She looked up. The huissier stood beside her with a fresh glass of Cointreau on a silver tray.
CHAPTER 24
They had started off as soon as they could make out the silhouette of the trees around them, with the mists rising from the lake below. It was 5.40 — just about safe, and legal, to drive on side lights only — with the road to Zürich still almost deserted.
Packer again took the wheel. His eyes stung from lack of sleep and his limbs ached; for unlike Ryderbeit he had slept only in snatches, his body refusing to relax, his senses alert to the smallest sound, the faintest hint of movement in the darkness outside.
Their departure was surprisingly, even suspiciously, uneventful. They passed the Fiat still at the edge of the road, resting on its flattened tyres, with its smashed rear window catching the rising sun.
As Pol had emphasized, to assassinate a public figure, however securely guarded, did not call for any special talent; the real skill lay in escaping afterwards.
Their original plan, which had been finalized in the hotel in Chur the morning before, had been for Packer and Sarah to take the Fiat to Zürich Airport, where they would leave it in the parking lot and book themselves one-way tickets to Singapore — the remotest spot they could think of where British subjects do not require a visa. It was a thin ruse, but it might cost the police — and anyone else who was interested — a few critical hours. Meanwhile, the two of them had intended to take the airport bus — more anonymous than a taxi — into the city centre, where they would make their way to the railway station and board the first train leaving. It wouldn’t matter where.
Ryderbeit had agreed to a similar schedule, but travelling separately, on the 4.30 train down to Landquart, and on to Zürich, where he too would disappear, armed with the identity of Daniel Spice-Handler. There had been no mention of their ever meeting again.
Subsequent events had changed all this: first the avalanche, then Sarah’s wilful disloyalty, and now this mysterious ambush, which had been carried out despite the confusion following the Ruler’s murder. However, Packer was determined to stick to the original plan as closely as possible. Even if his phoney flight to the Far East was not picked up, he calculated that the airports and roads would be checked first. The era of the railway was over — which might give them an hour or two’s grace.
Meanwhile, they had already lost more than six hours, he remembered; and it was still a good ninety minutes’ drive to Zürich, where they would arrive in the middle of the early rush hour. With their cargo of corpses, it was a risk they could not take; and he had already decided to make for the nearest town, Näfels, thirty kilometres away, at the beginning of the main stretch of autoroute to Zürich. Here they would leave the truck in a quiet street, and take a train or bus.
He was driving fast. The traffic was still light, but he was becoming increasingly puzzled, with a conflict of relief and anxiety, by the total absence of any police on the road. Fourteen hours ago one of the most powerful men in the world had been assassinated less than fifty miles away; yet the Swiss authorities — proud hosts on whose territory the Ruler had been slaughtered — had so far not even thrown up a single roadblock.
Packer had not communicated his misgivings to Ryderbeit, who showed contempt for all potential danger, reacting only when that danger became imperatively real. In any case, the Rhodesian was now fully occupied, searching the body of the second gunman, which they had been unable to do during darkness for fear of turning on the interior light.
When Ryderbeit climbed back into his seat, he looked disgruntled. He had pocketed a fat sum of Swiss francs from the man’s wallet, which again had been otherwise empty. The only mark of identity was a season ticket in a celluloid holder, valid for the Gotschnabahn for one month, with six days to run. It was made out in the name of A. G. ESMET, nationality Turkish. The photograph showed a heavy face with a dark jaw and a low forehead. Certainly not Chamaz; nor did Packer think it was Chamaz’s companion whom he had seen two nights ago in the Chesa bar.
Ryderbeit wiped the wallet and season-ticket holder clean before tossing them into the back of the truck. ‘First a Lebanese — now a Turk,’ he muttered. ‘Seems they recruit their cowboys and gorillas from neighbouring countries, so it doesn’t embarrass the Imperial Household when one of them gets nobbled, eh?’
‘I don’t suppose it fools the Swiss for long,’ Packer said, thinking again: Where are those cool efficient Swiss? At the same time he remembered something else — that damn window next to him, with its neat bullet-hole surrounded by a web of cracked glass. The side windows did not roll down, but slid open, and it would only need one inquisitive eye to spot the damage; for even if the average Swiss wasn’t used to gunfights in real life, he still watched them on television. Packer cursed himself for not having smashed out the whole window while they were in the layby; for now it was too late. The traffic was beginning to build up towards the entrance to the autoroute.
‘You know something, soldier?’ Ryderbeit said casually. ‘We should have dumped our two passengers in the lake. They wouldn’t have swum.’
Packer did not laugh with him. He was becoming irritated by Ryderbeit’s easy manner; the man didn’t even need a shave, while
