Damnation

by Peter Beck

  Fatima switched to English. ‘Hi, Winter. Nice to hear from you.’ She really did seem pleased. ‘Are you celebrating the birth of your nation today?’

  ‘Oh yes. Switzerland is an old lady, founded in 1291.’

  ‘Many happy returns. But that’s nothing compared to Egypt.’

  Winter said, ‘How are you? Did you take the job?’

  ‘I’m fine and yes, the president has given me his confidence. I’m going to try to be a good example for Egyptian women.’ She hadn’t forgotten Winter’s words. ‘Anyway, I spoke to Al-Bader’s younger brother and found out that they didn’t set up any bank in America. The women in Bergen hadn’t quite understood. Together with a professor from Harvard the Al-Baders established a private equity fund that invests globally in infrastructure.’

  Winter swallowed. Von Tobler and Al-Bader had the same plans, but von Tobler hadn’t said anything about America. Had Al-Bader been leading von Tobler on? Was that a motive? Von Tobler hated it when his business affairs weren’t successful. ‘A private equity fund for infrastructure projects,’ Winter echoed.

  Then he heard Fatima say, ‘Yes. They pool their money and invest together. I’m flying to Boston in a few hours to meet Al-Bader’s brother. He has taken over and I want to secure the investment in the nuclear power station for Orafin. We’re meeting at the headquarters of Pyramid Investment Partners.’

  ‘Did Al-Bader’s brother say anything about the helicopter crash?’

  ‘No, but you could ask him yourself if you like.’

  Winter didn’t know what to say.

  After a pause Fatima added, ‘If you came with me.’

  He felt torn. He wanted to see Fatima again. Winter pictured her sitting at the table in the courtyard of her family’s house and imagined that in the background he could hear the pattering of the little fountain in the tiled pool. Pensively, Winter rubbed the healing scar above his ear and said, with slight embarrassment, ‘Boston?’

  He looked around the café and ran things over in his mind. He could pay his friendly visit to Schmitt, Berger & Partners later. And Boston was lovely at this time of year. On the other hand, there were risks. If something happened to von Tobler while he was in America, it wouldn’t be good. And he could get into trouble if he continued the investigation off his own bat. But Winter was only bound to his conscience.

  ‘Hello? Winter? Are you still there?’ Fatima said.

  ‘Yes, I’ll come.’

  It turned out that she’d booked a hotel already and Winter promised to call as soon as he arrived. At the end she asked, ‘Tell me, are you really alright?’

  ‘Yes, apart from a few scratches I’m fine.’ And – if he ignored the exhaustion – this was the truth. His fall from the bridge had pumped his body full of adrenalin. He’d sleep on the plane. The Americans were six hours behind. ‘I’ll tell you all about it this evening.’

  Winter booked a seat on the afternoon flight to Boston. Fourteen hours later he landed at Boston’s Logan Airport. He’d asked the stewardess not to disturb him on the flight and he’d slept the whole way. He felt astonishingly fresh. In the long corridors of the airport he switched on his dried-out phone. A text from Tibère: All OK, party soon. A winking smiley.

  The US immigration officer in her glass cabin was in a good mood. She reminded him of one of those women who sometimes presented the weather on CNN. He handed her his passport, smiled at the camera, gave his digital fingerprint, said ‘Business’ and ‘Parker Hotel’ and was rewarded with a beaming smile and wishes for a pleasant stay. He crossed the border into the United States of America unhindered.

  The weather forecast was right: outside the temperature was an agreeably mild twenty-two degrees. In a few minutes a taxi took Winter through the Sumner Tunnel under the port, past some remaining Big Dig construction sites and into the centre of Boston. During the drive he called Fatima, who’d arrived at the hotel half an hour earlier. ‘Suite 62,’ she said brusquely.

  Six time zones to the east, midnight was long past. Piet watched a group of drunk Japanese businessman stagger out of a karaoke bar lit up pink in the Viennese district of Mariahilf, to the south of the Westbahnhof. A passing patrol car slowed down for a second before accelerating again. Glancing at the green digits of the clock on the BMW’s dashboard, Piet cursed and rubbed his nose, which had been broken several times.

  Over the course of his chemistry and civil engineering studies in Cape Town he’d learned to work with accuracy. Precision. The customers of his specialized import–export logistics firm valued his reliability. Quality had its price. He stretched his back. The drive to Vienna had been long, but uneventful. He’d arrived on time at the meeting point. Punctuality. Of all people it was his contact from Switzerland who was late.

  When the massive 4x4 stopped behind him and flashed its headlights twice, Piet tossed the cigarette out of the window and muttered, ‘Better late than never.’ He got out and eyed Max.

  Without saying anything the man with the pale face chucked Piet an envelope. A thick bundle of thousands. Swiss francs. At this price Piet was even happy to help lug the heavy military crates from his trailer into the boot of the off-roader. All part of the service.

  This was why Max didn’t dispose of his deliveryman until after the transfer. A silenced shot to the head. Max took back the brown envelope and stuffed Piet into the empty trailer.

  They stopped at a red light. As Winter absentmindedly watched a guided group of Asian tourists at Faneuil Hall, he wondered how things with Fatima would go from here. What did she want? He wasn’t sure, and when the taxi got moving again he decided he’d let things take their natural course.

  Winter paid the driver and went into the hotel lobby. The Parker was old, at least one hundred and fifty years old, but fresh looking and stylishly renovated. Lots of polished wood on the walls, huge lights and liveried pages with golden luggage trolleys. Avoiding an extended American family, Winter passed the reception and took the lift to the sixth floor. More red carpets, sucking up the sound. Stopping outside number 62, he knocked and said, ‘It’s me.’

  Fatima was wearing a white blouse with large collar, a fine golden necklace and black trousers. The uniform of a successful businesswoman. But on second glance she looked worn out and fairly delicate. Winter could see dark rings beneath her eyes, which couldn’t just be a result of the time difference.

  They gave each other three air kisses.

  Winter said with a smile, ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  She scanned his face with her large, brown, but tired eyes. ‘Does it still hurt?’

  ‘No, it still itches a bit sometimes, but you did a good job patching me up.’

  He looked around. The heavy curtains were drawn, the three-piece suite in the sitting area was furnished with abundant large cushions. An open laptop sat on the antique desk, beside it a bottle of mineral water and papers. The large room was an L-shaped suite and had an enormous double bed with a thick, decorative quilt and dark-red cushions. The smaller area with the sofa and armchairs could be sectioned off with a sliding door.

  ‘Nice room.’

  ‘Yes. I love old hotels. They have much more character than those modern blocks.’

  ‘I’m hungry. Can I invite you to dinner?’ Winter’s stomach reminded him that he’d only had liquid sustenance since breakfast.

  ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  ‘Give me ten minutes to have a shower.’ Winter opened his rucksack and took out the box of handmade chocolates. ‘Here. I brought something for you.’

  ‘Thank you very much. I love chocolate.’

  Fatima kissed Winter on the cheek and he went off for his shower. When he came out of the steaming bathroom with wet hair five minutes later, half the chocolates had gone.

  ‘I couldn’t resist,’ she laughed.

  From his last visit Winter remembered a little Italian trattoria in the old part of the city, in a side street between Salem and Hanover. After a short taxi ride they found
themselves being looked after personally by the manager at a table with a red-and-white checked tablecloth.

  They ordered pizzas, Winter’s extra hot with salami, Fatima’s with four cheeses. And a bottle of Barolo. By the time the salad arrived, Winter had told Fatima the story of the bridge. As they ate their salad, Fatima spoke about her visit to the palace belonging to Orafin’s president. And when the wine came she was telling Winter about how the investigation into Kaddour’s murder was going. Winter tried the wine and gave a nod of approval. The waiter poured some into two large glasses, which rang out when they tapped them together in a silent toast.

  They took a sip of wine, carefully placed the glasses on the small table and neither said a word for a moment.

  The pizzas arrived.

  ‘Well, the police informer knew that an attack was planned in Egypt,’ Fatima said. ‘He was also sure it would be a bomb. But he didn’t know the target. The target is only ever revealed at the last moment.’

  Leaning forward, Winter rested his elbows on the table and put his hands together. ‘And?’

  ‘The police have arrested a few suspects, including known members of fundamentalist groups. Three young men apparently confessed to placing the bomb of their own volition, but they don’t belong to any of these groups. A little later they withdrew the confessions. Of course, the political leaders of the fundamentalists are vehemently denying that they knew anything.’

  ‘Is there any indication that the bomb near the pyramids is in any way linked to the helicopter crash in Switzerland?’

  ‘I know the deputy chief of police in Cairo a little. He plays at the same tennis club as my brother. We spoke.’ She paused as the waiter put a candle on the table and lit it. When he’d gone, Fatima said. ‘No, I’m sorry. Nothing so far. The bombers hadn’t heard of Al-Bader and the house searches didn’t turn anything up.’

  ‘The explosive was not the same either,’ Winter said. He told Fatima that the laboratory in Spiez was working on the assumption that two different types of explosive had been used. ‘It’s likely we’re looking at two different sets of killers. As the two attacks occurred so close to one another I just assumed that there must be a connection.’

  ‘Perhaps the connection is you.’

  Winter shook his head. He couldn’t believe that was the case. What the murders had in common was the business relationship between von Tobler, Al-Bader and Kaddour, the business connection between his bank, the Al-Bader family fortune and the Orafin project. They knew each other. He, Winter, only came into the equation as a result of the explosions.

  ‘Has von Tobler contacted you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fatima looked a little embarrassed. ‘He called to congratulate me soon after it was made public that I had taken over Kaddour’s role.’

  ‘What would we have to do to make Orafin conduct more of its business via our bank?’

  ‘Nothing, to my knowledge. At any rate the chief financial officer is happy. We conduct a substantial proportion of our European transactions through your bank. I look forward to meeting von Tobler personally. Kaddour always spoke of him with great respect.’

  ‘Was my boss actually going to invest in the Cairo nuclear power station too?’

  ‘He mooted an interest. But I explained that we work with investors from the region wherever possible. That’s why I’m meeting Al-Bader tomorrow. He wants to invest via the private equity fund here. If Allah is merciful we will sign the letter of intent in the next few days.’

  ‘Why here in Boston?’

  ‘Apparently the Al-Baders have been collaborating with American universities for some time now. They’ve financed research projects here and they sponsor a chair for alternative investments at Harvard. That provides financial know-how and connections. The Al-Baders and acquainted families want to invest globally. And Boston is a good base for this. The Middle East, unfortunately, isn’t exactly a haven of political stability.’

  ‘The Al-Baders have plenty of irons in the fire.’

  Winter understood why Al-Bader had been flying around in his private jet. He wasn’t just looking to hand his family’s oil money to a few banks to manage; his intention was to invest it himself. By investing throughout the whole world he was lowering the risk. Making the fortune secure was the precondition for increasing it.

  Like the Sun King, Louis XIV, Al-Bader played cabinet politics. He siphoned off knowledge from a variety of professionals who knew nothing of one another and compared facts. That’s why he met Hansen in Bergen, and that’s why he had cultivated relations with von Tobler and probably dozens of other investment specialists. Divide and rule.

  The aim was not to have his own bank, but a private equity fund. These were far less regulated and an ideal vehicle for a reasonable number of rich investors to pool their money discreetly. Winter regretted the fact that Al-Bader’s mobile had been destroyed in the crash. His list of contacts would have been highly interesting.

  The owner came and recommended his world-famous tiramisu for pudding. They allowed the topics to meander towards more personal issues. They laughed often and for a while completely lost sense of the time.

  Later, Winter paid cash – he didn’t want his credit card leaving a trail – adding a generous tip, and thanked the owner in Italian for his hospitality. The owner shook their hands vigorously, showered Fatima with compliments, and slyly winked at Winter as he accompanied them to the door.

  As it was a pleasant evening they decided to take a stroll and they walked leisurely down Hanover Street towards the expressway. They allowed themselves to float in the stream of people as they peered into restaurants, cafes, confectioners and shop windows. At the end of Hanover Street they came to a pedestrian underpass that led beneath the main road into the more modern part of the city.

  They passed a beggar showing his amputated leg and went down into the dimly lit underpass, which stank of urine. On either side, metal bars hung with plastic sheeting screening off a building site. Footsteps echoed. There were people walking behind and in front of them, but Winter could feel that Fatima was close beside him.

  On the other side they were met by the modern glass buildings of the financial district in which only the occasional window was still lit. ‘Let’s take a taxi,’ Fatima said.

  ‘Good idea.’ Looking around, Winter spotted a free taxi about fifty metres away, its engine running. He waved, the car started moving and they took a few steps towards it. When Winter opened the back door he eyed the driver, as was his habit. He was wearing a clean shirt and looked trustworthy. At that moment he heard Fatima’s stifled scream.

  AUGUST 1 – 22:55

  Fatima recoiled. A man was sitting on the back seat. Winter just saw his legs, which were in suit trousers. The driver’s left hand was on the wheel, his right somewhere in the depths of the car. Winter couldn’t make out if he was holding a pistol.

  The pedestrians exiting the underpass walked past them without noticing anything.

  Winter switched his focus. Slow motion. Every last nerve in his body on red alert. His antennae taking in his surroundings with greater clarity and intensity, able to sense the slightest vibration around him. He’d spent years refining this skill of shifting his consciousness at a stroke.

  In his profession the focus was on observation and analysis. He’d spent days tailing people. Waiting patiently. And then, all of a sudden, something would happen that would smash the passive lethargy and demand an instant decision, a specific response.

  Only a tiny proportion of his time was taken up by rapid, precise action. It was like playing golf. During a round lasting several hours you only swung the clubs briefly. These few swings represented practically nothing in terms of time. And yet they decided everything.

  In hand-to-hand combat training they thought he had magic eyes in the back of his head. But it was pure physics. Nobody could launch an attack without disturbing the airflow around them. And now the fine hairs on Winter’s neck were telling him that someone was approachin
g from behind. He stood up straight.

  Indeed, a couple of metres behind him stood two men in black-leather jackets and jeans. Hands in their jacket pockets. He remembered seeing them at the end of Hanover Street, thinking they were a gay couple. They were a little too close for it to be a coincidence. There was no obvious reason to stand where they were; passers-by had plenty of room here.

  Winter wasn’t armed and his opponents were numerically superior. If he’d been on his own this wouldn’t have troubled him. The two men in the car were restricted in their movements. He’d be able to deal with the other two in leather jackets. But Winter couldn’t be certain how Fatima would react. Would she break out in panic and scream or freeze? He didn’t want to put her in danger.

  Winter concluded that it would be best to avoid any escalation for the time being and find out what the men wanted. He put his hands on the roof of the car and bent down, which served two purposes. First, he signalled that he wasn’t about to reach for a hidden weapon. Second, it allowed him to look inside the car.

  The man on the back seat had short hair and was wearing a dark suit. Around fifty years of age, he had leathery skin and his legs were crossed in a relaxed pose. Winter’s initial impression was that this was someone from the military top brass in civilian clothes. ‘Good evening,’ the man said. ‘Please get in.’

  A polite request, but his tone made it perfectly clear that this was an order; his voice was deep and composed. He gestured briefly with his hand for them to join him in the car. Fatima had taken a further step backwards and not moved a muscle since. Winter smiled and said in his most elegant English, ‘Excuse me, sir, but are you looking to share the cost of this taxi with us? May I ask where you’re heading?’

  When the man bent forwards Winter saw grey at the temples and deep lines in his face. Deathly serious, the officer in civvies replied, ‘Although the budget discussions in Washington aren’t easy for us, we’d be happy to cover your costs for the journey.’