Alone, Packer felt a dull sense of inertia — of isolation, even anti-climax. He knew he could not return to London. The Ruler maintained a large Embassy in London and his relations with the Foreign Office were cordial — ingratiatingly so, on the British side, since Her Britannic Majesty’s Exchequer was already in hock for over £1000 million to the Ruler, with another £500 million rumoured to be on the negotiating table. Besides, London meant an empty flat and a telephone that wouldn’t ring, and nothing to do but work on his model windmills as occupational therapy.
The pain of losing Sarah had returned as the train pulled out of the station, bound for Lyon. Customs and Immigration were perfunctory; but again — perhaps now as much to keep his mind occupied as to protect himself — he kept a close but discreet watch on his fellow passengers.
There were no stops before Lyon. Here he caught the Rapide to Marseilles, arriving an hour and twenty minutes later. He checked the timetable, went out to the nearest tabac and bought writing paper and envelopes; then sat in a café, ordered a citron pressé and a large black coffee, and wrote, under the date, but with no headed address:
Dear Uncle Charles,
You will by now no doubt have heard the unfortunate news, and I can only say that I regret it as much as you. Clearly we must meet, as soon as possible, to decide what to do next, as well as settle our outstanding financial arrangements. My address, until further notice, will be the Poste Restante in Béziers.
With my best sentiments, Your trusting nephew,
O.W.
He sealed the envelope and addressed it to: Monsieur Cassis, c/o Volkskantonaler Bank, Aalau, Suisse.
He mailed it from the Post Office in the station. With forty minutes to wait for his train to Béziers, he occupied himself irritably leafing through the midday editions of the local papers. They had all taken up the rumour of an assassination attempt on the Ruler — two of them with, banner headlines — but the impact of the stories was dulled by cautious speculation. None of the papers carried any substance for the rumour.
Meanwhile, the Ruler and Pierre-Baptiste Chamaz seemed to have one thing in common. They were both alive. Chamaz had also identified Packer and Ryderbeit, and probably Sarah; and the Ruler had laid the bait — several baits — to see which way they would jump. He had been able to scare Pol enough to make him disappear; while Packer and Ryderbeit had been brave enough, or stupid enough, to stay around and carry the operation through. The Ruler had made one clumsy attempt to kill them both last night — but a little failure like that would either needle his pride or whet his appetite, or both. It certainly would not deter him.
Packer realized that for the first time in his life he was not only utterly alone — he was on the run. And — like Pol — running for his life. For Pol and Ryderbeit, however, this was no doubt a mere professional chore: they changed identities, loyalties, allegiances, as other men change their socks. Even Sarah, with her cool and ignorant sense of social immunity, had had the nerve to stay put — indeed, to risk attending some swank ‘do’ in St Moritz where there was a good chance that some of the Ruler’s associates might even be guests. But Sarah wouldn’t think of that, of course. Sarah would be purring over that fat cheque Pol had given her, and deciding about what dress to wear.
Packer began to wonder how much Pol had paid her. He had paid her something, certainly. But for all his exuberance Charles Pol was a hard and careful man. He had paid Packer ten per cent against the rest when the deed was done. Would he have imposed the same conditions on Sarah? She had seemed confident enough in the hotel in Chur two nights ago, when she had spurned his offer of the Porsche — which suggested that any down payment she had received, or been promised, must be in the region of Packer’s. But what for? To press a button and mutter one sentence into a portable radio? Or did that fat, sly, giggling villain have other plans for her? Plans as bold, but far more subtle than the ones at which Packer and Ryderbeit had so mysteriously failed?
If Sarah was to have got her other ninety per cent when the Ruler was dead, she would not only be feeling somewhat cast down by the news, or rather, lack of it — as well as furious at Packer and Ryderbeit, whom she would automatically blame — but she would also be just as keen as Packer to get in touch with Charles Pol.
Packer found a bureau de change in the station and exchanged half his Swiss francs for French money — enough to last him comfortably for at least a month — and the other into traveller’s cheques. By the time he had retrieved his luggage, the train was about to leave. The second class was packed to standing room, mostly with noisy blue-chinned men from the Midi, laden with wine and parcels of food.
This time he chose the single first-class carriage, where he found an empty compartment. As soon as the train started he pulled down the blinds on both sides and tried to sleep. The door slid open and a man in a white suit and two-tone shoes came in, carrying an expensive leather grip-bag. He muttered a greeting, and Packer noticed that he had a lot of gold fillings. He also wore dark glasses, and an obvious toupee, like a little mat on the front of his head.
He sat down in the corner opposite Packer, and
