“Do I need to remind you what’s at stake, Manfred? What you say to your minister is your business. Just get it done. I will not let Peter lose this election. Do you understand me?”
Kruz looked up into the pitiless blue eyes and saw once again the man dressed head to toe in black. He closed his eyes and nodded once.
The old man raised his glass to his lips and, before drinking, smiled. It was about as pleasant as a sudden crack in a pane of glass. He reached into the breast pocket of his blazer, produced a slip of paper, and dealt it onto the tabletop. Kruz glanced at it as it spun his way, then looked up.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a telephone number.”
Kruz left the paper untouched. “A telephone number?”
“One never knows how a situation like this might resolve itself. It might be necessary to resort to violence. It’s quite possible I might not be in a position to order such measures. In that case, Manfred, the responsibility will fall to you.”
Kruz picked up the slip of paper and held it aloft between his first two fingers. “If I dial this number, who’s going to answer?”
The old man smiled. “Violence.”
31
ZURICH
HERR CHRISTIAN ZIGERLI, special events coordinator at the Dolder Grand Hotel, was a good deal like the hotel itself—dignified and pompous, resolute and understated, a man who enjoyed his lofty perch in life because it allowed him to look down his nose at others. He was also a man who did not care for surprises. As a rule, he required seventy-two hours advance notice for special bookings and conferences, but when Heller Enterprises and Systech Wireless expressed a desire to conduct their final merger negotiations at the Dolder, Herr Zigerli agreed to waive the seventy-two-hour provision in exchange for a fifteen-percent surcharge. He could be accommodating when he chose to be, but accommodation, like everything else at the Dolder, came at a steep price.
Heller Enterprises was the suitor, so Heller handled the booking arrangements—not old man Rudolf Heller himself, of course, but a glossy Italian personal assistant who called herself Elena. Herr Zigerli tended to form opinions about people quickly. He would tell you that any hotelier worth his weight in sand did. He did not care for Italians in general, and the aggressive and demanding Elena quickly earned a high ranking on his long list of unpopular clients. She spoke loudly on the telephone, a capital crime in his estimation, and seemed to believe that the mere act of spending vast amounts of her master’s money entitled her to special privileges. She did seem to know the hotel well—odd, since Herr Zigerli, who had a memory like a file cabinet, could not recall her ever being a guest at the Dolder—and she was excruciatingly specific in her demands. She wanted four adjoining suites near the terrace overlooking the golf course, with good views of the lake. When Zigerli informed her that this was not possible—two and two, or three and one, but not four in a row—she asked whether guests could be moved to accommodate her. Sorry, said the hotelier, but the Dolder Grand is not in the habit of turning guests into refugees. She settled for three adjoining suites and a fourth farther down the hall. “The delegations will arrive at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “They’d like a light working lunch.” There followed ten more minutes of bickering over what constituted a “light working lunch.”
When the menu was complete, Elena lobbed one more demand his way. She would arrive four hours before the delegations, accompanied by Heller’s chief of security, in order to inspect the rooms. Once the inspections were complete, no hotel personnel would be allowed inside unless accompanied by Heller security. Herr Zigerli sighed heavily and agreed, then hung up the phone and, with his office door closed and locked, performed a series of deep-breathing exercises to calm his nerves.
The morning of the negotiations dawned gray and cold. The stately old turrets of the Dolder poked into the blanket of freezing fog, and the perfect asphalt in the front drive shone like polished black granite. Herr Zigerli stood watch in the lobby, just inside the sparkling glass doors, feet shoulder-width apart, hands at his sides, girded for battle. She’ll be late, he thought. They always are. She’ll need more suites. She’ll want to change the menu. She’ll be perfectly horrible.
A black Mercedes sedan glided into the drive and stopped outside the entrance. Herr Zigerli cast a discreet glance at his wristwatch. Ten o’clock precisely. Impressive. The bellman opened the rear door, and a sleek black boot emerged—Bruno Magli, noted Zigerli—followed by a shapely knee and thigh. Herr Zigerli rocked forward onto the balls of his feet and smoothed his hair over his bald spot. He had seen many beautiful women float through the famous doorway of the Dolder Grand, yet few had done it with any more grace or style than the lovely Elena of Heller Enterprises. She had a mane of chestnut hair, held in place by a clasp at the nape of her neck, and skin the color of honey. Her brown eyes were flecked with gold, and they seemed to grow lighter when she shook his hand. Her voice, so loud and demanding over the telephone line, was now soft and thrilling, as was her Italian accent. She released his hand and turned to an unsmiling companion. “Herr Zigerli, this is Oskar. Oskar does security.”
Apparently, Oskar had no last name. None needed, thought Zigerli. He was built like a wrestler, with strawberry-blond hair and faint freckles across his broad cheeks. Herr Zigerli, trained observer of the human condition, saw something he recognized in Oskar. A fellow tribesman, if you will. He could picture him, two centuries earlier, in the clothing of a woodsman, pounding along a pathway through the Black Forest. Like all good security men, Oskar let his eyes do the talking, and his eyes told Herr Zigerli he was anxious to get to work. “I’ll show you to your rooms,” said the hotelier. “Please, follow me.”
Herr Zigerli decided to take them up the stairs rather than the elevator. They were one of the Dolder’s finest attributes, and Oskar the woodsman didn’t look like the type who enjoyed waiting for lifts when there was a flight of steps to be scaled. The rooms were on the fourth floor. On the landing, Oskar held out his hand for the electronic cardkeys. “We’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind. No need to show us the inside of the rooms. We’ve all been in hotels before.” A knowing wink, a genial pat on the arm. “Just point us the way. We’ll be fine.”
Indeed, you will, thought Zigerli. Oskar was a man who inspired confidence in other men. Women too, Zigerli suspected. He wondered whether the delectable Elena—he was already beginning to think of her as his Elena—was one of Oskar’s conquests. He placed the cardkeys in Oskar’s upturned palm and showed them the way.
Herr Zigerli was a man of many maxims—“A quiet customer is a contented customer” was among his most cherished—and therefore he interpreted the ensuing silence on the fourth floor as proof that Elena and her friend Oskar were pleased with the accommodations. This in turn pleased Herr Zigerli. He now liked making Elena happy. As he went about the rest of his morning, she remained on his mind, like the trace of her scent that had attached itself to his hand. He found himself longing for some problem, some silly complaint that would require a consultation with her. But there was nothing, only the silence of contentment. She had her Oskar now. She had no need for the special events coordinator of Europe’s finest hotel. Herr Zigerli, once again, had done his job too well.
He did not hear from them, or even see them, until two o’clock that afternoon, when they congregated in the lobby and formed an unlikely welcoming party for the arriving delegations. There was snow swirling in the front court now. Zigerli believed the foul weather only heightened the appeal of the old hotel—a safe haven from the storm, like Switzerland itself.
The first limousine pulled into the drive and disgorged two passengers. One was Herr Rudolf Heller himself, a small, elderly man, dressed in an expensive dark suit and silver necktie. His slightly tinted spectacles suggested an eye condition; his brisk, impatient walk left the impression that, in spite of his advanced years, he was a man who could take care of himself. Herr Zigerli welcomed him to the Dolder and shook the p
roffered hand. It seemed to be made of stone.
He was accompanied by the grim-faced Herr Keppelmann. He was perhaps twenty-five years younger than Heller, short-cropped hair, gray at the temples, very green eyes. Herr Zigerli had seen his fair share of bodyguards at the Dolder, and Herr Keppelmann certainly seemed the type. Calm but vigilant, silent as a church mouse, surefooted and strong. The emerald-colored eyes were placid but in constant motion. Herr Zigerli looked at Elena and saw that her gaze was trained on Herr Keppelmann. Perhaps he was wrong about Oskar. Perhaps the taciturn Keppelmann was the luckiest man in the world.
The Americans came next: Brad Cantwell and Shelby Somerset, the CEO and COO of Systech Communications, Inc., of Reston, Virginia. There was a quiet sophistication about them that Zigerli was not used to seeing in Americans. They were not overly friendly, nor were they bellowing into cell phones as they came into the lobby. Cantwell spoke German as well as Herr Zigerli and avoided eye contact. Somerset was the more affable of the two. The well-traveled blue blazer and slightly crumpled striped tie identified him as an Eastern preppy, as did his upper-class drawl.
Herr Zigerli made a few welcoming remarks, then receded quietly into the background. It was something he did exceptionally well. As Elena led the group toward the staircase, he slipped into his office and closed the door. An impressive group of men, he thought. He expected great things to come of this venture. His own role in the affair, however minor, had been carried off with precision and quiet competence. In today’s world, such attributes were of little value, but they were the coin of Herr Zigerli’s miniature realm. He suspected the men of Heller Enterprises and Systech Communications probably felt exactly the same way.
IN CENTRAL ZURICH, on the quiet street near the spot where the heavy green waters of the Limmat River flow into the lake, Konrad Becker was in the process of buttoning up his private bank for the evening when the telephone on his desk purred softly. Technically, it was five minutes before the close of business, but he was tempted to let the machine get it. In Becker’s experience, only problem clients telephoned so late in the afternoon, and his day had been difficult enough already. Instead, like a good Swiss banker, he reached for the receiver and brought it robotically to his ear.
“Becker and Puhl.”
“Konrad, it’s Shelby Somerset. How the hell are you?”
Becker swallowed hard. Somerset was the name of the American from the CIA—at least, Somerset is what he called himself. Becker doubted very much it was his real name.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Somerset?”
“You can drop the formalities for starters, Konrad.”
“And for the main course?”
“You can walk downstairs to the Talstrasse and climb in the back seat of the silver Mercedes that’s waiting there.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“We need to see you.”
“Where is this Mercedes going to take me?”
“Somewhere pleasant, I assure you.”
“What’s the dress code?”
“Business attire will be fine. And, Konrad?”
“Yes, Mr. Somerset?”
“Don’t think about playing hard to get. This is the real deal. Go downstairs. Get in the car. We’re watching you. We’re always watching you.”
“How reassuring, Mr. Somerset,” the banker said, but the line had already gone dead.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Herr Zigerli was standing at reception when he noticed one of the Americans, Shelby Somerset, pacing anxiously outside in the drive. A moment later, a silver Mercedes eased into the circle, and a small, bald figure alighted from the back seat. Polished Bally loafers, a blast-proof attaché case. A banker, thought Zigerli. He’d bet his paycheck on it. Somerset gave the new arrival a hail-fellow smile and a firm clap on the shoulder. The small man, despite the warm greeting, looked as though he were being led to his execution. Still, Herr Zigerli reckoned the talks were going well. The moneyman had arrived.
“GOOD AFTERNOON, HERR BECKER. Such a pleasure to see you. I’m Heller. Rudolf Heller. This is my associate, Mr. Keppelmann. That man over there is our American partner, Brad Cantwell. Obviously, you and Mr. Somerset are already acquainted.”
The banker blinked rapidly several times, then settled his cunning little gaze on Shamron, as if he were trying to arrive at a calculation of his net worth. He held his attaché over his genitals, in anticipation of an imminent assault.
“My associates and I are about to embark on a joint venture. The problem is, we can’t do it without your help. That’s what bankers do, isn’t it, Herr Becker? Help launch great endeavors? Help people realize their dreams and their potential?”
“It depends on the venture, Herr Heller.”
“I see,” Shamron said, smiling. “For example, many years ago, a group of men came to you. German and Austrian men. They wanted to launch a great endeavor as well. They entrusted you with a large sum of money and granted you the power to turn it into an even larger sum. You did extraordinarily well. You turned it into a mountain of money. I assume you remember these gentlemen? I also assume you know where they got their money?”
The Swiss banker’s gaze hardened. He had arrived at his calculation of Shamron’s worth.
“You’re Israeli, aren’t you?”
“I prefer to think of myself as a citizen of the world,” replied Shamron. “I reside in many places, speak the languages of many lands. My loyalty, like my business interests, knows no national boundaries. As a Swiss, I’m sure you can understand my point of view.”
“I understand it,” Becker said, “but I don’t believe you for a minute.”
“And if I were from Israel?” Shamron asked. “Would this have some impact on your decision?”
“It would.”
“How so?”
“I don’t care for Israelis,” Becker said forthrightly. “Or Jews, for that matter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Herr Becker, but a man is entitled to his opinions, and I won’t hold it against you. I never allow politics to get in the way of business. I need help for my endeavor, and you’re the only person who can help me.”
Becker raised his eyebrows quizzically. “What exactly is the nature of this endeavor, Herr Heller?”
“It’s quite simple, really. I want you to help me kidnap one of your clients.”
“I believe, Herr Heller, that the endeavor you’re suggesting would be a violation of Swiss banking secrecy laws—and several other Swiss laws as well.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to keep your involvement secret.”
“And if I refuse to cooperate?”
“Then we’ll be forced to tell the world that you were the murderers’ banker, that you’re sitting on two and a half billion dollars of Holocaust loot. We’ll unleash the bloodhounds of the World Jewish Congress on you. You and your bank will be in tatters by the time they’re finished with you.”
The Swiss banker cast a pleading look at Shelby Somerset. “We had a deal.”
“We still do,” the lanky American drawled, “but the outlines of the deal have changed. Your client is a very dangerous man. Steps need to be taken to neutralize him. We need you, Konrad. Help us clean up a mess. Let’s do some good together.”
The banker drummed his fingers against the attaché case. “You’re right. He is a dangerous man, and if I help you kidnap him, I might as well dig my own grave.”
“We’ll be there for you, Konrad. We’ll protect you.”
“And what if the ‘outlines of the deal’ change again? Who’ll protect me then?”
Shamron interceded. “You were to receive one hundred million dollars upon final dispersal of the account. Now, there will be no final dispersal of the account, because you’re going to give all the money to me. If you cooperate, I’ll let you keep half of what you were supposed to receive. I assume you can do the math, Herr Becker?”
“I can.”
“Fifty million dollars is more than you deserve, but I’
m willing to let you have it in order to gain your cooperation in this matter. A man can buy a lot of security with fifty million.”
“I want it in writing, a letter of guarantee.”
Shamron shook his head sadly, as if to say there were some things—And you should know this better than anyone, my dear fellow—that one does not put in writing.
“What do you need from me?” Becker asked.
“You’re going to help us get into his home.”
“How?”
“You’ll need to see him rather urgently concerning some aspect of the account. Perhaps some papers need to be signed, some final details in preparation for liquidation and dispersal of the assets.”
“And once I’m inside the house?”
“Your job is finished. Your new assistant will handle matters after that.”
“My new assistant?”
Shamron looked at Gabriel. “Perhaps it’s time we introduced Herr Becker to his new partner.”
HE WAS A MAN of many names and personalities. Herr Zigerli knew him as Oskar, the chief of Heller security. The landlord of his pied-à-terre in Paris knew him as Vincent Laffont, a freelance travel writer of Breton descent who spent most of his time living out of a suitcase. In London, he was known as Clyde Bridges, European marketing director of an obscure Canadian business software firm. In Madrid, he was a German of independent means and a restless soul who idled away the hours in cafés and bars, and traveled to relieve the boredom.
His real name was Uzi Navot. In the Hebrew-based lexicon of the Israeli secret intelligence service, Navot was a katsa, an undercover field operative and case officer. His territory was western Europe. Armed with an array of languages, a roguish charm, and fatalistic arrogance, Navot had penetrated Palestinian terrorist cells and recruited agents in Arab embassies scattered across the continent. He had sources in nearly all the European security and intelligence services and oversaw a vast network of sayanim, volunteer helpers recruited from local Jewish communities. He could always count on getting the best table in the grill room at the Ritz in Paris because the maître d’ hÔtel was a paid informant, as was the chief of the maid staff.