‘We, Capitaine Packer, will approach the matter rather differently. We will even indulge in a little double bluff. Our victim, if he is as thorough as I think he is, would probably include you in his original list of suspects. But not for long, I think. He will reason just as you did — that after a good start, you ruined your professional career, and ended with a history of alcoholism, criminal violence, and mental instability. Besides —’ he chuckled — ‘grown men who earn their living building model windmills, do not go around assassinating Heads of State.
‘But there will be a second stage to our double bluff,’ he went on. ‘Besides you, I have also recruited a rather bizarre gentleman by the name of Samuel David Ryderbeit. He is already in the neighbourhood and — providing you are still willing — you will be meeting him soon. He is a very open character and does not require much explanation. It is enough to say that he was formerly a Rhodesian and has spent much of the last fifteen years hiring out his services — which are considerable — to various doubtful causes. He has these valuable qualities. He is a crack shot, with almost any weapon. He is one of the best pilots in the world — at least, on the free market. And he is totally without fear.’
Packer groaned. ‘Oh God, not one of those! Another gun-happy White African killer! His sort they’ll have on a list already, without even drawing up a new one.’
‘The essence of a successful assassination,’ Pol said calmly, ‘is not merely precision of planning, or courage, or even luck. The vital element is that the victim should be confused. He may suspect a former counter-terrorist officer with an alcohol problem. He will certainly suspect Sammy Ryderbeit. But then there will be other, subtler elements that he will not suspect. While he is looking for the obvious, professional killer, his back will be turned to the real danger.’
There was a long pause. Packer watched Pol idly scratching his silk crotch. They could hear the burble of voices from the bar below. It was quite dark now.
‘What real danger, Monsieur Pol?’
Pol tilted his chair perilously back and jerked his head at the wall. ‘Next door, my friend. In your room.’
Packer was not shocked or outraged. He was disappointed; for during the last half-hour he had begun to take Charles Pol almost seriously.
‘Well, one thing’s for certain,’ he said at last: ‘whoever you’ve got in your sights isn’t going to have her on his list!’
‘That is correct,’ Pol said.
Packer paused and sat looking across at him. ‘You’ve got an expensive sense of humour, haven’t you?’
‘I have been entrusted with enough money to afford one,’ said Pol; and for a moment there was a hard gleam in his eyes which Packer had not seen before.
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ Packer said, suddenly beginning to doubt his judgement.
‘Absolutely serious.’
Packer let out a long breath. ‘All right, what does her dossier say? No, don’t tell me. I can look it all up in the press cuttings when I get back — gossip columns going back nearly eight years. She started young — on her seventeenth birthday, when Mama gave a ball for her at their family seat, and Papa gave her a car. She got broken in early. Most girls get hurt at least once, and some of them seem to get hurt the whole bloody time. But not this one. She’s lived on and off with three different men, and each one of them she’s sliced up like a razor. But that doesn’t qualify her to help kill one of the world’s leaders.’
‘You love her?’
‘Yes. It’s been going on for just over a year now and every day’s been like the Eastern Front.’
Pol spread his hands. ‘You are being self-indulgent, my friend. What influence do you have over her?’
‘None whatever. She does what she likes, when she likes, as she likes. The trouble is, she’s a knockout. When she wants, she can be the most vivacious, amusing, exhilarating girl you can imagine.’
‘I don’t imagine these things,’ said Pol. ‘Your own sentiments for her are purely subjective. What concerns me is the effect she has on others. Of the three serious lovers whom you mentioned, I understand that at least two were considered to be among your country’s most eligible young men. The third was connected with your aristocracy, and was married. Of course, she is very well connected socially herself. Not exactly la noblesse, I understand, but the true grande bourgeoisie. But what is her real secret?’
‘Bedroom eyes,’ said Packer, ‘and style. The sort of girl who walks into a room and everyone, including the women, turns round to look at her. And most women, except her closest friends, loathe her.’
‘She is acceptable in almost any society, however high,’ Pol said softly, as though half to himself. ‘Her family’s fortunes are also in difficulties. The present economic situation in Great Britain, combined with certain Socialist measures to curb inheritance, threatens her father’s wealth, while she herself has a humble job in an art gallery. It is hardly a satisfactory situation for a girl of class, n’est-ce pas?’
‘She’ll survive,’ said Packer. ‘If she’d been on the Titanic, you can bet your balls she’d have been in the first lifeboat — as a first-class passenger, of course. Her stated ambition is to live it up until she’s thirty, then marry a rich man with at least one big house in the country, and perhaps a little place in Provence thrown in.’
‘Is she greedy?’
‘Selective.
