There was silence in the room for several seconds.
‘How did they find out?’ asked Lebel quietly from the far end of the table. All eyes turned on him, except those of Colonel Rolland who was staring at the opposite wall deep in thought.
‘Damn,’ he said clearly, still staring at the wall. The eyes swivelled back to the head of the Action Service.
The Colonel snapped out of his reverie.
‘Marseilles,’ he said shortly. ‘To get Kowalski to come from Rome we used a bait. An old friend called J0J0 Grzybowski. The man has a wife and daughter. We kept them all in protective custody until Kowalski was in our hands. Then we allowed them to return home. All I wanted from Kowalski was information about his chiefs. There was no reason to suspect this Jackal plot at the time. There was no reason why they should not know we had got Kowalski—then. Later of course things changed. It must have been the Pole J0J0 who tipped off the agent Valmy. Sorry.’
‘Did the DST pick Valmy up in the post office?’ asked Lebel.
‘No, we missed him by a couple of minutes, thanks to the stupidity of the operator,’ replied the man from DST.
‘A positive chapter of inefficiency,’ snapped Colonel Saint-Clair suddenly. A number of unfriendly glances were levelled at him.
‘We are feeling our way, largely in the dark, against an unknown adversary,’ replied General Guibaud. ‘If the Colonel would like to volunteer to take over the operation, and all the responsibility it implies…’
The Colonel from the Elysée Palace studiously examined his folders as if they were more important and of greater consequence than the veiled threat from the head of the SDECE. But he realised it had not been a wise remark.
‘In a way,’ mused the Minister, ‘it might be as well they know their hired gun is blown. Surely they must call the operation off now?’
‘Precisely,’ said Saint-Clair, trying to recoup, ‘the Minister is right. They would be crazy to go ahead now. They’ll simply call the man off.’
‘He isn’t exactly blown,’ said Lebel quietly. They had almost forgotten he was there. ‘We still don’t know the man’s name. The forewarning might simply cause him to take extra contingency precautions. False papers, physical disguises …’
The optimism to which the Minister’s remark had given birth round the table vanished. Roger Frey eyed the little Commissaire with respect.
‘I think we had better have Commissaire Lebel’s report, gentlemen. After all, he is heading this enquiry. We are here to assist him where we can.’
Thus prompted, Lebel outlined the measures he had taken since the previous evening; the growing belief, supported by the check through the French files, that the foreigner could only be on the files of some foreign police force, if at all. The request to make enquiries abroad; request granted. The series of person-to-person phone calls via Interpol to police chiefs of seven major countries.
‘The replies came in during the course of today,’ he concluded. ‘Here they are: Holland, nothing. Italy, several known contract-hire killers, but all in the employ of the Mafia. Discreet enquiries between the Carabinieri and the Capo of Rome elicited a pledge that no Mafia killer would ever do a political killing except on orders, and the Mafia would not subscribe to killing a foreign statesman.’ Lebel looked up. ‘Personally, I am inclined to believe that is probably true.
‘Britain. Nothing, but routine enquiries have been passed to another department, the Special Branch, for further checking.’
‘Slow as always,’ muttered Saint-Clair under his breath. Lebel caught the remark and looked up again.
‘But very thorough, our English friends. Do not underestimate Scotland Yard.’ He resumed reading.
‘America. Two possibles. One the right-hand man of a big international arms dealer based in Miami, Florida. This man was formerly a US Marine, later a CIA man in the Caribbean. Fired for killing a Cuban anti-Castroist in a fight just before the Bay of Pigs affair. The Cuban was to have commanded a section of that operation. The American then was taken on by the arms dealer, one of the men the CIA had unofficially used to supply arms to the Bay of Pigs invading force. Believed to have been responsible for two unexplained accidents that happened later to rivals of his employer in the arms business. Arms dealing, it seems, is a very cut-throat business. The man’s name is Charles “Chuck” Arnold. The FBI is now checking for his whereabouts.
‘The second man suggested by FBI as a possible. Marco Vitellino, formerly personal bodyguard to a New York gangland boss, Albert Anastasia. This Capo was shot to death in a barber’s chair in October ’57 and Vitellino fled America in fear of his own life. Settled in Caracas, Venezuela. Tried to go into the rackets there on his own account, but with little success. He was frozen out by the local underworld. FBI think that if he was completely broke he might be in the market for a contract killing job for a foreign organisation, if the price were right.’
There was complete silence in the room. The fourteen other men listened without a murmur.
‘Belgium. One possibility. Psychopathic homicide, formerly on the staff of Tschombe in Katanga. Expelled by United Nations when captured in 1962. Unable to return to Belgium because of pending charges on two counts of murder. A hired gun, but a clever one. Name of Jules Bérenger. Believed also emigrated to Central America. Belgian police are still checking on his possible present whereabouts.
‘Germany. One suggestion. Hans-Dieter Kassel, former SS-Major, wanted by two countries for war crimes. Lived after the war in West Germany under an assumed name, and was a contract-killer for ODESSA, the ex-SS members’ underground organisation. Suspected of being implicated in the killing of two left-wing Socialists in post-war politics who were urging a government-sponsored intensification of enquiries into war crimes. Later unmasked as Kassel, but skipped to Spain after a tip-off for which a senior police official lost his job. Believed now living in retirement in Madrid …’
Lebel looked up again. ‘Incidentally, this man’s age seems to be a bit advanced for this sort of job. He is now fifty-seven.’
‘Lastly, South Africa. One possible. Professional mercenary. Name: Piet Schuyper. Also one of Tschombe’s top gunmen. Nothing officially against him in South Africa, but he’s considered undesirable. A crackshot, and a definite penchant for individual killing. Last heard of when expelled from the Congo on the collapse of the Katangese secession early this year. Believed to be still in West Africa somewhere. The South African Special Bran
ch is checking further.’
He stopped and looked up. The fourteen men round the table were looking back at him without expression.
‘Of course,’ said Lebel deprecatingly, ‘it’s very vague, I’m afraid. For one thing I only tried the seven most likely countries. The Jackal could be a Swiss, or Austrian, or something else. Then three countries out of seven replied that they have no suggestion to make. They could be wrong. The Jackal could be an Italian, or Dutchman or English. Or he could be South African, Belgian, German or American, but not among those listed. One doesn’t know. One is feeling in the dark, hoping for a break.’