do, but he noticed they were the extra-long type of that calibre, the extra explosive charge giving the bullet a very high velocity, and consequently increased accuracy and killing power. The tips too were pointed, where most hunting bullets are snub-nosed, and where hunting bullets have a dull leaden head, these were tipped with cupro-nickel. They were competition rifle bullets of the same calibre as the hunting gun he held.

  ‘Where are the real shells?’ asked the assassin.

  M. Goossens went to the desk again and produced a screw of tissue paper.

  ‘Normally, of course, I keep these in a very safe place,’ he explained, ‘but since I knew you were coming, I got them out.’

  He undid the screw of paper and poured the contents out on to the white blotter. At first glance the bullets looked the same as those the Englishman was pouring from his cupped hand back into the cardboard box. When he had finished he took one of the bullets off the blotter and examined it closely.

  From a small area around the extreme tip of the bullet the cupro-nickel had been finely sanded away to expose the lead inside. The sharp tip of the bullet had been slightly blunted, and into the nose a tiny hole had been drilled down the length of the nose-cap for a quarter of an inch. Into this aperture a droplet of mercury was poured, then the hole was tamped with a drop of liquid lead. After the lead had hardened, it too was filed and papered until the original pointed shape of the bullet tip had been exactly re-created.

  The Jackal knew about these bullets, although he had never had occasion to use one. Far too complex to be used en masse except if factory-produced, banned by the Geneva Convention, more vicious than the simple dum-dum, the explosive bullet would go off like a small grenade when it hit the human body. On firing, the droplet of mercury would be slammed back in its cavity by the forward rush of the bullet, as when a car passenger is pressed into his seat by a violent acceleration. As soon as the bullet struck flesh, gristle or bone, it would experience a sudden deceleration.

  The effect on the mercury would be to hurl the droplet forwards towards the plugged front of the bullet. Here its onward rush would rip away the tip of the slug, splaying the lead outwards like the fingers of an open hand or the petals of a blossoming flower. In this shape the leaden projectile would tear through nerve and tissue, ripping, cutting, slicing, leaving fragments of itself over an area the size of a tea-saucer. Hitting the head, such a bullet would not emerge, but would demolish everything inside the cranium, forcing the bone-shell to fragment from the terrible pressure energy released inside.

  The assassin put the bullet carefully back on the tissue paper. Beside him the mild little man who had designed it was looking up at him quizzically.

  ‘They look all right to me. You are evidently a craftsman, M. Goossens. What then is the problem?’

  ‘It is the other, monsieur. The tubes. These have been more difficult to fabricate than I had imagined. First I used aluminium as you suggested. But please understand I acquired and perfected the gun first. That is why I only got around to doing the other things a few days ago. I had hoped it would be relatively simple, with my skill and the machinery I have in my workshop.

  ‘But in order to keep the tubes as narrow as possible, I bought very thin metal. It was too thin. When threaded on my machine for later assembly piece by piece, it was like tissue paper. It bent when the slightest pressure was put upon it. In order to keep the inside measurement big enough to accommodate the breech of the rifle at its widest part, and yet get thicker-metalled tubes, I had to produce something that simply would not have looked natural. So I decided on stainless steel.

  ‘It was the only thing. It looks just like aluminium, but slightly heavier. Being stronger, it can be thinner. It can take the thread and still be tough enough not to bend. Of course, it is a harder metal to work, and it takes time. I began yesterday …’

  ‘All right. What you say is logical. The point is, I need it, and I need it perfect. When?’

  The Belgian shrugged. ‘It is difficult to say. I have all the basic components, unless other problems crop up. Which I doubt. I am certain the last technical problems are licked. Five days, six days. A week perhaps …’

  The Englishman showed no signs of his annoyance. The face remained impassive, studying the Belgian as he completed his explanations. When he had finished, the other was still thinking.

  ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘It will mean an alteration of my travelling plans. But perhaps not as serious as I thought the last time I was here. That depends to a certain degree on the results of a telephone call I shall have to make. In any event, it will be necessary for me to acclimatise myself to the gun, and that may as well be done in Belgium as anywhere else. But I shall need the gun and the undoctored shells, plus one of the doctored ones. Also, I shall need some peace and quiet in which to practise. Where would one pick in this country to test a new rifle in conditions of complete secrecy? Over a hundred and thirty to a hundred and fifty metres in the open air?’

  M. Goossens thought for a moment. ‘In the forest of the Ardennes,’ he said at length. ‘There are great reaches of forest there where a man may be alone for several hours. You could be there and back in a day. Today is Thursday, the weekend starts tomorrow and the woods might be too full of people picnicking. I would suggest Monday the 5th. By Tuesday or Wednesday I hope to have the rest of the job finished.’

  The Englishman nodded, satisfied.

  ‘All right. I think I had better take the gun and the ammunition now. I shall contact you again on Tuesday or Wednesday next week.’

  The Belgian was about to protest when the customer forestalled him.

  ‘I believe I still owe you some seven hundred pounds. Here …’ he dropped another few bundles of notes on to the blotter … ‘is a further five hundred pounds. The outstanding two hundred pounds you will receive when I get the rest of the equipment.’

  ‘Merci, monsieur’ said the armourer, scooping the five bundles of twenty five-pound notes into his pocket. Piece by piece he disassembled the rifle, placing each component carefully into its green baize-lined compartment in the carrying case. The single explosive bullet the assassin had asked for was wrapped in a separate piece of tissue paper and slotted into the case beside the cleaning rags and brushes. When the case was closed, he proffered it and the box of shells to the Englishman, who pocketed the shells and kept the neat attaché case in his hand.

  M. Goossens showed him politely out.

  The Jackal arrived back at his hotel in time for a late lunch. First he placed the case containing the gun carefully in the bottom of the wardrobe, locked it and pocketed the key.

  In the afternoon he strolled unhurriedly into the main post office and asked for a call to a number in Zürich, Switzerland. It took half an hour for the call to be put through and another five minutes until Herr Meier came on the line. The Englishman introduced himself by quoting a number and then giving his name.

  Herr Meier excused himself and came back two minutes later. His tone had lost the cautious reserve it had previously had. Customers whose accounts in dollars and Swiss francs grew steadily merited courteous treatment. The man in Brussels asked one question, and again the Swiss banker excused himself, this time to be back on the line in less than thirty seconds. He had evidently had the customer’s file and statement brought out of the safe and was studying it.

  ‘No, mein Herr,’ the voice crackled into the Brussels phone booth. ‘We have here your letter of instruction requiring us to inform you by letter express airmail the moment any fresh in-payments are made, but there have been no
ne over the period you mention.’

  ‘I only wondered, Herr Meier, because I have been away from London for two weeks and it might have come in my absence.’

  ‘No, there has been nothing. The moment anything is paid in we shall inform you without delay.’

  In a flurry of Herr Meier’s good wishes the Jackal put the phone down, settled the amount charged, and left.

  He met the forger in the bar off the Rue Neuve that evening, arriving shortly after six. The man was there already, and the Englishman spotted a corner seat still free, ordering the forger to join him with a jerk of his head. A few seconds after he had sat down and lit a cigarette the Belgian joined him.

  ‘Finished?’ asked the Englishman.

  ‘Yes, all finished. And very good work, even if I do say so myself.’

  The Englishman held out his hand.

  ‘Show me,’ he ordered. The Belgian lit one of his Bastos, and shook his head.

  ‘Please understand, monsieur, this is a very public place. Also one needs a good light to examine them, particularly the French cards. They are at the studio.’

  The Jackal studied him coldly for a moment, then nodded.

  ‘All right. We’ll go and have a look at them in private.’

  They left the bar a few minutes later and took a taxi to the corner of the street where the basement studio was situated. It was still a warm, sunny evening, and as always when out of doors the Englishman wore his wrap-around dark glasses that masked the upper half of his face from possible recognition. But the street was narrow and no sun percolated. One old man passed them coming the other way, but he was bent with arthritis and shuffled with his head to the ground.

  The forger led the way down the steps and unlocked the door from a key on his ring. Inside the studio it was almost as dark as if it were night outside. A few shafts of dullish daylight filtered between the ghastly photographs stuck to the inside of the window beside the door, so that the Englishman could make out the shapes of the chair and table in the outer office. The forger led the way through the two velvet curtains into the studio and switched on the centre light.

  From inside his pocket he drew a flat brown envelope, tipped it open and spread the contents on the small round mahogany table that stood to one side, a ‘prop’ for the taking of portrait photographs. The table he then lifted over to the centre of the room and placed it under the centre light. The twin arc lamps above the tiny stage at the far back of the studio remained unlit.

  ‘Please, monsieur.’ He smiled broadly and gestured towards the three cards lying on the table. The Englishman picked the first up and held it under the light. It was his driving licence, the first page covered by a stuck-on tab of paper. This informed the reader that ‘Mr Alexander James Quentin Duggan of London W1 is hereby licensed to drive motor vehicles of Groups 1a, 1b, 2, 3, 11, 12 and 13 only from 10 DEC 1960 until 9 DEC 1963 inclusive.’ Above this was the licence number (an imaginary one, of course) and the words ‘London County Council’ and ‘Road Traffic Act 1960.’ Then, ‘DRIVING LICENCE’, and ‘Fee of 15/- received.’ So far as the Jackal could tell, it was a perfect forgery, certainly enough for his purposes.

  The second card was simply a French carte d’identité in the name of André Martin, aged fifty-three, born at Colmar and resident in Paris. His own photograph, aged by twenty years, with iron-grey hair cut en brosse, muzzy and embarrassed, stared out of a tiny corner of the card. The card itself was stained and dog-eared, a working man’s card.

  The third specimen interested him most. The photograph on it was slightly different from the one on the ID card, for the date of issue of each card was different by several months, since the renewal dates would probably not have coincided precisely, had they been real. The card bore another portrait of himself that had been taken nearly two weeks earlier, but the shirt seemed to be darker and there was a hint of stubble round the chin of the photo on the card he now held. This effect had been achieved by skilful retouching, giving the impression of two different photographs of the same man, taken at different times and in different clothes. In both cases the draughtsmanship of the forgery was excellent. The Jackal looked up and pocketed the cards.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Just what I wanted. I congratulate you. There is fifty pounds outstanding, I believe.’

  ‘That is true, monsieur. Merci.’ The forger waited expectantly for the money. The Englishman drew a single wad of ten five-pound notes from his pocket and handed them over.

  Before he let go of the end of the wad that he held between forefinger and thumb he said, ‘I believe there is something more, no?’

  The Belgian tried unsuccessfully to look as if he did not comprehend.

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘The genuine front page of the driving licence. The one I said I wanted back.’

  There could be no doubt now that the forger was playing theatre. He raised his eyebrows in extravagant surprise, as if the thought had just occurred to him, let go of the wad of bills, and turned away. He walked several paces one way, head bowed as if deep in thought, hands held behind his back. Then he turned and walked back.

  ‘I thought we might be able to have a little chat about that piece of paper, monsieur.’

  ‘Yes?’ The Jackal’s tone gave nothing away. It was flat, without expression, apart from a slight interrogative. The face said nothing either, and the eyes seemed half shrouded as if they stared only into their own private world.

  ‘The fact is, monsieur, that the original front page of the driving licence, with, I imagine, your real name on it, is not here. Oh, please, please …’ he made an elaborate gesture as if to reassure one seized by anxiety, which the Englishman gave no sense of being … ‘it is in a very safe place. In a private deed-box in a bank, which can be opened by no one but me. You see, monsieur, a man in my precarious line of business has to take precautions, take out, if you like, some form of insurance.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Now, my dear sir, I had hoped that you might be prepared to do business on the basis of an exchange of ownership of that piece of paper, business based on a sum somewhat above the last figure of a hundred and fifty pounds which we mentioned in this room.’

  The Englishman sighed softly, as if slightly puzzled by the ability of Man to complicate unnecessarily his own existence on this earth. He gave no other sign that the proposal of the Belgian interested him.

  ‘You are interested?’ asked the forger, coyly. He was playing his part as if he had rehearsed it at length; the oblique approach, the supposedly subtle hints. It reminded the man in front of him of a bad B-picture.

  ‘I have met blackmailers before,’ said the Englishman, not an accusation, just a flat statement in a flat voice. The Belgian was shocked.

  ‘Ah, monsieur, I beg you. Blackmail? Me? What I propose is not blackmail, since that is a process that repeats itself. I propose simply a trade. The whole package for a certain sum of money. After all, I have in my deed-box the original of your licence, the developed plates and all the negatives of the photographs I took of you, and, I am afraid …’ he made a regretful moue to show he was afraid … ‘one other picture taken of you very quickly while you were standing under the arc lights without your make-up. I am sure these documents, in the hands of the British and French authorities, could cause you some inconvenience. You are evidently a man accustomed to paying in order to avoid the inconveniences of life …’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘One thousand pounds, monsieur.’

  The Englishman considered the proposition, nodding quietly as if it was of mild academic interest only.

  ‘It would be worth that amount to me to recover those documents,’ he conceded.

  The Belgian grinned triumphantly. ‘I am most glad to hear it, monsieur.’

  ‘But the answer is no,’ went on the Englishman, as if he were still thinking hard. The Belgian’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘But why? I do not understand. You say it is worth a thousand pounds to
you to have them back. It is a straight deal. We are both used to dealing in desirable property and being paid for it.’

  ‘There are two reasons,’ said the other mildly. ‘Firstly I have no evidence whatever that the original negatives of the photographs have not been copied, so that the first demand would not be succeeded by others. Nor have I any evidence that you have not given the documents to a friend, who when asked to produce them will suddenly decide that he no longer has them, unless he too is sweetened to the tune of another thousand pounds.’

  The Belgian looked relieved. ‘If that is all that worries you, your fears are groundless. Firstly, it would be in my interest not to entrust the documents to any partner, for fear that he might not produce them. I do not imagine you would part with a thousand pounds without receiving the documents. So there is no reason for me to part with them. I repeat, they are in a bank deposit box.

  ‘From the point of view of repeated requests for money, that would not make sense. A photostat copy of the driving licence would not impress the British authorities, and even if you were caught with a false driving licence it would only cause you some inconvenience, but not enough to justify several payments of money to me. As for the French cards, if the French authorities were informed that a certain Englishman were masquerading as a non-existent Frenchman called André Martin they might indeed arrest you if you passed in France under that name. But if I were to make repeated requests for money it would become worth your while to throw the cards away and get another forger to make you a new set. Then you would no longer need to fear exposure while in France as André Martin, since Martin would have ceased to exist.’

  ‘Then why cannot I do that now?’ asked the Englishman, ‘since another complete set would cost me probably no more than an extra one hundred and fifty pounds?’

  The Belgian gestured with hands apart, palms upwards.

  ‘I am banking on the fact that convenience and the time element to you are worth money. I think you need those André Martin papers and my silence in not too long a time. To get another set made would involve a lot more time, and they would not be as good. Those you have are perfect. So you want the papers, and my silence, and both now. The papers you have My silence costs a thousand pounds.’