‘Your position is above Sammy’s,’ Pol murmured; ‘but you have further to ski down.’
‘I know.’ Packer was becoming puzzled: this, too, he had already explained to Pol; and he said again, patiently, ‘The range is about a hundred metres longer, but the position of the target is slightly easier than Sammy’s.’
Pol gave him a slow dull stare, then giggled: and Packer realized, with a physical shock, that what he had mistaken for exhaustion was really fear. And when Charles Pol became afraid, it was time for Packer to start worrying.
Pol said, ‘Tomorrow, Sammy will not kill the Ruler. He will not kill anyone.’
‘Oh?’
Pol giggled again. ‘And you, my dear friend, will not kill the Ruler either. You will kill Sammy.’
Packer was standing very close to him. He could see the sweat glistening on his kiss-curl and on the shiny dome of his head, and he could smell the man’s sweet fleshy aroma like an over-ripe hothouse plant.
‘You are joking, Charles.’
‘I am afraid that I am serious.’
Packer nodded. His voice was quiet, without emotion. ‘This isn’t in the contract, Charles.’
‘Please do not be absurd. You know there is no contract. You have merely agreed to carry out my instructions in respect of a certain operation. And I must remind you that you are technically my employee. You may be a joint signatory to our bank account, but that does not preclude you from carrying out your obligations. That means, my dear Packer, that you must earn your money.’
‘Half a million pounds to kill a one-eyed expatriate mercenary at a range of 300 metres?’
‘You mean can, or will?
‘I mean, from your position here on the map you will be able to see Sammy, as well as the T-bar?’
‘Of course. Otherwise, how do we synchronize the shots?’
Pol nodded. ‘Bien. You will proceed with the plan exactly as you have just explained it to me, until the moment that Sammy takes aim. Your timing here will have to be impeccable. You will shoot him dead in the same second that he tries to shoot the Ruler. If you miss, the situation could become extremely disagreeable.’
Packer picked up the map and returned to his chair. Pol fetched himself a fresh brandy and swallowed most of it on his way back to the sofa.
‘You do not look happy, mon cher. You should be relieved. It is surely easier to kill a stateless nomad than the Ruler of one of the richest countries in the world? Or perhaps you are entertaining some absurd British scruples about killing a friend and colleague?’
‘Shit to that. Sammy’s hardly a friend, and colleagues don’t usually pull guns on you over a quiet chat.’
‘So you are satisfied?’
‘As satisfied as you are, Charles. And you’re about as satisfied as a Chief Eunuch in the Playboy Club.’
The Frenchman winced, but said nothing. He was watching Packer with his beady stare.
‘Listen, Charles. Part of what you’re paying me is for ideas, not for scruples. The hell with scruples. What puzzles me is how an old pro like you came to get yourself into this mess. Here we are, less than a week out of port, and you’ve got us both — and Sammy — all nicely lined up to be killed.’
‘I do not understand you.’ Pol’s face had turned the colour of greaseproof paper.
‘You understand. You went up to see the Ruler today. Or somebody pretty close to him. And you were told that the plot’s been discovered, and you’ve got to remove all the evidence. Or perhaps Sammy’s theory was right after all, and the Ruler — for some devious political motive — hired you to try and kill him. Then something goes wrong, which makes him change his mind, and he suddenly calls the whole plan off. Am I right?’
Pol looked unhappy, but still said nothing. Packer nodded. ‘Of course, he knows all about you, and he may know something about me and Sammy — from Chamaz, for one. Unless you were kind enough to tell him yourself? Then he summons you to the chalet and orders you to get your second-in-command to kill the fall guy — Samuel D. Ryderbeit. Okay?’
Pol ducked his mouth to his glass and saw it was empty. He hesitated, and when he looked up his little eyes had grown crafty. ‘You forget that I have been paid a considerable fortune. I have no intention of giving it back.’
‘You realize, Charles, that you’re as good as confessing that the Ruler did hire you for this job?’
Pol spread his hands and was again silent.
‘Anyway, the Ruler’s not going to worry about money. But he is going to worry about you and me and Sammy. And supposing I do kill that mad Rhodesian tomorrow, and even manage to get off the mountain and out of the country — who kills me? You?’
Pol began to laugh, but it was a hangdog laugh, like a bad comedian laughing at his own joke. ‘You are not being very intelligent, mon cher Capitaine. Must I remind you again that you are a cosignatory of our account? Do you really believe that I would kill you and forfeit half a million pounds?’
‘The Ruler could always make it up to you. Half a million to him is like a new pair of shoes to a shop girl. He might even throw in a pair of tights. You’d look good in those, Charles.’
‘Do not be facetious,’ Pol said, with dignity.
Packer smiled. ‘I’ll respect your sensibilities. But I’m not so sure about your good sense. I don’t give a damn what happens to Sammy — except that what happens to him is going to happen to all of us. The Ruler may, or
