Ryderbeit was looking sourly at the dead butt of his cigar, then flipped it over the concrete parapet on to the beach. ‘What you’re trying to say, Fat Man, is that even if the odds are still heavily against us in Switzerland, at least we won’t get our balls cut off if we’re caught?’
‘It is a consideration, my dear Sammy. But not the first consideration.’ Pol turned to Packer. ‘The essence of this operation is to kill the Ruler, when and where the circumstances are most apposite. Fear of the consequences is neither noble nor helpful.’ He gave Packer a mischievous wink, with a quick nod at Ryderbeit; then took another drink from his flask.
‘Thank you, I’ll have a spot of that too!’ Ryderbeit said, and grabbed the flask out of Pol’s hand before the Frenchman had time to screw it up. He took a long gulp from the flask, then handed it back to Pol, who was smiling cheerfully.
‘The main point to remember about the Ruler’s presence in Switzerland,’ the Frenchman continued, ‘is that officially he likes to make it known that this annual vacation is a purely informal affair. Klosters is a small skiing resort, less fashionable than Gstaad or Davos, and less snobbish than St Moritz. But it still attracts a large proportion of la grande bourgeoisie. During his stay in Klosters, the Ruler goes to some pains to behave — and to be seen to behave — like an ordinary tourist.’
‘Some ordinary tourist!’ Ryderbeit sneered.
Pol wagged a fat forefinger. ‘You must understand, Sammy, that the Ruler is a very proud man. He is also a brave man; and, like most tyrants, he enjoys the illusion of being loved. He is fond of boasting about how he has his hand on the pulse of his people, and how he feels their love for him. He does not mention that the pulse is in their throat —’ he chuckled at his little joke, and went on.
‘No matter! He is very sensitive to Western public opinion, and is at great pains — particularly in Klosters — to keep his bodyguards as inconspicuous as possible. That is not to say that he will be an easy target. But the problems and logistics of killing him and of escaping afterwards do not concern me. They are for you to deliberate and solve. That is what I am paying you for.’
‘You’re suggesting that Klosters provides our best opportunity?’ said Packer.
‘I am suggesting nothing. I am paying you not merely for action, but for ideas.’ Pol shivered suddenly and hugged his short little arms together. ‘I think it is time we returned, mes amis.’
Packer remained staring moodily along the esplanade to where the man in the blue raincoat was just climbing the steps off the beach, about 200 yards away. Pol and Ryderbeit had stood up. Packer followed a moment later. He waited until the other two had got into the Mercedes, then leaned in and said, ‘I’m just going back to get some cigarettes.’
It took him three minutes to reach the nearest café. It was empty except for a waiter in a white apron wiping down the tables. Packer asked him for twenty Gitanes filtres and gave him a ten-franc note. The waiter fetched the blue packet, rang up the till, and handed him the change, which came to seven one-franc pieces and some centimes. Packer took the coins in his left hand and walked out.
The esplanade was still deserted except for a few parked cars. The Mercedes lay to his left. Without looking at it, Packer turned right and began walking briskly along the pavement. He passed a battered grey van, then, a few yards on, a Renault estate car. He was two paces beyond it when he swung round, jumped back, grabbed the handle on the driver’s side with his right hand, and yanked the door wide open.
With his left hand still holding the roll of coins, Packer hit the man in the blue raincoat twice — two jabbing blows against his jaw and cheekbone that sent his head bouncing sideways like a punch ball. He followed with a low thrust of his right hand, the stiffened fingers sinking low into the soft fat of the man’s side and pulling upwards until he felt the lower ridge of the ribcage, dragging the whole body towards him, at the same time lowering his forehead to meet the full impact of the man’s left temple.
There was a grunt and the man made a flailing movement with his hands. Packer hit him again, full in the face this time, and heard the crunch of cartilage as a sharp pain bit into his knuckles. The man’s head flopped back on to the plastic seat and lay still.
Packer checked the street in both directions, then climbed in over the driver, closed the door and went to work. His hands moved fast, running up the man’s ankles, over his thighs and through his side pockets, under the armpits, before reaching inside his jacket. The man was carrying no weapon.
Packer took out a leather wallet stuffed with one-hundred French franc notes and a number of credit cards in the name of P-B. Chamaz. He transferred the money into his own wallet and tossed the one he had taken on to the floor; then he looked at the two passports. One was French, the other
