скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Of course.’ Valdoni motioned to the maid who knelt before Eberhardt and removed both his shoes and socks. ‘I will have them ready by the time you leave,’ she beamed.
‘Is everything arranged?’
‘As soon as you telephoned. We have someone quite special for you tonight …’
‘Not Genevieve?’ He felt a pang of disappointment.
‘She is away. Her mother is sick. But you will not be disappointed.’
When the maid returned with a glass of chilled white wine, Eberhardt, barefoot, followed Valdoni up the sweeping staircase. At the top she took the can of film he handed her and led him down a hallway to a thickly carpeted dressing room complete with day bed and wardrobe. A door led to an adjacent room.
A young Oriental girl stood there. She was perhaps sixteen years old and so incredibly lovely that Eberhardt was astonished. She was wearing black panties and a black brassiere. She too was barefoot.
‘Jasmine,’ the older woman said, handing her the can of film, ‘this is Dr Weber, one of our special friends. I am relying on you to take care of him.’
The girl nodded. ‘My honour, sir.’ She bowed and retreated into the other room.
Valdoni smiled. ‘Enjoy yourself, dear doctor.’ She went out closing the door.
Eberhardt undressed completely, hanging his clothes in the wardrobe, and stepped into the next room, which was in semi-darkness. Uncarpeted, it contained nothing but a wooden chair with a bell push on one arm, a screen some six feet square, and a film projector on a table at the opposite end.
Eberhardt sat in the chair facing the screen. A moment later Jasmine came in. She was naked now, her body and hands slightly oiled. She was carrying two glasses, one filled with hot water, the other with ice cubes. She put these beside the cushion at the foot of the chair. Reaching for a packet beside the projector she took out a crumpled cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply before passing it to Eberhardt. She watched as he drew the smoke deep into his lungs. He passed the joint back to the girl, who again inhaled. Soon the small room was pungent with the smell of marijuana. Eberhardt began to relax. He stubbed the joint out on the wooden floor.
‘Ready,’ he said.
The girl knelt before him, her tongue flicking across her lips. She took a swallow of hot water and enveloped him with her mouth. His erection swelled. She curled her tongue expertly, making him groan.
Soon she stopped and slipped two ice cubes into her mouth. When she again enveloped him his erection began to subside. He moaned, looking down at her. But with the second mouthful of hot water his erection swelled even more. Three times the girl repeated the process, fingers teasing, tongue flickering, writhing, twisting, hair swaying, each time driving Eberhardt nearer to climax. Finally he pressed the bell push and a beam of light stabbed the gloom. The film began unrolling. Clasping the girl’s head in his hands, pulling her further to him, Eberhardt leaned forward, his eyes fixed upon the screen, reading every word of the German subtitles although he knew them by heart.
The print, old now and scratched in places, never failed to excite him. It was one of many made by the Nazis. The film, much prized, had been given to him by a German friend. ‘Something to warm you on those cold Geneva nights,’ he had joked.
The film depicted a chilling scene. There were four people in a small, cell-like room. One of them, a young dark-haired man, his face and torso bloodied, was in a chair, his hands tied behind him. Two other men, both in black SS uniforms, were taking turns beating him with truncheons.
On a single bed in the background lay a young woman, naked, her hands also tied. She was screaming. When the beating finished the SS men turned the young man’s chair around so that it faced the bed. Removing his tunic and boots one of the SS men dropped his breeches and approached the woman on the bed.
While the Nazi forced himself into her, the young man, struggling violently, tried to look away. He could not. The other captor held his head tightly, forcing him to watch.
Hypnotized by what he was seeing, his pulse throbbing, his breath laboured, the blood pounding in his ears, Eberhardt suddenly groaned and came with such force that he almost slid from the chair. After a moment the girl rose and tiptoed from the room.
When Eberhardt looked at the screen again the other man was on the woman. The prisoner in the chair now sat without moving, apparently in shock. As the SS man climaxed, his body shuddering, the woman beneath him spat in his face. Rearing back, the man struck her savagely causing blood to gush from her nose. He continued striking her.
When his companion finally rose from the moaning woman, the first SS man, dressed now, took out his revolver and fired once into the head of each victim.
Transfixed, Eberhardt watched until the film ran off the spool. He rose shakily. Taking the film he went next door to dress. His shoes and socks, now dry, awaited him. Before leaving he placed an envelope on the day bed.
In an upstairs room Jasmine watched as he accelerated away down the drive. She turned to her employer. ‘That film.’ She shuddered. ‘He’s sick, that man.’
‘You saw it?’
‘Genevieve told me.’
‘He’s a good customer,’ the older woman said.
They stood together watching the lights of the Renault as it reached the end of the drive and turned down the private road.
Madame Valdoni shook her head. ‘And he still thinks we don’t know who he is.’
She laughed softly.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_25db991f-a231-5797-8d46-ef9e10d78157)
Eberhardt arrived early at his office the next morning. He had slept well, relaxed after his visit to Madame Valdoni’s. But he was apprehensive about the meeting he had arranged with his partner, Georges di Marco. Confrontations of any kind were not to his liking.
Sipping the first of the many morning coffees his secretary, Marte, brought him, he let his eyes wander down to the street below.
Even the most chauvinistic citizens of Geneva agreed that the rue de Hesse was an unremarkable thoroughfare. But Eberhardt had loved it ever since he first stood on the corner by the Café des Banques trying to decide whether to move his bank there from its original location in the rue du Rhône. It was that or the rue de la Corraterie, supposedly the most respectable financial address in Geneva. In the end he had opted for the rue de Hesse – already the home of the Banque Privée de Edmond Rothschild – and he had never regretted it. There his bank had grown and prospered to the point where it was now a major player in the world’s money markets. And he, at the age of seventy-seven, was one of the most respected bankers in Europe.
Many foreigners, Eberhardt knew, thought of Switzerland as a land of watches, chocolates and cuckoo clocks. But what made Switzerland work, what gave it its independence and its prestige, were the banks. There were the three great commercial banks, Credit Suisse, Union Bank and the Swiss Bank Corporation. And there were the private banks – Lombard Odier, Pictet, Rothschild, Darier, Hentsch and Eberhardt.
The private bankers of Geneva thought of themselves as an élite group. They belonged to the Groupement, the association of Geneva private bankers, the most exclusive sector in the Swiss financial system. And they had something else in common. They were all, without exception, paranoid about secrecy, fearing rightly that its abolition would lead to a wholesale withdrawal of the trillions in marks, dollars, pounds, lire and yen invested with them. Secrecy, in fact, was the law. Clause 47(b) of the 1934 Banking Act set out stiff penalties – fines and a jail sentence – for any bank director or employee who gave away secrets.
Foreign bankers liked to point out that Swiss bankers had a poor record in forecasting movements in the stock markets. The Swiss argued back that with them the emphasis was on security rather than spectacular performance in portfolio management. And bankers like Eberhardt were quick to reiterate how much more prudent they were than American bankers, who, in his words, ‘seemed intent on throwing away clients’ money’.
But Swiss bankers could no longer afford to be smug. A billion-dollar money laundering racket had resulted in the resignation of Switzerland’s Justice Minister. And the scandal at Credit Suisse, which had written off $700 million after fraud at its branch in Chiasso, had thrown doubt on Switzerland’s reputation for prudence. Then came the jail sentence handed out to Robert Leclerc, whose private bank collapsed. No one was particularly surprised at the judge’s decision; malpractice by a partner in a private bank rated just below murder in the eyes of the Swiss authorities. Eberhardt had no concerns about his own establishment, which was the third most prestigious private bank in Switzerland. His worry was the shadow that lay over the life he had built for himself in Geneva. And the fact that the man on his way up to see him knew what it was.
Georges di Marco had joined the Banque Eberhardt just before the Second World War, leaving the prestigious firm of M. M. Warburg and Co. And he had stayed with the bank as its fortunes rose, despite attractive offers to go elsewhere. He was a good banker with the right attributes: boldness, instinct, judgement and knowledge. And because Swiss law required at least two partners to head a private bank, Eberhardt had eventually elevated him to full partner.
Now this.
When di Marco walked in, Eberhardt rose to greet him. He was a small man with a long mournful face and wispy white hair. Eberhardt had often thought he looked more like an undertaker than a banker.
‘You know why I am here, Paul …’ Di Marco took a chair on the other side of the desk.
‘A friendly talk, I trust.’ Eberhardt forced a smile.
‘Paul, I am due to retire soon. I have been with the bank a long time – almost as long as you. I have served it well –’
‘You have served it brilliantly.’
‘I cannot leave without a clear conscience.’
Eberhardt mustered another bleak smile. ‘Georges, we have been through this so often …’
‘And I have always given in to your wishes.’
‘Come now, Georges.’ Confronted by the frail little man, Eberhardt felt some of his confidence returning. ‘It’s not a question of giving in. We are friends; partners. I respect your position. You know that. But we’re talking about something that happened years ago. It’s dead; forgotten. What you are suggesting would ruin the bank.’
‘We would survive.’
‘Survive?’ Eberhardt said heavily. ‘Georges, I have not come this far merely to survive.’ He picked up his gold pen from the desk and toyed with it. ‘Next year I will chair the International Bankers’ Conference in Vienna. I have a reputation to protect.’ He leaned forward. ‘Dine with me tonight. We will go to the Lion d’Or. Talk it over. Like old times …’
‘I’m sorry, Paul.’ The little man looked at his hands. ‘I have made my decision. I am going to talk to the authorities.’
Eberhardt tried to ignore the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. A frisson of anxiety made the side of his mouth twitch.
‘Georges, please, what kind of talk is that among friends?’ He paused. ‘What you need is a break. Take a few weeks off. Somewhere warm.’ He tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. ‘Friends of mine have a house in Puerto Vallarta. I could call them. You’d like Mexico.’
‘You don’t understand,’ di Marco said. ‘What I’m looking for is peace of mind.’
‘But what you’re suggesting would make everything worse. It would destroy the bank’s reputation …’
‘It would enable me to sleep,’ di Marco said quietly. He looked straight at Eberhardt. ‘You made a decision forty years ago to say nothing to the Government when enquiries began. I begged you then to speak up. You refused. Out of loyalty I have kept quiet all this time.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Eberhardt said. ‘Even so –’
‘We are partners,’ the old man said. ‘I have some say.’
‘My dear Georges,’ Eberhardt leaned forward, ‘of course you do. But you must think of the consequences.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘When I started this bank there were 150 private banks in Switzerland. How many are there today? Twenty. Look at the clients we have – Robert Brand, Marie de Boissy, Francine Rochas, Max Schröder. World-famous names. We have survived because we are a fine bank, widely respected. Much of that respect was earned by your good work. You are a great banker, Georges. How can you think of throwing it all away now?’
‘I won’t change my mind, Paul.’ Di Marco got to his feet and began to walk towards the door.
‘I ask you again to consider the consequences,’ Eberhardt tried as a last shot. ‘Our reputations –’
‘Our consciences would be clear,’ di Marco said. He opened the door and went out.
Watching him go, Eberhardt knew he had lost. He had hoped to prolong the meeting, to reason with di Marco, make him see how foolish it would be to throw away the work of a lifetime. But the old man had already made up his mind. Like the good Catholic he was, he was going to confess his sins – but not to a priest. In doing so he would ruin the reputation Eberhardt had built up over fifty years. He rose wearily and crossed to the window, staring again at the street below. Raindrops were bouncing off the roofs of the cars parked on either side. He stood there for a long time.
Eventually, Eberhardt buzzed his secretary.
‘I’m leaving in a moment, Marte. Have the garage bring round my car.’
‘Immediately, Monsieur Eberhardt.’
He sat down in his chair again. He had been through this all before with André Leber, one of his account officers who, through diligence and hard work, had graduated to the bank’s executive committee before retiring. Leber had been after money, of course. And Eberhardt had been unwise enough to pay him. Ten thousand francs a month for five years. Just thinking about it upset him. It would have gone on and on had he not finally mustered enough courage to end it.
Now he would have to do the same thing with Georges di Marco. Crossing the room he opened his private safe and removed a black address book. Tucked inside was a slip of paper with a name on it. Eberhardt looked at it for a moment before putting it in his jacket pocket and closing the safe.
He would call the man from home, he decided. He prayed he was still available.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_c646cde9-6aa9-5055-9a9d-e53ce304ae01)
At the same time that Paul Eberhardt was heading for home, Robert Brand’s Gulfstream IV was landing in the rain at Paris’s Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Staring out of the window at the glistening runway Brand had begun to feel better. That morning, getting out of bed in Geneva, an attack of dizziness had made him sway on his feet. Alarmed, he had waited until noon and called his doctor in New York.
‘Look,’ Rex Kiernan said, ‘it’s probably nothing serious. Maybe you got up too quickly. How’s your hearing?’
‘Fine. Why?’
‘Could be an inner ear problem. Want me to recommend someone over there?’
‘I haven’t the time. Anyway, I’ll be home soon.’
‘You should slow down,’ Kiernan said. ‘I keep telling you that. What is it – a year since your attack? All that trauma? Takes time. At our age the body heals more slowly …’
In Robert Brand’s opinion he had slowed down since his heart attack. At that time Kiernan had advised complete rest.
‘This is your life we’re talking about,’ he said. ‘You’re sixty-three years old. You’ve been through a terrible experience. Why don’t you use that damn great yacht of yours and take a long cruise, do nothing for a few months?’
Brand had agreed that he would. But the month-long cruise of the Mediterranean with a couple of business friends had only served to increase his sense of loss.
Trapped in a sterile and unhappy relationship for many years, Robert Brand, a handsome, energetic man, had almost abandoned hope of ever enjoying a romantic and emotional relationship with a woman. Instead he had allowed himself a succession of brief affairs, most of them unsatisfactory. Then one evening, in the bar of the Athenaeum Hotel in London, he had been introduced to Jane Summerwood.
The attraction had been immediate. She had left with friends that evening, but he had managed to track her down. And, in the ensuing weeks, they had fallen in love.
Within three months he had made up his mind. He would ask his wife for a divorce – regardless of the consequences – and marry Jane, a decision hastened by the discovery that she was pregnant. He could still remember her face, flushed with happiness, when he took her down Bond Street to buy the engagement ring.
He had told only one person of his plan, his friend Bobby Koenig. Koenig had encouraged him. ‘Go for it,’ he said. ‘You have one life. Don’t waste it.’
A month later Jane was found dead in a London park. The police, with no clues, had put it down to another senseless random murder.
And within weeks Brand, almost immobilized with grief, suffered a heart attack. At first he was forced to rest, but then, ignoring Rex Kiernan’s warnings, he had plunged back into work. And, until that morning in Geneva, felt reasonably fit.
According to the latest Fortune magazine, he was now the sixth richest man in America. A workaholic, he spent most of his time on the top floor of the thirty-storey black glass building on Madison Avenue where the Brand Corporation was based. There, he put in a fourteen-hour day, overseeing a business empire with interests in oil, shipping, hotels, food processing and drugs.
‘The Man Who Has Everything’, Business Week dubbed him in a piece that was laudatory but glaringly short of facts, for Brand never gave interviews and provided no biography for inquisitive journalists. Even the accompanying photograph was an old one.
Brand knew that success usually came either through an accident of birth or the sheer power of will. But in his case it was both. At twenty-two, with $50 million inherited from his father, he had tasted the heady fruits of power and found them to his liking.
Calculating risks to the nth degree he flew in and out of the world’s capitals making deals and increasing his fortune. He took gambles that even the biggest banks balked at. With the Pacific Rim booming, he waited until Indonesia’s currency became convertible and then invested heavily, knowing the country was rich in natural resources. Within two years his investment had tripled. He then moved into the Finnish market, which was underpriced, and doubled his money within a year. Then, anticipating the dollar’s fall, he invested heavily in other currencies.
Since Jane’s death, however, he found himself deriving less and less satisfaction from the mere making of money. He wanted someone, or something, to change his life, to set him on a new course.
Speeding down the neon-lit autoroute into Paris he lay back against the chill leather of the limousine and closed his eyes. He realized he had never felt so lonely in his life.
Georges di Marco awoke suddenly. He glanced at the clock by his bedside. It was 2.30 a.m. He had been asleep less than two hours. Touching his forehead he realized it was damp with perspiration. The dream. It was always the same. Ghosts from the past, jeering, pointing fingers. And money, stacks of it, scattering in the wind as he tried to count it. He sat up, switching on the bedside light. I’m an old man, he thought; I should be sleeping soundly. My conscience should be clear. Instead I awake in dread.
For a moment, as a spasm of nausea assailed him, he feared he might be sick, and reached for a handkerchief. What’s the matter with me? he thought, on the edge of panic. Why is this happening? He took a drink of water from the glass on his bedside table.
I must tell someone, he decided. That man with the Federal Banking Commission – Albert-Jean Cristiani – I will call him. Take him to dinner. Ask his advice. Produce the diary, perhaps. He will know what I should do. He will realize I am an honourable man.
He bunched the pillows beneath his head. Switching off the light he closed his eyes, hoping for sleep.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_4101203c-8c39-5162-a9ca-96c200282a76)
Julia Lang had thought herself prepared for the encounter, for the time when she would have to face him again, but now that the moment had arrived, now that he was standing there in the lobby of London’s Burlington Hotel talking to one of the guests, she was swept by a feeling of such revulsion that for a moment she feared she might be physically sick.
It had been-sixteen years since their last meeting and seeing him again it seemed to her that he had not changed at all. The same aristocratic stance, hands behind his back; the same black hair brushed straight back; the same rimless spectacles. And the same dark grey suiting with a light blue tie.
