The Corsican had provided Klein – for a fee – with a phone number. A girl had answered, had asked a lot of questions. He had been forced to give her his room number at the Georges Cinq. 'He may call you back,' the girl had said and rung off.
Later Marler had called him, instructing him to meet him at a grotty pension called the Bernadotte on the Left Bank. It had been a very clandestine meeting and Klein had choked at the requested fee. Five million francs.
'Take it or leave it,' Marler had told him. 'And I need one million in advance. Cash. Used notes. The usual thing…'
All these thoughts ran through Klein's mind as they passed Rheims in the early hours. He told Marler to make for Sedan next. There had even been an argument as to who would drive. 'I'm not yammering on about the point any longer,' Marler had informed Klein. 'I like to be in control.'
That remark had jarred on Klein. He liked to be in control. And it was already clear Marler was not in the least frightened of him. Klein was a man who liked to reinforce his authority by intimidating members of the team he had recruited.
'It's not Germany, is it?' Marler asked.
'I told you no before…'
'Sometimes,' Marler continued amiably, 'people attempt to trick me. Not a wise procedure, I assure you. Where are we making for?'
'The Ardennes. The Belgian province of Luxembourg.'
'Oh, that's all right. As I told you, I never undertake a commission in any country more than once – which rules out Germany, Italy, Spain, Greece and Egypt. Had the devil of a job hiring a Citroen with a rack fitted on the roof. A practice shoot, you said. Why the rack?'
'You'll see. When the time comes it will be a moving target.'
'We're approaching the Franco-Belgian frontier,' Klein said. 'You have the rifle well concealed?'
'Strapped with tape under the car.'
'You also brought a shovel?'
'Wrapped in a sack inside the boot. I am reputed to be efficient. Here's the border coming up. You might leave me to do the talking,' he snapped in French. They had used the language since their first meeting.
In the dark the headlight beams showed up a striped pole across the road, a small hut alongside it. There were low hedges with fields beyond on either side. Marler pulled up, lowered his window. 'Give me your passport,' he said as a French Customs official plodded towards them with a heavy tread.
'Papers…'
Marler showed a British passport. The official made a dismissive gesture and yawned. He saw Klein's German passport and made the same gesture.
'Why are you going to Belgium?' he asked in a bored tone.
'On holiday,' Marler replied.
'Push off!'
'I think we woke the poor devil up,' Marler commented as he drove on.
'A good hour to cross the border. And our passports are both Common Market. Keep straight ahead…'
The flat character of the countryside they'd passed through changed. Forested hills dropped sheer to the road which wound its way through deep defiles. Klein pointed to a sign-posted side turning.
The road to Bouillon. I leave you at the Hotel Panorama on the way back. A room is reserved in your name. I take this Citroen. Hire yourself another car. You stay in Bouillon until you hear from me – or a man called Hipper.'
'What about my fee – the advance payment?'
'You get that after you've shown me you can shoot.'
It was wild and lonely Ardennes country where they stopped the car. An abandoned stone quarry yawned before them in the dawn light – like a vast amphitheatre with sheer walls on three sides. The ground was scattered with stones and rocks across its sandy surface. Marler stood with Klein in the treacherous light – difficult for aiming. A long way off he heard two sharp reports. Marler jerked up his head.
'Rifle shots.'
'They're hunting boar. Anyone who hears you will assume we are doing the same. Let's get on with it.'
From the boot Klein took the large sack and the shovel. He proceeded to fill the sack with a mixture of sand and small rocks. Marler crawled under the car, removed the adhesive tape, emerged holding a high-powered rifle and a telescopic sight which he attached to the weapon. He wiped the infra-red lens of the sight with a silk handkerchief, pressed the rifle stock into his shoulder and swept the top of the quarry.
Klein perched the sack jammed full of rocks and sand on top of the Citroen. He produced a length of rope, attached it to the neck of the sack. He then secured the sack at both ends, tying the rope to the bars of the rack.
'What's that in aid of?' Marler enquired.
'You climb to the top of the quarry. The left-hand side is the easier route. Get up there as fast as you can – before the light improves. Wave to me when you're ready. I shall then drive this car at speed round the base of this quarry. Your target is the sack, which will be bouncing about. I am taking a risk – I will be behind the wheel…'
'No risk at all,' Marler drawled. 'I get it now. And by the time I get up there the light will be really tricky – how many shots?'
'Would six be all right? We'll see how many you get on target.'
'Anything you say. Let me check that sandbag first.'
He fetched a pair of driving gloves from inside the car and put them on. Placing the rifle gently across the boot, he began punching the sandbag like a boxer. He punched at it from all angles. Then he tossed the gloves back into the car.
'Tighter than a girl's pantyhose. We don't want you delivering the car hire outfit a vehicle with bullet-holes in the roof,' He paused. 'Or in your head. You've got guts, Klein – doing this. I'll give you that.'
Marler walked away and Klein watched his silhouette in the gloom. Carrying the rifle in both hands he went up the steep path like a mountain goat. At the summit he looked down. The dawn was now a weird amber light. Klein stood waiting by the Citroen.
Marler aimed the sight straight at Klein, then adjusted the sight and checked again. He took his time. In the heavy silence which lay over the forest behind he heard a faint sound. The impatient shuffling of Klein's feet. Let the sod wait. He adjusted the sight a fraction, stared into the lens, waved his hand.
He waited while Klein drove the Citroen three circuits as fast as he could round the floor of the quarry, sending up great clouds of sand. That was going to be a great help. Klein drove deviously, stopping suddenly, skidding, accelerating, following a different course each circuit.
Marler raised his rifle, squinted through the sights, pulled the trigger of the automatic weapon rapidly. Inside the car, above the noise of the engine, Klein heard the thump of the heavy slugs hitting the bouncing sack above him. He swung the Citroen into a vicious turn, skidded sideways, losing control for a few seconds. The thumps continued in swift succession. When he'd counted six he slowed, stopped, waited a moment to show Marler he had stopped, opened the door slowly and got out.
When Marler reached him after slithering down the path there was a pallid glow reflecting off the quarry walls. Klein was using a torch to examine the sack. Marler brushed rock dust off his trousers, held the rifle loosely in his right hand as he spoke.
'Well?'
'Six out of six. Quite remarkable. You are a crack shot.'
'That's why you hired me, wasn't it? A moving target, you said. And presumably I'll be operating from high up – hence the firing position at the top of the quarry. That much I need to know.'
His voice was cold, his last remark a demand. A different voice from anything Klein had heard before.
'Yes, you will be firing from altitude.'
Klein used a pen-knife to slice through the rope – he had no intention of letting Marler see the knife sheathed and strapped to his right leg. Opening the neck of the sack, he emptied the sand and rocks on the ground. Then he held out the sack with six punctured holes and the rope screwed up inside. 'You have the can of petrol?'
'At the back of the boot under a pile of rags.'
'Take this sack to the base of the quarry and burn it. I'll collect the bullets…'
