Packer made sure the door was locked; then pulled down the top pack and ripped open the zip. What he saw caused him to blink in amazement. He let go of the bag and part of its contents caught him a sharp blow on the shins. It was a short, fibreglass ski, painted the same brilliant red and white as the bag.
For several seconds he stared, bewildered; then he unzipped the second pack, and found another, identical pair of skis. In each bag was also a pair of aluminium sticks with red and white plastic hand straps. For a moment he tested the sticks, to see if the handles unscrewed or came to pieces, in case Pol had concealed in them some ingenious conversion of the Armalite. But they seemed innocent enough. He tossed them back on the stand, and now turned to the brown-paper parcel.
It had clearly been wrapped by a professional, and in order to open it Packer would have to use Sarah’s nail scissors to cut the tightly sealed corners. But first he took the precaution of sliding his fingers over the smooth sides of the box, feeling for the tell-tale strip of metal spring that would release the detonator. There was none.
He cut the paper edges, still taking no chances, and peeled off the wrapping. Inside was a dark blue leather case with the small gilt signature of GRIMA engraved on the top left-hand corner. He snapped open the catch and looked down at a cushion of tissue paper. Lying on it was a card covered in a messy Biro scrawl, in French: ‘Cher Monsieur Packer! Forgive an old man who is still young enough to enjoy playing games. Give this to your beloved Sara!’ — he had misspelt it ‘Sara’ — ‘and remember the words of Charles Pol: Women are even more treacherous than policemen and politicians — if you cannot seduce them, buy them!’
Packer lifted the tissue paper. On the black velvet lining was spread a necklace made up of cubes of pale gold, sprouting fibrous stars that were cleverly asymmetrical. In the centre was an emerald the size of a little fingernail. His first reaction was to wonder, idiotically, how Pol knew that emeralds were Sarah’s favourite jewel.
He put the card in his pocket, replaced the tissue paper, closed the box, and put it away in a drawer of the dressing-table; then walked over between the beds and lifted the telephone. ‘Hotel Silvretta, please.’ While he waited he was surprised at how calm he felt. The phone crackled in his ear: ‘Hotel Silvretta, bitte.’
‘Monsieur Cassis, please.’
‘One minute, please.’ The voice was a bored purr, and the silence that followed seemed very long. ‘Hello, please. I regret, Monsieur Cassis has vacated the hotel.’
‘What!’ Packer controlled himself. ‘He was there only twenty minutes ago — there has been some mistake.’
‘One minute, please.’
Packer sat down on the bed; his knees had begun to shake.
‘Hello, please. Yes, Monsieur Cassis has just left the hotel.’
‘With his luggage? It’s impossible! He must have just gone out. Did he say when he’d be back?’ He found he was shouting, and steadied himself. ‘I wish to leave an urgent message for Monsieur Cassis. From a Mister —’ he hesitated, wondering if the fraudulent Burton was any longer relevant.
The Swiss voice, in its excruciatingly accurate English, cut him short: ‘I regret, sir. Monsieur Cassis has checked out. He is no longer in the hotel.’
‘For Christ’s sake! Did he pay his bill?’ Packer almost heard the outraged intake of breath the other end.
‘Certainly. His bill is in order.’
‘What about his luggage? Did he leave with any luggage?’
The voice grew prim and officious. ‘I am not permitted to discuss our clients’ affairs. If you wish to make further enquiries you must address yourself to the manager.’
‘Wait a minute!’ Packer shouted, before the man had time to hang up. ‘This is a matter of desperate urgency. Did Monsieur Cassis leave a forwarding address?’
‘One minute, please.’ Again it seemed a very long time before the voice came back. ‘Hello, please. Monsieur Cassis has left no forwarding address.’
Packer stared at his feet and said, ‘Thank you,’ and laid the receiver back in its cradle. Then he went into the bathroom, filled the basin with icy water and plunged his whole head in, still wearing his sweater and anorak. In the glass, behind Sarah’s graffiti, his face was white. He took the hand towel and slowly dried the back of his neck.
The craziest thing of all, he thought, was that he should be so shocked and upset at being let off the hook. Half an hour ago he had been given the assignment to kill a man — unquestionably the most dramatic assignment he had ever received. And now he was free: free, with two brand-new sets of Hartmann racing skis, and a present for Sarah that must have cost several thousand pounds. The trouble was, it didn’t make sense. It made no bloody sense at all.
He tried, as in the heat of battle, to rationalize, calculate the odds, evaluate the enemy’s tactics. But who was the enemy? Pol? The Ruler?
He had thought of going straight back to the Silvretta and demanding to see Pol’s room; but he remembered those watery official eyes behind the desk and knew it would be useless. It was possible that Pol had instructed the clerk to lie to all callers; but far more probable that Pol had indeed left — had already planned to leave before Packer had arrived — and that the open suitcase he had seen had merely been the last of Pol’s packing.
No, one thing was certain: Charles Pol was scared, and was running for his life. The skis, and the expensive
