Ryderbeit was still stretched out on Sarah’s bed, his eyes hidden under the brim of his huge hat. One of his eight-inch cigars now pointed at the ceiling, sending up a thin spiral of smoke. He seemed peaceful.
‘You’ve been taking your time, haven’t you, soldier?’ He spoke without moving his head.
‘Not anymore! We’re on our way, Sammy. Out of here — out of Klosters — out of Switzerland.’
The Rhodesian lazily pushed up his hat and took a long draw on the cigar. ‘Little Sarah been giving you trouble, soldier?’ As he spoke, he reached out and removed the bottle of whisky from Packer’s hand, then lay contemplating the label with distaste. ‘What sort of Swiss piss is this?’
Packer said, ‘Ever seen a dead man come back to life? Not just an ordinary dead man, but one who’s been melted down with white phosphorus, so that they’ve had to scrape him off the tarmac?’
Ryderbeit’s good eye opened wider. ‘You ain’t by any chance been having a quick drink down there, have you? I mean, the tension hasn’t been getting a bit too much for your tender nerves?’
Packer went on looking at him. ‘He’s downstairs in the bar, Sammy. He and another fellow — just sitting quietly watching the dancing.’
‘Who’s sitting downstairs?’ Ryderbeit roared, and unscrewed the cap of the bottle.
‘Pierre-Baptiste Chamaz, last seen unconscious in a car in Berck-Plage. He’d been taking seaside snaps, remember?’
‘You talked to him?’
‘What for — to apologize?’
Ryderbeit tasted his whisky and scowled. ‘How can you be so bloody sure? The lighting’s pretty bad down there — and anyway, all wogs look the same.’
‘All right, I admit he was also wearing dark glasses — probably to cover a black eye — but the side of his face was swollen, and he still has a badly cut lip. Besides, you always recognize a man you’ve beaten up — it’s a form of intimacy, like sex.’
‘Okay. So just supposing it is the same man — don’t you think it pretty bloody funny of them to use him again on the same tail, once he’s been rumbled?’
‘No, it’s logical — providing Chamaz is still the only person who can identify us together, or separately.’
Ryderbeit sat up slowly and took a long drink from the bottle. ‘So you think they may be getting ready to put the finger on us? And in lovely neutral Switzerland too —’ he shook his head — ‘that’s naughty of somebody, that is!’
‘Sarah should be up in a few minutes,’ said Packer, ‘then we’re getting out.’ He was already throwing clothes into suitcases, taking a reckless pleasure in clearing the dressing-table with one sweep of his arm and loading Sarah’s toilet equipment with a soggy crash into her Gucci grip-bag.
Ryderbeit did not move. ‘Just one small thing, soldier. A little development while you were downstairs. It appears that the management made a slight boo-boo this afternoon — forgot to deliver another set of goodies.’ He pointed his cigar towards the door. ‘Somebody’s spoiling you, soldier. Another couple of sets of beautiful brand-new skis — only this lot was delivered earlier, about five this afternoon. The day porter has had them downstairs in the back room until just now. Take a look.’
Another two bags were piled by the door, next to the Hartmann equipment. They were blue and white this time and marked ‘Top-Ski’. Packer unzipped the first one and drew out a slim object, about three feet long, wrapped in olive-green oilcloth, buttoned up at both ends.
He tore them open and pulled out a length of smoky-brown plastic tubing with a narrow breech, box clip and skeleton stock. There was also a smaller, bulkier parcel inside the bag, in similar wrappings. It contained a stubby telescopic sight, studded with knobs like a musical instrument.
Packer rapidly snapped off the box clip and looked at the venomous, tapering grey plastic bullet in its gunmetal cartridge. He shook out all six, weighed them in his palm, then slipped them expertly back in. He now turned to the third package, which was about a foot square, covered in shiny black plastic, with two straps at the top and a zip underneath. Again — more from instinct than caution — he ran his fingers over every inch of its surface, even sniffed it, before undoing the straps and opening it.
The three Hitachi R/T sets, still in their Styrofoam casings, looked pleasingly like small transistor radios.
‘Beautiful, eh?’ Ryderbeit was lying back, watching him with a placid smile.
Packer replaced the Armalite in its ski bag and turned, breathing slowly. ‘Did the porter say who brought these over?’
‘A very large gentleman,’ Ryderbeit mimicked. ‘A French gentleman with a beard. Satisfied?’
‘No.’ Packer reached the door, then turned. ‘And throw in the rest of my packing, will you? You might even start on Sarah’s wardrobe. Pretend they’re for a jumble-sale.’
The corridor and the stairs again seemed empty. The night porter was alone. Packer asked him about the parcels which had been sent up to his room, and the man began hastily apologizing for the muddle, but Packer cut him short. ‘The first parcels — the ones that were sent up earlier, while I was out — can you find out who brought them here?’
The man nodded. ‘I will have to ask my colleague.’ He went behind a desk and began to telephone, while Packer watched the tearoom and the stairs down to the bar. He looked at his watch. It was 9.50: just over ten minutes since he’d left Sarah.
The porter returned. ‘Sir, I regret, I cannot be of great assistance. My colleague thinks the parcels were brought by a chauffeur. A man
