‘Not long,’ she replied.
Packer wrote out the number of the Bond Street gallery where Sarah worked. The woman told him to go into the second cabin. It had a glass door and a mirror in which he watched the wet waiting crowd.
The phone buzzed and he hesitated before lifting the receiver. A chirpy English voice said, ‘Rohmar and Mayhew.’
‘Miss Laval-Smith, please. Tell her it’s urgent, I’m calling from France.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Miss Laval-Smith is no longer with us.’
He didn’t even thank her; hung up and stumbled out of the cabin, bumped into somebody, growled an apology, and felt a hand on his arm.
‘It is I who should excuse myself — Monsieur Packer.’
The man was very wet. His T-shirt and shorts were sodden grey and the flaps of his cyclist’s cap dripped down his neck. ‘I think it better that I introduce myself somewhere quieter. There is a café at the corner — if you don’t mind the rain?’ He was already guiding Packer towards the entrance.
‘You’ve been following me,’ Packer said, stopping just inside the door.
‘I have been following you for a week — although I prefer the expression “chaperoning”.’ As he spoke, Packer caught the gleam of gold teeth.
‘But why wait until now?’
‘I was waiting to see if you had unexpected company in Béziers. I also came to collect my telegram.’
‘What telegram?’
‘Come, we can talk better in the café.’ And he led Packer at a dog-trot out into the rain.
Packer spread out the pale blue slip on the table and read the teleprinted message: BRT XL 9500/4/6 FRIENDS HAVE NOT YET ARRIVED BUT THE PARTY READY TO BEGIN — STOP — COLLEAGUE TO PROCEED AS ARRANGED — STOP — INFORM HIM PLEASANT SURPRISE AWAITING — GUIGNOL.
Packer turned the telegram over and reread the name on the front. ‘He should have signed himself “Grand Guignol”. Or am I guessing, Monsieur Sully?’
‘You have guessed correctly. He is certainly fat enough!’ The man smiled over his coffee, which he had ordered for both of them — having no doubt observed Packer’s drinking habits. He had removed his white cap when he came in, and his toupee was less conspicuous now that his hair was lying flat.
Packer turned the telegram over again and tapped the first letters of the message. ‘BRT — Beirut. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And “friends” means certain foreign gentlemen who might be less than friendly?’
‘Precisely. A stupid euphemism but — like many stupid tricks in our trade — it is often effective.’
‘And what are the arrangements, Monsieur Sully?’
‘You will take this evening’s train to Marseilles, and the overnight express to Paris, where you will leave tomorrow morning by Air France from Charles de Gaulle Airport for Beirut. I will deliver the tickets to your hotel before five o’clock.’
‘I’ll need a visa for the Lebanon.’
‘You will receive a twenty-four-hour transit visa on your arrival at Beirut Airport. After that, matters have been taken care of.’
Packer looked again at the telegram. ‘And what’s the pleasant surprise awaiting me?’
‘That, Monsieur Guignol did not tell me.’
Packer sipped his coffee in silence. He felt the dawning of a fearful excitement. ‘Who are you, Monsieur Sully?’
‘It is not necessary that you know.’
‘It is necessary.’
The man shrugged. ‘As you may have guessed, I am an old friend and colleague of our mutual acquaintance with the beard. We met during the war. Since then our paths have somewhat diverged. But whenever possible I render our friend what services I can.’
Packer nodded. ‘Meaning one of the French Government Services? And you put in a bit of overtime for an international crook? Must get risky sometimes. Either Charles Pol has got a pretty big hook into you — or else he’s keeping you sweet with something tasty, like a nice Swiss bank account?’
Monsieur Sully gave his gilt-edged smile. ‘It is more simple than that. He saved my life during the war — twice. Now, finish your coffee and I suggest you return to your hotel.’ He stood up. ‘Someone else will deliver the tickets to the desk. I shall not see you again. Adieu.’
They shook hands across the table. Packer turned and walked out into the street, which had turned into a canal blistered by the slashing rain. He put up his collar and began to run.
CHAPTER 28
The car seemed to set a new tone and style, even after the private sleeper to Paris and the first-class flight to Beirut, where Packer’s clearance through Customs and Immigration had seemed less a formality than a privilege.
It was a midnight-blue Mercedes 600 SL, with a glass partition between him and the driver. The windows were closed and he tasted the chill tang of air-conditioning. The driver — who appeared to be symmetrically oblong from his shoulders to his ankles, with a neck as thick as his head — had greeted him at the gate without a word and carried his case to the car.
After leaving the airport they had turned off the main highway into the city and followed an unmade road which skirted an automobile cemetery — a vast wasteland littered with the carcasses of taxis, trucks, cars, buses and military vehicles, all in various stages of decomposition. Their speed increased as they reached the edges of the shanty town — a sprawl of huts that looked like bits of broken biscuits, propped up with oil-drums and strips of corrugated iron. Through the shimmering midday heat, the only colour came from the slogan and political posters, which were uniformly red. The driver was using his horn continuously, executing a skilful slalom between donkeys, pushcarts, stray children, static beggars, and the occasional armoured car with its hatch shut. Through the window Packer caught fleeting faces turned to watch them, their eyes button-black with hatred.
The landscape changed. The
