The Day of the Jackal

«Then why cannot I do that now?» asked the Englishman. «Since another complete set would cost me probably no more than an extra one hundred and fifty pounds?»

The Belgian gestured with hands apart, palms upwards.

«I am banking on the fact that convenience and the time element to you are worth money. I think you need those Andre Martin papers and my silence in not too long a time. To get another set made would involve a lot more time, and they would not be as good. Those you have are perfect. So you want the papers, and my silence, and both now. The papers you have. My silence costs a thousand pounds.»

«Very well, since you put it like that. But what makes you think I have a thousand pounds right here in Belgium?»

The forger smiled tolerantly, as one who knows all the answers but has no rooted objections to exposing them to satisfy the whims of a close friend.

«Monsieur, you are an English gentleman. It is clear to all. Yet you wish to pass for a middle-aged French working man. Your French is fluent and almost without accent. That is why I put the birthplace of Andre Martin as Colmar. You know, Alsations speak French with a trace of accent like your own. You pass through France disguised as Andre Martin. Perfect, a stroke of genius. Who would ever think of searching an old man like Martin. So whatever you are carrying on you must be valuable. Drugs perhaps? Very fashionable in certain smart English circles these days. And Marseilles is one of the main supply centres. Or diamonds? I do not know. But the business you are in is profitable. English milords do not waste their time with picking pockets on racecourses. Please, monsieur, we stop playing games, hein? You telephone your friends in London and ask them to cable a thousand pounds to you at the bank here. Then tomorrow night we exchange packages and-hop-you are on your way, not so?»

The Englishman nodded several times, as if in rueful contemplation of a past life full of errors. Suddenly he raised his head and smiled engagingly at the Belgian. It was the first time the forger had seen him smile, and he felt enormously relieved that this quiet Englishman had taken the matter so calmly. The usual twisting around to seek an outlet. But in the long run no problems. The man had come round. He felt the tension drain out of him.

«Very well,» said the Englishman, «you win. I can have a thousand pounds here by noon tomorrow. But there is one condition.»

«Condition?»

At once the Belgian was wary again.

«We do not meet here.»

The forger was baked. «There is nothing wrong with this place. It is quiet, private…»

«There is everything wrong with this place from my point of view. You have just told me that you took a clandestine picture of me here. I do not wish our little ceremony of handing over our respective packages to be interrupted by the quiet click of a camera from some concealed point where one of your friends has thoughtfully hidden himself…

The Belgian's relief was visible. He laughed aloud.

«You need have no fears of that, cher ami. This place is mine, very discreet, and nobody comes in here unless they are invited by me. (Me has to be discreet, you understand, for I make a sideline from here in taking pictures for the tourists, you know: very popular but not quite the kind of work one does in a studio on the Grande Place… ' He held up his left hand, the forefinger and thumb forming the letter O, and ran the extended forefinger of the right hand through the circular aperture several times to indicate the sex act in progress.

The Englishman's eyes twinkled. He grinned wide, then started to laugh. The Belgian laughed too at the joke. The Englishman clapped his hands against the Belgian's upper arms, and the fingers tightened on the biceps muscles, holding the forger steady, his hands still going through those erotic gestures. The Belgian was still laughing when he got the impression his private parts had been hit by an express train.

The head jerked forward, the hands discontinued their mime and dropped downwards to the crushed testicles from which the man who held him had withdrawn his right knee, and the laugh turned to a screech, and a gurgle, a retch. Half unconscious, he slithered to his knees, then tried to roll forwards and sideways to lie on the floor and nurse himself.

The Jackal let him slip quite gently to his knees. Then he stepped round and over the fallen figure, straddling the exposed back of the Belgian. His right hand slipped round the Belgian's neck and out the other side, and with it he gripped his own left biceps. The left hand was placed against the back of the forger's head. He gave one short vicious twist to the neck, backwards, upwards and sideways.