Ryderbeit brought over a thick bone-handled scouting knife with half a dozen blades. ‘I just hope the hell you know what you’re doing, soldier.’
He watched as Packer selected a short wedge-shaped blade, prised it between the pinched, jagged ends of the stick, and slowly forced them open again. Packer looked inside but could see nothing, then, moving closer to the bedside light, he took the piece of wire and very gently inserted it into the alloy stem. After about three inches, it touched something: not hard, but not yielding either.
He took a deep breath and wished to God he could have some of Ryderbeit’s whisky. This was the worst part, he knew; he began to press the wire in at a slight angle, levering it round with a gentle prodding motion. Then he tipped the whole stick up and poured a few crumbs of greyish substance into his hand. They looked like a mixture of putty and pâté de campagne.
Ryderbeit was now standing directly over him, drinking and watching. He saw the crumbled particles in Packer’s hand and nodded solemnly. ‘So they’re being really serious, eh? Nothing crude like jelly or old dynamite — but our old friend, “la plastique”. Must be a couple of years since I last saw that stuff. How have they set it, d’you think?’
‘Well, it’s certainly not a trembler, or we wouldn’t be here now. And I doubt it’s on a time fuse, because they’d hardly want the scandal of blowing us up in the hotel. In any case, they’d have no guarantee they’d get us together. No, my guess is that it’s a simple percussion fuse —’ Packer tapped the point of the stick — ‘with this thing sliding in on a spring and setting off the detonator. But it’s pretty firm, and it would take pressure to set it off. Like pushing oneself through heavy snow.’
‘So the bastards were calculating that we couldn’t resist using a pair of Hartmanns, and would blow ourselves up on the slopes? Nice and tidy, and not too many innocent casualties.’
‘Well, at least we know the score.’ Packer was carefully pouring the particles of explosive back into the stick, then picked up the pliers and squeezed the ends together again. He had just finished when the telephone rang. He grabbed it, but did not have time to answer. Sarah’s voice came over clear and fast, with that familiar tone of apology masking wilful determination.
‘…it’s the most lovely chalet in Klosters, and this man Steiner has some beautiful early Italian furniture. And there should be lots of interesting people there…’ Packer started to interrupt, but she cut through him like an actress. ‘One thing — are you still with that frightful colonial — Sammy something? — because if you are you’ll have to get rid of him.’
Packer yelled into the phone: ‘We’re not going to any lovely chalet, Sarah! We’re checking out! — tonight — now! And don’t argue. Your packing’s all done. I’ll meet you at the desk in three minutes.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘I can’t explain on the phone. Just believe me — it’s serious. Okay?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said doubtfully; then added, ‘What on earth am I going to tell the others?’
‘As little as possible,’ Packer said, and hung up.
He finished parcelling up the two booby-trapped ski sticks and piled them up with the rest of the luggage. ‘You wait here,’ he told Ryderbeit; ‘I’m going down to settle the bill and get someone to bring our things down. Don’t answer the telephone, or the door, except to the porter.’
Downstairs, while the cashier was making out the bill, Packer went outside and returned the monkey wrench, wire and pliers, and retrieved his 100-franc deposit. He then fetched the Fiat and brought it up to the hotel entrance. He went inside in time to see the porter struggling down the stairs, laden with Sarah’s cases and Packer’s hold-all; while Ryderbeit followed with all four ski bags, and the box of walkie-talkies under his arm. While he and the porter went outside to load the car, Packer stood at the top of the stairs down to the bar and looked furiously at his watch. If Sarah had decided to go with her friends to this chalet after all, he wondered how he could stop her. To try and force her away, in front of D’Arcy-James and the others, would not only be embarrassing, but would harden her will conclusively. The one card he still had to play was the Grima necklace; but he wanted to save that for a more propitious occasion.
She appeared quite suddenly beside him, unsmiling but serene. He was carrying her coat and scarlet beret, and helped her on with them.
‘Now perhaps you’ll tell me what this is all about,’ she said, as they reached the door.
‘Later,’ he said, and hurried her into the back of the Fiat. Something about his manner must have convinced her that he was in earnest.
From the front passenger seat Ryderbeit grinned at her under the brim of his hat, but her expression remained neutral. Packer headed the car down towards the river, into the drab street where Ryderbeit was lodging. He let him out at the door of his pension and turned the car round. While they waited, Sarah sat well back in the corner, arrogant and aloof.
Ryderbeit was evidently as adept at his own packing as at other people’s, and was inside less than ten minutes. For most of these, Sarah sat in silence smoking a Gitane. Finally she said, ‘Owen, I don’t understand what’s going on, except that you’re behaving very oddly. I just hope you haven’t been drinking.’
‘I have not been drinking. I’ll tell you the whole story when we’re out of here.’
Ryderbeit’s tall shape appeared a few moments later, lugging an immense misshapen grip-bag of bandolier-like complexity, its brown leather
