Näfels was a spruce dreary town off the tourist belt, its streets already crowded with industrious early risers. Packer headed for what looked like the centre. He saw an arrow marked ‘Bahnhof’ on a lamp-post, swung the wheel and cut left across the oncoming traffic. A whistle blew and he heard a shout from behind. He hesitated, then pulled up.
The man came round the front of the truck, noting the registration, then stopped by Packer’s half-open window. ‘Vous parlez français?’ he asked, in his odious Swiss-German accent.
Packer nodded, not moving his eyes from the man’s face. Under the grey kepi it was an absurdly young face. There was a ripe yellow pustule at the edge of his nostril and his mouth had the churlish officiousness that is a substitute for authority.
‘You saw the red light back there?’ the policeman said.
‘It was green when we crossed. I am sure it was green.’ Packer smiled into the boyish eyes, desperate to keep the young man’s attention from straying to the bullet-hole which was less than six inches between them.
‘Where are you going to?’
‘Geneva,’ Packer said quickly, remembering that the truck carried Geneva plates.
‘This is not the way to Geneva.’ And the policeman’s eyes strayed past Packer’s shoulder to the back of the truck. ‘You need the autoroute to Zürich.’ There followed one of those timeless pauses that is the trademark of all policemen. The man was still looking into the back of the truck. ‘What are you carrying?’ he said at last.
Packer detected a slight sound beside him, as Ryderbeit slid his hand under his anorak. Packer decided to take the offensive. ‘We’re stopping at the station to collect the luggage of some friends in St Moritz. As you know, the railway has been cut off by the avalanche. These friends are important people —’ he leaned forward and gave a slow nod — ‘and it would be most unfortunate if they missed their belongings owing to a small misunderstanding.’
As he spoke, he heard a sizzle as Ryderbeit drew down the zip of his anorak. Christ, he thought, all we need now is to shoot a cop.
The policeman stepped back and said, ‘In future you must drive with more attention. You could have caused an accident.’ He pointed up the street. ‘If you want the station, it is the second turning on the left. And next time be careful of the lights.’ He saluted and walked away round the back of the truck.
Packer’s hands were shaking as he double checked in the mirror before pulling out into the traffic. Beside him Ryderbeit let out a low cackle. ‘I’d like to have seen that kid’s face if he’d looked in the back! He’d have probably fainted.’
Packer nodded. ‘He’s also going to make an excellent witness when they find this truck.’
They didn’t speak again until they were in the square opposite the station. Packer cruised round and saw what looked like a warehouse with an alley leading round the back. He drove up to it, turned the corner, and found himself facing a dead end. There was no one in sight, and the only other vehicle was a cart loaded with freshly sawn logs.
It took them less than two minutes to unload their luggage, toss the two dead men’s guns into the back of the truck, lock all the doors, and run back into the square, where Packer dropped the keys into a litter bin. The station had only two platforms and the train for Zürich was already in.
From now on, it was decided, they did not keep too closely together. Packer bought the tickets, while Ryderbeit made for the bar. The train was leaving in four minutes, but at this point Packer did not care whether Ryderbeit caught it or not.
The carriage was only half-full, mostly with coarsely dressed Mediterranean types who looked like immigrant workers. Packer settled himself into a window seat, stretched his head back, and felt the full impact of exhaustion. The train jolted into motion and the rhythm of the wheels carried him into a deep sleep.
He was woken by someone shaking his shoulder. He blinked into the dark glasses and hooked face of Ryderbeit, who had slid into the seat beside him. He had a couple of newspapers in his hand. ‘Can you read Kraut?’ he demanded, and thrust the papers on to Packer’s lap.
One was obviously a local paper; the other was the Neue Züricher Zeitung. Packer stared blearily at the local paper, which had a banner headline in red, over a huge photograph depicting a wall of snow and a column of men with long poles. He reflected that the aftermath of an avalanche was rather like the end of a battle — except there are rarely any bodies to be seen. Neither make good photographs.
The headline proclaimed: KILLER AVALANCHE IN KLOSTERS AND DAVOS: AT LEAST 31 DEAD, MANY MISSING, GOVERNMENT DECLARES STATE OF EMERGENCY. The story filled the front page, and overflowed inside, with more photographs.
He turned to the Neue Züricher Zeitung. The lead story concerned Cyprus; a second story was about Kissinger; and the avalanche claimed four columns at the bottom of the page. Packer hunted quickly through the rest of the paper, wondering if his sketchy German had missed something.
Ryderbeit was watching him with a sly grin. ‘I always heard journalists were a load of lazy bums, but they can’t be this bad. It’s the gag, soldier. The iron muzzle, padlock and all.’ He paused, then sucked in his breath in a hiss. ‘He was dressed in his usual black sweater and red, white and blue anorak. Wraparound glasses, gorgeous silver hair — the Serene Imperial Pin-Up Boy himself. And I sent that lovely little plastic pellet smack into the Imperial cranium so they’ll have to melt the snow all
