Retribution

by Nicholas Gill

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

  San Francisco, October 2nd.

  Mike Edge looked blankly at Aaron Bloom.

  ‘I don’t know what’s in the envelope,’ Aaron Bloom explained, ‘and it’s a requirement that I’m not present when you open it. As I have to visit a partner on another matter, please feel free to use this office.’

  Mike barely managed to thank Aaron Bloom as he got up to leave; Mike was in a state of shock. He took Anna’s hand. ‘I had no idea, no idea at all how successful Alan had been.’

  ‘He was a clever man, he was a workaholic and he had a lot of luck early on in his business career,’ Anna told him. ‘After that the timing was right, and the business just grew and grew.’

  ‘Yeah, then his luck ran out,’ Mike said bitterly.

  Anna looked at the papers that told the story of Alan’s wealth. ‘I feel that all this is still his.’

  Mike nodded without speaking. For someone to have achieved so much, and then to have been so casually killed, for what was, in effect, a publicity stunt, was a bitter thing to contemplate. ‘We can’t give it back to him, but I’d spend all of it to get those responsible for his death.’

  Anna turned to him, a new look in her eyes. ‘That would be fitting. With that amount of money, your contacts, my business connections, anything is possible. And we do owe him.’

  Mike sat staring at the manila envelope for several moments, and then taking a paper knife from the desk he opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper and a small brown envelope. The sheet of paper was a letter of introduction, written in Alan’s own hand and on his personal headed paper, to a Swiss bank. It introduced Mike as Alan’s brother and heir, and stated that on production of this letter, together with a death certificate, the bank should give into his possession assets currently held by them on Alan’s behalf. On the bottom of the page, below Alan’s signature, were two signatures over official stamped marks of the bank. One signature was against the title Directeur, and the other against the title Sous Directeur. The stamp was the stamp of Piat et Cie, Geneva.

  Mike handed the letter to Anna and opened the second envelope. It contained a single unusual looking key.

  Anna read the letter with a puzzled frown. ‘Well, Mr. Bloom doesn’t want to know about it, you can’t really ask anyone else about it, the only thing to do is to go and find out for yourself.’

  ‘For ourselves, we’re going to Switzerland.’

  New York, October 2nd.

  The chauffeur dropped Jim at the hotel to collect his bags and, in a hurry to investigate the contents of his own brown envelope, drove off. Before he did anything else Jim went up to his room, dialed the number, and got through to Dawn’s hotel. He gave the room number and asked to speak to Miss Saint Pierre.

  Dawn’s voice came on the line, ‘Jim, oh, at last. I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to ring. I couldn’t get hold of you. I’ve tried several times, where are you?’ Dawn’s voice was a mixture of happiness and relief.

  ‘I’m in New York; just finished my first assignment, it was a doddle. Got a pat on the back, brownie points and a thumping great bonus to boot; ain’t life grand?’

  ‘Not at this end it’s not,’ Dawn told him. ‘The studio has given my part to some unknown starlet - probably for sleeping with the producer - and my agent over here has managed to screw up the record contract too.’

  ‘Oh sweetheart, that is bad news, can’t anything be done to put things right?’

  ‘I don’t think so, there may be an outside chance on the record deal in a couple of week’s time, but the movie’s definitely blown. I’m thoroughly pissed off. I should stay on over here for a while just in case the record thing can be salvaged, although I’m damned if I want to.’

  ‘Sounds to me as though you need a break, how about if I come over to California and join you? We could have a weekend together at least?’

  ‘Oh Jim, yes please, could you? Could you really? That would be marvelous. We could have a week’s break here, it’s a gorgeous part of the world, we could have a lovely time, and the work can go to hell.’

  ‘I’ll be on the first available flight; when I’ve checked in at Kennedy I’ll call and let you know my arrival time.’

  ‘Wonderful, oh you gorgeous man, I’ll meet you at the airport,’ Dawn’s voice became low and husky, ‘and I’ll be ready for you.’

  Dawn could turn Jim on at several thousand miles distance.

  Geneva, October 2nd.

  Mike and Anna took a taxi from Cointrin Airport and came into Geneva via the Route de Mayrin. The cabby took them down the Rue de la Servette, then along Boulevard James Fazy and crossed the Rhone on its exit from Lac Leman by the Pont Coulouvreniere. A short run through some side streets brought them to the Rue du Rhone and the doors of Piat et Cie in the old part of the town. It was a deceptively modest building, a building that did not match its long established reputation.

  Mike and Anna were directed by a navy blue uniformed security guard through to the entrance foyer where they gave their appointment details to the receptionist. She was expecting them, and opened the armored sliding glass doors to an inner part of the foyer where there was a waiting area. Two more security guards in navy blue uniforms were at a second desk discreetly placed in an alcove. They didn’t intrude, nor did they miss much.

  After a few moments a man, with an unmistakable air of authority; immaculately dressed in a well-cut grey pinstriped suit, came down two steps from an inner corridor to meet them. He introduced himself as Eric Schiller, Sous Directeur. His English was faultless, his manners impeccable. He shook their hands and with great courtesy invited them to follow him to a meeting room saying that Director Berques would join them there shortly. They waited, chatting politely about their journey and first impressions of Geneva. In that time Eric Schiller took four calls on the ’phone at the end of the room. He spoke successively in French, German, Italian and Spanish. He was fluent and able to think fast in each language. It was obvious that he was a very busy man.

  Then the door opened, and a tall spare man with a hooked Gallic nose and bright black eyes came into the room. He too was wearing a well-cut, pinstripe business suit, but in navy blue. Eric Schiller introduced him as Jean Berques, Directeur, and then invited them to move to the beautifully polished burr walnut conference table, where they sat in comfortable leather chairs. There was a firm knock at the door and a tray with coffee and decanters of water was brought in by one of the staff and placed on the centre of the table.

  When she had left, Monsieur Berques said simply, ‘Your brother was a very good client of our bank, Mr. Edge. We very much regret his untimely death.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mike replied, ‘as you will have realized, it is my brother’s death which has brought me here.’

  ‘Indeed, that is why both M’sieur Schiller and I have made ourselves available for this meeting.’

  Mike produced the manila envelope, which Mr. Bloom had given him. He took from it the letter and a copy of Alan’s death certificate and passed them across the table to Monsieur Berques.

  Istanbul, October 2nd.

  Now that Suleiman had asked her to marry him, Fatima Kemal was radiantly happy. She had spoken on the telephone to his father in New York, and had been invited over to meet the family, but regrettably Suleiman could not go with her. His finals at the Technikal Institute were the problem, but Suleiman’s father had sounded really nice, she mused, and he had said, ‘You must call me George. We are so excited at the news.’ He had seemed pleased to talk to her, and had promised her a warm welcome on her arrival.

  She held Suleiman’s hand tightly as they walked into the terminal. He was pulling her suitcase, the one he had promised to loan her. He stayed with her in the check-in queue and lifted her case onto the scales for weighing.

  ‘You mustn’t lift this in your condition’ he told her for the umpteenth time, ‘you must get a porter at the other end,’ then pecking her lightly on the cheek, ‘can you manage for a moment? I need
to pay an urgent visit to the lavatory.’

  She smiled and nodded. She had her ticket ready and passed it to the girl on the check-in desk who was asking if she preferred a smoking or non-smoking seat.

  ‘Non-smoking please,’ she said, and a moment later was given her boarding card.

  Fatima nodded and thanked her, and went in search of her beloved Suleiman. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Fatima moved over to a seat where she would have a good view of the check-in area and sat down to wait for him. He was gone a very long time. She tried to read her magazine, but was fearful of missing him. Where could he be? Was he all right? She began to worry seriously. For the hundredth time she looked at her watch, her flight would be called in a few more minutes. Just as she was thinking of having him paged she saw him come out of one of the toilets. He looked pale and strained. She rushed over to him, full of concern. Suleiman, oh my darling, are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes, well… er - not quite,’ he muttered.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got dreadful diarrhea; it must be something I ate.’

  ‘Oh, dear! I can’t leave you like this!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he snapped tensely; and then more softly, ‘I’ll be okay. I’ll call at the University Medical Centre on my way back.’

  Fatima was about to protest when the chimes sounded and her flight was announced. She hadn’t even got to the departure gate yet; she felt panic start to rise inside.

  ‘Come on, no time to waste. Have you got your passport ready?’

  ‘Yes, here with my boarding card.’

  ‘Good girl, quickly, give me a kiss. I’ll ring you this evening when you’re with my family.’ A last lingering kiss, and before she knew what was happening she was going through passport control. She was cleared through by the official checking passports, and turned to wave to Suleiman. He wasn’t there.

  Los Angeles, October 2nd.

  At the airport Dawn came hurtling through the slow moving passengers, causing heads to turn and clung to Jim with a hunger that was apparent to everyone. Jim shouldered his suit carrier and flight bag and, arm in arm; they left for Dawn’s hotel suite.

  ‘Boy oh boy, am I ready for you?’ Dawn whispered as they left the arrivals hall.

  Jim laughed. ‘You come right to the point, don’t you?’

  Dawn gave him a wicked smile in return. ‘Save your breath for when we get to the hotel.’

  ‘Yeah, well, there’s something I have to do when we get there.’

  ‘What, something more important than me?’ Dawn put on her famous sulky look.

  ‘Sweetheart, I have to ’phone the office and tell them where they can contact me.’

  ‘What! But you’re on leave, tell them to get stuffed.’

  ‘I can’t, it’s a condition of my employment with this firm. The work is not nine to five. I have to be available at any time.’

  ‘Rubbish, you don’t have to work for anybody on those terms, I earn enough....’

  ‘Dawn, I won’t be kept by you. If we are going to be together I am going to pay my way.

  ‘But...’

  ‘No buts. I intend to keep this job. It’s the best job I’ve ever had. I’m not going to blow it in the first few weeks, not even for you.’

  Jim had a truculent look. Dawn realized that if she continued she would cause a row. She gave way gracefully.

  ‘Well, I suppose they won’t call you unless it’s an emergency, so let’s not fight about it. My panties are in my handbag.’

  Geneva, October 2nd.

  Monsieur Berques took the proffered papers and scrutinized the letter very carefully. Without comment he passed it to Eric Schiller. He too looked very closely at it while Jean Berques read the death certificate. When he had finished he looked at Eric Schiller with an enquiring look. Eric Schiller nodded and Jean Berques nodded his assent too. Eric Schiller reached for the phone and spoke rapidly in French, the language of Vaud cantonment.

  A few moments later the same member of staff who had brought the coffee knocked and entered again, this time carrying another manila envelope. Jean Berques handed it to Mike. ‘Please open this now in our presence,’ he said.

  Mike did so. He extracted a substantial sheaf of documents. The first documents on the pile were tied with ribbon. Mike looked at Jean Berques, who came to his assistance.

  ‘It may be easier if I talk you through the contents; the first document is your brother’s offshore will, and it gives you clear title to all his assets outside the United States, all of which are controlled by this Bank. I recommend that you make an offshore will immediately yourself to protect your assets for posterity. Should anything happen to you without an offshore will in existence, your offshore assets would remain inaccessible in perpetuity - not a suitable state of affairs, as I’m sure you would agree?’

  Mike nodded his agreement.

  ‘The second document is a Power of Attorney giving us the power to act on your late brother’s behalf. It will be necessary for you to sign a new one, before a public notary, if you wish us to act for you as we have acted in the past for your brother. The third document gives details of your brother’s numbered account with us. It will be known only to you and to senior executives of this bank. The law on discretion is very strict in Switzerland. The fourth document is a registration of deposit box numbers. The fifth document lists investments and assets. Everything is up-to-date as of yesterday’s date, and all taxes due have been paid.’

  Mike put the offshore will and the Power of Attorney to one side. He looked at the statement of account. There were deposits held in US dollars, Swiss francs and English pounds. More than two million dollars, over two million Swiss Francs, and just over one million pounds Sterling.

  Mike passed it to Anna. He looked at the list of assets. It was mostly a list of holdings in offshore managed funds. All the funds were with big, well known international financial institutions, which had a very wide range of investments. The portfolio value stood at over one hundred million Swiss Francs.

  Eric Schiller spoke into the silence. ‘The management of these investments is my responsibility, I switch holdings within the investment companies “in house” funds according to the performance of their respective sectors. That way no units are sold and no bid-offer-spread percentages have to be paid. The investments have maximum flexibility and only a switching discount is payable.’

  All Eric Schiller had to do was monitor the performance of each sector, USA, Far East, Japan, UK equities, commodity and energy, property, bonds and so on. He would issue a switching instruction to a given fund manager in a given sector if that sector started to slow down. The units in that fund would be switched to a more buoyant sector that was picking up. The swings by sector were much less violent than swings in individual share-holdings, and therefore posed less risk.

  ‘What happens if the world’s stock markets go into a nose dive?’ Mike asked.

  ‘All the investment companies we use have a gold fund. If shares start to drop in a world recession, or even in a national recession, we switch into the in-house gold funds. Gold usually increases in value when equities go down.’

  Mike was impressed. ‘This arrangement is a credit to you, M’sieur Schiller, and the facility a credit to your bank.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jean Berques spoke again. ‘We have provision for an offshore will to be drawn up ready for your signature if you so wish it. Also a Power of Attorney is ready at the Notary’s office nearby. Both of these documents are independent legal documents and you may allocate them as you wish. We of course hope that you will keep your business with us, and give your Power of Attorney to us, as your brother did.’

  ‘I have no reason to change these excellent arrangements, and I am more than satisfied with your professional services,’ Mike said.

  Jean Berques inclined his head in thanks. ‘Very well, it only remains for you to inspect the deposit boxes. Would you care to do so
now?’

  ‘Yes, now would be very convenient.’

  Iceland, October 2nd.

  The Turkish Airlines 747 took off on its great circle flight northwards over Europe, curving out northwest and gaining altitude, to cross high over Iceland towards southern Greenland. In the hold the lead-acid time pencil detonator hidden in Fatima’s bag of cosmetic pencils went off. The detonator flashed into the primer hidden in a make-up pot, and that detonated the sheets of Semtex taped to the inside of the suitcase under the lining. A massive explosion ripped through the aircraft severing some of the controls to the tail-plane, and blowing a gaping hole through the fuselage.