‘Yeah.’ Ryderbeit sighed and drank some more whisky. ‘Did he say how the guns are going to be made up?’
‘No need. An Armalite’s about the length of a short ski, and we’ll take them up in genuine ski bags.’
Ryderbeit leered nastily. ‘A pair of Armalites with the latest self-adjusting telescopic sights — standard skiing equipment these days, eh? I just wonder that nobody’s thought of it before.’ Packer said nothing. Ryderbeit leaned back and breathed smoke at the ceiling. ‘You know anything about these new sights? Do they need shooting in?’
‘They shouldn’t, if they and the gun are new. But if you’re worried, we can find somewhere quiet — up near Davos, on the Weissfluhjoch, round about the time they’re popping off mortars to bring down avalanches.’
‘It’s not that that’s worrying me, soldier.’ He smiled, sly and cat-like. ‘I’m worried about you and Fat Man. I’m thinking you may be setting me up on this mountain as a patsy.’
‘You’ve drunk too much, Sammy. Remember, I’m going to be up on this mountain too.’
‘Yeah —’ Ryderbeit’s eye gleamed — ‘but you haven’t told me where.’
Packer turned to his own map and pointed to one of the green crosses. ‘About 300 yards above you. And the range from the T-bar is nearly 100 metres further than yours. But it also gives a more parallel target, so our odds are about even.’
‘Except you’ve got tree cover,’ Ryderbeit scowled. ‘And your run’ll get you down to Wolfgang a good few minutes before me.’
He swallowed the rest of his Scotch, then leaned down as though to adjust one of his boots, and brought his head up, smiling this time. In his left hand was a small short-nosed automatic with a grip that was hidden in his slender palm. It looked to Packer like the sort of weapon that used to be called a ‘lady’s gun’. But still lethal within six feet — providing you knew how to use it. And Ryderbeit no doubt did, however much whisky he’d drunk.
Packer felt a familiar chill spreading through his gut. He laid both hands carefully on the table. ‘All right, Sammy, just tell me what’s on your mind.’
‘I already told you, Packer Boy. I been thinking that you and Fat Man want me up on this mountain to make a dummy run, so you can both collect the chips.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t?’ Ryderbeit snickered. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve just had a funny thought. And that thought tells me that the mysterious Mister Big behind all this — the one who’s paid Fat Man to set up this caper — is maybe the same joker we’re supposed to be knocking off on that T-bar.’
‘That’s bloody daft.’ Packer felt his palms growing moist on the cold table top. Ryderbeit was crouching forward, his fingers folded round the little gun which was pointing loosely down at Packer’s groin. He was not touching the trigger. Packer glanced at the table of Germans, then at the waitress; but no one was looking at them.
‘Why daft? Never heard of a man trying to buy a bit of popularity by hiring a hitman to make a botched attempt on his life?’
Packer smiled swiftly, trying to humour him. ‘You mean like Idi Amin — once a week — just to prove he’s divine?’
Ryderbeit snapped his fingers. ‘Right on the nail, soldier! Though Idi’s a trifle crude. I was thinking of something a bit smarter — the kind of trick that might appeal to a crafty A-One shit like the Ruler.’
‘Such as?’ Packer said, in a quiet tight voice; he was trying not to look at the black eye of the gun, which was now near enough for him to grab without his even having to move his body.
‘Soldier, the way I see it is this. The Ruler pays Fat Man a nice big sum to arrange a botched assassination attempt — something fancy that catches the imagination but doesn’t quite succeed. Something like getting shot at while enjoying his innocent annual vacation in Switzerland. Shooting skiers must be even worse than shooting grouse out of season?’
‘I’m sure it is. Put away the gun, Sammy. What’s it for, anyway?’
‘What’s a gun for?’ Ryderbeit repeated sleepily; he looked at his empty tumbler, then at the waitress, hesitated, then leaned down and replaced the little gun in his boot. He grinned. ‘No offence, I hope, soldier? I need a gun sometimes — like I need a drink. Sometimes I need both. Like just now.’
‘What was so special about just now?’ Packer said; his hands were still sweating.
‘Just that I was thinking how convenient it would be for Fat Man to put me up here on the mountain to take a shot at the Ruler — who, for all we know, can be a stand-in with a lovely silver wig — while you, Packer Boy, are perched up there in the trees, and the second I pull the trigger and blow the dummy’s head off, you pull your trigger — at a nice easy range — and chop me up like horse meat.’
Packer looked wearily into Ryderbeit’s unblinking yellow eye. ‘Why would Pol want me to do that, Sammy?’
‘Because Fat Man is as crooked as a mountain road and as shifty as a shit-house rat, with morals lower than the basic wage. He’s already swindled me out of millions, and although he hasn’t got me on his conscience — because the bastard doesn’t have a conscience — he sure has me on his mind. He’s so far only paid me £25,000, remember — and to get me off his back, that would be cheap at the price.’
‘Well, if it’s any comfort to you, I’m not going to shoot you. For a start, I hardly think you’re worth £500,000. And anyway, we’ve been seen around too much together. But that’s not all. You’re not the only one who’s got things on your mind, Sammy.’
Ryderbeit’s eye narrowed. ‘Meaning what?’
Packer took a deep breath. ‘I’m just thinking of something else old Pol said when he first briefed me in that hotel in France. Before he had even mentioned the Ruler, he talked of the great advantages of what he called “diversionary tactics”. Then he mentioned you — painting you as a typical mercenary killer — adding, for good measure, that you were an excellent pilot.’
Ryderbeit inclined his head. ‘Thanks. What else did the bastard say?’
‘I can’t remember his exact words. But he did also mention that the vital element in an assassination of this scale is that the victim should be confused.’
‘You’ve sure got me confused, soldier. Just what the hell are you driving at?’
‘Pol took the trouble to track me down to Amsterdam, Sammy, because I have a fairly tough military record, plus a few black marks, which he claims will rule me out from most police suspect lists. He also threw in a sop about my talents for improvisation — apparently on the evidence that for the last few years I’ve earned my daily bread building model windmills for American millionaires.’
Ryderbeit was shaking his head. ‘Either you’re cracked, soldier, or Fat Man is. What have bloody windmills got to do with all this?’
‘Probably nothing. I think that Pol may intend using you and me as the fall-guys — what he calls his “diversionary tactics” — to make the Ruler think he’s being threatened by the most conventional method possible. And what could be more conventional than trying to knock him off on these ski slopes?’
‘It’s not going to be that easy,’ Ryderbeit growled.
‘No, but it’s not going to be so difficult that it’s worth a total of £600,000 between us to Charles Pol — or anyone else, for that matter. And I’m getting £500,000, remember? And for what? For ideas — those were Pol’s words, weren’t they? What ideas? Studying a map and marking a few ski runs and taking a couple of shots with a high-velocity rifle? He’d have half the army veterans in the world queueing up for a job like that — and for a hundredth of the price.’
Ryderbeit’s good eye had rolled up towards the high sun-streaked peak of the Gotschnagrat. ‘Stop playing around, soldier,’ he said softly. ‘You’ve been paid for ideas, so let’s hear them.’
‘I’ll lay it on the line, Sammy. Pol said something else in that hotel room in France. He said that while the Ruler will be expecting obvious, professional killers, his back will be turned to the real danger.�
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‘Go on.’
‘He was referring to Sarah. What he called “another, subtler element”.’
Ryderbeit’s face was quite calm. ‘And you think that’s why he chose you?’ he said at last.
‘It seems more than probable.’
Ryderbeit stroked his chin. ‘As I said, I don’t know the girl — but she must have something bloody special to pull you in half a million quid. What is it?’
‘I don’t know. And Pol isn’t the sort of person who’d tell me, unless he wants to.’
There was a long silence. Ryderbeit did not even touch his Scotch. He said, finally, ‘All right, soldier, so it looks as though we may be in the hot seat. But we’re being paid bloody well for it, so we can’t argue. I’ll accept that Fat Man may be setting us up on this mountain for a dummy run — or a diversion, as he calls it. He may even think we can knock the Ruler off first time round. If not, maybe he will use your little Sarah. Well, that’s going to be her problem. As for us, we’ve been paid to do a job, so I guess we’d better do it.’ He paused. ‘Now there’s one last item on the agenda. What about the signals? I suppose we’ll have to risk an open radio link?’
‘Well, even if the police are monitoring all UHF transmissions within a good five-mile radius of the Gotschnagrat, the mountains play strange tricks with wavelengths, and they can’t be sure all the time what they’re picking up. For our purposes we need just one phrase — one word, even. And to anyone listening in, that could mean anything.’
Ryderbeit sat nodding his head with a peculiarly regular movement, like a chicken, his dead eye lurching up and down and his good one still fixing Packer with its yellow stare. ‘That little word, soldier, has got to be spoken at the Gotschnagrat restaurant, the moment the Ruler sets off down to the bottom of the T-bar. And who’s going to speak the word? Pol?’
Packer laughed. ‘I rather get the impression that Pol prefers to be somewhere else when the action’s taking place.’
Ryderbeit laughed too. ‘Yeah, the cunning sod. So who speaks?’
‘Sarah.’
‘You bastard! You mean you’re going to put her up in the eagle’s nest, surrounded by the whole gang of goons, while we’re all snug on our mountain perches nearly a mile away?’
‘Can you think of anyone better? In fact, if you do think about it, she’s the ideal person. Any of us hanging around the Gotschnagrat restaurant when the Ruler appears would automatically arouse suspicion. But not a girl — not this girl.’
‘You said she doesn’t even ski.’
‘She’s good enough to fool around.’
‘But what’s she supposed to be doing up there?’
‘Taking pics of the royal party. Why not? He might even invite her for a drink.’
‘Yeah, why not? And when does she get to send the message — when she goes for a pee?’ Ryderbeit shook his head. ‘Those pocket R/Ts don’t work too well indoors.’
‘She’ll find a way. She’s not stupid, believe me.’
Ryderbeit nodded. ‘Yeah, I believe you. Okay, you bastard. When are you going to tell her? Or does she know already?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Are you going to tell her everything?’
‘If I have to.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t know the lady, mind, but if she’s anything like the rest of her type, I’d lay evens on her either getting all shirty and threatening to run to the law, or more likely just yapping her mouth off back in some flashy night spot in London Town. Those uppercrust bitches never could keep their fucking mouths shut! I suppose you’ll have to pay her?’ he added savagely.
‘That’s my business.’ Packer looked at his watch. ‘Time we got going.’ He turned and signalled for the bill. Again Ryderbeit made no effort to pay, but walked out in front of him through the door. Packer found him outside with his skis already strapped on, adjusting his goggles, gloves and sticks.
Ryderbeit pushed off first down the well-packed piste into the gathering gloom. Packer was not able to catch up with him.
CHAPTER 17
Packer looked for Sarah in the Chesa tearoom, and in the downstairs bar; then collected their key from the desk, where he was told there were no messages.
The maid had been to their room since he left: the sheets changed, Sarah’s clothes folded out of sight, her lotions and paints and accessories tidied into rows on the dressing-table. No whiff of scent, no fresh imprint on her bed. It was as though someone were trying to expunge all trace of her.
He went through and ran a bath, squirting in a few drops of Badedas, which Sarah never travelled without; then straightened up and looked in the mirror. Under the yellow light his eyes had that odd, wild look that Sarah said she so hated.
The hell with her, he thought, and leaned on the basin. God, I need a drink. Damn that Rhodesian Jew and his silly little ‘lady’s gun’. But then, what was a gun for if it wasn’t meant to make you feel nervous?
He turned off the bath, went into the bedroom, considered taking one of Sarah’s ten-milligram Valiums — another essential she never left behind — but decided against it; and with a sense of righteous self-denial stretched out on his bed. He had forgotten about the bath.
He dozed, eyes half open, and come to with a start. The light was still on, the room empty. He looked at his watch. 7.40. He was ten minutes late. He stood up and pulled on his anorak, with the map still folded inside; went downstairs, took another look round the tearoom, then handed in his key and went out into the chill dusk.
A sharp breeze had come up and the slush was already freezing on the short slope down to the Silvretta Hotel. To his right, behind the railway station, the cables of the Gotschnabahn whined against the black wall of mountain. The last car had come down at 6.00 p.m.
Inside the hotel he collided with a woman going out, and swore before apologizing. He blinked round the bright lobby and for a moment had trouble getting his bearings. The desk clerk surveyed him with discreet disapproval. ‘I have come to see Monsieur Cassis,’ said Packer.
‘Your name, please?’
‘Burton. B-u-r-t-o-n.’
The clerk consulted a list, lifted a house telephone, glanced down and murmured into the mouthpiece, then hung up. He nodded at Packer. ‘Monsieur Cassis will see you. Room 104.’
Packer walked away to the lift.
‘Ah, come in — my friend! Please, be comfortable!’ Pol held the door open, shuffling sideways in a pair of flipflops that were several sizes too large for his tiny feet. He waved Packer towards a wingchair covered in shiny brown rayon.
It was a big room, full of ornamental drapes and reproduction furniture, now strewn with the same disorder that Packer had found in Pol’s room in Amsterdam. One Louis Vuitton suitcase stood open and only half unpacked in the middle of the floor. Packer found a chair and sat down, after removing a brand-new shirt, still in its wrapper.
‘You look tired, Charles.’
‘Yes.’ Pol had waddled back to a sofa and slumped down next to a large open box balanced on the arm. He gave an exhausted flap of his hands. ‘Yes, I am a little tired. I have passed an energetic day.’ He plucked a chocolate the size of an egg out of the box and squeezed it between his red lips. The rest of his face had a waxen pallor, with mushroom pouches under the eyes; his silk shirt was crumpled, tieless, with the buttons done up wrong; the zip of his oyster-white trousers was open. Packer had the impression that he had disturbed him, probably from sleep.
‘You would like tea or coffee?’ Pol mumbled through chocolate; ‘or perhaps some Passeuger water?’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
Pol licked his fingers, then wiped them fastidiously on a tissue he had pulled from a carton beside him, and which he now dropped at his feet. The carpet round him was littered with them, like white carnations. He smiled — a rather forced smile, Packer thought. ‘You also look tired, my dear Packer. Was your expedition up the mountain a success?’
‘Moderately.’
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nbsp; There was an uncomfortable pause. It was very warm in the room, with a sweet clinging odour — stale aftershave, or deodorant perhaps. ‘But you had a satisfactory day?’ Packer asked finally. Pol nodded. ‘Did you get the —’ Packer glanced round the room, hesitated — ‘did you get everything we need?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Pol ate another chocolate, and another crumpled tissue joined the rest on the carpet.
Packer was disconcerted. He was used to a boisterous Pol: a great rubbery rogue with a twinkling self-confidence wrapped in refined self-indulgence. But this was a shell of the man: sagging, listless, almost as though he’d grown too small for his voluminous clothes.
‘Charles, are you sure you’re all right? You look ill.’
‘I told you — I am a little tired.’ His eyes moved dully over Packer’s face, then away again. He heaved himself up and trotted heavily over to a side table where he poured himself a brandy. Packer waited until he had sunk back again on to the sofa.
‘Charles, I want to talk about Sammy.’
‘Ah? He has been misbehaving again?’
‘Well, he pulled a gun on me in the hut. Admittedly, it wasn’t much of a gun, and nobody saw it. But it was a little irregular, don’t you think?’
‘Irregular?’ A small grin started across Pol’s enormous features, then seemed to give up. ‘It is in character. But you did not attempt to take it away from him?’
‘I did not. In my experience, the only time people get hit by toy guns is by accident.’
Pol wagged his head. ‘Ah, Sammy is very wicked! But you must not trouble yourself too much about his little idiosyncrasies. For him guns are merely the tools of his trade — like a hammer to a carpenter or a typewriter to a journalist.’
‘Thank you. I’m reassured.’ Packer felt himself getting angry.
Pol spread his hands in innocent despair. ‘One must accept Sammy for what he is.’
‘He’s a madman. He also drinks too much.’
Pol sighed; he looked bored. ‘He is a very competent drinker. I have known him land a four-engined plane on a curving dam after he had drunk most of a bottle of bourbon. He is also no fool.’
Shah-Mak Page 16
