‘You mentioned,’ said Pol, looking at his notes, ‘that he has a six month visa for Switzerland.’
‘Probably just convenience. The Ruler’s largest European Embassy is in Paris. Chamaz may use it as a base, and perhaps he doesn’t always want to be known to the French authorities as a Lebanese.’
‘If he goes to the trouble of having two passports,’ Ryderbeit said, ‘and one of them is forged — or so you think — why wouldn’t he have them in two different names? That’s what I’d do.’
Packer nodded. ‘Perhaps you would — until you got picked up on some stupid charge, like a drunk driving rap or getting raided in a club. Monsieur Chamaz may not be legal, but he likes to seem legal.’
‘Yeah, and maybe he is legal. Have you thought of that, soldier boy? Nothing you’ve told us comes anywhere near proof.’
It was Pol who answered him. ‘The film in this camera will decide the matter. A Minox is an unusual toy for a single man enjoying an afternoon by the seaside. There is also the number of his car. You say the last two figures were 69. That means the car is registered in Lyon.’ He sighed. ‘That is a long way to come to Berck-Plage, especially out of season. Mon cher Packer, you have acted with great agility and intelligence. I congratulate you.’
Ryderbeit was chewing at another cigar, staring sullenly at the road ahead.
Pol looked at his watch. ‘I suggest, under these new circumstances, a small change of plan. We will drop Sammy at Abbeville railway station, as arranged. You, mon cher Packer, will drive to Paris with me — also as arranged — and return the car to the hire bureau at Orly. However, you will not join me on the plane to Geneva. Nor will you cancel your flight. Instead you will catch the night express from the Gare de l’Est. I would also prefer that you do not book a couchette, but travel second-class. It is disagreeable, I know, but it is best to leave no written record of your journey. As your training will have taught you, even the smallest precautions can sometimes be the most vital.’
‘And what about you?’ asked Packer.
‘I,’ Pol said smugly, ‘will go Swissair, first-class as we agreed.’
CHAPTER 9
The meeting was for three o’clock the next afternoon, at one of the open-air cafés on the Quai du Mont Blanc, overlooking Lake Geneva. Packer arrived a few minutes early to find Ryderbeit already there, sitting alone at a far table, his chair tipped perilously far back against the rail above the water.
He looked up from behind a copy of that day’s Herald Tribune. ‘Sit down, soldier.’
Packer was relieved to see that Ryderbeit had only a half glass of beer in front of him. The waiter arrived and Packer ordered a black coffee. Ryderbeit gave a crafty smile. ‘So the Fat Man’s actually paying you half a million?’
Packer made no reply. Ryderbeit leaned back against the rail and gave a low whistle. ‘That’s money, soldier! That’s the sort of money that makes you worth knowing. But why sterling?’ he added. ‘Why not something nice and solid, like Swiss francs?’
Packer shrugged. ‘Probably because whoever’s behind this racket paid Pol originally in pounds, and it makes it easier for Pol to calculate our shares in pounds too.’
‘Pol may be a lazy sod,’ said Ryderbeit, ‘but that explanation’s a bit too simple — even for me.’ He sipped his beer in silence. ‘That somebody,’ he said at last, ‘or organization, or whatever, must deal in pounds. As their first trading currency, I mean.’ He squinted slowly over his glass. ‘Could they be British, d’you think?’
‘Possible, but not probable. There aren’t many people in Britain today with that sort of money to throw around. At least, not the sort of people who’d have the motive.’
‘What about the hush-hush boys? MI6, or whatever they call themselves now?’
‘Not a chance. The Ruler lent our Government 1000 million last year, and we’ve just landed a second order from him for Chieftain tanks, worth over 400 million.’
‘Yeah, but what about your lefties? Those unions of yours, for instance?’
‘Don’t be bloody silly,’ said Packer. ‘Even if they had the money — which they haven’t — they’re so thick they can’t find their arses with both hands, let alone think up a scheme like this. Anyway, where’s the motive?’
But Ryderbeit did not seem to be listening. ‘Britain’s buggered. Down the can, and just waiting for the international money boys to pull the plug on you.’ He poked a lean finger at Packer’s face. ‘I tell you, soldier, I give you lot a couple of years and you’ll be seeing those Ruskie T54’s rolling down Piccadilly and Pall Mall!’
Packer smiled secretly at the vivid image of mobs pressing towards the City, sacking that noble banking house in St Mary Axe, before rampaging back into the West End and laying waste to the vilely exclusive club of which Sarah was a member and he was not. ‘I think I’d prefer the tumbrils rumbling down Bond Street,’ he said, ‘with Madame Guillotine waiting in Berkeley Square.’
As he spoke, he was already wondering how Sarah would behave on the scaffold: with a certain patrician dignity, perhaps. Or would she be dragged screaming up the steps, wetting her pants as they strapped her face down and hauled up the knife? Except that with the Ruler’s secret police, NAZAK, it would certainly not be so swift, and there would be no opportunity for heroics.
Ryderbeit’s eye had narrowed suspiciously. ‘And which side would you be on?’
‘I just might take up knitting and enjoy the show.’
‘You’re not by
