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the clerk. ‘I’m expecting a package—has anything arrived for me?’
    The clerk checked in the pigeonholes and glanced under the desk. He shook his head. ‘No, M. Kesler. But there’s a gentleman waiting in the lounge for you. He’s been here some time.’
    â€˜Ah,’ Kesler said. ‘Thank you.’
    There were a number of people in the lounge; tea was being served. Kesler recognized the man sitting alone at a table, and went up to him. His eyes noted that the man was carrying a briefcase similar to his own. He went over and shook hands.
    â€˜What’s this?’ he said under his breath. ‘We weren’t expecting you—where’s the money—’ He gave a wide smile and said loudly, ‘How nice of you to wait for me—come on upstairs—’
    They went up the two floors in the lift without speaking. Kesler unlocked the door of his room; Franconi had the room adjoining. Then he shut the door and turned to the map who had seated himself on the bed. There was no smile on Kesler’s face. ‘What the hell is this? I was supposed to get a package—nobody told me you were coming!’
    â€˜I’ve brought the money,’ the other man said. He had been their contact for the last five assignments. He was known only as Paul; he spoke French with an accent that suggested he came from east of the Oder, but when Kesler tried him out in German and Polish he refused to talk at all. He was a thin, dour, nondescript human being, with deep-set eyes. Franconi nicknamed him ‘the undertaker’.
    Kesler held out his hand. ‘Give it to me.’ The briefcase was passed to him and the man Paul tossed him a key. Kesler put the case on the chest of drawers and opened it. The money was neatly packed inside: Swiss francs, in used notes. Kesler didn’t trouble to count the packets. He knew his employers had never cheated on a payment. He shut the case again and turned to Paul. Franconi came into the room; he stared at the other man and looked sharply at Kesler. ‘What’s he doing here?’
    â€˜He brought the money,’ Kesler said.
    The man seated himself on the bed again and drew an envelope out of his pocket. ‘I’ve got a proposition for you,’ he said in his ugly French. ‘You’ve got two hundred thousand francs in there—’ he jutted his mean chin towards the case. ‘You could earn three times that.’
    â€˜Oh?’ Franconi sneered. ‘Who’s the target—the American president, for instance? How do you fancy ending like Lee Harvey Oswald, Stanis—nice bullet in the belly—’ He said something obscene in Italian. Paul ignored him; there was a natural antipathy between them. He addressed himself to Kesler.
    â€˜I’ve got a list in here—’ the envelope was raised like a torch, and then lowered. ‘There are four names on it. No presidents—not even the Pope.’ His teeth showed in a grimace trying to be a smile. Kesler matched him.
    â€˜Maurice and I are Catholics,’ he said. ‘I’m glad it isn’t the Pope. Four people—six hundred thousand francs. That’s a lot of money. And a lot of risk.’ He shook his head. ‘We’re not interested.’
    â€˜Wait a minute,’ Maurice said. ‘Who are the four targets?’
    â€˜I can’t give you the envelope till you’ve agreed to the job,’ the man said. He put the envelope back into his pocket. ‘All I know is there’s no one that imporant.’
    â€˜Then why so much money?’ Kesler asked. ‘Six hundred thousand francs. Nobody pays like that unless it’s in proportion to the risk. We’ve done the Walther job and we want to enjoy the money.’
    â€˜Show us the names,’ Franconi said. ‘If they don’t trust us, then get someone else. I’m not going into anything blind and neither is