‘Guten Abend, Mein Herr,’ replied the clerk automatically and by the time he had finished the blond man was gone, taking the stairs two at a time without seeming to hurry. At the top he paused and glanced down the only corridor available. At the far end was room 68. He counted back down the corridor to what must be 64, although the figures were out of sight.
Between himself and the door of 64 was twenty feet of corridor, the walls being studded on the right by two other doors before 64, and on the left a small alcove partially curtained with red velours hanging from a cheap brass rod.
He studied the alcove carefully. From beneath the curtain, which cleared the floor by four inches, the toe of a single black shoe emerged slightly. He turned and walked back to the foyer. This time the clerk was ready. At least he managed to get his mouth open.
‘Pass me room 64, please,’ said the Englishman. The clerk looked him in the face for a second, then obeyed. After a few seconds he turned back from the small switchboard, picked up the desk phone and
passed it over.
‘If that gorilla is not out of the alcove in fifteen seconds I am going back home,’ said the blond man, and put the phone down. Then he walked back up the stairs.
At the top he watched the door of 64 open and Colonel Rodin appeared. He stared down the corridor for a moment at the Englishman, then called softly, ‘Viktor.’ From the alcove the giant Pole emerged and stood looking from one to the other. Rodin said, ‘It’s all right. He is expected.’ Kowalski glowered. The Englishman started to walk.
Rodin ushered him inside the bedroom. It had been arranged like an office for a recruiting board. The escritoire served for the chairman’s desk and was littered with papers. Behind it was the single upright chair in the room. But two other uprights brought in from adjacent rooms flanked the central chair, and these were occupied by Montclair and Casson, who eyed the visitor curiously. There was no chair in front of the desk. The Englishman cast an eye around, selected one of the two easy chairs and spun it round to face the desk. By the time Rodin had given fresh instructions to Viktor and closed the door, the Englishman was comfortably seated and staring back at Casson and Montclair. Rodin took his seat behind the desk.
For a few seconds he stared at the man from London. What he saw did not displease him, and he was an expert in men. The visitor stood about six feet tall, apparently in his early thirties, and with a lean, athletic build. He looked fit, the face was suntanned with regular but not remarkable features, and the hands lay quietly along the arms of the chair. To Rodin’s eye he looked like a man who retained control of himself. But the eyes bothered Rodin. He had seen the soft moist eyes of weaklings, the dull shuttered eyes of psychopaths and the watchful eyes of soldiers. The eyes of the Englishman were open and stared back with frank candour. Except for the irises, which were of flecked grey so that they seemed smokey like the hoar mist on a winter’s morning. It took Rodin a few seconds to realise that they had no expression at all. Whatever thoughts did go on behind the smoke-screen, nothing came through, and Rodin felt a worm of unease. Like all men created by systems and procedures, he did not like the unpredictable and therefore the uncontrollable.
‘We know who you are,’ he began abruptly. ‘I had better introduce myself. I am Colonel Marc Rodin …’
‘I know,’ said the Englishman, ‘you are chief of operations of the OAS. You are Major René Montclair, treasurer, and you are Monsieur André Casson, head of the underground in Metropole.’ He stared at each of the men in turn as he spoke, and reached for a cigarette.
‘You seem to know a lot already,’ interjected Casson as the three watched the visitor light up. The Englishman leaned back and blew out the first stream of smoke.
‘Gentlemen, let us be frank. I know what you are and you know what I am. We both have unusual occupations. You are hunted while I am free to move where I will without surveillance. I operate for money, you for idealism. But when it comes to practical details we are all professionals at our jobs. Therefore we do not need to fence. You have been making enquiries about me. It is impossible to make such enquiries without the news of them soon getting back to the man being asked about. Naturally I wished to know who was so interested in me. It could have been someone seeking revenge, or wishing to employ me. It was important to me to know. As soon as I discovered the identity of the organisation interested in me, two days among the French newspaper files in the British Museum were enough to tell me about you and your organisation. So the visit of your little errand boy this afternoon was hardly a surprise. Bon. I know who you are, and whom you represent. What I would like to know is what you want.’
There was silence for several minutes. Casson and Montclair glanced for guidance at Rodin. The paratroop colonel and the assassin stared at each other. Rodin knew enough about violent men to understand the man facing him was what he wanted. From then on Montclair and Casson were part of the furniture.
‘Since you have read the files available, I will not bore you with the motivations behind our organisation, which you have accurately termed as idealism. We believe France is now ruled by a dictator who has polluted our country and prostituted its honour. We believe his regime can only fall and France be restored to Frenchmen if he first dies. Out of six attempts by our supporters to eliminate him, three were exposed in the early planning stages, one was betrayed the day before the attempt, and two took place but misfired.
‘We are considering, but only at this stage considering, engaging the services of a professional to do the job. However we do not wish to waste our money. The first thing we would like to know is if it is possible.’
Rodin had played his cards shrewdly. The last sentence, to which he already knew the answer, brought a flicker of expression to the grey eyes.
‘There is no man in the world who is proof against an assassin’s bullet,’ said the Englishman. ‘De Gaulle’s exposure rate is very high. Of course it’s possible to kill him. The point is that the chances of escape would not be too high. A fanatic prepared to die himself in the attempt is always the most certain method of eliminating a dictator who exposes himself to the public. I notice,’ he added with a touch of malice, ‘that despite your idealism you have not yet been able to produce such a man. Both Pont-de-Seine and Petit-Clamart failed because no one was prepared to risk his own life to make absolutely certain.’
‘There are patriotic Frenchmen prepared even now …’ began Casson hotly, but Rodin silenced him with a gesture. The Englishman did not even glance at him.
‘And as regards a professional?’ prompted Rodin.
‘A professional does not act out of fervour, and is therefore more calm and less likely to make elementary errors. Not being idealistic he is not likely to have second thoughts at the last minute about who else might get hurt in the explosion, or whatever method, and being a professional he has calculated the risks to the last contingency. So his chances of success on schedule are surer than anyone else, but he will not even enter into operation until he has devised a plan that will enable him not only to complete the mission, but to escape unharmed.’
‘Do you estimate that such a plan could be worked out to permit a professional to kill Grand Zohra and escape?’
The Englishman smoked quietly for a few minutes and stared out of the window. ‘In principle, yes,’ he replied at length. ‘In principle it is always possible with enough time and planning. But in this case it would be extremely difficult. More so than with most other targets.’
‘Why more than others?’ asked Montclair.
‘Because De Gaulle is forewarned—not about the specific attempt, but about the general intention. All big men have bodyguards and security men, but over a period of years without any serious attempt on the life of the big man, the checks become formal, the routines mechanical and the degree of watchfulness is lowered. The single bullet that finishes the target is wholly unexpected and therefore provokes panic. Under cover of this the assassin escapes. In this case there will be no lowering of the level of watchfulness, no mechanical routines, and if the bullet were to get to the target, there would be many who would not panic but would go for the assassin. It could be done, but it would be one of the hardest jobs in the world at this moment. You see, gentlemen, not only have your own efforts failed, but they have queered the pitch for everyone else.’
‘In the event that we decide to employ a professional assassin to do this job …’ began Rodin.
‘You have to employ a professional,’ cut in the Englishman quietly.
‘And why, pray? There are many men still who would be prepared to do the job out of purely patriotic motives.’
‘Yes, there is still Watin and Curutchet,’ replied the blond. ‘And doubtless there are more Degueldres and Bastien-Thirys around somewhere. But you three men did not call me here for a chat in general terms about the theory of political assassination, nor because you have a sudden shortage of trigger-fingers. You called me here because you have belatedly come to the conclusion that your organisation is so infiltrated
by the French Secret Service agents that little you decide remains secret for long, and also because the face of every one of you is imprinted on the memory of every cop in France. Therefore you need an outsider. And you are right. If the job is to be done an outsider has to do it. The only questions that remain are who, and for how much. Now, gentlemen, I think you have had long enough to examine the merchandise, don’t you?’