by Peter Beck
As he drank his third cup of coffee, Tiger came skulking up, leaped onto his lap, curled up and allowed Winter to fondle him. Tiger had probably had a strenuous night behind him, too. He was a hunter. Tiger purred blissfully.
The fact that someone had taken the effort to tail Winter and push him from the bridge meant that he must be close to something.
But what?
It also meant that this someone was sparing no expense. Romero, respectively Schmitt, Berger & Partners and Max weren’t exactly cheap. Winter studied the printout of his back. Keep out!
Of what?
What had Max said? ‘You lot need to keep out of the business in the Middle East.’ Schütz had talked about opening a branch there.
Max was just the messenger.
Von Tobler owed him some answers. Pensively, he rubbed his sore neck. He had no choice but to ruin von Tobler’s August 1st.
AUGUST 1 – 9:02
Von Tobler lived in Oberhofen on Lake Thun. Winter had about half an hour in the car to prepare for his conversation with the bank’s CEO. A shower, fresh clothes and coffee had worked wonders.
After the motorway exit at Thun he meandered along the narrow roads to Oberhofen. The commune was on the gold coast of Lake Thun, a paradise for rich pensioners with a view of the lake and the Alps. The fancy golf course at Interlaken was a short drive away and the place was full of restaurants with starched linen napkins.
Winter steered his Audi slowly through the narrow streets of the winding village centre and drove past Oberhofen Castle. This feudal residence, now open to the public, dated from the era when Bern still owned half of Switzerland and parts of France. Over time this poor fishing village had become one of the richest and most tax-efficient communes.
Because of the August 1st celebrations the village square was closed off. A few men were building a small stage with a lectern for local politicians, while women were unloading floral decorations from a van. Winter turned and took a narrow road up the hill. Von Tobler lived a little outside the village in a grand eighteenth-century villa, which he had ‘slightly upgraded’ to include a heated pool and private tennis court.
Winter drove along an avenue of poplars that led to a wrought-iron gate decorated with the crest of an old Bern family. He stopped, checked out of professional curiosity the fine electric wire on the wall overgrown with ivy, looked into one of the three cameras and pressed the intercom through his open car-window.
‘Good morning.’
Winter recognised the voice.
‘Hi, Stefan. It’s me, Winter. I have to talk to Dr von Tobler.’ Winter had appointed the security guard almost two years ago. As a policeman on a pursuit in his patrol car, Stefan had knocked into a suspect fleeing on foot and squashed him against the side of a house. The suspect turned out to be an innocent tourist who had learned to avoid the police in his native country. He broke his thigh. An underemployed lawyer sued Stefan for damages and threatened to go to the press. His superiors urged him to leave the force of his own volition. The door opened automatically.
‘Von Tobler’s on the tennis court.’
‘Thanks.’
The gate closed again behind him, and Winter parked in front of the former stables that had been converted into garages. There was the gleaming black Mercedes S600. Winter thought of the black of the cliffs beneath the bridge.
Von Tobler’s company car was custom built with bullet-proof glass and a reinforced floor. When he’d joined the bank Winter had regarded these security measures as excessive. Now he could understand von Tobler. If Kaddour had driven this car he’d probably still be alive. Winter got out. The bonnet of the S600 was warm.
Winter went down the steps to the entrance and rang. A real bell pealed. A maid in traditional costume opened the heavy door and wiped her hand on her apron. She raised her eyebrows and said, ‘How may I help you?’ A strong local dialect.
‘Good morning. I’m very sorry to disturb you, but my name’s Winter and I’d like to speak to Herr von Tobler, please.’ When the maid hesitated, Winter added, ‘It’s urgent.’
‘Are you from the bank?’
‘Yes, I’m responsible for the bank’s security.’
‘Oh!’
It wasn’t until the maid from the Bernese Oberland had slowly processed this information that she opened the door. She turned around and Winter followed her through the entrance hall. Large, gold-framed mirrors hung on the walls and for a moment Winter saw his image reflected a thousand times. It was nice and cool inside the house. They walked past the broad staircase, and delicate Louis XV furniture, to a door that led to the garden behind the house. The maid pointed to the tennis court.
‘The Herr Doktor is playing tennis. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. We’ve got a party today.’ She smiled coyly. ‘A masked ball.’
‘I know. Thanks very much.’
She gave the hint of a curtsey.
Winter walked through the symmetrical beds with roses and ankle-high hedges, across the manicured lawn and past a large white marquee, beneath which stood bulky garden furniture. He went around the putting green with its three colourful flags and came to a tall hedge that screened the tennis court.
He heard the pock of tennis balls and saw the hulking figure of the CEO running back and forth. He was playing against his third wife, Mari, who had Swedish roots, moved gracefully and was about the same age as von Tobler’s daughter, Miriam. Winter paused for a while beneath the trees and watched the mismatched couple. He waited until there was a break in the game and then stepped onto the court. The Swede noticed him first and waved with her racket.
Von Tobler turned around. ‘Ah, good morning, Winter. Up so early? What’s wrong with you?’
Every time Winter heard that deep voice he envied von Tobler for it. The white teeth grinned at him from a tanned face. Dripping with sweat, von Tobler grabbed a towel on the way over to Winter and wiped his face and neck. He offered his hand and stated the obvious: ‘We’re just practising.’
‘Good morning, Herr von Tobler. I’m very sorry to disturb you, but I’m afraid it’s important. May I have a word in private?’
‘I’m just going to take a quick break, darling,’ von Tobler told his wife. ‘I’ll be right back.’ To Winter, he said, ‘Let’s go on the terrace.’
Von Tobler’s terrace had been finished a hundred and fifty years ago. ‘How’s Miriam?’ Winter asked.
‘Fantastic. She’s finished her studies. Finally! And now she’s working freelance as a fashion designer. In Zürich and London.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘You ought to pay her a visit some time. Her shop in Zürich is only a minute from Bahnhofstrasse.’
‘I will.’ Fashion wasn’t Winter’s thing.
As they passed the kitchen, von Tobler barked through the window, ‘Could I have something to drink?’ The maid in traditional costume hurried to the window and von Tobler asked Winter, ‘Fancy a drink too?’ Winter nodded. They walked around the house to the seating area on the terrace. Winter sat at right angles to his boss and looked out at Lake Thun. The mountains on the far side were closer and steeper than at Lake Geneva yesterday.
‘Al-Bader’s death is a tragedy for the bank,’ von Tobler said.
Not a word about Anne. Winter nodded. The maid arrived with a jug containing a pale-orange liquid. An isotonic drink. Without saying anything she placed the jug and two glasses on the table and left. Von Tobler served Winter then himself.
‘My secret recipe. Orange juice and tonic water. I have to watch my waistline.’ He gave a hearty laugh, raised his glass to Winter then drank half of it in one gulp. Winter drank too and had to admit that it was a refreshing combination.
‘Aah, the first sip is always the best. Like with women.’ He grinned again. ‘But you had something important to tell me. How was Egypt?’
‘Interesting. As you know, Kaddour was murdered too. Orafin was looking for investors in a nuclear power station outside of Cairo. Al-Ba
der was interested. That’s why they were going to meet in Switzerland.’
‘And?’ In a flash the jovial bon vivant had become the hard-hitting power-monger. Von Tobler’s smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed.
‘Early this morning I received a message for you,’ Winter began. He gave von Tobler a concise account of his encounter with Max. To get answers he had to pose questions. ‘What business are we doing in the Middle East?’ By ‘we’ he meant the bank and specifically von Tobler.
‘Why do you ask?’
A defensive counter-question, playing for time, Winter thought. ‘Because Max said, “Keep out of the business in the Middle East!”,’ he told von Tobler. From his jacket pocket he brought out the photograph of his back with the double-underlined message: ‘Keep out!’
Von Tobler took the photo and gave it a long, hard look before replying thoughtfully, ‘The growth in the East is phenomenal: Abu Dhabi, Riyadh, Doha. The riches there are like the sand in the bloody desert. The Arabs want to put their money in a safe place. We make a bomb on it.’ Either he hadn’t realized his unfortunate choice of words or he wasn’t letting it show. ‘We can offer them that safe haven. Politically stable. Neutral towards the entire world. And we ask far fewer questions than the Americans.’ Von Tobler had said nothing that Winter didn’t know already.
‘Do we have any problems there?’
‘Don’t think so,’ von Tobler replied curtly.
‘What business relations does the bank have with Orafin?’
‘Orafin’s on the lookout for financial investors and they asked us what role we wanted to play in the financing of the nuclear power station.’ Kaddour was history already.
‘And?’
‘Is this an interrogation?’
‘No. I’m just trying to clear up the murders of one of our colleagues and two of our clients. I think it’s important to understand the motive.’
Von Tobler bent forwards and put his glass down on the table.
‘Okay. We’re in the process of creating a private equity fund specialising in essential global infrastructure. We’re only at the planning stage at the moment. Al-Bader was going to provide the money of his Arab friends, and us the links to the Western financial world. To ensure success we would need a certain sum of money at the launching stage. In preliminary talks with Al-Bader and some other rich clients I sounded out their willingness to participate. One of the projects involved is Orafin’s nuclear power station near Cairo.
‘What sort of sums of money are we talking about?’
‘Blackstone in the States has about twenty to thirty billion of equity capital, the French firm Wendel and the Australian Macquarie have about five to ten billion each, depending on the climate of the market. They leverage this money, thereby controlling many firms that are worth twenty to thirty times that much. You can do the maths yourself.’
‘Money is power,’ Winter said to himself.
Ignoring him, von Tobler continued, ‘And over the last few years the capital return has almost always been substantially more than fifteen per cent. I call that alpha. And the best is still to come. Investment in these infrastructure projects produces a regular cashflow that is pretty independent of the markets and thus comparatively crisis-proof.’ Realising that he’d worked himself up into a sales pitch, von Tobler stopped abruptly and changed topic: ‘What’s with your neck, Winter?’ He made a hand movement that a rapper would have been proud of.
‘It’s not so bad. One of the risks of the job.’
‘Are you after a risk bonus?’ Von Tobler was the jovial, but authoritarian boss again. But Winter wasn’t ready to change the subject yet. ‘At what financial level do we launch the private equity funds?’
‘It should be at least three or four billion capital. But as I said, we were only in preliminary talks.’
‘Had Al-Bader already agreed?’
‘In principle, yes. But these things take time. Most of the money belongs to his family. He was confident of being able to persuade them. His brother has taken over now and we’re going to have to do a bit more convincing.’
‘Best of luck. At any rate there are some radical Islamists who won’t be pleased if the money goes flowing to the West. They think it’s better for the money to stay in their own countries.’
‘Oh come on, Winter. People earn nothing in those countries. Bribes, procrastination and wars devour all returns. Look at Nigeria or Venezuela. Everything ends up being nationalized.’ Opening out his arms, von Tobler added theatrically, ‘We’re investing in peace.’
‘In oil rigs too?’
‘Yes. If that Canadian oil rig had been financed with Arab money it would still be standing. The interlinking of capital prevents wars, Germany and France being the best example of this.’
‘Do you really believe that the Americans will allow funds from an Islamic country to buy up their ports?’
‘It’s already happened. That’s the market. It’s always right. Till now capital has always been distributed most effectively via the free market. It’s just a question of time. The Americans are bankrupt. The future lies in the East.’
‘But there are those who won’t shrink from blowing other people up. You should be particularly careful at the moment.’
Max is a professional, Winter thought. He could eliminate von Tobler without much risk if he really wanted to. The bank’s security system was designed for Switzerland, where even federal ministers wandered around in public without personal protection. The tennis court was an easy target for a sniper. But how could he forbid the bank’s CEO from a bit of sport with his attractive wife? The evidence was too thin.
‘I’m not afraid. But it would probably be better if we held back a bit over the coming weeks.’
‘Have you noticed anything unusual recently?’
Von Tobler frowned pointedly and said, ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Who would kill me?’
‘The same people who killed Anne, Al-Bader, Strittmatter and Kaddour.’
Unconvinced, von Tobler shook his head again.
‘Do you have any plans to leave Switzerland in the next few weeks?’ Winter asked.
‘I’m not going to change my travel plans just because of a few lunatics. But don’t worry, Winter. I’m not going to Afghanistan. Next week I’ll be in St Petersburg.’ In Russia, even von Tobler wouldn’t go anywhere without two security guards, and his partners there would probably wear bulletproof vests. ‘And then, of course, we’ve got our annual conference. Don’t forget.’
Now von Tobler was the head teacher wagging his finger and admonishing his pupil. Winter had received the invitation a while back. He hated these compulsory functions. He would be forced to wear a new suit, eat canapes and listen to meaningless chit-chat.
‘Of course not.’
‘The more I think about it the more I’m convinced that the whole affair has nothing to do with the bank. Al-Bader and Kaddour probably trod on someone’s toes. These feuds have nothing to do with us. Maybe it was a vendetta. They still happen, apparently.’
‘What about Max?’
‘Don’t worry. Neutrality is our strength, Winter.’ He gave his head of security a patronising pat on the thigh. ‘Stop your investigation and concentrate on the basics: the bank’s security. There’s bound to be another attack.’
Was von Tobler right? What was the point of poking about in the dark? What business of his were cockfights between enemy clans or internal family struggles in the Middle East? He rubbed his neck. He’d done his duty. He’d talk to Stefan and instruct him to inform Winter the moment he saw anything suspicious. He’d call the security firm in Moscow and get them to ratchet up the security level a couple of notches when they escorted von Tobler’s visit. There wasn’t much more he could do for the time being. Von Tobler had been warned. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘And sorry, again, for disturbing you.’
‘Don’t worry. At my age you’re pleased to be able to take a break. My wife was thrashing me.’ Von Tobler grinned, fin
ished his drink and they stood up.
‘I’ll find my own way out. And enjoy your party this evening! Looks like you’ve got the weather for it.’ Winter gazed up at the sky. ‘You can never rule out a storm.’
Von Tobler shook Winter’s hand, clapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Relax. Enjoy your day off.’
On the way back to his car he paid Stefan a visit. The security room was in the house where the gardener had once lived, which stood apart from the villa. They discussed additional security measures and Winter raised the security level here too. He ordered Stefan to keep a close eye on the land around the property.
AUGUST 1 – 11:20
On the way home Winter stopped at an open-air café. Here too the staff were hanging up garlands, lanterns and red-and-white flags. He sat in the large, gravel-strewn garden and ordered a double espresso with a glass of water. A few elderly men were playing cards. The sun shone through the plane trees, casting an irregular pattern on the red, metal tables.
When the drinks arrived he asked if they had a telephone. The waitress was from Eastern Europe and he had to repeat his question. Winter called Tibère using the cordless handset from the bar. Mobile number: voicemail. Bank landline: answer-phone. Private number: answerphone. Maybe Tibère was travelling again or just didn’t want to pick up the phone.
He rang his own voicemail and heard Fatima’s voice. ‘Hi, Winter. Hope you’re well. Are you celebrating today? I’ve got some news. Please call me back.’ There was a pause, then she said, ‘Speak soon’ with a hint of hope in her voice.
Winter listened to the message again, jotted down Fatima’s number on a beermat and leaned back. It was nice hearing from her. He drank his double espresso in one gulp, washed it down with water and then dialled the long number in Egypt.
After two rings Fatima answered and said something in Arabic. It sounded very energetic.
‘It’s me, Winter,’ he said. ‘I’m calling from Switzerland. I just picked up your message.’