‘Those are stories built up by the newspapers. It only happens in primitive areas. As my guest, you will be frequenting the most exclusive circles. But of course —’ he tilted his head and smirked — ‘I know some girls who like to be flogged. It breaks the monotony.’
‘Well, it certainly doesn’t turn me on,’ she said coldly. ‘And if it’s going to be that sort of party —’
‘Please, please!’ He raised both hands as though warding off a blow. ‘You must forgive me, it was my little joke. Of course it was not serious. The party will be eminently respectable. But I have a suggestion to make. It is by way of a favour to you in return for the honour you will be extending me by accepting my invitation.’ He paused. ‘Sarah, I would like you to accompany me this evening to a small private dinner party which His Imperial Highness is giving at his chalet in Klosters. It will be an informal affair — just myself, an American archaeologist and his wife, and an elderly Italian princess.’ As he spoke, he counted the names off on his fingers. ‘Five, you see. A small party, but an awkward number. Will you make up the sixth?’
‘Who’s the unfortunate woman you’re going to drop?’
Shiva Steiner gave an unctuous smile. ‘Now I shall have to flatter you again. A young French actress — very pretty, but very stupid. His Highness will not miss her.’
‘What time?’
‘His Highness dines early. I will collect you downstairs in the hotel at 6.30. His Highness’s personal helicopter will fly us to the chalet.’
She stood up and held out her mittened hand. ‘Thank you, Shiva. I’ll see you this evening.’
‘Just one thing,’ Steiner said, as she turned to go. ‘I would prefer that you did not mention this engagement to D’Arcy-James or any of his friends. His Highness prefers these matters to remain private.’
She nodded, and walked briskly off the terrace into the lobby, and across to the ladies’ toilet. When she emerged a few minutes later and was crossing the balcony to the lifts, she happened to glance down into the well of the main hall.
In a corner, behind a marble pillar, stood two men. One of them was Shiva Steiner; the other, the man with the bruised face who had left the terrace shortly before. Sarah stared at them, then drew back in case Steiner saw her. She was not so much suspicious as amazed. Steiner was not talking but listening, while the man with the wounded face was speaking rapidly, with quick short gestures. Steiner just stood against the pillar facing him.
What surprised her was not merely that such an unprepossessing creature could claim the attention of an important man like Shiva Steiner; but that Steiner had cut the man dead on the terrace only a few minutes earlier. And now that Sarah was gone, Steiner was treating him like an honoured client.
If it had not been for her hangover, she might have reasoned more clearly. As it was, her suspicions were distracted by what seemed a more immediate problem. She was wondering what she would do if the Ruler wanted to sleep with her that night.
Up in her room, which Steiner had now reserved in her name for another night, she rang down for a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches, hung DO NOT DISTURB outside the door, and went to bed.
CHAPTER 26
‘Democracy! In one word the New Testament of the twentieth century.’ Shiva Steiner’s fingers flashed under the subdued light of the single chandelier. He used his hands like a conductor orchestrating the conversation — adagio, andante, presto — and as he gestured, his bright little eyes moved over the faces round the table, judging exactly the mood of the evening.
They had finished the first course and, for the moment, seemed to be content to listen to Shiva Steiner.
‘Democracy is a word. Like “love”. Like “liberty”. What do they mean? They mean all things to all men. When people talk of “love”, they mean obsession. Love, if it exists at all, is a form of madness. The same with liberty. Liberty, democracy. Half the world is today screaming these words, but for them too it is an obsession, a madness.’
He was interrupted by the shrill voice of the Italian princess on his left — a very thin lady with mauve blotches on her parchment cheeks, a coil of mauve hair and a black taffeta dress in which her body sat stiffly folded like a wireframe doll. She had begun talking excitedly in a confused accent which made her words hard to follow.
Sarah, who had said little so far, gathered that she was complaining about some aspect of Italian politics. Her voice grew to a screech as her bony fingers dug into Steiner’s arm and her eyes stared distractedly past him at the quiet face at the head of the table.
Shiva Steiner nodded gravely, and with exquisite tact extricated his arm from her grasp; then turned, with a small bow of his head, towards the Ruler. ‘Your Highness, the Princess seems disturbed by the state of the trade unions in Italy. Perhaps you could reassure her?’
The Ruler’s stare settled at a point just below the chandelier. When he spoke his lips seemed scarcely to move, his voice slow and gentle: ‘I fear that I cannot reassure you, Princess. It is a regrettable fact, but in Italy — as in the rest of the Western democracies — the politicians have chosen to entrust the power of the State to the ignorant masses, who in turn have become the pawns of such people as Communists, anarchists, Trotskyites, and other political epileptics. In my country, these people are not permitted.’
There was a reverent pause. Even the Princess was subdued.
Sarah, who was sitting on the right of the Ruler, had so far found the evening somewhat perplexing. The Ruler had not addressed her once, since exchanging a formal greeting in the antechamber when he had received her, and had spoken rarely to the others. He seemed content to treat them like a party round a roulette table, on which he occasionally tossed down a very large plaque — a gesture received with excited anticipation. Otherwise the conversation had been almost entirely waged between Shiva Steiner and the Princess. The American archaeologist and his wife — a grey bespectacled pair who looked like twins — were lost to Sarah in the gloom at the far end of the table.
Sarah smiled into the Ruler’s bored face and said, ‘You’re very sensible not to have trade unions in your country, Your Majesty.’
The Ruler’s eyes slid round and fixed on her. ‘But we have trade unions. They are the spearhead of our labour movement.’
Sarah concealed her confusion. ‘But you don’t have strikes?’ she said innocently.
The Ruler’s gaze remained on her, deep and unblinking. ‘No, we do not have strikes. Everything in my country belongs to the people. And the people cannot strike against themselves. That would be illogical.’
There was a tense pause, as the plates were deftly removed and replaced by others, and glasses refilled. The Ruler was not drinking.
Steiner had grown suddenly quiet. Sarah guessed that he had either expended himself, or perhaps felt that he had done his duty and could now leave the conversation to others. For several minutes they ate in silence.
Throughout the evening, Sarah had been alertly mindful that she was in the presence of an absolute monarch; and although Shiva Steiner had assured her that the dinner would be a private informal affair, she remembered that etiquette usually demanded that a subject speaks to a monarch only when first spoken to. She was not one of the Ruler’s subjects, and not even in his country; yet she felt uneasily aware that her question about strikes had perhaps been tactless, even provocative; though the Ruler had shown no sign of being offended. He showed no sign of anything.
The fact that just over twenty-four hours ago Sarah had been part of a well-concerted plan to kill this man sitting less than two feet from her, was too outrageous for her properly to appreciate. What did disturb her was the fact that the Ruler seemed not even to notice her.
She had never met anyone as rich or famous or powerful as the man on her left; but she was also not used to being ignored. Her initial nervousness was now giving way to petulance. She felt no ill will towards the Ruler, for there was no contact between them — his very proximity made him seem all the more distant
— but she was beginning to feel very angry indeed with Shiva Steiner. He had given her no briefing, no hint during the helicopter ride of how she was to treat her host, or react to him; and now Steiner was giving her no help at all. As for the Ruler, she had decided that a man who is revered by thirty million subjects must be allowed a degree of social licence; but for Shiva Steiner, the procureur royal, to abdicate all responsibility for her even before the second course, seemed unforgivable.
She was eating breast of wild duck in a bigérade sauce, sitting stiffly forward and pretending to listen to the garbled conversation about antiquities from the end of the table, when she became aware of a slender finger pointing at the centre of her breast. As she looked down, the finger scooped up the emerald on the end of the necklace which Pol had given her; paused as though weighing the gold, then let it fall gently back on to the velvet of her caftan.
‘It is very beautiful. You are fond of emeralds?’
She nodded, with a vivid smile; but before she could think of a reply, the Ruler spoke again. ‘The emerald is my favourite jewel. Although the blue of the peacock is the national colour of my country, I consider the emerald to be our symbol.’
He was looking at her again with his empty gaze, and her mind filled with a confusion of judgements.
Like all famous men whose faces are public property, in the flesh he was smaller than she had expected, with a yellowish skin stretched tight over his cheekbones and a web of acne scars round his lips. It was a face which required to be framed, above a breastplate of medals, wearing a peaked cap encrusted with gold. His clothes this evening were quiet, faultless, peculiarly arrogant in their lack of lustre.
His most celebrated features — his hair and his nose, which endowed his portraits and photographs with imperious nobility — were disappointing. The hair, with its deep widow’s peak, looked stiff and artificial, like a wig; and the nose was coarse and fleshy, with a slight shine that she had observed increasing during the evening. She also noticed, with distaste, that he suffered from blackheads.
Although she had drunk abundantly, she was still sober. The presence of the Ruler had cast a chill over her; for someone so drilled in the protocol of dinner parties, she now felt like an athlete who has gone lame.
The soft voice, with its faintly Teutonic inflection, sounded close to her left ear. ‘You are from England.’ It was not a question but a statement. ‘Mr Steiner here informs me that your family possesses a famous and very fine country house.’
She nodded. ‘Well, yes. But the Government has brought in this awful tax and my father thinks he may have to sell.’
‘I understand. You in Britain pay very high taxes.’ He paused. ‘I like Britain. It has simplicity and charm. London is my favourite Western city. London — and perhaps Amsterdam. Do you know Amsterdam?’
She felt the saliva dry up in her mouth. ‘Yes, I’ve been there once,’ she murmured.
‘I like the British people, too,’ he went on, ‘except that they are lazy. They ask for more money to do less work. That is ridiculous.’ He paused again, and laid his hand on her sleeve. ‘You must forgive me. I criticize the British only because I admire you, and am troubled by your problems.’
‘Oh, I quite agree with what you say!’ She had begun to feel more at ease.
‘I have said nothing that is original,’ he added. ‘Criticism is too easy — it is the trade of a parasite. Action is what is important — action translated into work and discipline.’
She wanted to say something — anything — but was again stilled by that blank timeless gaze.
Across the table the Princess was now very drunk. She was waving her hands and shouting incoherently at the American archaeologist and his wife. Sarah distinguished the words, ‘sarcophagus!’, ‘tombeaux!’ several times, then: ‘How do you say it in English — these old bodies — in sarcophagus —?’
‘Mummies?’ the American suggested.
‘Yes, mummies! Dead people — always death! That’s all you do — dig for death!’ Her voice reached a pitch of insane fury, as she lurched round in her seat and faced the Ruler, her ragged face distorted by a macabre smile. ‘You, Your Majesty — you do not fear death! Your people believe you are immortal!’
‘I am not immortal, Princess. Like everyone, I too prepare myself for death. And when I die I take with me to the earth perhaps not even these clothes I wear. Perhaps just a piece of white cloth. But I also take with me a part of history.’ He turned and looked at Sarah. ‘Mr Steiner also tells me that he has extended an invitation to you to visit my country?’
‘Yes, he has.’ She glanced uneasily at Steiner, seeking some flicker of confirmation, but found none.
‘It is possible,’ the Ruler went on, ‘that I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again. I should be interested to hear you talk about your family’s house in England. I very much like English architecture, particularly the eighteenth-century period.’
‘Yes, ours is eighteenth century — or rather, some of it. The older part is Jacobean.’
‘I am sure it is very beautiful.’ As he spoke, the Ruler rose to his feet, gave a single nod to the table, turned and left the room, followed by three white-clad retainers.
Sarah reached with relief for her wine glass.
CHAPTER 27
Owen Packer had chosen Béziers because it was a quiet town, a few miles from the sea so that it did not attract the rush of tourists, and far enough along the coast not to have been infected by the leprous opulence of the Riviera. He had once visited it on a bicycling trip, and now found it unchanged.
His hotel was half empty, overlooking a square lined with pigeon-grey shutters and trees that were just beginning to shoot green. The morning after his arrival he woke early, shaved, leaving his upper lip untouched; then inspected himself in the mirror to see what other changes he could make, and decided to rely simply on sunglasses, and a hat.
It was a pale grey morning, with the promise of a hot day. The square was still deserted, but in the street down to the railway station a couple of bars were open where workmen in blue overalls were bracing themselves with the first drink of the day. The newspaper kiosk was opposite the station. The local papers were folded out on top and one of them had a photograph on the front page of the panel-truck, with an arrow marking the bullet hole in the window.
Packer selected both local papers and strolled across to the station, where he bought Le Monde and Le Figaro, not wishing to attract attention by buying all four papers at once. Then he went into the station brasserie, ordered coffee, pain et beurre, and started reading.
None of the papers contained one mention of him or Ryderbeit; nor of the discovery of the Fiat hired by Monsieur Cassis of Liechtenstein; and there was nothing at all about the Ruler. As for the abandoned truck in Näfels, with two dead men and their guns in the back, the reports — as released by the Swiss police — struck Packer as wilfully evasive, even misleading. The identity of the victims was given only as ‘foreign’; the ownership of the truck was undisclosed; there was no suggestion of motive; and no evidence from the young traffic policeman in Näfels.
The aftermath of the avalanche commanded only the inside pages. Rumours of a shooting on the mountain had been dropped; and Packer’s original conviction — that the Ruler’s influence, together with the Swiss determination to avoid scandal, would abort the story before it was even stillborn — seemed proved. It all depended on how the Ruler would now react, following the escape of his three would-be assassins.
Packer waited until the shops opened, bought a beach hat, espadrilles and bathing trunks; then located the central Post Office, two streets away. It was too early to expect a reply from Pol, but he wanted to get his bearings and make sure of what time the office closed.
Next he found the bus terminal and looked up the schedules to Valras-Plage and Montpellier. From now on he was going to avoid taxis. And with nothing else to do, he intended to get in plenty of swimming, so that he would at least be physically f
it, if still morally wounded, by the time Pol’s answer came.
He took the first bus to Valras-Plage. It was a clean white town with restaurants and cafés built out on to the sand. There was already a holiday atmosphere, without being crowded. Along the beach were stalls selling mussels and crepes. The sea was still cold and sharp breezes stiffened the flags along the front.
When he returned to Béziers that evening, he called at the Poste Restante, at 7.55. Nothing from Pol.
There was nothing from Pol for the next five days. The newspapers had also dropped the story of the two murdered men in the panel-truck in Näfels. On the fourth day, however, Le Monde reported that the Ruler was cutting short his vacation in Klosters and returning to Mamounia, where there were rumours of political unrest.
On the sixth day Packer began to wonder if he wasn’t wasting his time. In spite of Pol’s insistent misgivings in the Silvretta Hotel on that last night, Packer considered whether the Ruler would not have to be a fanatic and a paranoid to want to hunt them down now.
What made him delay in Béziers, apart from exhaustion and inertia, was the knowledge that Pol would eventually contact him so that they could each collect their share of the half-million pounds. When he called at the Post Office that morning there was still nothing. But Packer was not discouraged; however much Pol had already been paid, he would be just as eager as Packer to draw on their joint account.
That day it clouded over, with a strong wind, and he had lunch inside his usual restaurant, behind the glass-fronted terrace on the beach. He had finished reading Le Monde and was drinking his coffee, when he was aware of someone watching him.
‘Monsieur, je vous demande pardon.’ The man had pulled his chair sideways from the next table, and was pointing at the folded newspaper beside Packer’s bottle of Vichy. ‘May I trouble you to borrow your paper?’
‘Not at all.’ As Packer handed it to him he realized that apart from the couple who ran the hotel and the clerk at the Poste Restante, this was the first person who had spoken to him in nearly a week. Instinctively he pulled down his sunhat, adjusted his dark glasses, which he had worn religiously since that first morning, and brushed a forefinger over his young moustache.
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