by Martin Suter
By 10:00 a.m. Swiss time the confirmation from Sokolov had already come: “Copied and deleted.”
A minute later the confirmation from La Route: “deleted.”
A few days later Sokolov wrote to La Route: “X highly interested! Negotiate?”
La Route replied, “Negotiate.”
Then came five more emails on the subject. The first announced a bank transfer—“your share of the advance payment”—to the tune of two hundred thousand dollars, and the request for bank details.
An email including Sokolov’s bank details was sent an hour later.
It was then three weeks till there was another message, with the subject line “vivid p.” It was from Sokolov to La Route and went, “Hi Paul, next time you visit you can stay with me—check the photo. Regards, Artyom.” Attached was a photo of a detached house, which Carlos recognized as the villa on Spätbergstrasse.
But then, a few days later, there was a message in Sokolov’s inbox flagged extremely urgent. Headed “Troubles!!!” it read, “Make backup copy, hide in very safe place—tell me where. Wipe everything that might connect us! Everything!”
Sokolov’s answer was dated the same day. It consisted of a single word: “Grotto.”
Carlos did searches for the term “vivid p,” for messages to and from “Paul,” repeated the procedure with “La Route,” searched the contents of all the emails in all the folders for the most important words used in these thirteen mails—nothing. No further clue about the pink diamond.
Piano chords were still drifting up. Carlos shut the laptop, put it under his arm, and descended the narrow, steep steps.
49
Allmen’s thoughts would also have been revolving around the conundrum of the pink diamond, if he hadn’t distracted himself with the nocturne. Not every kind of piano playing worked as a distraction. If he just bashed out something from his repertoire his thoughts soon wandered from the music and, before he knew it, ended up back in the place he’d tried to lure them from. But when he played from sheet music he needed all his brainpower. This didn’t do much for his playing, but it was the most effective thing apart from reading for escaping reality.
When Carlos dragged him back to the latter with his “Con permiso,” Allmen started.
“Disculpe,” Carlos said. “I could hear you were still awake.”
“What did you want?”
“It’s about the pink diamond.”
Allmen spread the cover over the piano keys, closed the lid, and got up.
Carlos showed him the newspaper article. Allmen offered him a seat on the art deco suite, sat down himself, and read the piece.
“And now you think our little flash thing was this program?”
“I don’t think; I know.” Carlos flipped the laptop open and placed it on the coffee table. He opened the first mail. “Fíjese, Don John! Can you imagine it! The message is from Paul La Route to Artyom Sokolov.”
“No me diga!” Allmen exclaimed, and started to read.
By the second email, it was clear to Allmen that Sokolov was La Route’s accomplice.
“Vivid P,” Allmen said. “You know what that means? Vivid pink—the technical term for a pink diamond!”
At the third email, a message appeared on the screen asking them to plug the computer into the outlet; the battery was almost empty.
“Look,” Allmen said, pointing to the screen.
“I don’t have a power cord.”
“Why not?”
“Because—with all due respect, Don John—you didn’t steal it. I’ve ordered one. It will probably arrive tomorrow.”
Allmen vaguely remembered seeing a cable in the chaos of Sokolov’s room. He read on.
“Mission completed. Program copied and wiped,” was his comment on the fifth email.
At the seventh he looked at Carlos, who nodded. “Fíjese! La Route sold it to Hedge&Win while Sokolov negotiated with other interested parties!”
Then he was silent till the ninth. “Two hundred thousand dollars advance! What was the total? It must have been a lot! He said he was practicing being wealthy until the wealth arrived.”
The photograph in the eleventh mail caused Allmen to comment, “Isn’t it hideous, that villa in Spätbergstrasse?”
Carlos said nothing. Villas in that district were so far out of his realm, he had no opinion on their aesthetics. But he responded to Allmen’s next comment, on the twelfth email headed “Troubles!!!” in which La Route instructed Sokolov to make a backup copy and wipe all traces of contact between them.
“He must have suspected they were onto him,” Allmen surmised.
Carlos had done the research. “Two days later he was arrested at the airport in Boston.”
Allmen leant back and thought for a moment. “So a backup copy exists.”
Carlos made a vague gesture.
“What makes you think otherwise?”
“I don’t think he was very reliable. The email correspondence with Señor La Route, Don John—he didn’t actually delete it.”
“True. Sokolov was slovenly. You should have seen his room.”
They both fell silent.
Then suddenly they realized. “The Brits,” Allmen said. “The Brits were working for Hedge&Win.”
“Because Señor La Route, to whom they’d already paid a lot of money, had been arrested before he could hand over the software,” Carlos continued.
“They were tracking Sokolov, and knew he had a copy of the software he was planning to sell to third parties through his connections in the IT business.”
“That means, Don John, that Montgomery was working for Hedge&Win. He set those two onto you.”
“But there’s still the question of why he hired Allmen International. Why didn’t he set his people straight onto Sokolov?”
“It’s easier to carry out investigations in Switzerland if you’re Swiss yourself, Don John.”
Allmen could see that, but one last question bothered him. “Why Allmen International in particular?”
Carlos smiled. “The website, Don John, the website.”
The screen went dark.
“And now what?” Allmen cried out.
“The battery is dead. But there was only one more message. Very short.”
“What did it say?”
“Grotto.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Cueva, cave.”
“I understand the word. But what does it mean?”
50
Half past four was early for the Golden Bar. Only three or four tables were occupied. Two men having a discreet business meeting, two ladies enjoying an early aperitif, a young man with a wireless headphone in one ear who seemed to be talking to himself. And Allmen, with Roland Kerbel.
Kerbel was an old friend from the days of Allmen’s legendary parties at Villa Schwarzacker. They had never lost touch, although Kerbel was a banker and knew about Allmen’s financial situation. He accepted that he wanted to maintain the façade and played along.
Allmen had invited him to this early aperitif because he had “a few questions about the stock market.”
“Since when are you interested in the stock market?” Kerbel asked incredulously.
“I’ve recently acquired a few investments,” Allmen replied casually, “and I don’t want to sound completely clueless when I talk to my financial advisor.”
The banker, fond of the sound of his own voice, gave Allmen an exhaustive explanation of stock trading, then drained his glass. They were both drinking Campari soda, the drink of choice for an early aperitif.
“One last question. What is high-frequency trading?”
“Not relevant in your case. It’s something a few banks and hedge funds do.”
“And how does it work?”
Kerbel gave the barman a sign to bring two more drinks, and took a deep breath.
“The stock exchanges allow players who use high-frequency trading to get a glance at purchase orders with price ce
ilings before any other market players get to see them. Say Allmen International was listed on the stock exchange, the shares cost ten dollars, and a buyer puts in an order for a hundred thousand at a limit of ten dollars and ten cents …”
Allmen smiled at the example used.
“The computer buys a hundred thousand Allmen International shares at the market price of ten dollars, driving the buyer up close to his ten-dollar-ten-cent limit. The computer sells him the order for this inflated price and makes a-hundred-thousand-times-ten-cents profit: ten thousand dollars. In absolutely no time.”
“How much time exactly?”
“In no time, really.”
The barman brought the fresh Camparis and cleared the empty glasses away.
Kerbel took a sip. “Roughly thirty milliseconds.”
“The whole process you just described? It takes thirty thousandths of a second?”
“And it’s still too long as far as the banks and hedge funds are concerned. They’re working away frantically to halve the time, quarter it. They’re putting faster and faster, more expensive computers closer and closer to the stock exchange computers to avoid losing more time than necessary to the network. No effort is too much for them in this billion-dollar business.”
The darkened gold surfaces throughout the interior reflected the dimmed spotlights, submerging the bar in the constant midnight glow that so flattered its over-forty crowd.
“Billions,” Kerbel repeated. “But although this high-frequency trading business is lucrative, it’s also highly dangerous. A program like that could get out of control and cause a financial crash. To this day, no one knows what triggered the last flash crash. Some people suspect it was HFT software. The consequences of it landing in the wrong hands don’t bear thinking about!”
Kerbel gave his dire warning time to sink in. “Have you heard about the man who was arrested in the States with HFT software in his luggage?”
“Tell me.” Allmen took a sip.
“A former employee of Brookfield Klein. The bank is one of the major high-frequency specialists. And the software is a new product the suspect had helped develop himself. That can only mean one thing: it’s faster than their competitors’ software. That kind of thing induces greed.”
“But who can actually use programs like that?”
“The competitors. There’s a limited number. Out of the twenty thousand or so firms involved in Nasdaq, only about two hundred engage in high-frequency trading. But they account for over seventy percent of the shares trading. That narrows the field of suspects. In this case all eyes are on Hedge&Win. A major player. And by no means squeamish either.”
The first after-work guests entered the bar, three young men and a young woman, in business attire. They were talking loudly about their bosses, and lowered their voices slightly when they saw how quiet it was in the bar.
“The temptation facing a programmer specializing in high-frequency trading software is huge,” Kerbel continued. “They offer him fifty million and he caves.”
That evening Allmen waited impatiently for Carlos. He kept looking out, seeing him from a distance hoeing beds, raking grass, watering pots. He hoped he could catch him when he took his wheelbarrow full of garden waste to the compost.
When Carlos finally returned to the gardener’s cottage, Allmen waylaid him in the hall and led him straight to the library, just as he was, in overalls and boots. There he described his conversation with Kerbel, the phenomenon of high-frequency trading and the legendary value of the software.
“More than the real diamond, Carlos. Fíjese!”
The greenhouse was shaded entirely by the tall trees, just one square of sunlight on the grass at the front, where the hedge began, which demarcated the property from the street. On the top branch of a cedar a blackbird had already begun its evening song.
“And the best thing, Carlos …”
“Sí, Don John?”
“I think I know where we should look.”
51
Immolux had its offices on the first floor of a town house in the historic center, with a view of the river as it met the lake.
The night before, Allmen had looked for Assistant Vice President Esteban Schuler’s business card and finally found it in the breast pocket of the suit he’d been wearing that day. He got up well before Carlos started work and asked him to book an early appointment with Schuler. The earliest available was 3:30 p.m. An assistant vice president’s schedule can fill up terribly quickly.
And Schuler kept him waiting, too. His personal assistant offered Allmen a coffee, which he declined. Nor did he wish for a newspaper. Allmen did not believe in salving the consciences of people who kept him waiting by reading or drinking coffee. Anyone who kept Allmen waiting should see him waiting.
After barely four minutes, Schuler burst in, like a chief surgeon called for a home visit. “Do excuse me for the delay.”
Allmen ignored Schuler’s request to be excused and launched into his speech unceremoniously. “As mentioned earlier on the telephone, Herr Schuler, I cannot get the villa in Spätbergstrasse out of my head.”
“I can completely understand that. It’s one of our finest properties. But as I said, we have been unable to contact the tenant, the contract runs till the end of the year, and the rent has been paid until then. All I can do is place you at the top of the list of interested parties. But if the tenant decides to extend the contract he does of course take precedent.”
Allmen had been nodding as he listened to the explanation. “I propose the following: I’ll raise the rent from—what was it? Seventeen plus service charges?”
“Sixteen,” Schuler corrected him.
“From sixteen—whatever—to nineteen. We can draw up a contract for ten years, with the option on a further ten. In close consultation with the Immolux architects, I will carry out the necessary improvements—at a rough guess I’d be investing at least a million over the ten-year period. In return, you give the current tenant notice to quit. There are more than enough reasons—neglect, vacancy … And before the end of the week we sign a preliminary agreement outlining these conditions.”
Schuler made a face as if he had offers like this every week. “I can certainly get straight in contact with the joint heirs who own the property. When do you need an answer by?”
“Before you do that, I have just one request.”
“What’s that?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
When Allmen saw Schuler hadn’t understood, he added, “In the house. Alone. Can you understand that? I respond to moods, atmospheres, vibrations—call it what you will. Even in the most beautiful places, I can’t hold out more than an hour if the atmosphere is wrong. Allow me twenty-four hours at 19 Spätbergstrasse and if the atmosphere is right, we’ll nail the deal.”
Schuler answered in a flash. “That’s not possible. Suppose the tenant returned and met you in his house?”
Allmen looked at him defiantly. “Ten thousand francs for your trouble—cash in hand—if he comes back.”
Schuler pretended he was still deliberating. “Twenty-four hours? Just yourself?”
“Just myself. And my butler of course.” Allmen smiled apologetically. “You know how it is. One feels stranded without him.”
52
The house smelled stuffy and damp. The furniture in the hall, still in boxes, gave off a smell of cardboard, wood, and warehouses.
Dust had gathered in the corners of the room. Spiderwebs hung from the heaters and window frames. Dead flies lay on the windowsills. And the evening sun, occasionally breaking through the storm clouds, lit the whitish film coating the windowpanes.
In the large salon, the sofa still stood like a look-out bench in front of the window. Allmen shuddered at the thought that the man who had once sat there was now dead.
There was a sense of death throughout the house. Not just to Allmen, who had known its inhabitant. Also to Carlos.
“Huele la muerte,” he said. It smells of de
ath.
Allmen walked straight to the veranda door and unlocked it. As he opened it, a gust of wind blew it almost out of his hand.
The lawn had become a meadow, the grass knee-high. The water in the swimming pool was cloudy. Insects played on its surface. Leaves were rotting on the bottom.
The wind soon rose to a storm, driving dark clouds in from the lake.
In the grotto there was some shelter from the wind.
Moss had spread over the concrete bench that ran along the wall and was creeping along the gaps between the flowery tiles on the ground. The mortar that formed the lumps, dips, and niches of the interior walls was crumbling in several places, leaving dark patches in the once-bright rendering.
The smell of mildew gave the artificiality a more natural feel.
The barbeque was built into a niche beneath the flue. Under it was an unused gas canister, still sealed. The connection tube lay alongside it. The grill was covered by a chrome hood. Allmen lifted it. It folded backward, creaking. An animal ran for cover under the gas burners. Whether a mouse or a lizard, Allmen couldn’t be sure.
He opened the fridge, set into the wall close to the barbeque. It must have been switched off, with the door shut, for a long time. He was hit by the stink. Allmen held his nose and looked inside. It was empty aside from a half-full bottle of beer, its label illegible under a layer of mold. He shut the door.
Decorations had been attached to the walls at various points, ornaments made of shells that looked like a child’s vacation spoils. In some places they were arranged into sorry garlands and hearts, some formed the frames for sayings or pictures; a few were still intact, painted straight onto the plaster and depicting grapes, oranges, fish, seafood, and Chianti bottles. But mostly they were photographs made unrecognizable by the light and humidity. The shadows of portraits, group photos, and snapshots could just be made out.
They began searching systematically. The gas barbeque was the most complicated. They had to take it apart completely. It was full of cavities, indentations, and hidden recesses. Added to that, the stormy weather meant dusk was beginning early and they were forced to work in dwindling light.