The man gave another bow. ‘Of course it is permitted. His Imperial Highness has absolutely no desire to interfere with visitors here. But unfortunately —’ his eyes flickered sideways to the Gucci bag on the bench beside her — ‘His Imperial Highness is a very important man, and mademoiselle will appreciate that certain precautions must be taken to ensure his safety.’ He held out his hand. ‘May I look inside your bag, mademoiselle?’
‘Certainly.’ She opened it and held it out to him. He stepped forward and took it, and with the discreet efficiency of an experienced customs official, he ran his hands swiftly through the contents and lifted out the Hitachi R/T set.
‘This is your radio, yes?’ He stood looking down at her with a professional stare. She gave a sharp laugh which sounded very loud in the Alpine stillness. The helicopter had moved away, and she could hear the clink of glasses on the terrace.
‘You do not think I stole it, do you?’
The man’s face stiffened at the sarcasm; he looked down at the tiny radio in her hand. ‘It is very small for a radio,’ he said. ‘I have never seen one so small before.’
‘No — my fiancé bought it for me in Hong Kong. They are the very latest models. I have never seen one like it before either.’ As she spoke, she reached out for the bag.
The man hesitated for perhaps three seconds; then, with a delicate, almost feminine movement, he replaced the radio in the bag and handed it back to her, again with his little bow. ‘Merci, mademoiselle. Bonne journée.’
He turned, and Sarah noticed a movement among the terrace tables. The Imperial party had disappeared inside the restaurant, and she guessed that the few remaining guests were also being supervised. The man was crunching down the slope, when she called after him, ‘How do I recognize His Majesty?’
The man turned and looked back at her. ‘You have never seen photographs of him?’
She smiled innocently. ‘Oh, I know what he looks like. But how do I recognize him when he goes skiing?’
He paused, then took a step back towards her. She realized her mistake even before he had begun speaking. ‘With your permission, mademoiselle, I will indicate His Imperial Highness as soon as he appears.’
She watched helplessly as he came back towards her.
‘You will permit me to sit down, mademoiselle?’
It took Packer one minute and forty seconds, from the moment he unstrapped the ‘Top-Ski’ bag until he had the sights screwed into the stock of the Armalite and the sling adjusted to a snug comfortable fit. The last thing he did was clip the glare shield on to the sight and test it against the slanting sun; then he propped the gun against a pine tree, hidden from the piste.
He leaned against the tree, with the radio tucked into the side pocket of his anorak, its short aerial pulled out, the receiver button pushed down. His watch — synchronized with Ryderbeit’s and Sarah’s before they parted — showed a few seconds after 3.59. He waited for a couple of skiers to pass, then swept his binoculars across the horizon. The T-bar was empty, the wooden hoists swinging slightly in the wind as they climbed over the slope.
He turned the binoculars down, to the bend which Ryderbeit had chosen for himself, beyond a ridge of snow and a deep gully. Ryderbeit was not there. Packer knew that the man was no coward, but in the tangle of mistrust, treachery and expedience which had ensnared them since Packer’s meeting with Pol the night before, Ryderbeit might well have decided to take his £25,000 and run for it.
Packer did not recognize him at first. He had been watching the ski run above the bend, when he happened to move the binoculars down slightly and saw the lean loping figure carrying his skis on his shoulder, moving up through the soft snow below the bend. Every now and again he broke into a run, his arms spread for balance, scrabbling his way up the last slope, as the second hand on Packer’s watch crept round to 4.00.
‘You are here alone?’ the man said. He had dropped the ‘mademoiselle’, and his voice had a nudging intimacy which repelled her. It also frightened her. Her eyes, hidden behind the dark glasses, kept glancing down for some movement from the restaurant. She was surprised that the Ruler preferred to delay indoors, rather than out on the terrace. Was he afraid of being so exposed? Or maybe he was just bored with the sun?
She said, with cold politeness, ‘I prefer to be alone. That is why I came up here.’
‘You told me you came up to photograph His Imperial Highness,’ the men replied, and she felt his sleeve touch hers. She shivered.
‘Yes, if I have the chance. It’s not important.’
In the silence that followed, she shifted slightly away from him, but still felt the subtle pressure of his arm against hers. ‘When I asked if you were alone,’ he said, ‘I intended to enquire whether you were alone in Klosters. But that is a foolish question, n’est-ce pas? For such a pretty girl to be alone in a place like this would be impossible! Ah, but I forgot — you have a fiancé, of course. He gave you that radio.’ He looked pointedly down at the Gucci bag which she had gathered on to her knee.
This time she shifted a deliberate six inches away from him. ‘Monsieur, my fiancé does not like me talking to strangers.’
The man’s face cracked into a metallic grin. ‘I think your fiancé is very strict,’ he said, his voice rising as the helicopter returned. At the same time Sarah saw a group of six men emerging from the door of the restaurant. Two more followed, carrying
