This morning, as he lay under the cloudless sky, digesting his regular breakfast of fruit juice, one slice of toast and two cups of black coffee, one thought troubled his self-confidence. It concerned his nation’s health, which was as one with his own. In a growing child, mild bouts of neurosis were bound to occur, but in recent months a certain organ in the national body, had begun to show more serious symptoms. For while his brain despatched messages to which his country’s muscles responded perfectly, the central nervous system — which was encapsulated in his Security and Intelligence organization, NAZAK — was, coming dangerously close to schizophrenia. The Ruler suspected, but still without absolute proof, that the leaders of NAZAK — ‘the Supreme Committee for Counter-Terrorism and Public Safety’ — were no longer loyal.
His worries were lulled by the faint throb of a helicopter across the valley. He pushed up his mirror glasses and peered through the diamond-sharp sunlight, just as the tiny dragonfly shape dipped below the dark wall of the Wang, on the south-west face of the Gotschnagrat. For several seconds the sound was lost, carried away by a changing current of air; then returned, this time with a loud beat that pulsated down the valley, as the slender silver-grey machine throbbed across the town, in the vague direction of ‘Le Soupir du Soleil’.
The Ruler watched casually as it approached. The sight was not unusual and was unlikely to arouse much interest among the tourists and townsfolk below. Whenever the weather was clear there was always a Swiss army helicopter somewhere in the area, drifting over the mountain peaks and tacking up and down the valley. Few people would notice that the machines always hovered for several seconds when they were over the forest of pines that hid the large chalet on the eastern slopes above the town.
It was the avalanche season, and many passes and ski runs were closed. This winter had seen heavy snow, and with the coming of spring the Swiss authorities had doubled their precautions. Several times in the past two weeks the silence of the valley had been shattered by the echoes of mortar fire, followed by the roar of avalanches brought down prematurely.
The Ruler watched the helicopter come within a few hundred metres of the chalet, then stop, suspended above the sharp points of the pines for perhaps five seconds before the skeleton tail swung sideways-on, and there was a flash of reflected sunlight from the glass bubble cabin.
The Ruler felt a stab of panic, dispelled at once by a sense of outrage at his own weakness. He prided himself on his personal courage; and the fact that each morning when the sky was clear he exposed himself, alone, for half an hour, below the ring of naked mountains, was surely proof of this.
Yet there was always a moment — a fleeting second when his eye caught a gleam of refracted light from the mountains: from a pair of goggles, or a ski stick perhaps: or some sudden, unexplained noise from the town, amplified and distorted by the echo chamber of the valleys — when he instinctively flinched, his hand starting automatically to the alarm button set into the tiles beneath his chair. And it was in such moments that he became frighteningly aware of the fragile mortality of his slight, ageing body.
He waited until the helicopter began to move again, its nose dipping as it rose and chugged off in the direction of St Moritz. The Ruler pulled down his glasses and closed his eyes.
He was woken from a dreamless doze by a voice beside him. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, but we have received a message from the Ministry of the Interior.’ It spoke English, with a quiet familiarity, and just a trace of German accent. ‘It is from the Minister himself, so I thought you would like to see it at once.’
The Ruler turned his mirror gaze up to the young blond man beside him and took the typed sheet of decoded message that was held out to him. He read it quickly and handed it back. ‘Destroy it, Lutz. I do not want even a copy kept for the Black File.’
He felt the man’s shadow move across his face, shutting off the warm sun; and a chill crept through his tight-fitting black sweater and skiing trousers. ‘All right, Lutz, that is all.’ But the shadow remained across him.
‘Please, you will be sending no reply?’ the German asked.
‘No.’ The Ruler was relieved to feel the sun flow back over him again. He looked at his watch, which was of pale gold with a platinum twenty-four-hour dial that showed the time in all the major capitals of Europe and the Middle East.
In Mamounia, the sun would be at its zenith, and for the next four hours all activity in the capital would be stilled, as the timeless tradition of the siesta was enjoyed from the very highest in the land, down to the stall keepers and bazaar pedlars and fly-encrusted beggars. Only Marmut bem Letif would be awake and abroad. For of one thing the Ruler was certain: his new young Minister of the Interior did not pass the idle hours sleeping, begetting babies, or committing other harmless sins. Letif used this dead quarter of the day to pursue the special nature of his new office: skulking to some secret rendezvous; wallowing in the shaded marble pool and eating iced melon at the feet of Colonel Tamat and his fat noisy wife; or drinking mint tea with Doctor Zak and his circle of precocious Western-educated Marxist disciples. Letif would only return to his modest villa outside the capital late at night, when the Ruler’s work was done.
The Ruler knew that he was running a serious risk in entrusting so much to one individual. But with the present delicate balance of power, he preferred to trust himself to one man rather than to a dubious hegemony of a State Committee — or worse, to the hosts of acolytes who gathered round his throne like moths round a flame.
For the Ruler had chosen Letif with cunning. To the man’s colleagues — and especially to those unsubtle minds inside NAZAK — Marmut bem Letif was just such an acolyte. A nobody whose loyalty could be bent to the strongest will at hand. His unexpected elevation from a desk in the Ministry of Trade to his new office was seen by all as merely another puppet appointment. Only now there were others, besides the Ruler, who aspired to play the puppet master; and to these men Letif appeared, in his ultra-sensitive position as Minister of the Interior, to be the perfect, pliable creature of their power dreams.
But there was another, more sentimental reason why the Ruler had chosen Letif. For the young man was the only legitimate son of Hamid the Fox — later named Hamid the Martyr — one of the heroes of the long War of Liberation, which had ended in 1927 with the Glorious Reawakening, when the palsied carcass of the old feudal order had been finally dismembered, and the Ruler’s father had mounted the Emerald Throne of the Hama’anah. But not before his trusted lieutenant, Hamid the Fox, had fallen into the defenders’ hands and suffered a death whose details the Ruler had first heard as a child on his father’s knee, and which even now he shrank from contemplating.
Marmut bem Letif had only been an infant at the time — born from the loins of a Maronnite Christian who had died in childbirth — and Marmut had been suckled by goats and nursed by camp followers of the rebel army. From such harsh beginnings, he was soon to be included in the elite of the new regime; and after studying abroad, he returned as one of the best educated men of his generation.
The Ruler had quickly detected in Letif certain characteristics which had made Hamid the Fox the scourge of the old regime. Letif was quiet and cautious and dedicated; but he was also devious, cynical and ambitious, with a predisposition to intrigue. He was not an arrogant or flamboyant figure, but this the Ruler found reassuring; and while he realized that Letif’s ultimate disloyalty could cost him dearly, he was impelled by the perverse streak of the gambler. Rather than destroy Letif, the Ruler had decided to use him.
He shook himself awake. Such thoughts, enjoyed in the comfortable isolation of the Swiss Alps, were mere self-indulgence, of which he felt himself unworthy. He sat up and pressed a second bell under his chair, next to the alarm. A servant moved out from the shadows of the wall. ‘Summon Herr Metzner,’ the Ruler commanded. The servant bowed three times and vanished.
The young German appeared on the terrace a moment later. The Ruler nodded. ‘Lutz, I regret that I do not ha
ve time for chess today. I have other problems to solve. Have them call my Embassy in Paris. I want Second Secretary Ashak. And the call will be put through the K-scrambler.’ He paused. ‘Is that understood?’
The German stared at his twin reflections in the Ruler’s glasses. ‘The K-scrambler —?’ he began.
‘Yes, Lutz? Please go on.’
The German scraped a shoe on the tiles. ‘I was curious,’ he began again, his pale eyes fixed on the mirror lenses below him.
‘Curious about what, Lutz?’ The Ruler’s voice was like dry ice.
‘I thought we no longer used the K-scrambler,’ the German murmured.
‘You are misinformed. The line is still operational. It is merely that of late I have grown tired of sharing all my conversations with Colonel Tamat and his colleagues.’ The Ruler stretched himself like a cat and stood up, resting his hand on the German’s shoulder. ‘Colonel Tamat is a most vigilant public servant, Lutz. But even I must allow myself some privacy.’ His fingertips stroked the German’s slim shoulder, feeling for the collarbone. ‘Something still worries you?’ he added caressingly.
Lutz blinked and lowered his pink eyelids, trying to avoid those two shining mirrors only a few inches from his face. The Ruler gave off a metallic, bittersweet smell, like a well-oiled weapon.
‘I was only thinking —’ the German hesitated again, shifting his other foot — ‘I was thinking that perhaps the colonel will be surprised to hear you use this line after so many days.’
‘Surprised? My dear Lutz, why should he be? As I said, the line is still operational. In any case, it is not I who will be using it. You will talk to Second Secretary Ashak.’ His forefinger and thumb dug gently into the muscle under the German’s neck. ‘You will tell the Second Secretary that the Lebanese gentleman, Monsieur Chamaz, is to be issued with diplomatic papers, and is to leave the Embassy at once. He will proceed by car to Basel with the utmost secrecy. If the Second Secretary should ask why the gentleman is not to go by air, you will explain that I do not wish there to be a record of his journey, even with the civil airlines. Whereas the frontier formalities on roads between France and Switzerland have almost ceased to exist.’
There was silence. In the town below, the queues for the cable car behind the railway station had dispersed; a car hooted from the road up to Davos; a jingle of bells reached them from a horse sleigh down by the ice rink. The Ruler had fractionally lowered his voice, as though afraid that they themselves would be overheard.
‘That is all understood, Lutz?’
‘Yes. But the address — the destination in Basel?’
‘You will give the address as the usual “safe house”.’ His finger and thumb squeezed the muscle and felt it stiffen. The German winced. ‘Something still troubles you, my dear Lutz? Tell me — we have no secrets.’
The German opened his mouth, then shut it again, like a fish. ‘I do not know everything,’ he said quietly, ‘but I know there are some things that must stay secret. Because it is better for me, yes?’
‘Yes.’ The Ruler’s hand relaxed and patted the German’s shoulder. ‘Far better. But as my personal adjutant here in Switzerland, you are entitled to know all that you feel necessary to know.’
The German took a step back, leaving the Ruler’s hand hovering awkwardly. ‘I will call the Embassy,’ he said in his stiff English, and turned.
‘And Lutz!’ the Ruler called after him. ‘When you have finished, have some champagne sent to my office. And two glasses. You look as though you need some refreshment.’
Left alone, the Ruler stood gazing out at the dazzling panorama of jagged white against the backdrop of frozen blue. He loved Switzerland: not only for its climate and scenic beauty — luxurious retreat from his arid kingdom — but also because it reminded him of the very best hotel: the management, discreetly invisible, provided all that was demanded, as long as the price was right.
In his study he removed the plastic shield from his nose and exchanged the mirror glasses for his black-rimmed spectacles, which gave him the appearance of an austere banker, and began to consult a map of Europe. Basel straddled the Rhine, at a junction with the French and German frontiers; and he pondered upon which of the four most likely routes from Paris the driver would choose. Colonel Tamat’s men were not going to find it easy; thus the exercise would be instructive in two ways. It would test the effectiveness of NAZAK’s organizational abilities in France and Switzerland, and it would settle the question of Colonel Tamat’s loyalty, one way or the other. For as the faithful Lutz had pointed out, the fact that the instructions to Paris had been given on the K-scrambler meant that NAZAK would automatically intercept them. It remained to be seen whether the NAZAK agent in Paris already appreciated the importance of Pierre-Baptiste Chamaz — enough to request instructions from Colonel Tamat himself — and whether the colonel realized the trap and did nothing, or responded with his characteristic efficiency and ruthlessness.
He looked up as Lutz came in carrying a tray with an opened bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two chilled glasses. He watched him, secretly amused. Poor Lutz, he thought; the boy looked so earnest, and still worried. The Ruler wondered how much he suspected.
He was relieved to notice that the German’s hand was quite steady as he poured the champagne.
Marmut bem Letif could not sleep that afternoon. Alone in his villa outside Mamounia, he lay naked in the half dark of his curtained room, waiting. Even with the air-conditioning turned up full, the sheet beneath him bore the wet imprint of his frail body.
At 3.42 the telephone purred by the bed. He sprang up, as though convulsed, lifted the receiver and listened to the few seconds of absolute silence; then the harsh familiar voice, very clear over the top secret line:
‘Minister? The man Chamaz has just left the Boulevard des Capucines. He is being driven to Switzerland — to Basel. That will mean Dr Hubei’s place, will it not?’
Letif felt his hand growing moist round the receiver. Hubei, he thought to himself; and could imagine the colonel’s scowling face the other end. For Colonel Tamat hated the very idea of Dr Hubei — that clever little Swiss brain surgeon who was busy tutoring the Ruler in the most sophisticated techniques of interrogation. To Sham Tamat the man represented more than a threat — he was a personal insult. Only too soon the colonel would see his mediaeval instruments of agony — crudely updated with electronic accessories — made redundant by the clinical use of drugs, auto-suggestion, and other mind-bending mumbo jumbo of medical science.
Letif whispered back into the mouthpiece, ‘You are to keep away from Dr Hubei. That is an order. You understand?’
There was a short silence. Colonel Tamat was not used to taking orders.
‘The car is being followed,’ he said at last. ‘I just hope — for the doctor’s sake — that my men do not lose it. If they do, I regard it as my duty to proceed with the ultimate plan.’ He paused. ‘You will be returning to the Ministry?’ he added.
‘Yes, I shall be returning.’ Letif heard a click and the line went dead.
In the stillness of the darkened room he heard a ringing in his ears. Sweat seeped down his smooth chest and collected in driblets on his thin hairless legs. His nose twitched, like that of an animal scenting danger. For the first time in his life, he felt pangs of real fear.
Several times he wondered if he should lift the phone again and call Switzerland direct. He had had the villa debugged only ten days ago, but there was no guarantee against the insidious workings of NAZAK: his villa was no more immune to them than it was to woodlice and dry rot.
If only I had more time, he thought: time to amass a nice little nest egg in one of those Swiss banks, as all his colleagues did. But he still had time to cut his losses arid run. His diplomatic passport required no exit visa; and there would surely be no lack of interested parties abroad who would pay well for information on the inside workings of the Ruler’s empire.
He sat on the bed and stared at the telephone, and wo
ndered if there would be another summons to Europe. He decided that if there were, before this evening, he would sever all ties with Tamat and confide totally in the Ruler.
CHAPTER 12
At precisely 12.30 p.m. — three hours behind Mamounia time — a silver-grey Citroën CX drove out of the side gate of the Ruler’s Embassy in Paris with its peacock-blue, gold-crested shield above the main entrance.
The car moved through the lunchtime traffic, turning east towards the Péripherique, where it joined the southbound carriageway, pulling out into the fast lane and ignoring the; 60 kmph speed limit. A black Peugeot radio-taxi kept a comfortable hundred metres behind.
The Citroën carried three men, two in the front and one in the back. The car’s one distinctive feature was a tall aerial which bent back in the slipstream like a fishing rod. As the driver approached the Porte Vincennes exit leading to the RN4, the taxi closed in fast. The Citroën passed the third and final sign marking the intersection, and the taxi flashed its headlights twice.
Drawn up on the shoulder of the emergency lane, twenty yards in front of the intersection, was a white BMW 30 SI, its engine idling. There were two men inside. As the taxi passed them, the driver of the BMW drew smoothly out into the traffic, also heading south-west along the Péripherique. The man beside him was talking into a radio microphone.
The driver had moved into the outside lane, using the horn and flashing the cars ahead; but it was not until they were past the junction to the Porte d’Italie that he caught sight of the Citroën. It had slowed down to join the heavy traffic that was heading for the autoroute, south to Lyon and Marseilles.
The driver of the BMW placed himself several cars behind the Citroën. They passed the Orly exit and the junction west to Orléans; then the autoroute spread into six lanes, stretching flat and straight into a dim, rain-soaked horizon. Here the driver of the BMW felt able to draw back until the Citroën was almost out of sight.
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