Ryderbeit cackled and drank from the bottle, while Packer drove back up into the town, heading for the road down to Landquart.
‘We’re not going to Davos?’ Ryderbeit asked.
Packer shook his head. ‘Too obvious.’
‘Where, then?’
‘Chur.’
‘Chur! Nobody ever goes to Chur — it’s the arsehole of the Alps.’
‘That’s just why we’re going there,’ said Packer.
CHAPTER 19
Charles Pol had missed the last train to Landquart, with its connection to Zürich, and instead had had to hire a taxi. For one of the disadvantages of Swiss life, he had discovered, was that it is the only country in Europe where trains do not run at night.
It was after twelve when he arrived at Geneva’s Cointrin Airport. In various pockets of his voluminous clothes he was carrying the total equivalent of US $800,000, in high denomination Swiss, French and German notes. He went to the MEA desk and found that the next flight to Beirut left at eight in the morning. He booked himself a first-class single ticket in the name of Monsieur Cassis, which corresponded to that in one of his passports.
His choice of destination was deliberate; for Pol recognized that the Ruler would not think at once of hunting down his quarry in his own backyard. Besides, Pol had friends in Beirut — powerful friends among the old Franco-Arab fraternity who had no love for this arrogant despot, this self-deified Croesus who had suddenly flourished all-powerful close to their more humble borders. Let the Ruler make his own plans. Pol would make his.
He checked in at the Airport Hotel, and put in for a 6.00 a.m. call with a substantial breakfast.
CHAPTER 20
The hotel in Chur was a cheerless establishment where a stout unsmiling woman took charge of their passports and made them pay in advance. Sarah complained that she had not yet eaten, but the kitchen was closed, and there was nothing but salami and cheese. Packer arranged to have some sent to their room.
They carried up their own luggage. While Ryderbeit had taken charge of the Armalites and the radios, Packer preferred to keep the ‘plastique’ Hartmann equipment in his own room. It was not that he exactly distrusted Ryderbeit; but he had a nasty image of the Rhodesian finishing the bottle of Scotch, then attempting to test Packer’s theory about the percussion fuses.
Ryderbeit had been given a room next to theirs. Packer was anxious to be rid of him, and be alone with Sarah. To his relief Ryderbeit made no effort to inflict his presence.
‘Goodnight, children! If you run out of ideas, or need any help, just wake me.’ He waved a free hand, cast a lewd grin at Sarah, then disappeared into his room.
Sarah sat down on the double bed and waited until Packer had closed the door. ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re in trouble, angel.’
‘Trouble?’ She sounded half amused. ‘You mean you’re frightened of something, here — in Switzerland?’
‘I didn’t say I was frightened. I just don’t want to get killed. And someone’s trying to kill us — Sammy and me, that is.’
‘You’re mad.’
He shook his head. ‘I wish I were.’ He waited for her to light a cigarette, then went on: ‘It began in Amsterdam — when we first met Charles Pol.’ He kept his voice level, matter of fact, as at a military briefing; for this was one of those rare occasions when he had complete mastery over her.
He told the story in careful chronological order, leaving nothing out; and she listened with that maddening inertia that could so easily be mistaken for boredom. She listened without interrupting, chain-smoking. When he had finished she just nodded and said, ‘What did you do with the sticks?’
‘Over there —’ he nodded at the pile of luggage in the corner.
‘But aren’t they dangerous?’
‘Very. But not unless they’re used.’
She was silent for a moment; then looked suddenly worried. ‘But isn’t it dangerous just having them here?’
He smiled. ‘I could put a match to the stuff,’ he said easily, ‘and it wouldn’t burn. I could throw it in a fire — bash it with a hammer — even eat it — and it’d still be quite harmless.’
‘So how do you get it to go off?’
‘It needs a detonator. As I said, that only goes off if you push in the points at the end — when you go skiing.’
‘And that’s what they hoped you’d do?’ There was a faint note of panic in her voice now, which pleased him.
‘Don’t worry. We’re in no danger here.’
‘And if you don’t go skiing, and don’t get blown up, what then?’
‘Then they’ll no doubt try something else.’
She sat sucking the tip of her thumb. ‘But do you really believe the Ruler’s behind all this?’ she asked finally. ‘It sounds so fantastic, I mean, these people I was with tonight — those friends of DJ’s — they’ve got friends who know him. He’s a very civilized man.’
‘I’m sure he is. He’s even been to Buckingham Palace a few times.’ There was another pause. He decided the time had come to frighten her. ‘I told you there was that secret agent of the Ruler’s down in the bar tonight,’ he said slowly. ‘The one who saw me and Sammy in France, and who was supposed to have been murdered. Well, he saw us together at Le Touquet — which might
