Shah-Mak

by Alan Williams

  Pol’s chins rippled with mirth. ‘My dear friend, I know the whole routine from Indo-China and Algeria. The only difference is that you British, with your great reputation for fair play, gave up your glorious Empire like gentlemen. It didn’t matter that a few gentlemen — like the good Capitaine Packer — were using their expertise to burst men’s kidneys with their thumbs, or to half drown a suspect in a bucket of his own urine. Nothing mattered as long as the British public went on believing that their army behaved like gentlemen, and no one told them otherwise.’

  ‘At least we won in Malaya,’ Packer scowled, ‘and didn’t leave a bloody mess like Indo-China.’

  ‘This is not a political discussion, Monsieur Packer. I am interested in you as an individual. Let us go back to a small incident in Cyprus. There was a young secretary in the GOC’s office in Nicosia, and there had been leaks to the Press about ill treatment of EOKA suspects. One night he had an unfortunate accident — fell out of a third-floor window, didn’t he? — after a wild party at the Ledra Palace Hotel. Broke his spine — pauvre type. I understand he will never walk again. You were one of the guests at the party, of course.’

  Packer sat stiffly forward on a mock Empire chair, listening with a mixture of bewilderment and rage to the accuracy of this cruel curriculum vitae from which the unknown Pol seemed to be selecting only atrocities and failures.

  ‘I was discharged from the army nearly ten years ago,’ he said at last. ‘Is that as far as your spies were able to dig?’

  Pol spread his hands. The rest is a little mundane, mon cher Capitaine. You remained on the reserve, attached to this rather obscure organization — I cannot remember the name. Otherwise, you got a job for a short time as a bank security guard. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Nobody tried to rob me or cosh me or take a shot at me. I got bored.’

  ‘Then you enrolled as a student in an art school outside London.’ Pol made a clucking noise. ‘Rather out of character, surely? A killer with a love of art — that is hardly an English trait.’

  ‘I’m Welsh. Anyway, how do you know? The War Office files aren’t that thorough.’

  ‘No, but the police are. You seduced one of your fellow pupils and got her pregnant. When she asked for the money for an abortion, you said you didn’t have any. Her brother entered the act and there was a fight. You were drunk. He was ten days in hospital and you spent three months in prison. The rest is eccentric, perhaps, but not entirely irrelevant. During your last dry-out in hospital you developed an odd skill, in the way of occupational therapy. You started building model windmills. Eventually you became so expert that you were able to sell them. You do it now as a full-time job.’

  ‘You don’t have to go on any more,’ said Packer. ‘That last bit isn’t on any army or police file. Now just tell me how you got it all.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, it does matter. When I wipe my arse, I like to do it in private. You wait until I’m having a quiet weekend in Amsterdam, then you pick me up with my girl in a tulip field and — rather cunningly, now I come to think of it — you contrive to have me run you across a couple of frontiers and sit me down in this hotel and expect me not to ask questions. Why France, anyway? Why not back in Amsterdam? Or, better still, London?’

  ‘The answer to your last question,’ said Pol, ‘is that my presence in your country is not altogether welcome.’

  ‘Then how the hell were you able to get the information in the first place?’

  Pol sat with his fat little hands folded across his stomach, the kiss-curl and goatee looking stiff and artificial against the rest of his hairless face, like adornments on a huge Easter egg. ‘I understand your point of view perfectly, Capitaine Packer. But please understand mine. Our relations with each other must, of necessity, be extremely delicate at this stage. I must win your complete confidence, while at the same time not betraying the confidence of my employer. And my employer, Capitaine Packer, is a man who plays the comedy with absolutely no one. That I promise you.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Packer. ‘What’s the colour of his money? And what does he want done for it?’

  Pol had turned his head without moving his vast body, and was watching the tide swirl in across the mud flats at the speed of trotting horses. ‘For yourself, half a million English pounds,’ he said at last; ‘or the equivalent in gold, or any other currency you prefer, paid into the bank of your choice.’

  Owen Packer sat very still and straight in his chair. He waited, watching Pol, saying nothing.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ Pol added, ‘or perhaps a citron pressé?’

  ‘I’d like a bloody big drink,’ Packer muttered, in English.

  ‘You know that is not permitted,’ Pol replied gently, still in French. ‘Your last medical report described your mental condition as emotional, but basically stable — providing you avoid alcohol.’ He smiled. ‘I sympathize deeply, mon cher.’

  ‘The bastards. And they say England’s a free country!’ He looked at Pol. ‘What’s the job?’

  Pol shifted his buttocks and belched. ‘You are very direct, my friend. I hope — particularly after the unfortunate incident this morning — that you are taking me seriously?’

  ‘Entirely seriously,’ Packer replied, without irony; and repeated, ‘What’s the job?’

  ‘Your old profession. Simply, to kill a man.’

  Packer nodded. ‘For half a million pounds?’ He paused. ‘The last I heard, the going rate in London was between two and three thousand. You must be getting into a pretty high-class league.’

  Pol gave him a beady stare. ‘I am certainly not hiring some cheap hoodlum with the brain of a dinosaur and the morals of a rattlesnake.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ said Packer; ‘but why me? The British army turns out dozens of us every year. Some even have clean records. They usually get jobs in public relations or industry — poor bastards. What makes me so special?’

  ‘Your present occupation, mon cher. Your occupation of building model windmills and selling them extremely well to rich Americans. I have been shown an article in a New York magazine, containing photographs of your work. There was also a most interesting interview with yourself.’

  ‘What the hell have model windmills got to do with killing a man for half a million pounds?’ Packer growled.

  ‘One detail which you revealed in the article struck me as particularly interesting. Although your models — certainly from the photographs in the magazine — are obviously most complex and detailed, you claim to build them without any plan or diagram. You start with a basic idea in your head and construct from there, building on each stage ad hoc. When a problem arises, you simply improvise. You also claim that you have never encountered a problem which has defeated you, and that you have never had to abandon a model before it was finished. It would also appear that these models are of a very high order.’

  ‘They each take between six months and a year to build,’ said Packer, ‘and sell at an average of 12,000 dollars. It’s a living — but it’s about a hundredth of what you’re offering me now. Why?’

  Pol gazed out at the estuary where the tide was now full and the fishing boats were bobbing upright in the dusk. Lights winked at them from Saint Valery. It was nearly six o’clock. Packer wondered how long it would be before Sarah had finished painting her face and applying her fixtures and fittings; but Pol seemed in no hurry to come to the point.

  ‘You construct a framework, then add the mechanism to fit the framework,’ he was murmuring, half to himself, ‘wheels that move other wheels — pulleys — ropes — ladders — trapdoors. Everything to fit exactly. Every detail made to measure, and to work. And all without a master plan.’

  ‘You think a man can be killed like that?’ Packer sneered. ‘What we English call a “one-off job”. A psychopath with a cheap rifle on the fifth floor of a school book depository — or a teenage student with a one-shot pistol standing in a crowded street in Sar
ajevo.’

  Pol patted his belly. ‘Not precisely. But already you have the principle. It is true that most successful assassinations in history have been what you might call “accidents”, and that the really organized attempts — against Peter the Great, Napoleon, Queen Victoria, Hitler, de Gaulle — all failed. They failed because their planning was too careful, too grandiose, too well organized.’ He gave a mischievous chuckle. ‘I intend to construct a plan which is both organized and random.’

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ said Packer. ‘Why me? Not because I killed a few men in Malaya and can stick some pieces of balsa wood together and flog them to a few dumb Texans as mobile art. That’s not good enough, Monsieur Pol.’

  ‘No,’ said Pol, ‘it isn’t. Your great virtue, Capitaine Packer, is that you are a misfit — a flawed character — a failure.’ He paused; Packer had gone rather pale and his long upper lip was sucked in against his teeth. He said nothing.

  Pol went on: ‘The man in question not only lives in the constant expectation of an assassination attempt, but several such attempts have already been made. Also, besides being one of the most closely guarded men in the world, he has an excellent Intelligence Service. We must assume at once that he will quickly get wind of any new plan. And the first thing he will do is to order his Security chiefs to draw up a full list of international suspects.

  ‘A superficial list would not be difficult to compile. He would certainly receive the active assistance of almost every friendly Intelligence organization outside the Communist bloc. The first candidates would be his own nationals — refugees and self-exiles who oppose his regime. These would not, for obvious reasons, stand much chance on their own. But he will also be looking out for foreign mercenaries and “guns for hire”. Here again, the most likely candidates will be those with clean records — in civilian life, at least. The professionals from Algeria, the Congo, the Yemen and Biafra, and perhaps a few disenchanted American veterans from Vietnam.’

  ‘That would make one hell of a long list,’ said Packer.

  ‘Perhaps. But as I said, the gentleman in question has a very large Security force, consisting of many times more men than would ever join such a list.’ He leaned forward with a creak of silk and pressed his thumbs together. ‘But even supposing that one of these professionals escaped his surveillance, there would still be one flaw. The same flaw that blemishes all elaborate assassination attempts. The assassin, or assassins, will resort to the most subtle artefacts of the trade, as well as the most obvious. False passports, ingenious disguises, scientific weapons — the whole arsenal of what the Americans call “The Department of Dirty Tricks”.’ He flapped his hand dismissively.

  ‘We, Capitaine Packer, will approach the matter rather differently. We will even indulge in a little double bluff. Our victim, if he is as thorough as I think he is, would probably include you in his original list of suspects. But not for long, I think. He will reason just as you did — that after a good start, you ruined your professional career, and ended with a history of alcoholism, criminal violence, and mental instability. Besides —’ he chuckled — ‘grown men who earn their living building model windmills, do not go around assassinating Heads of State.

  ‘But there will be a second stage to our double bluff,’ he went on. ‘Besides you, I have also recruited a rather bizarre gentleman by the name of Samuel David Ryderbeit. He is already in the neighbourhood and — providing you are still willing — you will be meeting him soon. He is a very open character and does not require much explanation. It is enough to say that he was formerly a Rhodesian and has spent much of the last fifteen years hiring out his services — which are considerable — to various doubtful causes. He has these valuable qualities. He is a crack shot, with almost any weapon. He is one of the best pilots in the world — at least, on the free market. And he is totally without fear.’

  Packer groaned. ‘Oh God, not one of those! Another gun-happy White African killer! His sort they’ll have on a list already, without even drawing up a new one.’

  ‘The essence of a successful assassination,’ Pol said calmly, ‘is not merely precision of planning, or courage, or even luck. The vital element is that the victim should be confused. He may suspect a former counter-terrorist officer with an alcohol problem. He will certainly suspect Sammy Ryderbeit. But then there will be other, subtler elements that he will not suspect. While he is looking for the obvious, professional killer, his back will be turned to the real danger.’

  There was a long pause. Packer watched Pol idly scratching his silk crotch. They could hear the burble of voices from the bar below. It was quite dark now.

  ‘What real danger, Monsieur Pol?’

  Pol tilted his chair perilously back and jerked his head at the wall. ‘Next door, my friend. In your room.’

  Packer was not shocked or outraged. He was disappointed; for during the last half-hour he had begun to take Charles Pol almost seriously.

  ‘Well, one thing’s for certain,’ he said at last: ‘whoever you’ve got in your sights isn’t going to have her on his list!’

  ‘That is correct,’ Pol said.

  Packer paused and sat looking across at him. ‘You’ve got an expensive sense of humour, haven’t you?’

  ‘I have been entrusted with enough money to afford one,’ said Pol; and for a moment there was a hard gleam in his eyes which Packer had not seen before.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ Packer said, suddenly beginning to doubt his judgement.

  ‘Absolutely serious.’

  Packer let out a long breath. ‘All right, what does her dossier say? No, don’t tell me. I can look it all up in the press cuttings when I get back — gossip columns going back nearly eight years. She started young — on her seventeenth birthday, when Mama gave a ball for her at their family seat, and Papa gave her a car. She got broken in early. Most girls get hurt at least once, and some of them seem to get hurt the whole bloody time. But not this one. She’s lived on and off with three different men, and each one of them she’s sliced up like a razor. But that doesn’t qualify her to help kill one of the world’s leaders.’

  ‘You love her?’

  ‘Yes. It’s been going on for just over a year now and every day’s been like the Eastern Front.’

  Pol spread his hands. ‘You are being self-indulgent, my friend. What influence do you have over her?’

  ‘None whatever. She does what she likes, when she likes, as she likes. The trouble is, she’s a knockout. When she wants, she can be the most vivacious, amusing, exhilarating girl you can imagine.’

  ‘I don’t imagine these things,’ said Pol. ‘Your own sentiments for her are purely subjective. What concerns me is the effect she has on others. Of the three serious lovers whom you mentioned, I understand that at least two were considered to be among your country’s most eligible young men. The third was connected with your aristocracy, and was married. Of course, she is very well connected socially herself. Not exactly la noblesse, I understand, but the true grande bourgeoisie. But what is her real secret?’

  ‘Bedroom eyes,’ said Packer, ‘and style. The sort of girl who walks into a room and everyone, including the women, turns round to look at her. And most women, except her closest friends, loathe her.’

  ‘She is acceptable in almost any society, however high,’ Pol said softly, as though half to himself. ‘Her family’s fortunes are also in difficulties. The present economic situation in Great Britain, combined with certain Socialist measures to curb inheritance, threatens her father’s wealth, while she herself has a humble job in an art gallery. It is hardly a satisfactory situation for a girl of class, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘She’ll survive,’ said Packer. ‘If she’d been on the Titanic, you can bet your balls she’d have been in the first lifeboat — as a first-class passenger, of course. Her stated ambition is to live it up until she’s thirty, then marry a rich man with at least one big house in the country, and perhaps a little place in Prove
nce thrown in.’

  ‘Is she greedy?’

  ‘Selective. Spoiled. And broke. That’s to say, she’s always complaining about not having enough money, and I finish up paying the bills. And for her it’s nothing but the best. Even her marmalade has to be twice as expensive as any other brand — not because of the taste, but because it comes in beautiful ceramic jars. She’s always going on about how she loves beautiful things.’

  ‘Does she love you?’

  ‘No. She likes me, and she uses me. I also interest her, vaguely. She hasn’t met anyone like me before. Not in her class, I’m afraid. The one thing she’s really scared of is getting her name linked with mine in the gossip columns.’

  Pol shook with laughter. ‘You are lost, my friend! Have you ever tried beating her?’

  Packer hesitated. ‘No. I might end up killing her.’

  ‘Ah, that would be a pity, mon cher —’ he was still laughing — ‘but I fear you are lost. No matter! It is all part of the human comedy. The immediate solution is to make you the rich man, then your problems are over.’

  ‘Fine. And where does that leave her?’

  ‘If you are careful, mon cher, it will leave her with a house in the country, and perhaps a farmhouse in Provence.’

  Packer leaned forward; he spoke slowly, quietly. ‘Monsieur Pol, do I understand that you intend to involve her in this little charade of yours?’

  ‘My friend, in French we have a proverb: “There are never indiscreet questions, only indiscreet answers.” I will reply as discreetly as I can. Mademoiselle Sarah is your affair. She appears to be a charming girl, and she might — with a little persuasion, and perhaps the offer of money — prove very useful to our enterprise. But that is entirely a matter for your own judgement. I am offering to employ you to draw up a plan — that is all. Whether I accept your plan, or insist that it be amended, is up to me. For the moment, I am merely your paymaster and parrain.’