Several more guests had arrived, including a number of sleek-haired locals whose fishy eyes darted at once in Sarah’s direction. She evaded them skilfully, and left unnoticed.
Outside, the wind had dropped and the air was full of the scream of cicadas. Steiner’s car — one of the big Fleetwood sedans — was parked where she had left it at the gates, with the chauffeur asleep at the wheel.
About fifty yards down the street, on the opposite side, a low dark coupé stood facing them, without lights or number plates. Sarah could just make out the shape of two men inside. She shivered as she climbed into the air-conditioned chill of the Fleetwood. The chauffeur had woken as though by instinct; seen her in, closed the door, and started the engine. As they slid away, the coupé’s side lights came on and began to follow them.
The traffic had cleared and the chauffeur kept up a steady speed which the coupé had no difficulty in matching. A couple of miles from Steiner’s house, the lights behind suddenly swerved round and vanished. Sarah and the chauffeur were alone on the straight desolate coast road.
CHAPTER 32
Owen Packer was shaving, after a late Continental breakfast, when there was a loud knock on his door. He went through and opened it, with the foam still clinging to his neck and cheek.
Three men stood outside. Two were household goons who might have been twins — oblong bodies, blue jaws, and black square crewcuts. Packer thought for a moment that he recognized the driver who had brought him up from the airport, but he could not be sure. He was not interested, anyway; he was looking at the man in the middle. Like the other two, he was very tall, but much thinner, and hung between them, his head lolling forward under a wide bush hat, his legs dragging behind, like a broken scarecrow.
One of the goons growled, and the three of them entered, the middle one scraping his boots across the cedarwood floor. Packer backed away in front of them, and stood aside as they hauled the man on to the bed and rolled him over on to his back. The bush hat rolled free, and a yellow eye stared dully at the ceiling. Its companion opened slowly, squinted round, fixed on Packer, blinked, and lit up with a dry glitter. ‘Oh shit. Sh-sheeeeit!’ The goons withdrew.
Packer stood by the bed and scratched his cheek where the shaving foam had already dried into sticky flakes. ‘What did they do to you, Sammy?’
Ryderbeit twisted his head round and made a vague effort to lift, himself, then sank back with a groan. His face showed no visible injuries, but had lost all its tan, and again had that sunken greenish pallor which was as smooth as old ivory.
‘Pissed,’ he said at last. ‘Pissed as a snake. Footless! Been footless now for nine days. Three days in a wop can — that makes twelve. Right? Twelve fucking days since I saw you, soldier, and I can’t remember a fucking thing about any of them!’ This time he managed to get himself up on to his elbow, but it didn’t seem to make him feel any better.
‘I’m going to finish shaving,’ said Packer. ‘You stay here.’ He paused. ‘What are you doing here, by the way?’ he added.
‘I drive planes, remember?’ Ryderbeit replied weakly.
Packer nodded, went back into the bathroom, shaved, put on a clean shirt, and poured the last of the tepid black coffee into a cup; but when he brought it to the bed, Ryderbeit was asleep.
There was another knock and Pol came in, jauntily dressed in a floral beach shirt, white flannel trousers and embroidered slip-on shoes. ‘Ah, so the great warrior sleeps like a child!’
‘He’s been on a bender for a week. Where the hell did you find him?’
‘The Italian police found him for me. He was enjoying himself in Genoa, when he was seduced from the charms of the fallen ladies of the port district by his old friend, the grappa bottle. If he hadn’t made a nuisance of himself, which necessitated the intervention of the carabinieri, it would indeed have been very difficult to find him. Fortunately, Sammy has remarkable powers of recovery.’
‘I hope so, if he’s going to fly,’ said Packer. ‘He’s only got one eye, even when he’s sober.’
Pol nodded. ‘We will leave him to sleep a little, then after lunch, perhaps, he will be ready to join us in conversation.’
‘Are you leaving him in here? What’s wrong with Sarah’s old room?’
‘Ah yes.’ Pol paused, sucking the heel of his thumb. ‘Tonight we are rather crowded, mon cher.’
‘You mean, I’m going to have to share a bed with Ryderbeit?’ Packer cried, genuinely appalled.
‘No —’ Pol giggled — ‘no, mon cher. Tonight Sammy will be flying you to Mamounia.’
‘How the hell did you get in?’ said Packer. ‘This is the one part of the world where that virgin Israeli passport of yours is about as popular as the proverbial pork chop in a synagogue.’
‘Yeah —’ Ryderbeit drew on a twisted black cigar whose smoke hung heavy and
