Shah-Mak

by Alan Williams

  Packer felt a shock of dismay, accompanied by a cold hollow in his stomach. He was not thinking of himself, but of Sarah — relating Ryderbeit’s words to her with appalling vividness. He was relieved only by Pol’s reassuring voice beside him.

  ‘You need not be too concerned about the Ruler’s secret police. Like all absolute monarchs, his most dangerous enemies are to be found among his accomplices and henchmen.’

  ‘Are you saying that NAZAK isn’t reliable?’ said Packer.

  ‘Rumours are a poor substitute for the truth,’ Pol replied ambiguously. ‘However, as far as NAZAK is concerned, for the moment they are the Ruler’s problem, not ours. Let us first consider the schedule. The Ruler is at the moment spending his annual two-month vacation in Switzerland, at his chalet outside Klosters. He is due to remain there for about another two weeks. The security arrangements, from what I have been able to gather, are shared between the Swiss police and a retinue of a couple of hundred carefully chosen bodyguards. None of these — so I am reliably informed — belongs to NAZAK.’

  Ryderbeit was looking sourly at the dead butt of his cigar, then flipped it over the concrete parapet on to the beach. ‘What you’re trying to say, Fat Man, is that even if the odds are still heavily against us in Switzerland, at least we won’t get our balls cut off if we’re caught?’

  ‘It is a consideration, my dear Sammy. But not the first consideration.’ Pol turned to Packer. ‘The essence of this operation is to kill the Ruler, when and where the circumstances are most apposite. Fear of the consequences is neither noble nor helpful.’ He gave Packer a mischievous wink, with a quick nod at Ryderbeit; then took another drink from his flask.

  ‘Thank you, I’ll have a spot of that too!’ Ryderbeit said, and grabbed the flask out of Pol’s hand before the Frenchman had time to screw it up. He took a long gulp from the flask, then handed it back to Pol, who was smiling cheerfully.

  ‘The main point to remember about the Ruler’s presence in Switzerland,’ the Frenchman continued, ‘is that officially he likes to make it known that this annual vacation is a purely informal affair. Klosters is a small skiing resort, less fashionable than Gstaad or Davos, and less snobbish than St Moritz. But it still attracts a large proportion of la grande bourgeoisie. During his stay in Klosters, the Ruler goes to some pains to behave — and to be seen to behave — like an ordinary tourist.’

  ‘Some ordinary tourist!’ Ryderbeit sneered.

  Pol wagged a fat forefinger. ‘You must understand, Sammy, that the Ruler is a very proud man. He is also a brave man; and, like most tyrants, he enjoys the illusion of being loved. He is fond of boasting about how he has his hand on the pulse of his people, and how he feels their love for him. He does not mention that the pulse is in their throat —’ he chuckled at his little joke, and went on.

  ‘No matter! He is very sensitive to Western public opinion, and is at great pains — particularly in Klosters — to keep his bodyguards as inconspicuous as possible. That is not to say that he will be an easy target. But the problems and logistics of killing him and of escaping afterwards do not concern me. They are for you to deliberate and solve. That is what I am paying you for.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that Klosters provides our best opportunity?’ said Packer.

  ‘I am suggesting nothing. I am paying you not merely for action, but for ideas.’ Pol shivered suddenly and hugged his short little arms together. ‘I think it is time we returned, mes amis.’

  Packer remained staring moodily along the esplanade to where the man in the blue raincoat was just climbing the steps off the beach, about 200 yards away. Pol and Ryderbeit had stood up. Packer followed a moment later. He waited until the other two had got into the Mercedes, then leaned in and said, ‘I’m just going back to get some cigarettes.’

  It took him three minutes to reach the nearest café. It was empty except for a waiter in a white apron wiping down the tables. Packer asked him for twenty Gitanes filtres and gave him a ten-franc note. The waiter fetched the blue packet, rang up the till, and handed him the change, which came to seven one-franc pieces and some centimes. Packer took the coins in his left hand and walked out.

  The esplanade was still deserted except for a few parked cars. The Mercedes lay to his left. Without looking at it, Packer turned right and began walking briskly along the pavement. He passed a battered grey van, then, a few yards on, a Renault estate car. He was two paces beyond it when he swung round, jumped back, grabbed the handle on the driver’s side with his right hand, and yanked the door wide open.

  With his left hand still holding the roll of coins, Packer hit the man in the blue raincoat twice — two jabbing blows against his jaw and cheekbone that sent his head bouncing sideways like a punch ball. He followed with a low thrust of his right hand, the stiffened fingers sinking low into the soft fat of the man’s side and pulling upwards until he felt the lower ridge of the ribcage, dragging the whole body towards him, at the same time lowering his forehead to meet the full impact of the man’s left temple.

  There was a grunt and the man made a flailing movement with his hands. Packer hit him again, full in the face this time, and heard the crunch of cartilage as a sharp pain bit into his knuckles. The man’s head flopped back on to the plastic seat and lay still.

  Packer checked the street in both directions, then climbed in over the driver, closed the door and went to work. His hands moved fast, running up the man’s ankles, over his thighs and through his side pockets, under the armpits, before reaching inside his jacket. The man was carrying no weapon.

  Packer took out a leather wallet stuffed with one-hundred French franc notes and a number of credit cards in the name of P-B. Chamaz. He transferred the money into his own wallet and tossed the one he had taken on to the floor; then he looked at the two passports. One was French, the other Lebanese. The photographs were different but bore a plausible resemblance to the thin aquiline face beside him, which was now bleeding thickly from the nose and mouth. The details in both passports corresponded, each made out in the name of Pierre-Baptiste Chamaz, born Beirut, 1936. His profession was described as ‘Homme d‘Affaires’.

  Packer flicked through the pages of both. The French passport looked used on the outside, but its pages were suspiciously virginal except for a six-month Swiss Resident’s Visa which had two months to run.

  He now began to look, more carefully this time, through the Lebanese passport. It was older and well worn, with the gilt cedar tree and Arabic and Roman lettering almost rubbed off the frayed green cover. It had been issued in Beirut in 1972 and renewed three months ago by the Lebanese Consulate in Geneva. Its pages were crowded with a kaleidoscope of West European entry and exit stamps, with corresponding visas. The majority were for Switzerland and France. Packer rioted that the most frequent point of entry and exit was Kloten Airport, Zürich, He counted five since January — the last one being an Eingang five days ago, with an Ausgang the day after.

  But what interested him most was the last stamp of all, Schiphol — IN, dated three days ago — the day before he and Sarah had themselves arrived in Amsterdam. He searched hurriedly for the EXIT stamp, and any entries from the Belgian and French frontiers, but could find none. Monsieur Chamaz had evidently used his French passport for this journey, knowing that it would not usually be stamped between EEC countries.

  Packer would have liked to have checked the earlier entries, together with their dates — particularly Chamaz’s visits to Switzerland — but time was running out. It was now twelve minutes since he had left the other two in the car.

  He checked the street again, then replaced both passports in the same inside pocket, careful not to get blood on his sleeve; and now reached into the man’s side pocket and removed a Minox camera and a tiny cartridge of film, the seals of which were broken. He leaned over the seat and made sure both rear doors were locked from the inside, took the keys from the ignition, got out and locked both front doors, checked the car’s registration number, then started back
towards the Mercedes.

  Ryderbeit snarled beside him, ‘Where the fuck have you been? Chasing tail in the local cat house?’

  Packer ignored him. He turned to Pol and handed him the Minox and the cartridge. ‘By courtesy of a Monsieur Pierre-Baptiste Chamaz, a businessman who enjoys both French and Lebanese nationality.’ He started the engine, did a swift U-turn, and began to head back along the esplanade, away from the marooned Renault.

  Ryderbeit had already noticed the blood-clotted teeth marks across the back of Packer’s left hand. ‘Been giving someone the old knuckle sandwich, eh, soldier?’

  Packer waited until they were past the roundabout that marked the edge of the town, then began to tell them, calmly, in precise detail, what had happened and what he had found. ‘I don’t think he’s bad enough for hospital,’ he concluded; ‘and I have an idea he won’t be too keen to go to the police. But unless he comes to before someone finds him, the police may go to him, if only to get him out of the car.’

  ‘You take risks, don’t you?’ Ryderbeit breathed.

  Packer shrugged. ‘Why? What can he tell them? Even if I made a mistake, all they’ve got is an innocent old-fashioned mugging.’ He tapped the bulge of his wallet. ‘Enough portraits of “Le Roi Soleil” to stand us all a nice weekend on the Riviera.’

  Ryderbeit looked at him suspiciously. ‘And supposing he’s got the number of the bloody car?’

  ‘If he’s got the number of this car, Sammy, then it proves that he’s just what I think he is.’

  Pol now spoke for the first time. He had been sitting with a little notebook on his thigh, scribbling with a slim gold pencil. ‘What is your own evaluation of this incident, my dear Packer?’

  ‘He’s a man who finds it convenient, or perhaps necessary, to travel to different countries on different passports. My guess is that the French one is forged. He travels as a Lebanese when he’s on bona fide business, which seems to take him mostly to Switzerland. He probably uses the French one to slip over borders when he’s in a hurry — like the day before yesterday, when he followed me and Sarah from Amsterdam.’

  ‘When did you first spot him?’ Ryderbeit asked.

  ‘I didn’t. It was Sarah who did, in a sense. That’s to say she thought someone was following her on the boat in Amsterdam. Only — ironically — it was the wrong man.’ He looked at Pol: ‘Unless, of course, Chamaz somehow knew about your interest in me and Sarah before we got to the tulip fields?’

  ‘That is absurd,’ Pol said piously.

  ‘Well, the only alternative explanation is that Chamaz followed you in the taxi. And you didn’t spot him.’

  ‘Mon cher, I was not myself that morning.’

  ‘No, but you had enough wit to meet me at the windmill, without following on the boat.’

  ‘I saw which boat you took, and I guessed that you would stop at the windmill.’ Pol smiled. ‘What you would call an inspired guess, yes?’

  ‘Bloody well inspired — for someone in your condition.’

  Pol frowned. ‘You are not insinuating, mon cher, that I and Chamaz were working together?’

  Packer looked at him steadily. ‘I think I’ll just have to take your word for that, Monsieur Pol. But the important thing is, Chamaz — according to his passport — arrived in Amsterdam the day before us. Is there any way that someone knew you were in Amsterdam to meet us?’

  ‘Impossible,’ Pol replied — rather too quickly, Packer thought.

  Packer went on: ‘The other point concerns Chamaz’ trips to Switzerland. He always seems to come in through Zürich — travelling on his Lebanese passport — and Zürich is the nearest airport to Klosters.’

  ‘You mentioned,’ said Pol, looking at his notes, ‘that he has a six month visa for Switzerland.’

  ‘Probably just convenience. The Ruler’s largest European Embassy is in Paris. Chamaz may use it as a base, and perhaps he doesn’t always want to be known to the French authorities as a Lebanese.’

  ‘If he goes to the trouble of having two passports,’ Ryderbeit said, ‘and one of them is forged — or so you think — why wouldn’t he have them in two different names? That’s what I’d do.’

  Packer nodded. ‘Perhaps you would — until you got picked up on some stupid charge, like a drunk driving rap or getting raided in a club. Monsieur Chamaz may not be legal, but he likes to seem legal.’

  ‘Yeah, and maybe he is legal. Have you thought of that, soldier boy? Nothing you’ve told us comes anywhere near proof.’

  It was Pol who answered him. ‘The film in this camera will decide the matter. A Minox is an unusual toy for a single man enjoying an afternoon by the seaside. There is also the number of his car. You say the last two figures were 69. That means the car is registered in Lyon.’ He sighed. ‘That is a long way to come to Berck-Plage, especially out of season. Mon cher Packer, you have acted with great agility and intelligence. I congratulate you.’

  Ryderbeit was chewing at another cigar, staring sullenly at the road ahead.

  Pol looked at his watch. ‘I suggest, under these new circumstances, a small change of plan. We will drop Sammy at Abbeville railway station, as arranged. You, mon cher Packer, will drive to Paris with me — also as arranged — and return the car to the hire bureau at Orly. However, you will not join me on the plane to Geneva. Nor will you cancel your flight. Instead you will catch the night express from the Gare de l’Est. I would also prefer that you do not book a couchette, but travel second-class. It is disagreeable, I know, but it is best to leave no written record of your journey. As your training will have taught you, even the smallest precautions can sometimes be the most vital.’

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Packer.

  ‘I,’ Pol said smugly, ‘will go Swissair, first-class as we agreed.’

  CHAPTER 9

  The meeting was for three o’clock the next afternoon, at one of the open-air cafés on the Quai du Mont Blanc, overlooking Lake Geneva. Packer arrived a few minutes early to find Ryderbeit already there, sitting alone at a far table, his chair tipped perilously far back against the rail above the water.

  He looked up from behind a copy of that day’s Herald Tribune. ‘Sit down, soldier.’

  Packer was relieved to see that Ryderbeit had only a half glass of beer in front of him. The waiter arrived and Packer ordered a black coffee. Ryderbeit gave a crafty smile. ‘So the Fat Man’s actually paying you half a million?’

  Packer made no reply. Ryderbeit leaned back against the rail and gave a low whistle. ‘That’s money, soldier! That’s the sort of money that makes you worth knowing. But why sterling?’ he added. ‘Why not something nice and solid, like Swiss francs?’

  Packer shrugged. ‘Probably because whoever’s behind this racket paid Pol originally in pounds, and it makes it easier for Pol to calculate our shares in pounds too.’

  ‘Pol may be a lazy sod,’ said Ryderbeit, ‘but that explanation’s a bit too simple — even for me.’ He sipped his beer in silence. ‘That somebody,’ he said at last, ‘or organization, or whatever, must deal in pounds. As their first trading currency, I mean.’ He squinted slowly over his glass. ‘Could they be British, d’you think?’

  ‘Possible, but not probable. There aren’t many people in Britain today with that sort of money to throw around. At least, not the sort of people who’d have the motive.’

  ‘What about the hush-hush boys? MI6, or whatever they call themselves now?’

  ‘Not a chance. The Ruler lent our Government 1000 million last year, and we’ve just landed a second order from him for Chieftain tanks, worth over 400 million.’

  ‘Yeah, but what about your lefties? Those unions of yours, for instance?’

  ‘Don’t be bloody silly,’ said Packer. ‘Even if they had the money — which they haven’t — they’re so thick they can’t find their arses with both hands, let alone think up a scheme like this. Anyway, where’s the motive?’

  But Ryderbeit did not seem to be listening. ‘Britain’s buggered. Down
the can, and just waiting for the international money boys to pull the plug on you.’ He poked a lean finger at Packer’s face. ‘I tell you, soldier, I give you lot a couple of years and you’ll be seeing those Ruskie T54’s rolling down Piccadilly and Pall Mall!’

  Packer smiled secretly at the vivid image of mobs pressing towards the City, sacking that noble banking house in St Mary Axe, before rampaging back into the West End and laying waste to the vilely exclusive club of which Sarah was a member and he was not. ‘I think I’d prefer the tumbrils rumbling down Bond Street,’ he said, ‘with Madame Guillotine waiting in Berkeley Square.’

  As he spoke, he was already wondering how Sarah would behave on the scaffold: with a certain patrician dignity, perhaps. Or would she be dragged screaming up the steps, wetting her pants as they strapped her face down and hauled up the knife? Except that with the Ruler’s secret police, NAZAK, it would certainly not be so swift, and there would be no opportunity for heroics.

  Ryderbeit’s eye had narrowed suspiciously. ‘And which side would you be on?’

  ‘I just might take up knitting and enjoy the show.’

  ‘You’re not by any chance a fucking pinko, are you?’

  ‘No. Just a class-conscious Celt.’

  ‘Not Irish, I hope?’

  ‘Welsh,’ said Packer. ‘My girl thinks we’re the Lost Tribe, but that’s just her way of showing off her blue blood.’

  Ryderbeit nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m a Heeb myself — third generation White African Jew. But don’t think that makes me sentimental. When it comes to politics — particularly African politics — I’m strictly right of centre. They may have chucked me out of Rhodesia and South Africa, but the reasons were nothing to do with politics. I’m right behind, the whites down there, don’t worry.’