The guerrilla hideout. West, handcuffed, contemplating the chessboard. Carlos watching him. A knock at the door. Carlos gets up and leaves the room. Long pause, during which West gives out a little grunt of pleasure and makes a move. Then the door bursts open and Carlos re-enters, white and tense. In his hand, though at first concealed from West, the pistol with silencer. West looks up, triumphant, indicates the chess-board.
West Pick the bones out of that.
Carlos I …
West I think I’ve … (He sees the gun and breaks off suddenly.) What’s erm …?
Carlos I …
He levels the pistol at West.
West (feebly) Don’t.
Carlos Sorry.
He shoots West three times. West slumps grotesquely to the floor, still dangling from his handcuff. Carlos looks at him for a second, desolate. Then, from outside, the wail of a police siren. Carlos starts, then rushes out. A hail of machine-gun fire in the blackout.
Fanfares, reminiscent of the opening of a TV news bulletin. A white frontcloth drops in. On it are projected, one by one, overlapping, innumerable photographs of West, black and white, colour, family snaps, headlines in several languages, until the whole cloth is covered with images of West.