He now saw her through the barrier, watching her scarlet beret bobbing among the drab line of weekend trippers returning from Paris; then walked away, passing the bar, where he hesitated for longer than usual, before hurrying to the car and driving very fast back to Le Crotoy.
That afternoon Packer and Pol returned to Berck-Plage. The beach was long and grey and empty; the bathing huts locked, the tricolours flapping in the wind. They chose the last bench on the esplanade, a hundred yards away from the nearest house.
Five minutes later Ryderbeit appeared silently from behind, wearing a floppy wide-brimmed hat. He sat down without a word, took out a cigar case and tapped out a fat Bolivar corona which he proceeded to light skilfully against the wind, shielding the flame under the brim of his hat. He inhaled deeply; then, with his good eye half closed against the smoke, peered slowly at Pol, who sat between them. ‘All right, Fat Man,’ he said, in his abominable French: ‘The contract.’
Pol looked at him with mock surprise. ‘You are not expecting to exchange signatures here? That must wait for the appropriate occasion — when we reach Switzerland.’
Ryderbeit gave a rasping cackle, then looked at Packer. This time he spoke in English: ‘You’re supposed to be my bossman, soldier. You explain what I mean by “the contract”. I want to know who the “hit” is.’
Packer looked at the Frenchman. ‘The name of the victim, Monsieur Pol.’
Pol grinned benignly. ‘But of course. However, are you not being perhaps a little optimistic? He is not yet our victim.’
‘Come on, you know what we’re talking about,’ Packer said irritably.
Pol was staring at the waves, which broke in angry white ridges a quarter of a mile away. A solitary figure in a blue raincoat was strolling along the water’s edge. Otherwise the whole horizon, as well as the houses behind them, seemed deserted. Pol began to speak, slowly and clearly. ‘What I am about to tell you is, of course, in the most absolute confidence. I desire, I demand, that you never speak the man’s name, or his title, or his country, even when talking among yourselves. You will refer to him simply as “The Ruler”.’ He sighed deeply, then spoke the man’s full appellative, in six words.
Packer stared in front of him in silence. He was thinking, it’s so fantastic, it just has to be true. Perhaps half a million wasn’t so much after all.
Ryderbeit sucked at his cigar, and let out the smoke with a long hiss. ‘That’s going to be one sod of a job!’ he muttered, in English. His eye looked round at Packer. ‘As I said, you’ve been appointed bossman. What’s your brilliant view?’
‘At a guess,’ said Packer, in French, ‘ninety-nine per cent impossible.’
Pol rummaged under his coat and took out a silver flask, unscrewed it, drank, and said, ‘I have calculated it at more like sixty per cent. Our task — or rather your task, my dear Capitaine —’ he broke off to smack his lips — ‘is to concentrate on the forty per cent.’
Packer took his time before replying. He was watching the lone figure at the shore’s edge, which had now stopped almost opposite them, and bent down to pick something out of the sand; paused, then flung the object casually into the waves. ‘You’re not just hiring me to help you kill the Ruler, Monsieur Pol. In these matters the actual killing — successful or otherwise — is only a part of the problem. The lesser part. Where we really start earning our money is in the escape afterwards. And the man we’re talking about is probably better guarded than anyone alive today.’
‘Precisely,’ said Pol; he sounded amused. ‘You did not suppose I was paying you so handsomely just to give you some soft target like a European Prime Minister or the Queen of England, did you?’
‘He has one of the largest, most efficient, and certainly most ruthless police forces in the world,’ said Packer. ‘It’s called NAZAK, and its reputation is right up in the CIA-KGB league — and even nastier.’
Ryderbeit sniggered to himself. ‘Electrodes on the balls and up girls’ pussies, needles through the eardrums — I know the type. Not exactly polite, but they certainly bring the “smack of firm government”!’ He drew again on his cigar. ‘But there have been several attempts on the bastard’s life already,’ he added. ‘I met a chap in Oman who told me what happened to one of the would-be assassins. Officially he was given the chop — literally — in public, just like the old days, plus one nice little refinement. If the sword doesn’t cut through the neck first time, there’s a statutory one-minute interval before the next stroke. With this poor sod it took seven minutes. But that wasn’t all. This chap in Oman said it wasn’t the execution that was so bad — it was what they did to him beforehand. I can’t remember all the details, because it was a pretty long inventory. All I can say is, they didn’t leave much out — or rather, much left.’
Packer felt a shock of dismay, accompanied by a cold hollow in his stomach. He was not thinking of himself, but of Sarah — relating Ryderbeit’s words to her with appalling vividness. He was relieved only by Pol’s reassuring voice beside him.
‘You need not be too concerned about the Ruler’s secret police. Like all absolute monarchs, his most dangerous enemies are to be found among his accomplices and henchmen.’
‘Are you saying that NAZAK isn’t reliable?’ said Packer.
‘Rumours are a poor substitute for the truth,’ Pol replied ambiguously. ‘However, as far as NAZAK
