‘Now for the more important things. We’re going to need two largescale maps — 1/100th, or even bigger, if possible — of the Davos-Klosters area. And not one of those glossy brochure jobs they do for the tourists. Preferably an army or aerial survey map that marks exact contours and distances, as well as ski runs. Particularly the ski runs.’
Pol had taken out his notebook and was scribbling in it with his gold pencil.
‘I also want two pairs of miniature 12 x 20 Zeiss binoculars, with glare shields, and two Polaroid cameras with telescopic lenses. Nothing too big or showy — the sort of thing a camera-crazy tourist might have without attracting undue attention. And it must be able to take a reasonably clear picture up to 1000 yards.’ He waited while Pol finished writing. ‘And lastly, three pocket-sized R/T sets with a UHF range of at least three miles.’
Ryderbeit’s voice growled from the end of the table: ‘You said “lastly”, soldier. But you’re forgetting the most important things of all. The hardware.’
‘We’ll choose that when we know exactly what we’re up against.’
‘Look, soldier —’ Ryderbeit leaned forward, blowing cigar smoke into Packer’s eyes — ‘that’s still our priority Number One item. The other stuff’s a cinch, but guns aren’t things you can pick up in a supermarket, especially not in Switzerland, for Christ’s sake! And I don’t want a clapped-out antique from the Boer War. I have a respect for guns. Like women with jewellery, I only go for the best.’
‘You’ll get the best,’ Pol put in gently. ‘Providing the gun is still being manufactured, or is in circulation, and does not require very special modifications, I think I can satisfy you within a matter of hours.’ He looked at Packer. ‘Anything else, mon cher?’
‘Yes. I want as detailed a schedule as possible of the Ruler’s movements in Klosters. And the exact day on which he plans to leave.’
CHAPTER 11
The Ruler lay stretched out on a long chair, his eyes closed behind the mirror lenses, feeling the Alpine glare burning through the film of scented oil which had been massaged into his cheeks and jowls and across his broad forehead. His nose was protected by a shield of black plastic.
Through the thin mountain air the chatter of far-off voices drifted up from the crowds of tourists queueing for the cable car up the Gotschnagrat; occasionally a spray of girls’ laughter reached him, like a peal of tiny bells. He felt relaxed, isolated, almost free. Here, in the sanctuary of his chalet, ‘Le Soupir du Soleil’, he could enjoy his power in privacy, mercifully spared the company of frivolous women, nagging diplomats, obsequious courtiers and foreign emissaries with their begging bowls.
Yet even on this terrace above Klosters, separated from his people by more than 3000 miles, the channels of Absolute Power — from his Ministries in the capital, Mamounia, to the smallest police posts in the desert villages — still flowed directly to and from him, maintained by a complex radio system which occupied the whole top floor of the chalet, its wavelengths kept alive twenty-four hours a day, receiving and transmitting in codes that changed every hour, on UHF frequencies that changed every fifteen minutes. It was said that not even a white line could be painted on a road without the Ruler’s personal sanction.
This morning, as he lay under the cloudless sky, digesting his regular breakfast of fruit juice, one slice of toast and two cups of black coffee, one thought troubled his self-confidence. It concerned his nation’s health, which was as one with his own. In a growing child, mild bouts of neurosis were bound to occur, but in recent months a certain organ in the national body, had begun to show more serious symptoms. For while his brain despatched messages to which his country’s muscles responded perfectly, the central nervous system — which was encapsulated in his Security and Intelligence organization, NAZAK — was, coming dangerously close to schizophrenia. The Ruler suspected, but still without absolute proof, that the leaders of NAZAK — ‘the Supreme Committee for Counter-Terrorism and Public Safety’ — were no longer loyal.
His worries were lulled by the faint throb of a helicopter across the valley. He pushed up his mirror glasses and peered through the diamond-sharp sunlight, just as the tiny dragonfly shape dipped below the dark wall of the Wang, on the south-west face of the Gotschnagrat. For several seconds the sound was lost, carried away by a changing current of air; then returned, this time with a loud beat that pulsated down the valley, as the slender silver-grey machine throbbed across the town, in the vague direction of ‘Le Soupir du Soleil’.
The Ruler watched casually as it approached. The sight was not unusual and was unlikely to arouse much interest among the tourists and townsfolk below. Whenever the weather was clear there was always a Swiss army helicopter somewhere in the area, drifting over the mountain peaks and tacking up and down the valley. Few people would notice that the machines always hovered for several seconds when they were over the forest of pines that hid the large chalet on the eastern slopes above the town.
It was the avalanche season, and many passes and ski runs were closed. This winter had seen heavy snow, and with the coming of spring the Swiss authorities had doubled their precautions. Several times in the past two weeks the silence of the valley had been shattered by the echoes of mortar fire, followed by the roar of avalanches brought down prematurely.
The Ruler watched the helicopter come within a few hundred metres of the chalet, then stop, suspended above the sharp points of the
