Pol nodded gravely, while Shiva Steiner and Dr Zak sat watching the pool, as though they were no part of the conversation.
‘Surely you understood,’ Pol said at last, ‘that the Ruler was simply hedging his bets? If you had killed Sammy, that would have been convenient. You might even have been picked up by the Swiss police and gaoled for life. That too would have been fine. Whatever you confessed about the plot — even if it was believed — could not have hurt the Ruler. On the contrary, the Ruler wanted a plot. The perfect, bungled assassination attempt.’
‘So that’s why he sent a man who looked like him up the mountain to get his head blown off?’
‘My dear Capitaine Packer, you do not suppose the deaths of two servants would trouble the Ruler — even in Switzerland?’
Packer leaned forward in his chair. ‘Charles, how the hell do you know there were two men killed? How the hell do you know anyone was killed on that mountain? I mentioned a red, white and blue target just now, and you didn’t take me up on it. Nor did you read about it in any newspaper or hear it on the radio. The Ruler gagged the Swiss police all down the line — including his attempt to kill Sammy and me on the road to Zürich.’ He stared hard at Pol, whose expression remained unchanged.
‘Mon cher,’ Pol said at last, ‘you must know that I am not an amateur — that I have much experience in these matters — many friends, many sources of information.’ He made a faint, ambiguous gesture in the direction of Shiva Steiner and Dr Zak. ‘How I found out need not concern you. The Ruler intended an attempt to be made on his life, but that does not mean he wished it to be publicized.’
‘Why go to the risk unless he could cash in on the publicity? It doesn’t make sense, Charles.’
‘Ah!’ Pol tilted his head back and stared at the sky, as if waiting for something to drop down. ‘It is all a matter of politics, mon cher. Delicate, internal politics —’ Packer heard a splash and the mutter of wet feet on marble, but his eyes were fixed on Pol — ‘politics of an intricate Byzantine nature which you and I would find hard to explain.’
Packer was aware of a dripping behind him. He looked round and saw the girl from the pool, just as she snapped off her bathing cap. ‘Oh God,’ she said in English, ‘it’s terrible!’
Packer gaped up at her. She laughed and shook out her black hair, every casual strand dry and falling into place. ‘Your moustache,’ she added, ‘is just about the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen. It makes you look like a seedy commercial traveller.’
Pol giggled. ‘Sarah, ma petite, sit down and make friends with Capitaine Packer. As for his moustache, it is like civilization — it takes a long time to grow, but can be destroyed within minutes.’
Sarah perched her neat little haunch on the arm of Packer’s chair, her thigh touching the back of his hand. Pol poured her a glass of champagne. ‘Santé,’ she said, with a short nod to Shiva Steiner.
Packer just sat. His emotional responses had been short-circuited by amazement. He had forgotten his fury and grief at losing her; and was too stunned to think of all the questions he needed to ask her.
Pol was meanwhile shaking with quiet laughter, trying to look at them both, but hindered by the silk handkerchief which he was having to dab to his eyes.
‘Gentlemen, let us waste no more time.’ Shiva Steiner spoke with the measured command of the boardroom. ‘As Monsieur Pol has explained to you, the plan remains unchanged except for the location. Instead of Switzerland, we must now turn all our attention and resources to eliminating our subject on his own ground.’
‘In Mamounia?’ Packer glanced at Pol for reassurance. Sarah had left them, and he was alone with Pol, Zak, and Shiva Steiner. Zak had not spoken a word, while Shiva Steiner reminded Packer of a mamba dressed by Cerruti: he would give no warning before he struck, and he would strike without being provoked or frightened.
‘In your absence, Capitaine Packer,’ Steiner went on, without answering the question, ‘we have devised a provisional plan. It is unorthodox, and quite different from the one you attempted to execute in Switzerland.’ He turned to Pol. ‘I think, Charles, in view of certain delicate aspects of this affair, Capitaine Packer might prefer to hear the details from you.’
Pol took a sip of coffee, leaving a muddy smear along his lips. ‘You have been anxious to learn, mon cher Packer, what Mademoiselle Sarah has been doing in our company? You have even made the absurd suggestion that I have been entertaining amorous intentions towards her.’ He wagged his head from side to side: ‘Such a compliment, mon cher! But fear not — the Germans released me from all such appetites in Lyon in 1944.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got no illusions about your sexual proclivities,’ Packer said brutally; ‘I’d even prefer it if your interest in Sarah was that simple. But you like to play games — and sometimes pretty expensive games, when it comes to throwing in a gold and emerald necklace. You still haven’t explained what that was for. Some kind of down payment?’
‘I
