‘What about trees?’
‘No chance. The nearest are well below the bend, and a good five minutes’ climb.’
‘These other sites —’ Packer brushed his fingers down the row of red rings — ‘what’s wrong with them?’
‘They’re all about the same, except the range gets longer and none of them give a sighting of more than five seconds. And even with an Armalite, that’s cutting the odds pretty fine.’
Packer nodded slowly. The waitress brought Ryderbeit another sturdy drink which he half emptied; then he sat eyeing Packer along the length of his cigar. ‘What about these Armalites, soldier? You think the Fat Man’s going to come through?’
‘You know him better than I do,’ said Packer.
‘Yeah.’ Ryderbeit sighed and drank some more whisky. ‘Did he say how the guns are going to be made up?’
‘No need. An Armalite’s about the length of a short ski, and we’ll take them up in genuine ski bags.’
Ryderbeit leered nastily. ‘A pair of Armalites with the latest self-adjusting telescopic sights — standard skiing equipment these days, eh? I just wonder that nobody’s thought of it before.’ Packer said nothing. Ryderbeit leaned back and breathed smoke at the ceiling. ‘You know anything about these new sights? Do they need shooting in?’
‘They shouldn’t, if they and the gun are new. But if you’re worried, we can find somewhere quiet — up near Davos, on the Weissfluhjoch, round about the time they’re popping off mortars to bring down avalanches.’
‘It’s not that that’s worrying me, soldier.’ He smiled, sly and cat-like. ‘I’m worried about you and Fat Man. I’m thinking you may be setting me up on this mountain as a patsy.’
‘You’ve drunk too much, Sammy. Remember, I’m going to be up on this mountain too.’
‘Yeah —’ Ryderbeit’s eye gleamed — ‘but you haven’t told me where.’
Packer turned to his own map and pointed to one of the green crosses. ‘About 300 yards above you. And the range from the T-bar is nearly 100 metres further than yours. But it also gives a more parallel target, so our odds are about even.’
‘Except you’ve got tree cover,’ Ryderbeit scowled. ‘And your run’ll get you down to Wolfgang a good few minutes before me.’
He swallowed the rest of his Scotch, then leaned down as though to adjust one of his boots, and brought his head up, smiling this time. In his left hand was a small short-nosed automatic with a grip that was hidden in his slender palm. It looked to Packer like the sort of weapon that used to be called a ‘lady’s gun’. But still lethal within six feet — providing you knew how to use it. And Ryderbeit no doubt did, however much whisky he’d drunk.
Packer felt a familiar chill spreading through his gut. He laid both hands carefully on the table. ‘All right, Sammy, just tell me what’s on your mind.’
‘I already told you, Packer Boy. I been thinking that you and Fat Man want me up on this mountain to make a dummy run, so you can both collect the chips.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t?’ Ryderbeit snickered. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve just had a funny thought. And that thought tells me that the mysterious Mister Big behind all this — the one who’s paid Fat Man to set up this caper — is maybe the same joker we’re supposed to be knocking off on that T-bar.’
‘That’s bloody daft.’ Packer felt his palms growing moist on the cold table top. Ryderbeit was crouching forward, his fingers folded round the little gun which was pointing loosely down at Packer’s groin. He was not touching the trigger. Packer glanced at the table of Germans, then at the waitress; but no one was looking at them.
‘Why daft? Never heard of a man trying to buy a bit of popularity by hiring a hitman to make a botched attempt on his life?’
Packer smiled swiftly, trying to humour him. ‘You mean like Idi Amin — once a week — just to prove he’s divine?’
Ryderbeit snapped his fingers. ‘Right on the nail, soldier! Though Idi’s a trifle crude. I was thinking of something a bit smarter — the kind of trick that might appeal to a crafty A-One shit like the Ruler.’
‘Such as?’ Packer said, in a quiet tight voice; he was trying not to look at the black eye of the gun, which was now near enough for him to grab without his even having to move his body.
‘Soldier, the way I see it is this. The Ruler pays Fat Man a nice big sum to arrange a botched assassination attempt — something fancy that catches the imagination but doesn’t quite succeed. Something like getting shot at while enjoying his innocent annual vacation in Switzerland. Shooting skiers must be even worse than shooting grouse out of season?’
‘I’m sure it is. Put away the gun, Sammy. What’s it for, anyway?’
‘What’s a gun for?’ Ryderbeit repeated sleepily; he looked at his empty tumbler, then at the waitress, hesitated, then leaned down and replaced the little gun in his boot. He grinned. ‘No offence, I hope, soldier? I need a gun sometimes — like I need a drink. Sometimes I need both. Like just now.’
‘What was so special about just now?’ Packer said; his hands were still sweating.
‘Just that I was thinking how convenient it would be for Fat Man to put me up here on the mountain to take a shot at the Ruler — who, for all we know, can be a stand-in with a lovely silver wig — while you, Packer Boy, are perched up there in the trees, and the second I pull the trigger and blow the dummy’s head off, you pull your trigger — at a nice easy range —
