She said briskly, ‘Which one is His Majesty?’
The man beside her looked down and saw the Royal party for the first time. They were already fitting on their skis. ‘He is the one in the middle, wearing the red and blue jacket.’
She saw a slim erect figure with grey hair and black goggles. Beside him was a blond man in a bright yellow anorak. They dug in their sticks and pushed off together across the flat snow, slightly ahead of the others.
Sarah had already snapped her camera several times, at random, her mind working frenetically, fighting down the panic. She was only half aware of the man talking to her against the ear-shattering roar of the helicopter, which was now making a low sweep over the restaurant. She saw the Ruler and his party reach the end of the flat stretch, and, with a thrust of their sticks, begin to move down the shallow 400-metre run towards the foot of the T-bar.
She turned to the man beside her and shouted above the noise, ‘Please, I told you, I want to be alone!’
He replied with a smile and did not move. In desperation she opened the bag on her lap and, pretending to fumble for some make-up, she pushed the transmitting button on the R/T set. Then she remembered the aerial. She pulled it out to its full eighteen inches, and at the same moment, with her index finger, snapped on to ‘Receive’. There was a crackle of static, just audible above the helicopter, which was tacking away down the valley. The Royal party disappeared over the ridge of snow.
She turned to the man and said irritably, ‘It’s no good — it’s the mountains. I can’t get anything —’ and with a deft two-finger movement she switched the set back on to ‘Transmit’. ‘It’s getting cold,’ she added, ‘I’m going home.’ She switched the radio off, pushed down the aerial, closed the bag and stood up. ‘Thank you, monsieur. Au revoir.’ She began walking at a brisk but unhurried pace down towards the cable car hut; and she knew by his shadow that he was following her. He caught up with her when they were a few yards from the restaurant.
‘Mademoiselle, perhaps you would allow me the honour of offering you a little refreshment before you leave?’
‘Thank you, I must go,’ she replied, quickening her pace round the foot of the terrace, where two men in long overcoats stood watching her with a weary indifference.
It was only when she was inside the hut that she found she was at last alone. The little platform was deserted, vibrating with the high-pitched hum of the cable running over the enormous traction wheel.
Then she realized how cold she was. She looked up anxiously for the red light to come on above the door into the attendant’s office. Below, the cables hung empty as far as the first stanchion, then dropped out of sight. At any moment she expected her solicitous companion to reappear, and perhaps ask to take a closer look at the radio. She considered for a moment trying to hide it somewhere — burying it out in the snow — but reasoned that if he did come, and she no longer had it, his suspicions would be confirmed.
A bell had begun ringing. The red light came on. The uniformed attendant appeared and asked to see her ticket. Below, the car had just appeared over the ridge. It seemed to come on very slowly, crept up into the hut, finally stopped. The attendant slid the door open for her. Inside she was still alone. She stumbled to the front of the car and sat down on one of the flap-seats and began to shake. She opened her bag, swallowed a couple of Valium, and exchanged her fur hat for the headscarf.
The car began to move. As it lurched over the stanchion and dropped down above the sheer wall of the Wang, she leaned her forehead against the icy window and thought she was going to be sick.
Ryderbeit scrambled backwards up the icy slope, using his sticks and heels for leverage. The position he finally selected left him standing almost vertically, his weight balanced precariously against the ice. It was not a good position for any activity, let alone shooting a high-velocity rifle accurately at 800 metres’ range.
He had unstrapped his ‘Top-Ski’ bag, and tested the telescopic sights. The T-bar came clearly into focus, through a faint bluish light behind the hairline cross. There was surprisingly little haze or shimmer, and no glare through the shield.
He glanced back up the mountain, to the tree line, and tried to calculate where Packer was waiting. Holy Moses, he thought, if that bastard tries anything! He didn’t think Packer was likely to shoot a colleague in the back; but then he was reckoning without that fat ogre, Pol, and his insidious influence.
4.02 p.m., and the radio in his pocket was still silent. Had that smart little bitch up on the Gotschnagrat ‘snafued’? Pushed the wrong button, or maybe just changed her mind? Packer had said she was a great one for that.
Ryderbeit lifted the telescopic lens again and focused the cross of the hairline on one of the empty bars. As it swung out of sight, the radio crackled in his pocket and a faint metallic voice, almost sexless, said, ‘Il devient froid — je rentre chez moi.’ Then silence.
Three skiers passed in close formation. Hell, he thought, if one of them happens to come by at the crucial moment. Well, he’d made provision for that: he’d shoot the sod and leave the Swiss police to sort that one out too.
He looked at his watch. They had reckoned on three clear minutes from the moment the call signal went out. When the second hand registered two minutes and thirty seconds, Ryderbeit lifted the Armalite and
