Shah-Mak

by Alan Williams

  ‘No,’ said Packer. ‘He thinks he’s being set up on that mountain as a diversion. Come to that, I’m beginning to have the same idea myself.’

  ‘Oh?’ Pol looked only mildly interested.

  ‘When we first talked over this plan, Charles, you made great play of how we wouldn’t be going in for the conventional gadgets of the killing business — rifles with telescopic sights, and that sort of thing. You talked about a more subtle approach. There’s nothing very subtle about sitting up the Gotschnagrat with an Armalite.’

  Pol ate another chocolate and said nothing. Packer went on: ‘Sammy’s also got some wild idea that you and the Ruler may be in cahoots, and that this whole business had been planned by the Ruler himself — to get himself some dramatic publicity. Is there anything in that?’

  ‘It is ridiculous,’ Pol replied, rather quickly. ‘It is nonsense — a pure fantasy of Sammy’s.’ He sipped his brandy. ‘But let us turn now to a more substantial subject — the incident concerning Monsieur Chamaz. You have read the papers, of course? What is your opinion?’

  ‘About the burning of Chamaz and his car?’

  ‘About the man himself — and his whole behaviour before you detected him.’

  ‘Lousy. Lousy enough to be spotted, that is.’

  ‘By you, yes. But then, you are an expert.’

  ‘Well, it’s rather a matter of degree, isn’t it? It would depend, for instance, on whether Chamaz’s bosses knew I was an expert.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Pol paused. ‘I forget — when was the first time you suspected he was following us? In Amsterdam?’

  ‘No. As I told you, Sarah thought she was being followed then — but that’s almost a reflex action with her. And usually she’s right — only not for the reason we’re thinking of.’

  ‘Quite. But when did you become aware of it?’

  ‘I noticed a car — a Renault — parked down the side of the hotel in Le Crotoy.’

  ‘Why that particular car?’

  ‘An old girlfriend had one. Then, when I dropped Sarah at Le Touquet, I saw it again outside the airport restaurant.’

  ‘Exactly the same car? A Renault is not uncommon, you know.’

  ‘It was exactly the same car,’ Packer said firmly. ‘The first four numbers of the registration were 1956 — the year of Suez. I’m sentimental.’

  Pol did not smile. ‘A nice coincidence, perhaps?’

  Packer shrugged. ‘In this game we were taught that there’s no such thing as coincidence — just luck, sometimes. You learn to watch out for a man’s shoes, watch strap, way of walking — a car with a scratch down the side, extra wing mirror, looped aerial. You don’t bother so much about the number plate — that can be easily changed. The man may change his clothes, too. But it’s a funny thing, they very often forget to change their shoes, and always their watches.’

  Pol popped another chocolate into his mouth and munched thoughtfully. ‘You are saying that our friend Chamaz was careless?’

  ‘I’d say at the beginning — in Amsterdam — he did all right. But then, I wasn’t suspecting anything. It wasn’t until we got into France; and you explained the plan to me, that I started getting sensitive. I had an idea we might be followed. I also had a lucky break — the car and the number. From then it was just a matter of waiting until he exposed himself — which he did, on the front at Berck-Plage.’

  There was a pause. ‘Capitaine Packer, would you say there was anything at all unusual — at all bizarre — about the way Chamaz operated?’

  ‘That rather depends on who organized him. I’d say it was small-time, a one-man outfit — which is too little when it comes to tailing three people.’

  ‘What would you have expected?’ asked Pol.

  ‘If we are dealing with the Ruler — which I assume we are — I’d say it was very odd that he didn’t use a team, working twenty-four hours. And at least two cars.’

  ‘How are you certain there was only one man?’ Pol asked.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘So there could have been others?’

  Packer thought for a moment. ‘There could have been. But if Chamaz had been working in a team, he’d have probably faded out after getting into France — certainly after Sammy came on the scene. As it was, he was left out on a limb. He’d have done as well to have walked right into the hotel and shown us his two passports by way of introduction.’

  ‘You do not think, perhaps, that he was acting as a decoy?’ said Pol. ‘That he actually intended you to catch him?’

  ‘With the films on him? That wouldn’t make sense — under normal circumstances, that is.’

  ‘You are suggesting that this was not normal?’

  ‘I don’t know how normally competent the Ruler is. But after I first talked to you, I did some homework back in London, and I learned, among other things, that his Secret Police, NAZAK, was wet-nursed by the French, and more recently tutored by British advisors. You know more about French techniques than I do, but I can assure you, even the British — and our authorities are as mean as they come — only allow a man to operate on his own if it’s a short-term surveillance. Which means that the Ruler — or whoever gave Chamaz his orders — was either being damned clumsy or damned forgetful.’

  ‘In other words,’ Pol said slowly, ‘you are saying that Chamaz was inviting capture?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say definitely. He may just have been incompetent. Like you get incompetent plumbers and brain surgeons and Prime Ministers.’

  Pol gave a strained chuckle. ‘You are being perhaps a little presumptuous, are you not, mon cher? The Ruler — if it was the Ruler — was not necessarily to know that you did have expert training in this game.’

  ‘Maybe not. But you were asking for my opinion, based on experience. And in my experience, in Malaya and Cyprus and the Trucial States, this sort of job would have been given what we called a “grand slam”. I mean, if NAZAK is anything like as good as they say it is, and they’d got a smell of an assassination attempt against their Ruler, they’d have called in the big battalions. When I used to work this kind of job, even on a small scale — trailing a suspect group of terrorists — we always used at least two men to cover every one, doubling up if they decided to move around. And we worked on a shoestring. But it’s my guess that NAZAK take themselves pretty seriously, and on a job like this they should have used at least a dozen men, and a relay of cars.’

  ‘Twelve men?’ Pol was sweating, and very pale.

  ‘Maybe twenty.’

  Pol slapped his thigh. ‘Thank you, mon cher. If it interests you your opinion is not different from my own.’ He inspected his empty brandy glass and placed it delicately on the arm of the sofa. ‘Now let us discuss the arrangements for tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. His Imperial Majesty will be riding up on the Gotschnabahn tomorrow at 3.40 as usual. He should arrive at the top at 3.50. That means —’ he raised his eyebrows — ‘that he will reach the T-bar at almost exactly four o’clock, I think? The weather report for tomorrow says that it will be fair.’

  ‘Wait a minute. You say he’s going up tomorrow. At 3.40? Arriving at the Gotschnagrat at four o’clock?’

  Pol nodded. Packer was looking at him carefully. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Me?’ Pol grinned and reached for a chocolate, but did not eat it. ‘Mon cher Packer, the Ruler’s movements are known to half the population of Klosters! Half the locals talk about nothing else.’

  Packer went on watching him, waiting until he had masticated his chocolate and wiped his lips clean. ‘Sammy said something else this afternoon, Charles. He said he thought that maybe you had your nose stuck into the Ruler’s camp.’

  Pol gave a look of false surprise. ‘And what could he have meant by that?’

  ‘Just what he said. He thinks you and the Ruler are pretty close.’

  Poll attempted a mischievous grin, but it failed him. ‘I told you not to concern yourself with Sammy’s fantasies.
’

  ‘I’d have said he was perhaps being more shrewd than fantastic,’ said Packer. ‘The Ruler keeps himself to a pretty tight schedule out here, and he also keeps it pretty secret. He may always use the same ski run, at the same time — but not necessarily every day. When he does decide to go skiing, he gives just an hour’s notice. Yet you happen to know — twenty hours ahead of schedule — that he’s going up tomorrow.’

  Pol’s shoulders slumped wearily. ‘Please, mon cher, you have an important job before you. And part of that job is not to ask questions. It is a bad military principle. Now, you have the map?’

  Packer took it out of the pocket of his anorak and walked over with it, unfolding it across Pol’s thighs. The Frenchman ate a couple more chocolates while he examined the green markings. Packer explained the two firing positions, the various trajectories, distances and attendant problems.

  Pol seemed to be only half listening; and towards the end of Packer’s speech his manner even grew impatient. His fat finger jabbed at the green cross which marked Packer’s position on the run; and Packer noticed with some dismay, that his fingernail — usually as shiny as mother-of-pearl — was this evening not quite clean.

  ‘You are here — yes?’ Pol looked up at him, his face beaded with sweat. Packer just nodded; he had already explained this detail a few moments earlier.

  ‘Your position is above Sammy’s,’ Pol murmured; ‘but you have further to ski down.’

  ‘I know.’ Packer was becoming puzzled: this, too, he had already explained to Pol; and he said again, patiently, ‘The range is about a hundred metres longer, but the position of the target is slightly easier than Sammy’s.’

  Pol gave him a slow dull stare, then giggled: and Packer realized, with a physical shock, that what he had mistaken for exhaustion was really fear. And when Charles Pol became afraid, it was time for Packer to start worrying.

  Pol said, ‘Tomorrow, Sammy will not kill the Ruler. He will not kill anyone.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Pol giggled again. ‘And you, my dear friend, will not kill the Ruler either. You will kill Sammy.’

  Packer was standing very close to him. He could see the sweat glistening on his kiss-curl and on the shiny dome of his head, and he could smell the man’s sweet fleshy aroma like an over-ripe hothouse plant.

  ‘You are joking, Charles.’

  ‘I am afraid that I am serious.’

  Packer nodded. His voice was quiet, without emotion. ‘This isn’t in the contract, Charles.’

  ‘Please do not be absurd. You know there is no contract. You have merely agreed to carry out my instructions in respect of a certain operation. And I must remind you that you are technically my employee. You may be a joint signatory to our bank account, but that does not preclude you from carrying out your obligations. That means, my dear Packer, that you must earn your money.’

  ‘Half a million pounds to kill a one-eyed expatriate mercenary at a range of 300 metres?’

  ‘You mean can, or will?

  ‘I mean, from your position here on the map you will be able to see Sammy, as well as the T-bar?’

  ‘Of course. Otherwise, how do we synchronize the shots?’

  Pol nodded. ‘Bien. You will proceed with the plan exactly as you have just explained it to me, until the moment that Sammy takes aim. Your timing here will have to be impeccable. You will shoot him dead in the same second that he tries to shoot the Ruler. If you miss, the situation could become extremely disagreeable.’

  Packer picked up the map and returned to his chair. Pol fetched himself a fresh brandy and swallowed most of it on his way back to the sofa.

  ‘You do not look happy, mon cher. You should be relieved. It is surely easier to kill a stateless nomad than the Ruler of one of the richest countries in the world? Or perhaps you are entertaining some absurd British scruples about killing a friend and colleague?’

  ‘Shit to that. Sammy’s hardly a friend, and colleagues don’t usually pull guns on you over a quiet chat.’

  ‘So you are satisfied?’

  ‘As satisfied as you are, Charles. And you’re about as satisfied as a Chief Eunuch in the Playboy Club.’

  The Frenchman winced, but said nothing. He was watching Packer with his beady stare.

  ‘Listen, Charles. Part of what you’re paying me is for ideas, not for scruples. The hell with scruples. What puzzles me is how an old pro like you came to get yourself into this mess. Here we are, less than a week out of port, and you’ve got us both — and Sammy — all nicely lined up to be killed.’

  ‘I do not understand you.’ Pol’s face had turned the colour of greaseproof paper.

  ‘You understand. You went up to see the Ruler today. Or somebody pretty close to him. And you were told that the plot’s been discovered, and you’ve got to remove all the evidence. Or perhaps Sammy’s theory was right after all, and the Ruler — for some devious political motive — hired you to try and kill him. Then something goes wrong, which makes him change his mind, and he suddenly calls the whole plan off. Am I right?’

  Pol looked unhappy, but still said nothing. Packer nodded. ‘Of course, he knows all about you, and he may know something about me and Sammy — from Chamaz, for one. Unless you were kind enough to tell him yourself? Then he summons you to the chalet and orders you to get your second-in-command to kill the fall guy — Samuel D. Ryderbeit. Okay?’

  Pol ducked his mouth to his glass and saw it was empty. He hesitated, and when he looked up his little eyes had grown crafty. ‘You forget that I have been paid a considerable fortune. I have no intention of giving it back.’

  ‘You realize, Charles, that you’re as good as confessing that the Ruler did hire you for this job?’

  Pol spread his hands and was again silent.

  ‘Anyway, the Ruler’s not going to worry about money. But he is going to worry about you and me and Sammy. And supposing I do kill that mad Rhodesian tomorrow, and even manage to get off the mountain and out of the country — who kills me? You?’

  Pol began to laugh, but it was a hangdog laugh, like a bad comedian laughing at his own joke. ‘You are not being very intelligent, mon cher Capitaine. Must I remind you again that you are a cosignatory of our account? Do you really believe that I would kill you and forfeit half a million pounds?’

  ‘The Ruler could always make it up to you. Half a million to him is like a new pair of shoes to a shop girl. He might even throw in a pair of tights. You’d look good in those, Charles.’

  ‘Do not be facetious,’ Pol said, with dignity.

  Packer smiled. ‘I’ll respect your sensibilities. But I’m not so sure about your good sense. I don’t give a damn what happens to Sammy — except that what happens to him is going to happen to all of us. The Ruler may, or may not, have hired you to kill me. What is absolutely certain is that he’s not going to allow any of us to run around on the loose. I can kill Sammy tomorrow. I might even be able to kill the Ruler tomorrow — if your information is correct. And you could no doubt get me killed pretty soon afterwards. But after that you’re wide open. You’re dead, Charles.’ He grinned, and crossed himself.

  Poll was breathing hard, and the sweat had begun to drip from the end of his goatee. ‘So what do you suggest?’

  Packer put his hands on his knees and gave Pol a solemn, patronizing frown. ‘Everybody else seems to be behaving so badly in this affair, I think it’s perhaps about time we set an example and started being moral. The Ruler — or someone — has paid us all good money to do a difficult and dangerous job. I think it’s only right that we should carry out our original instructions, and do just what we’ve been paid to do. We kill the Ruler — before he kills us.’

  Pol was still laughing as he slopped more brandy into his glass. His belly seemed to have swollen to its normal proportions, and now wobbled and shook inside its folds of silk, while his eyes were soaked pink. Packer’s words had even restored colour to his cheeks.

  ‘Before you drink any more,’ Packer said, �
��where’s the equipment?’

  Poll had to pause and dab a tissue to his eyes before he could reply. ‘It has all been sent to your hotel — don’t worry.’

  ‘To the Chesa? You must be mad!’

  Pol raised his free hand soothingly as he tottered back to the sofa. ‘You must not be so nervous, mon cher. The material has all been prepared in genuine sporting wrappings. They are even ready to be taken up the mountain, as we discussed.’ He sank with a great grunt into the sofa and smiled. The shadow had passed: Charles Auguste Pol was himself again.

  Packer said, ‘A pair of Armalites — mint condition — self-adjusting telescopic sights; two packets with six rounds each. Right?’

  ‘Tout en règle,’ Pol said cheerfully. ‘I have also acquired the very latest Japanese radios, no larger than a cigarette packet.’ He winked. ‘And I’ve even made some discreet enquiries among certain Swiss friends of mine, and have determined the two wavelengths used out here by the army and the police. You will find that all three sets have been adjusted accordingly. Which brings me to another little matter — our charming accomplice, Mademoiselle Sarah.’ He gave a playful nod and lifted his glass in a mock toast. ‘You have not told her yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘And when do you intend to?’

  ‘When the time is right.’

  ‘Mon cher, you make it sound like a proposal of marriage!’ He winked again. ‘She will not refuse you, I promise you.’

  Packer sat and scowled across the room at him. ‘You and Sarah make a bloody marvellous couple,’ he muttered. ‘Big-hearted Uncle Charles and his naughty little wayward niece, playing games at killing people on the skiing slopes of Klosters.’ He stood up and pulled on his anorak, folding the map again carefully in the inside pocket. ‘When are you leaving here. Monsieur Cassis?’

  ‘Soon, Mister Burton,’ Pol replied with a short bow. ‘When the times comes for us to meet again, I shall know how to find you. Now —’ he looked ostentatiously at his watch — ‘I think it is time you went in search of your Sarah before she falls prey to the advances of these abominable après-ski scavengers.’