‘No. Just a class-conscious Celt.’
‘Not Irish, I hope?’
‘Welsh,’ said Packer. ‘My girl thinks we’re the Lost Tribe, but that’s just her way of showing off her blue blood.’
Ryderbeit nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m a Heeb myself — third generation White African Jew. But don’t think that makes me sentimental. When it comes to politics — particularly African politics — I’m strictly right of centre. They may have chucked me out of Rhodesia and South Africa, but the reasons were nothing to do with politics. I’m right behind, the whites down there, don’t worry.’
‘Why should I worry?’ said Packer. ‘As long as you aren’t too touchy about being Jewish,’ he added.
‘Just what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It might make just that tiny bit of difference when the heat’s turned on and one of their prime suspects is a right-wing Jew with an Israeli passport. At least, that’s the sort of suspect they’re going to be expecting. Otherwise, I was just narrowing down the odds on who might be behind this business. None of the Western powers, that’s for sure. They love the Ruler. Besides his oil and petrodollars, he’s our front-line defence East of Suez. In fact, most Western governments would pay hundreds of times what Pol’s paying us just to keep him alive.’
‘Am I reading you right, soldier —’ Ryderbeit’s voice was menacingly quiet — ‘if I think you’re suggesting that Fat Man’s taking his graft from the Russkies?’
‘Not necessarily. The Russians are interested in economic stability — at least, as far as it affects them. And if the Ruler gets knocked off, it’s not only going to be the Middle East that would be in turmoil, but the whole capitalist world, including even the United States.’
‘But the Russkies would just love that!’ Ryderbeit cried.
‘In theory, perhaps. But in practice, once the Ruler went, it might not be one of Moscow’s boys who put on his socks. There are any number of eager little candidates waiting in the wings — half crazed would-be dictators, like they’ve got in Libya and Iraq and Syria, most of whose regimes make Moscow’s look rather quaint and old fashioned.’
‘Then who would kill him, for Christ’s sake?’
‘I don’t know, Sammy. It’s you who should be answering that question, not me.’
‘Me?’ Ryderbeit was suddenly alert. ‘I know bugger all about politics.’
‘Perhaps. But you know quite a lot about Charlie Pol. And Pol might be the clue.’ He leaned closer across the table. ‘What do you know about Pol, Sammy?’
Ryderbeit tilted back his chair again and peered at the sky. ‘Just that he’s a fat old crook who eats like a pig, drinks like a fish, and sweats like a sponge.’
‘I’m talking about his politics,’ said Packer. ‘From what you told me about your Vietnam experience, he seems to have a pretty soft spot for Communists. Two billion dollars’ worth, I think you said it was?’
‘Yeah, well.’ Ryderbeit paused, his manner evasive — ‘Fat Man’s something of an enigma. Getting to figure him out is like peeling an onion — there’s always another skin underneath, and at the end of it, all you’ve got is tears in your eyes. I think he gets his kicks out of pretending to help the underdog, just as long as he stays top dog himself.’
‘But do you trust him?’
‘Trust him!’ Ryderbeit brought the legs of his chair down with a loud clank. ‘I’d trust him like I’d trust a blind guide dog to get me across the Place de la Concorde in the rush hour!’
‘And do you think he’d try and cheat us?’
‘’Course he’ll try and cheat us. And it’s part of our job to see he fucking doesn’t!’ He paused to look at his watch. ‘Where is the fat sod, anyway?’ But even as he spoke his eye caught sight of Pol waddling between the tables towards them.
‘Ah, mes chers amis!’ He stood swaying forward, balancing on the balls of his feet, and smiling ecstatically. ‘The moment has arrived. Before the sun has set, you will both be rich men. But we must hurry.’
Ryderbeit was left to settle the bill, while Packer followed Pol back to the street. It was still only just 3.30, and Swiss banks do not close until 4.00. Packer was expecting to find a taxi waiting, but instead Pol stopped beside a big Fiat sedan with Geneva plates. He handed a pair of keys to Packer. ‘You drive, mon cher. I have more confidence in you than in Sammy.’
‘Where to?’ Packer asked, as Ryderbeit joined them.
‘Take the autoroute to Lausanne,’ Pol said, as he settled in beside Packer, with Ryderbeit in the back.
‘Lausanne?’ Packer cried. ‘But I thought we were going to the bank?’
‘We are,’ Pol replied, with his roguish grin. ‘A little place called Aalau between Berne and Basel, close to the German border. It’s hardly marked on the map — so I don’t expect you’ve ever heard of it.’
Packer pulled out into the traffic and was following the signs towards the autoroute. ‘How long is it going to take?’
‘It’s 140 kilometres,’ Pol said, leaning back luxuriously in his seat. ‘But most of it’s autoroute. We should make it by five.’
‘It is a bank we’re going to?’ Packer said.
‘Yes, mon cher. A very exclusive bank.’
Ryderbeit broke in, in English. ‘“Bank” is the polite word they use round here. In the business they call them “Close Mouth Money Laundries”.’
Packer turned again to Pol. ‘And it stays open until five?’
Pol replied with supreme calm, ‘It will stay open until we arrive.’
They had passed the derelict brick-red palace of the old League of Nations building and joined the autoroute. Packer said, ‘You told me you didn’t expect I’d ever heard of this place we’re going to. Well I haven’t. What’s so special about it?’
‘For a tourist, nothing. It
