Shah-Mak

by Alan Williams

The banker was looking at Pol. The Frenchman appeared quite unmoved. He gave a little nod. ‘Do as Monsieur Packer instructs.’

  The banker hesitated. ‘It will necessitate a certain delay. In the meantime I will arrange for you to be photographed and fingerprinted.’ He had pressed a button with his foot, and the elderly man appeared without a sound, closing the door as though it might break in his hand. He stood slightly stooped over the desk, while the banker murmured rapid instructions, then handed him Packer’s documents. The man left, without glancing once at the other three.

  The banker now handed another set of documents to Ryderbeit, who began to study them with threatening concentration, his good eye squinting along each line of elegant typescript, while his dead one stared dully at the carpet and his cigar smouldered down between his fingers. He read them altogether three times, before accepting the gold pen; but although he seemed in a mood to haggle, he was evidently content. Pol knew Ryderbeit well enough not to chance his hand too far.

  Ryderbeit finally signed, six times, in a slow careful hand, like a schoolboy’s. From where Packer was sitting he could not read any of the details, but their layout looked similar to his own, except for one important difference. Pol’s signature was missing. Ryderbeit tossed the gold pen in the air, caught it, threw it at the banker, who dropped it under the desk; then leaped up and gave a whooping cry. ‘Now Samuel D. Ryderbeit is going to start living!’

  Packer looked at him, with a trace of envy. ‘You got the lot?’

  ‘The lot.’ Ryderbeit brought his hands together with a loud smack, while his cigar lay smoking unnoticed under his chair. ‘A hundred thousand beautiful British pounds transferred into Swiss francs.’ He reached the desk in a single stride and slapped the documents down in front of the banker.

  ‘All nice and wrapped up, eh, Sammy?’ Packer’s voice was cold and steady. ‘And no strings?’

  Ryderbeit whirled round. ‘Trouble, soldier?’

  ‘Curiosity. A hundred thousand, just like that, without lifting a finger. Nobody’s that generous — not even Uncle Charlie here.’

  Ryderbeit’s eye glinted nastily. ‘I say, soldier, none of your fucking business.’

  ‘It is my fucking business,’ said Packer. ‘From now on everything we do, right down to the smallest detail, is all my fucking business. What’s more, I’m going to make it my further fucking business to find out.’

  Ryderbeit hesitated, then returned to his chair and retrieved his cigar. He looked up at Packer with a crooked leer. ‘All right, you bastard. I get twenty-five thousand on the nail. Another twenty-five when the deal’s set up. And fifty thou’ when we’re home and dry. Okay?’

  ‘No strings, no conditions?’ said Packer.

  Ryderbeit raised his hands, palms upwards. ‘All clean as a nun’s knickers. And rich and fancy-free to boot.’ He looked round as the elderly retainer beckoned to them from the door.

  The three of them followed him into a small white room with a plastic curtain, like a cubicle in a doctor’s surgery. The Polaroid pictures were taken by remote control, from an eye in the wall; then they each filed ceremoniously past a desk, where they pressed their fingertips on to a spongy black pad, then splayed them out on a set of headed documents, adding their signatures to each, before being given a towel and shown into a washroom, equipped with a patent destigmatizing lotion.

  Back in the banker’s inner sanctum, a fresh set of documents lay on the desk. The banker again handed them first to Pol. The Frenchman merely glanced at the added paragraph, before again scribbling his signature at the bottom of each sheet, and passing them across to Packer. Their eyes did not meet.

  Packer satisfied himself that the wording was correct, then signed too: with a detached, passionless precision, surprised that his hand remained steady. His past dealings with bank managers had been mundane, awkward, sometimes unpleasant. This experience now left him with a sense of unreality: it reminded him of the bad old days when, after a heavy night, he used to wake early to find that he was still drunk; and, as then, when he now stood up, the floor did not feel entirely firm under his feet.

  There was a final formality, when the banker unlocked a drawer and handed each of them a plain, thick, sealed envelope. These, he told them, contained their cheque books and the numbers of their separate accounts. He added that it was advisable to commit the figure to memory and destroy the paper afterwards.

  ‘A useful hint in these matters,’ he concluded, ‘is to enter the figure in your address book as though it were a telephone number. Of course, as I said, the figure by itself would be useless to a third party without the signatures. But it could still cause embarrassment if it were to fall into the wrong hands.’ He smiled innocently. ‘We are always anxious to protect the interests of our clients in every possible way.’ He gave each of them a muscular handshake and saw them through to the outer door.

  They got into the Fiat, with Pol choosing the back seat this time, curling up his legs in the foetal position, with his hands cupped under his head for a pillow. Ryderbeit slid in beside Packer.

  Before starting the car, Packer broke open his envelope, took out his cheque book and a slip of paper that was blank except for seven numbers, memorized them quickly, repeated them under his breath several times, then tore the paper into four pieces. Ryderbeit gave a low cackle close to his ear and snapped open a lighter, holding the flame under the torn scraps in Packer’s hand. ‘Taking it real seriously, aren’t we, soldier?’

  Packer held the four pieces until they scorched his fingers, then dropped the charred flakes into the ashtray. Pol had begun to snore.

  Packer turned on the headlamps, drove round a mean little square at the end of the street, and headed back towards the road to Lausanne.

  ‘One thing puzzles me,’ said Ryderbeit suddenly. ‘You had the Fat Man sewn up back there. He tried that fast one on you, but that was probably just his sense of fun — or perhaps his way of testing you. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t go for the half million in a straight, simple account of your own, and no fucking about with joint signatures. Now, every time you want to draw even the petty cash, you’ve got to get Fat Man to agree.’

  Packer nodded. ‘You were the one who first said you didn’t trust Pol. Maybe I don’t trust him either. Maybe I don’t trust him not to let me go ahead with this operation, then arrange for me to have a nasty accident at the end of it. Pol’s original trick of fixing that joint account in the first place was a form of insurance. He didn’t want me knocking him off. Now the tables are turned. Whatever happens — and however much Pol may want me out of the way — he’s going to have to do some pretty agonizing thinking before he sacrifices that half million. United we stand, divided we’re skint.’

  ‘Fair enough, soldier.’ Ryderbeit’s voice was a hushed whisper in the dark of the car. ‘’Course, it doesn’t stop me knocking you off. Or hadn’t you thought of that?’

  ‘No, I hadn’t thought of it, Sammy. I hadn’t thought of it because you’re too sentimental and full of fun. You’d be lost without me and old Pol.’

  Ryderbeit laughed, but said nothing.

  CHAPTER 10

  They met for breakfast next morning at a café outside Geneva, on the Chamonix road. Pol was lapping up a bowl of hot chocolate with his omelette au jambon; Ryderbeit was drinking marc; and Packer had ordered black coffee and croissants.

  They had arrived separately from their different hotels — Pol insisting that it was wiser not to be seen too often together. Again he had arrived late, and seemed for the moment more interested in his omelette; while Ryderbeit was unusually taciturn. Packer himself had slept badly and now felt a vague sense of trepidation.

  It had taken him until the light of day to realize just how fully he was committed — irretrievably beholden to the Gallic clown across the table, Charles Pol, Swiller of Bols and Beheader of Tulips — this gross, deceptively comic buffoon who had intruded into his life by means of a drunken romp in the rain. For what had begun
as an eccentric joke had flowered, with alarming rapidity, into a conspiracy of incalculable dimensions.

  Pol wiped the chocolate from his mouth and beard, belched, and took a stiff buff envelope from inside his jacket. ‘I have something here that will interest you both.’

  While Ryderbeit called for another marc, Pol lifted the unsealed flap of the envelope and shook out two glossy sheets of contact prints. There were several dozen on each, though the last half of the second sheet was blank. He shuffled the two sheets into the middle of the table, then flung an arm round Packer’s shoulder and pulled him sideways in a huge hug, almost dragging him off his chair. ‘I must congratulate you again, mon cher Capitaine. This is excellent work!’

  Packer found himself once more breathing the rank odour of scent and sweat; he tried to struggle politely, but the Frenchman only squeezed him closer. And again Packer was amazed at how strong Pol was. He gave an energetic shrug, broke free, and picked up the sheets of contacts.

  The pictures were so small that he had to hold them up to the light, peering at them from a few inches away. They looked at first like poor family snaps — fudged with sun spots, with the figures too small, bunched into a corner or blurred by movement. At first glance they would seem to have been taken either by a very inexperienced amateur, or by someone working under exceptionally difficult circumstances.

  With a few exceptions, which were mostly among the first rows on the completed sheet, the backgrounds were of a monotonous uniformity: bits of street, empty pavements, blank walls. The exceptions were several shots of Pol entering and leaving the Hotel Amstel. There were two more of him staggering through the tulips, but the detail was distorted by the rain and poor light. There were three of Packer’s hired Mercedes — rear views on what looked like autoroutes. But in Le Crotoy, Chamaz had either lost his nerve or been biding his time. There were no pictures of Pol, Packer and Sarah together. The next half dozen shots had evidently been hurriedly snatched from inside a car: Pol and Packer walking along a street; Pol, Packer and Ryderbeit at a street corner; two of Ryderbeit and Packer walking together — although their faces were obscured. There were several that were either blotched shadows or had failed to come out at all.

  Then suddenly, to Packer’s dismay, there were three that were the clearest of all: they showed him and Sarah arriving at Le Touquet airport; waiting at the check-in counter — this one showed Sarah in clear profile; and him giving her a tentative embrace before she joined the queue through the gate.

  The last two on the second sheet were long shots across the sand at Berck-Plage, showing the three of them on the beach.

  Packer passed them to Ryderbeit, then turned back to Pol. ‘It’s not good. For starters, it’s bloody bad.’

  ‘I think it is excellent!’ Pol cried. ‘Thanks to your initiative we have plucked the evidence from under their noses. And since we have the negatives, there is no risk of Monsieur Chamaz having sent copies back to his masters.’

  Packer nodded gravely, wondering if Pol were being unusually optimistic, or again perhaps testing him. ‘Yes, we’ve got two reels. But we’ve got no guarantee that there aren’t others.’

  Pol made a little pooh-poohing noise. ‘You can see for yourself that the pictures cover our movements from Amsterdam to the moment you surprised him in his car. What do you fear?’

  ‘First — before we’ve even sat down and made the most provisional plan of action — someone has sent an agent after us who’s filmed us all — Sarah included — from the very beginning, before I even knew who you were. That’s bad enough. But even without the films, this man Chamaz is going to be able to give a description of us, to whoever he works for — and we can guess who that is — and will probably be able to recognize us again.’

  There was a pause. Ryderbeit slung the contacts back at Pol and swallowed the rest of his marc. His face was dark and mean. ‘I tell you what I think,’ he said at last. ‘I think Packer Boy may be smart, but he’s also soft.’ He jabbed a slender finger at Packer’s face. ‘You shouldn’t have just bloodied that bastard on the beach back there — you should have sent him straight up to the Great Reaper!’

  Packer looked at him without expression. ‘Sure. The moment Charles starts getting his team together, the Ruler sends a snooper after us. Not a very serious job — just a leg-man who can take a few snaps for the record. For all we know, the Ruler’s got teams of men working the field all over Europe. But once one of those leg-men gets knocked off, the Ruler’s got the odds narrowed down so finely he doesn’t even have to go on looking. Beating Chamaz up was a risk, I grant you, but at least it could pass as a simple robbery — and anyway, I couldn’t think of a better way of getting the films.’

  He looked back at Pol. ‘But there’s an even more serious aspect to all this. If Chamaz had got on to us here — or even in Le Crotoy — I’d have said it was pretty smart Intelligence work, and with a pretty efficient organization behind him. But he got on to us in Amsterdam. He even got on to me and Sarah — judging by these pics — before he got on to you, Charles. That doesn’t sound like good Intelligence. It sounds like either a leak or collusion.’

  Pol listened with his naughty smile; but in his eyes Packer detected that gleam of cunning. The fat man giggled. ‘You are making a most impolite suggestion, mon cher. It is also an absurd suggestion. Why should I — who am paying you both so handsomely — wish to betray our operation?’

  Packer said nothing, because he could think of no logical, even plausible, counter to Pol’s reply. ‘Right, let’s forget about Chamaz for the moment. We came here to sign a few cheques. Sammy and I both want our ten per cent advance. I want £50,000 released from our joint account, which I propose to deposit in a bank in Geneva before lunch. I’m ready to sign, Charles.’

  ‘One moment, please.’ Pol’s expression was suddenly solemn. ‘Ten per cent is a great deal to pay for a few photographs. As I have already told you, I am employing you, Capitaine Packer, not only as a man of action, but of ideas. You acted, in a modest way, in Berck-Plage. But now I require something on a larger scale — your overall plan of action.’

  ‘A provisional plan,’ said Packer. He signalled for more coffee, then turned to Ryderbeit, who had just lit up a cigar. ‘Can you ski, Sammy?’

  ‘Sure I can.’

  Packer frowned. ‘I’m talking about snow skiing. You get much of that on the Rand or up in the rain forests of the Congo?’

  Ryderbeit gave an evil grin. ‘You ignorant Welsh provincial. Never heard of Kilimanjaro? The Atlas Mountains? The Lebanon?’

  Packer nodded and turned back to Pol. ‘We’ll start with the shopping list. Sammy and I are going to buy our skis, boots and gear today in Geneva. Buy them mind — not hire them — because I want our names on as few records as possible. We’ll also hold on to that Fiat of yours, Charles. We’re going to need a car, and again I don’t want to leave my signature and particulars with any rental people, like a bloody paperchase for the police to follow.

  ‘Now for the more important things. We’re going to need two largescale maps — 1/100th, or even bigger, if possible — of the Davos-Klosters area. And not one of those glossy brochure jobs they do for the tourists. Preferably an army or aerial survey map that marks exact contours and distances, as well as ski runs. Particularly the ski runs.’

  Pol had taken out his notebook and was scribbling in it with his gold pencil.

  ‘I also want two pairs of miniature 12 x 20 Zeiss binoculars, with glare shields, and two Polaroid cameras with telescopic lenses. Nothing too big or showy — the sort of thing a camera-crazy tourist might have without attracting undue attention. And it must be able to take a reasonably clear picture up to 1000 yards.’ He waited while Pol finished writing. ‘And lastly, three pocket-sized R/T sets with a UHF range of at least three miles.’

  Ryderbeit’s voice growled from the end of the table: ‘You said “lastly”, soldier. But you’re forgetting the most important things of all. The hardware.’

&n
bsp; ‘We’ll choose that when we know exactly what we’re up against.’

  ‘Look, soldier —’ Ryderbeit leaned forward, blowing cigar smoke into Packer’s eyes — ‘that’s still our priority Number One item. The other stuff’s a cinch, but guns aren’t things you can pick up in a supermarket, especially not in Switzerland, for Christ’s sake! And I don’t want a clapped-out antique from the Boer War. I have a respect for guns. Like women with jewellery, I only go for the best.’

  ‘You’ll get the best,’ Pol put in gently. ‘Providing the gun is still being manufactured, or is in circulation, and does not require very special modifications, I think I can satisfy you within a matter of hours.’ He looked at Packer. ‘Anything else, mon cher?’

  ‘Yes. I want as detailed a schedule as possible of the Ruler’s movements in Klosters. And the exact day on which he plans to leave.’

  CHAPTER 11

  The Ruler lay stretched out on a long chair, his eyes closed behind the mirror lenses, feeling the Alpine glare burning through the film of scented oil which had been massaged into his cheeks and jowls and across his broad forehead. His nose was protected by a shield of black plastic.

  Through the thin mountain air the chatter of far-off voices drifted up from the crowds of tourists queueing for the cable car up the Gotschnagrat; occasionally a spray of girls’ laughter reached him, like a peal of tiny bells. He felt relaxed, isolated, almost free. Here, in the sanctuary of his chalet, ‘Le Soupir du Soleil’, he could enjoy his power in privacy, mercifully spared the company of frivolous women, nagging diplomats, obsequious courtiers and foreign emissaries with their begging bowls.

  Yet even on this terrace above Klosters, separated from his people by more than 3000 miles, the channels of Absolute Power — from his Ministries in the capital, Mamounia, to the smallest police posts in the desert villages — still flowed directly to and from him, maintained by a complex radio system which occupied the whole top floor of the chalet, its wavelengths kept alive twenty-four hours a day, receiving and transmitting in codes that changed every hour, on UHF frequencies that changed every fifteen minutes. It was said that not even a white line could be painted on a road without the Ruler’s personal sanction.