The Ruler’s hand closed over it, and slowly lifted it as if he were inspecting a card at baccarat. ‘Very neat,’ he said. ‘Neat and nasty. You were thoroughly searched when you came in, were you not?’
‘Twice. But remember, we fat men possess certain advantages. The night before his execution, Hermann Goering secreted enough cyanide crystals in his body to have killed twenty men.’
‘We also use metal detectors.’
Pol grinned. ‘Yes. But you will observe that this little toy is made entirely of plastic, except for the soft-nosed bullet.’
The Ruler was looking at the .22 cartridge. A cross had been cut into the lead nose of the bullet. With a look of contempt, he dropped it into his pocket, then wiped his fingers on the desk top. ‘A Mexican knife-gun,’ he murmured, and reached out just as Pol pushed the blade back into the slim plastic handle. ‘You will give me that, please. I do not like my employees carrying unauthorized weapons. The dum-dum bullet alone is proscribed by the Geneva Convention.’
Pol chuckled. ‘I know. It is a toy that breaks all the rules — the only firearm that is banned throughout the United States, including Texas and Arizona. Very handy on a dance floor or in a crowded reception. You press it into the kidney or spleen, the blade shoots in, and pop! — no louder than a champagne cork. The dum-dum splits up inside and there is usually no exit wound.’
‘Give it to me, please,’ the Ruler repeated. Pol handed it to him, and the Ruler dropped it into his side pocket. ‘Why did you show me this little toy? Possession of it would be enough to get you a prison sentence in most countries in the world — including my own.’
Pol gave a fat cherubic smile. ‘Surely you do not begrudge me one small effort to impress you, Your Majesty? After all, you have asked me to kill you. I could have done it just now.’
This time the Ruler smiled back. ‘Yes. But you would not have got away with it. Nor would you have been paid. That is what distinguishes the professional assassin from the random lunatic. I do not want a lunatic, Monsieur Pol. I want a genius. A man capable of committing the impossible crime. Of penetrating not only my National Security system, but also my personal Praetorian Guard.’
‘And then escape?’
The Ruler sat back and gazed at a point above Pol’s head. ‘Whatever else I think of you, Monsieur Pol, I certainly do not underestimate your intelligence and sense of self-preservation. You do not imagine that an attempt on my life — whether it were successful or unsuccessful — would meet with clemency? Your death — and the death of any accomplices or hirelings you decided to use — would be a horrible one.’
‘You must forgive a certain naïveté, Your Majesty, but even I am used to some degree of straight dealing. What you are suggesting sounds more like a fantasy — even a whim. But hardly a business proposition.’
‘Monsieur Pol, I have already mentioned a straight fee of two million sterling. That is not a whimsical proposition. I am now going to give you brief and precise instructions on what you are to do. You will take no notes. When you leave here you will be searched again — thoroughly this time, I promise you — and if you are foolish enough to be carrying some clever little recording gadget, you would be wise to tell me now.’
‘I have an excellent memory,’ Pol replied. ‘But before we begin, might I ask a favour? I would like a whisky. A large one, with no water or ice.’
‘You shall have one.’ As he spoke, the door opened and the retainer reappeared.
CHAPTER 2
‘It’s going to rain,’ the girl said, staring out across the canal at the steep narrow houses. ‘If you’d got up earlier we could have done the whole round trip and been back by now.’ It was an assured, arrogant voice, the voice of a girl who is used to getting her own way. ‘And while we’re about it,’ she added, without turning her head, ‘I think I’m being followed.’
‘You’re always being followed,’ Owen Packer said, feeling the first drops of rain on his bare head. The motor launch had come into sight under the bridge and the row of tourists pressed up to the edge of the landing stage. The girl glanced behind her, seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. Instead, she set her mouth in an exaggerated pout. ‘You knew I wanted to look at the tulips. It’s typical of you. You’re so selfish.’
‘We’d have been in perfectly good time for your bloody tulips,’ Packer said sourly, ‘if you’d just let me screw you this morning.’
‘Please! Half the people here speak English!’
‘To hell with the people here.’ He avoided looking at her, aware that she was already attracting her fair share of looks from the tourists and passers-by. She was a small dark girl in tan culottes, with matching jacket and high-heeled boots. A scarlet beret had been arranged at a precarious angle on her fine black hair, and a pair of octagonal green-tinted sunglasses covered half her face. Her lipstick was blood-red and glistened even under the grey Dutch sky.
