The Assassin (4 page)

‘Out to Jebartaa,' Fuad answered. He kept glancing in the driving mirror. The car Keller had noticed was a black Mercedes 2000 and it was still following. Jebartaa was two hours' drive from Beirut. Keller looked at his watch. They had been going for about that time.

They went through Jebartaa and turned off about a mile outside; the road became a track, the car jolted and lurched over ruts and chasmic pot-holes. There were no houses in sight. Nothing, so far as Keller could see out of the windows, but bleak fields.

‘There's a case on the floor, by the other seat.' Fuad had stopped the car; he was half-turned round to look at Keller. He reminded him of a sallow rat in human clothes; his bright black eyes flickered back to the rear window. Keller followed the glance. The Mercedes was right behind them. The driver was Lebanese—he could tell that immediately. Not a regular taxi driver, more like somebody's chauffeur without his uniform cap. There was somebody sitting in the rear, but there was a partition between them and the front seats. It was made of smoked glass. Whoever was inside could see but couldn't be seen.

Keller found the case.

‘Get out,' Fuad said.

Keller stayed where he was. ‘I get out when you do.' All his back hairs were up; it was all very organised, very untypical of the Middle East. He didn't like the car parked behind them and that shadow behind the smoked glass.

‘You must get out,' Fuad protested. ‘Bring the case with you.' He was so nervous that he sounded shrill. ‘You don't have to impress me, Keller. If you want this job you've got to satisfy someone else!!' He jerked his head back at the Mercedes, and slid out of the car. Keller got out after him. He didn't hurry; he turned his back on the invisible watcher, brought out the small case, and then lit a cigarette. All his life he had been pushed and only survived by pushing back.

‘What are you doing?' Fuad was almost dancing round him; he was whispering and the whisper was pitched high with fear. Keller smiled; he took a last long draw on the cigarette before he dropped it and ground it out. He opened the case without answering and took out a small, slim-barrelled Lüger pistol. It was a superb weapon; he tested the weight and took a quick practice aim at a branch ten yards away. The Legion had taught him many arts. He could kill a man with his hands; he could walk for miles with almost no water and completely without food; he could adjust to scorching heat and bitter cold. He was an expert with automatic weapons, and even his French non-com, who hated Keller because of his German name, had to admit that with a rifle he was like the vengeance of God. He was a natural marksman. His eye and his trigger finger were in perfect co-ordination; he had an instinct for when his target was right, when it would cease to move for just that second which meant life or death. His regiment had notched up thirty Viet Minh in one day's sniper shooting in Indo-China, and twenty-five of them were shot by Keller. His skill with a rifle was no greater than his accuracy with a pistol. He was the regimental champion pistol shot.

‘Ready,' Keller said.

‘That's the target, up there, in that tree. Third from the left in that clump.' Fuad pointed at the mass of branches. Keller could see something tied among them.

‘There's no ammunition,' he said. ‘I can't shoot air.'

‘I have these,' Fuad held out his hand. There were two cartridges in the palm. ‘Two shots only, that's all you have.' He bit his lower lip; he had worried it till it showed raw. ‘I hope you haven't lied,' he whispered again. ‘I hope you're as good as you say you are …

Keller looked at him. When he was angry his head lowered on his powerful neck. ‘Get out of the way!'

He loaded the two bullets into the magazine clip and replaced it, when he slipped the safety catch and cocked the gun. For a moment he forgot about Fuad the Lebanese and the Mercedes with its watcher or watchers behind the glass screen.

He raised the pistol to shoulder level; the target was a round rubber ball attached to a middle branch and as the wind blew, it moved.

He calculated that at that distance it was the same size as a man's head. He aimed and within a second he had fired. The little black blot in the trees disappeared.

‘Is that the only target?'

Fuad had a pair of glasses to his eyes. He lowered them and suddenly his gold teeth glittered. He smiled delightedly at Keller. ‘Yes! Yes!' he said. ‘Nobody could have done better. First shot! Boom—first shot!' He wasn't whispering now, he was shouting, gesticulating towards the Mercedes. His part had come out right. He would get his money and nobody could say he hadn't found exactly what he had been told to find.

‘So,' Keller said. He raised the pistol in the air and fired the last bullet. It was the marksman's gesture after hitting the bull the first time. He laid the gun back in its case, dropped it contemptuously at Fuad's feet and climbed back into the car. To hell with them. To hell with the spectators in the Mercedes. He was the best of his kind and he had let them see it. At that moment he had self-respect; he really didn't care whether he got the job or not.

Suddenly the horn on the Mercedes sounded twice. They were long blasts, and Fuad sprang into the driver's seat.

‘They want you,' he said. ‘That was the signal. Once for no, twice for yes. You're a lucky man, Keller. I always told you Fuad Hamedin would bring you luck!'

‘I'm not kissing your ass,' Keller said. ‘You're getting paid. And it takes two to say yes to any deal. You tell me what the money is and what the real target will be. Go and tell whoever is in that car behind that I want to know now, and I'll give my answer the way he gave his. Once for no, and twice for yes.'

The Lebanese got out; the Mercedes engine had started up. Keller watched through the driving mirror. He saw Fuad go to the driver, who talked through the glass. When Fuad came back, his eyes were rolling in genuine excitement.

‘Fifty thousand dollars.' He could hardly get the words out. ‘American dollars. And a passport in any name you like. But you can't know any more for the moment. Take it or leave it, they say. Fifty thousand American dollars—
Allah ya ish Allah!'
He wiped his face with a bright silk handkerchief. It was oily with sweat.

‘Make it two passports,' Keller said. He lit another cigarette. He too was beginning to sweat but he wouldn't let the Lebanese see any sign of excitement. Fifty thousand dollars. His throat was dry and now his hands were shaking too. Fifty thousand. ‘Two passports,' he repeated. ‘One for me and one for Souha. And ten thousand on account. For her. Go and tell them. Go on, you greasy son of a bitch! Do you want me to go round there and ask myself?'

Fuad was gone, and suddenly Keller pulled the collar away from his neck where the sweat was trickling down. It was a fortune. He had killed so many men he had lost count for only a few sous a day. Fifty thousand dollars for one man. One king, one prince, one politician, one rival gangster in a billion-dollar empire like opium or cocaine. He had always thought of human life as cheap. He sat back in the car and laughed out loud at his own bitter joke. He had no idea it was so expensive.

‘All right.' Fuad got in and closed the driver's door. ‘A passport for you with the rest of the money when the job is done. Ten thousand now and a passport for the girl.'

‘All right,' Keller said. ‘All right then. Give two blasts. The deal is on.'

2

‘I wish you would tell me what it is.' Keller had bought her a hundred dollars' worth of dresses and shoes. He had shown her the passport; it had come by messenger, and it gave her Lebanese citizenship.

‘Now,' Keller explained, ‘now you can go anywhere in the world. You have a nationality—look! You're a Lebanese, you're not a refugee any more.'

‘I don't want to go anywhere,' she said. ‘I'm happy here. I don't want to be a Lebanese; I'm a Palestinian. I don't want any of these things. What have you promised these people that they give you all this?'

Keller came to her and, putting both hands on her shoulders, he shook her. Just a little, as if she were an obstinate child.

‘That's none of your business. I know what I am doing and you should trust me. I've told you, we're going to have a new life. Instead of living like dogs, sniffing round the garbage for enough to eat, we'll be rich. Very rich, you little idiot. Now will you be quiet, and go and put my clothes into that suitcase?' The dark head was bent, hiding her face; he knew that she was crying.

‘I am afraid,' she said. ‘I don't know why, but my heart is full of fear for you.' She looked up at him then. ‘I am afraid for both of us. But I will do what you say. I will wait here till you come back. Now let me go, Bruno, and I will get everything ready for you.'

He had lodged the ten thousand in the Banque du Liban, and arranged with them to pay her a weekly allowance. He hadn't told her how much money she owned, because it was safer for her not to know. If he didn't come back, the bank would go on paying her and she would be secure for the rest of her life. Even if he had told her, Keller felt sure she wouldn't have cared. She was the least mercenary human being he had ever met. She only cared for him. It made him feel uncomfortable to be loved like that. She had never asked if he loved her; with her sharp female instincts she probably knew that he didn't. It eased his conscience to think that no matter what happened to him, he had provided for her. She would never have to worry about money; she even had the displaced person's Holy Grail, a valid passport. If he had never been able to love her at least he had done something for her.

‘I want you to be happy while I'm gone,' Keller said. ‘I shan't be away for long. The time will pass very quickly.'

‘It will be as long for me as my whole life,' she said. She was shutting his case. It was new, and so were the clothes inside it. He looked different in his dark suit, with a plain white shirt and a tie which she considered very dull. Different and somehow lost to her. She had wished and wished suddenly that he was in his shabby old suit. That was the image of him that she carried in her heart.

‘I will write to you,' Keller said. It was a lie, but her thin body drooped with unhappiness and he would have said anything to comfort her.

‘I cannot read,' Souha said. ‘You know that.'

‘Come here,' Keller said. ‘Come here and listen to me.' She came and he put his arm around her. ‘I will get word to you, somehow. And I will come back soon, I promise you that. And then we will be together and I won't go away again. Now will you be a good girl and smile for me?'

The tears were flowing down her face; she cried copiously, without the restraint of Western women, worrying about their make-up. She hid her face against him for a moment, and then raised her head and smiled. It was a very uncertain smile, quivering on the edge of more tears, and Keller didn't test it for too long. He kissed her, gently, on the mouth, in the way that he had taught her, and then picked up his case and went to the door.

‘Wait for me,' he said.

‘I will wait,' the girl said. ‘For all my life, I will wait for you.'

Then he closed the door and ran down the stairs to the street. He didn't look back at the window. He had said goodbye. Turning back was bad luck.

King had made the arrangements very quickly after the trip to Jebartaa. He had the contacts and the money. The passport was easy; his man had a stock of them. The money was transferred through from Syria, and the passport under which Keller would travel was waiting for him in an envelope at the airport. So was his ticket. He would know nothing until he was ready to board the plane.

‘Miss Cameron here. Will you send up for my bags, please?' She put the receiver back and went to the dressing table to take a last look at herself. Everything was arranged. Eddi King had gone the previous night; he was travelling to Frankfurt to see his European office and discuss a sales promotion in West Germany for his magazine
Future
. Elizabeth didn't like the magazine or its policies. They were too close to the savage reactionary views that Huntley's propaganda machine disseminated. Two dozen white roses were in a vase on the bureau opposite her bed. The card was in the wastebasket, torn in half. It said: ‘You're a wonderful girl. Eddi.' She didn't know why the card made her uncomfortable, or why she had immediately torn it up. She didn't even like the flowers. White was such an odd colour to choose. But then King was an odd man. He had a lot of charm; he was a good talker, an amusing companion, men liked him and women were intrigued by him. Elizabeth liked him too, but not when he sent her flowers. Then she felt something quite different to the friendship for an old friend of her uncle she felt repelled. It was silly, and unnecessary. King didn't mean anything; the white roses had no significance. She was just nervous about taking the man she had seen outside the hotel all the way back to the States. King wouldn't tell her what was behind the secrecy; why, if the man had a valid passport, couldn't he travel through alone? It seemed ridiculous, until she took into account some of the stunts her uncle's papers pulled in order to expose them afterwards and throw a punch at the Administration. This could easily be yet another gimmick, probably planned with the slackness of the immigration system in mind. When the man was through and in the States he would be brought forward as one example of how many holes there were in the security net guarding America. It was the kind of thing Huntley enjoyed doing. Scandals were necessary; he kept repeating this. They kept the politicians jumping. They had to know the American people couldn't be fooled with all the time. Not so long as Huntley Cameron was keeping watch on their behalf. King had told her what to do. Pay the bill. Check out, and take the taxi which would be waiting for her at eleven o'clock. The man would be inside it. The flight was booked straight through, with only three stops. Rome, Geneva, and then New York. The bedroom door opened, and two porters came to take her bags. She followed them a few minutes later. As she left the room, she noticed the overpowering scent of King's white flowers.