I had her comms gear set out on the table ready to be put on, so we went over it quickly. For her it was a lot simpler than for the rest of us because she only had to memorize one code-word. ‘Cousin’, which, of course stood for Ted Dawson. That was also the only time she was to talk. The transceiver had only one small recessed switch in the side, for on/off. I grabbed my jacket and made sure we were both turned on. The battery was supposed to be able to last for almost a full day before dropping below a useful voltage level. One of those Lithium/Ion rechargeable numbers. We’d see. After getting her ‘wired’, she picked up a deep-blue nylon three-quarter length sport coat and we headed downstairs to breakfast with the gang. I carried my trusty trench-coat over one arm. It wasn’t particularly warm, as coats go, but it was light, and had the ability to survive almost any type of treatment I could dish out and still look the same as when I’d first put it on.
As the elevator was slowly descending to the ground floor, I heard a small voice in my ear. “Enterprise, this is Voyager, come in please, Over.” Therese gave me a strange look as I answered. “Voyager this is Enterprise, all crew accounted for, rendezvous in approximately two minutes, Over.” Therese smiled a bit, and the elevator gave a slight bump having arrived at the ground level. I held the door open for her and we walked across the lobby to the hallway leading to the dining room.
When we got there, Godsen and Westwood were easy to spot. Godsen was the only one using a cellular phone while she was eating. We took the two chairs set for us at the table, and immediately were handed breakfast menus by the waitress. I gave mine right back, asking for poached eggs and dry toast, with tea. Seeing as how I’d been prepared to order right away, the waitress paused and gave Therese a chance to do likewise, which is exactly what she did.
“I will have the same, s’il vous plaît.” The waitress smiled and took back her menu, setting off briskly to perform her tasks.
Godsen had disconnected from her call as we sat down. She was having toast with an assortment of jams. Definitely a sweet-tooth there. Westwood had finished whatever she had ordered, and her plate had already been taken away. She was sipping a cup of coffee, and making notes in her small notebook from the previous evening. I remembered a time when I had kept a notebook in just the same manner as that. Those had been dangerous times.
Her outfit was a ladies’ business suit, obviously prepared to be dropped into a role on the inside at the bank. Godsen was dressed in a similar manner, but her suit was definitely a designer job, charcoal with muted pinstripes. She was the first one to talk.
“I’ll be seeing the manager, Schonfeld, five minutes after the bank opens. He received a call at his home this morning while he was having breakfast with his family. I don’t foresee any glitches with the basic plan as we laid it out last night. Evie is going to be inserted on the inside main floor, and you and Therese will stake out the entrance. The bank opens at 9:00 AM, which gives you plenty of time to scout a location for the stakeout.”
Our poached eggs with dry toast and tea arrived with a smile just then, so I tucked in. Therese followed my lead.
Godsen caught my eye, to get my attention. I took a sip of tea to wash down the last of my meal. I put down the cup, and lit a cigarette, pushing back from the table a bit.
“Yes, Colonel? You have my undivided attention.”
“Do not use my rank when you address me. We are on field assignment now. I told you yesterday, call me Ronnie.”
It seemed that she was a bit huffy this morning. Maybe that Interpol conversation hadn’t gone as smoothly as she had let on. Or whatever. The first time you’re in the field is hard enough, without having to be in charge as well. I cut her some slack, and made a point of acquiescing to her demand.
“My apologies, Ronnie. Sincerely.”
The miffed look was immediately replaced by the professional one.
“I’ll accept that at face value, since you seem to be ‘sincere’ about it.”
“Actually, ‘sincere’ is one of those words with a wonderful history to it, yet it’s taken for granted by the entire English-speaking world, every day.” I waited to see if she’d bite.
A small movement in her eyebrows betrayed her curiosity, and the fact that she didn’t know the history of the word. Most people didn’t, so it wasn’t an unexpected response.
“I found it interesting, anyway. You might, as well. Shall I?” She knew what I meant.
“Please, feel free to enlighten us.” I couldn’t help but smile.
“It has its roots in Latin, as do most of the western European languages. In this case, from the Latin phrase, ‘Sine Cere’, meaning, without wax.” Now I had the whole table riveted. I mean, what the hell does wax have to do with truth, right? “Yes, it seems that in the heyday of the Roman Empire, there was a significant amount of construction going on all over the place. The good citizens of Rome had the same issues to deal with then as we do now. Keeping Up with The Joneses. Or, in their case, the Oriliuses, the Flaviouses, etcetera.” At this point the whole table had ceased movement, and I had them spellbound. Sort of.
Godsen sighed, and said “This had better be legitimate, Jeffry.” The words were no sooner out of her mouth before Westwood was trying to stifle a big grin, and Godsen was showing signs of regretting the start of the entire conversation. I plunged on.
“Legitimacy is the key to the entire issue, well done, Ronnie.” Westwood almost giggled this time.
“So let’s see now, where was I? Oh, yes, keeping up with the Joneses. Well, just being a freeman and a citizen to boot didn’t necessarily come pre-packaged with wealth. Or position. This left the door open for some mandatory political manoeuvring. Rome was pretty big on politics for an Empire with a leader one step removed from the Gods themselves, and one who wielded absolute authority in many aspects of Roman life to boot, but I digress.
The age-old question of how a citizen was viewed by his peers, or, in other words, how well his spin-doctors did their jobs, was related directly to many other aspects of his life. One of those aspects was his home. By that, I mean neighbourhood, the size of the home, who had designed it, and how many lovely dinner parties, well, orgies and all, more likely, were held there, and who came to those parties, on and on ad-infinitum.” Godsen groaned at that one, and Westwood nearly spewed her tea across the table at me. Therese was leaning both elbows on the table, and using her hands to rest her chin on. She was looking right at me, but maybe she was seeing something else entirely, because there was no reaction at all from her.
“The trick was in being a shrewd businessman, and saving a pinch here and a pouch there, so that you had enough gold and silver left over after you’d built your new home to be able to host these gala events once you’d finished building your party palace. The architectural style of the day was riddled with columns. You tried to have as many columns in the design of your home as possible, because Caesar certainly had a whack of them, to be sure. So ‘Roman Columns’, which is still the description used today, were a major part of the cost of building a home. So, how much you could save in the construction of your home was largely based on the quality of your columns. Plain ones or fancy ones, the price was high. So the builders came up with a grand idea. Hollow columns. Fluted and fitted to look just like the real thing, solid marble columns. But the only way they could be put together properly and have some approximation of the true weight of a solid marble column, was to fill them with wax. Unscrupulous column makers, of which I presume there were many, took advantage of the nouveau riche, who were after all, just off the boat, so to speak. This enabled them to charge full price for what, in effect, was an ongoing fraudulent scheme. Marble columns filled with wax. In a short period of time, this led to all column makers to be painted with the same brush, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Well, something had to be done, because then as now, the expression ‘Caveat Emptor’, or, let the buyer beware, applies.
This left all of the fine upstanding column makers to save their own butts
, business-wise. So, advertising of the quality of a good solid marble column became a simple but effective slogan, ‘Sine Cere’, which translates literally as ‘without wax’. The implication of unfettered honesty was attached to the phrase for all time, and stands now in the English language as just that, an expression of honesty, and I’m being very sincere about the whole thing. Really.”
Westwood finally cracked up and reached across the table to give me a backhand slap on the shoulder adding, “Jeffry, you’ve been spending too much time alone, man.”
Godsen just shook her head, but I could tell that she had enjoyed the diversion. Therese was still sitting with a faraway look in her eyes, and it was time to hit the trail. I broke into her reverie.
“Therese, maybe you should use the washroom now, because it might be a while before we get the next chance.”
Godsen and Westwood got up at the same time, and Westwood said “I second that emotion.” Then the whole troupe of them went off together to do girl things in places where men don’t go.
I got stuck with the cheque which was quite expensive. A summer rail pass in Switzerland costs about the same as the train itself back in Canada. It’s a good thing the Swiss generally made a lot of money, otherwise they’d all starve. The ladies caught up with me in the lobby, where I was refreshing my memory with a small pocketbook style map of the region. The hotel kept a little basket full of them under the counter, expecting all foreigners to have no idea of how to get around. The expectation was mostly fulfilled. The whole country is a series of small roads travelled at high speeds by the locals, who would all probably qualify easily for the Paris-Dakar Rally. The few key highways were mostly designed to get aliens from one border to the other quickly, and with as little impact as possible on the Swiss themselves. This isn’t quite as straightforward as it may sound.
In order for most of Europe to the north of Switzerland to get to the rest of Europe to the south of Switzerland, there were three choices: you could drive around the bulk of the Alps; you could fly there; or you could use the Swiss highway system that cut right through the Alps. By through, I mean the longest tunnel in the world, carved out of the very rock itself at great cost in men, machines, and money. It ran underneath the Alps, saving significant driving time for all the trucking industry of Europe. The fee charged by the Swiss for use of this route was a constant source of acrimony between the Swiss and the rest of Europe. Europe thought it was too much, naturally, while most of the Swiss thought it was way too little for the impact it had on the environment. The other bone of contention was that it did nothing positive for the Swiss at all, and therefore, should be reserved for emergency situations only. I’ve used the tunnel highway before, and I agree with the Swiss. It should cost more. I’ve also taken the route over the top of the Alps, via the Goddard Pass. It feels like being on top of the world, with everything that exists being below you, because you’re at the very top. The switch-back road that gets you there gives your vehicle a good testing, too. And I mean good. I was driving a virtually new Volvo sedan when I did it, and towards the top even the cyclists were passing me. The cyclists are a separate story altogether.
Godsen walked over to me and handed me the keys to the Audi albeit somewhat reluctantly.
“Can you make your way around? The address for the bank is in your files, which I see you don’t seem to have with you.”
Now seemed like as good a time as any to go into ‘mission mode’, so I did.
“I can get around just fine, Ronnie, and as for the files, what’s important is in my pocket. What’s not, isn’t. Is Westwood going with you?”
“Yes, the bank is sending a car and driver. I’ve also arranged for an additional vehicle to be brought to the bank so that I’ll be mobile after the meeting. All clear now?”
“No. Who’s bringing the second car?”
I could tell that she wasn’t used to being questioned, and she didn’t like it much, but we were in the field now, and there was a right way and a wrong way to do everything. People’s feelings didn’t enter into the equation. She pursed her lips a bit before answering, but her answer was the wrong one.
“I have resources in Zurich, let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
“No, let’s not. The one thing that seems to be missing from all the data you’ve lumbered me with is the one most important thing of all. I’m not taking Therese anywhere except back home until you give it to me. Trust is implicit for the entire team now, Ronnie. It can’t be questioned without blowing off the whole operation. That’s the straight up truth, and you know it. Or you should.”
There was a chilling pause in our dialogue as she tried to stare me down. I dropped the other shoe, the one she wasn’t expecting.
“Don’t bother with that psychological crap. You’ve got ten seconds to give me the number, or I walk, and Therese goes with me. Make up your mind.”
We hadn’t blinked since locking horns, and she wasn’t delivering fast enough to suit me, so I turned up the heat.
“On second thought, never mind, I’m out.” I turned and walked over to Therese, took her by the hand, and headed for the elevator. We were out of sight, around the corner from the front desk, and the elevator was right there on the ground floor, just waiting for me to open the door and take us to our suite. Westwood had managed to make it to the elevator at the same time as us.
“Jeffry, please don’t do this. You know we need Therese, and I believe we need you too. Let’s just kiss and make up, Okay?”
I was looking at Westwood, but I knew the comms unit was linking us all, in this odd ‘conversation’. I spoke directly to Godsen.
“I’ll back up one step, Ronnie. The ten seconds are gone. I want the number, and I want it yesterday.” A calm whisper of a voice sounded in my ear.
“You’ll have it, and I apologize. Not for holding back the number, but for trying to out-control you. You’re right, of course. Trust is implicit. I trust you to know your job, and I know that’s how a team operates, on trust.”
I nodded at Westwood, and we all walked back to the front of the lobby. Godsen had taken a pen out of her purse and, holding a single piece of post-it paper in her left hand, wrote down a telephone number and a code-word. She handed the paper to me.
“Now you’ve got ten seconds. Then I want the paper back.”
I committed the number and code-word to memory and handed the paper back to her with a few seconds to spare.
“I’m taking your word that this is a professional response team. That means I’m putting our lives in the hands of your connections here. I’ll believe that they’re what they’re supposed to be, because you say so. That’s how it works. Now let’s just get the job done.”
I can’t say that there were smiles all around, but there was certainly less tension in the air.
Therese and I left the hotel and walked across the street to the Audi. I opened the passenger side door for her and she got in, then I walked around the front of the car and got in the driver’s side. I started it up and sat for a few minutes making all the little adjustments you do when you first get into a car you’ve never driven before. Resetting the mirrors, adjusting the seat, checking out the dashboard for all of the various controls, that kind of thing. While I was going through that procedure, I had turned the heater on full. It wasn’t exactly freezing cold, but Therese seemed to be cold, so I obliged. When I was ready, I turned the blower back down to low, and checking the rearview mirror, I pulled out, merging with the fairly light traffic, and started off down Lindenstrasse. Two blocks down, I turned right, then right again at the first street headed back the way we’d just come. Four blocks down I made another right, and then a quick right, back onto Lindenstrasse. I pulled over on the same side as the hotel, but down a block and a half. I turned the car off, and putting my finger to my lips, I signaled for Therese to be quiet. I put one finger to my right eye, and then pointed two fingers down the road to the hotel. I had to give her credit, she caught on quick, giving me
a nod, and starting to watch the hotel doors. For what, I’m sure she couldn’t say, but she was up for it anyway.
The car sent to pick up Godsen and Westwood arrived at about eight ten. That gave them approximately forty-five or fifty minutes to drive to the bank. The bank was a twenty-minute drive away, tops, and they wouldn’t open their doors before nine o’clock. The meeting was supposed to be at nine o’clock. I wondered about the extra time, while I hooked my HP 200LX to my cellular phone, and logged on to the number Walter had given me for just this sort of occasion. I pulled a strong micro-telescope out of my trench coat pocket laying on the back seat, and logged the plate number. Then I scrolled through the menu of the network I’d logged onto until I found what I wanted. I brought up the form, and punched in the plate number. Then we waited.
The car was a Mercedes, and a fairly large one at that. Not quite a limo, but a custom job for sure. No dealer tag was showing in the back, and it had the custom one-colour sport motif with the low scoop in the front, holding the fog lamp frames. That had been apparent in the rearview mirror as the car approached us from behind. The driver stayed in the car with the motor running. Three errors so far. The Swiss turned off the ignition when they were at a red light, never mind parked. A very questionable car for a Swiss banker, and the driver never moved from his seat. The back passenger door opened on the street side, and a well-dressed man in a business suit got out, checking quickly up and down the street. For what, I wondered?
He was dressed for the part, but very top-heavy for a banker. This guy worked out, and it showed. Through the suit and all. Bodyguard? Maybe. Wrong people? Maybe. He went inside to introduce himself and pick up Godsen and Westwood. He was quite polite, even ingratiating. Godsen’s side of the interchange came through clearly, but the muscle’s side was faint at best. The thing that struck me was the accent. His words were faint, but the accent was strong, and it wasn’t Swiss, it was Spanish. I didn’t like it one bit. This case had made me rather touchy about details and gut-feel. Which was what had brought us to run an off-the-cuff backup for the other two members of our team.
The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel Page 32