Damnation

by Peter Beck

  When two waiters arrived with a cold salmon starter and a bottle of white wine from the neighbouring island, the three of them sat at the large wooden table. After they’d toasted Winter asked, ‘But what’s that got to do with Pyramid Investment Partners?’

  ‘Years ago Harvard invested in alternative sectors. Property and gold. You know that. But we also invested in platinum, silver, foodstuffs, orange juice,’ Farmer said, pointing at Fatima’s glass. ‘Oil, gas, wood, cattle and much more. The aim is to minimize the correlation between investments and improve the risk profile of the portfolio.’

  ‘Risk profile?’ Winter said, thinking of criminal profile.

  ‘Yes, the art is to invest in things that complement each other. Direct investments in oil and transport counter each other. If oil goes up in price, oil rigs yield greater returns, but rising fuel costs mean the transport firms drop in value. The Harvard investment fund has systematized and professionalized this approach and implemented it consistently. Over the last ten years it’s allowed us to beat all key benchmarks.’

  The salmon was fresh.

  ‘So what does Pyramid Investment Partners do better than its competitors?’

  ‘We specialize in direct investment in essential infrastructure. And on a global scale. Using our knowledge we build a bridge between investors eager to follow the Harvard approach and locally rooted infrastructure projects, such as the nuclear power plant we visited this morning.’

  Fatima knew this already and said, ‘Here in the US, Pyramid Investment Partners has opened doors for Orafin that would otherwise remain closed.’

  The professor was flattered by the compliment. But he didn’t like being interrupted, and so continued, ‘The combination of infrastructure, energy and emerging nations is promising for the future. In America and Europe infrastructure needs renewing for billions of dollars. Whether it’s boom or bust. The governments are happy to get rid of their concentration risks. We’re always going to need energy. The global population and its prosperity is growing.’

  The professor formed an imaginary globe with his hands. ‘Just imagine what would happen if the entire world population only used half the energy of your average American. And then the emerging nations! In the future they’re going to be growing at five, ten per cent a year too. They need energy for their factories to satisfy the growing domestic demand. Either it’s too cold or too hot. It’s like the conquest of the Wild West in America – the gold-rush atmosphere. Shortages are inevitable.

  In the crosshairs it was easy to see the professor brandishing his cutlery in the air. The distance was six hundred metres. A slight cross-wind.

  Through his high-definition binoculars the man focused on Farmer, Fatima and Winter in turn. He was wearing an earpiece and listening in to the conversation. With his upper body, he compensated for the swell that gently rocked his speedboat up and down. Without taking the eyes off his prey he said to his colleague, ‘Now it’s getting interesting.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fed up to the back teeth with this endless waiting. I hope they stop pussyfooting around.’

  The two waiters came out of the house with the main course. Beneath silver cloches they brought three, bright-red, hot lobsters with potatoes. As well as three bowls with tepid water and a pile of clean, cloth napkins. Winter wasn’t used to eating fresh seafood so he was pleased to be able to copy Fatima’s and Farmer’s methods and limit himself to brief questions in the conversation: ‘So you help families like the Al-Baders invest their money?’

  ‘Yes, Al-Bader has the money and we have the technical expertise. They bring the contacts from the East and we bring those from the West. We help each other.’ Farmer cracked open the shell of his lobster and said, ‘We connect peoples and invest in peace.’

  And get rich in the process, Winter thought.

  Staring at Winter, Farmer said, ‘Did you know that over a century ago, in 1903 to be precise, the first wireless telegram was sent across the Atlantic to Europe from here?’ With his lobster shears he pointed towards Cape Cod.

  Of course Winter didn’t know that, but he didn’t think it necessary to answer rhetorical questions.

  ‘We ensure that money flows between continents.’

  Winter ran his thumb along the inside of the shell, detaching the meat, and asked casually, ‘How much money would I need to have to be able to participate?’

  ‘We only work with a handful of investors. But because it’s you – a hundred million and you’re in.’ The professor smiled and dipped his finger into the bowl of water.

  He was gradually getting on Winter’s nerves. ‘I’ll speak to my bank tomorrow.’ Maybe this really was a business opportunity for von Tobler. ‘But why only a handful?’ he asked. ‘Surely you could roll out the business model?’

  ‘It’s a product of history. Originally Al-Bader asked me whether I might help out with the management of his family’s fortune. He’d heard of the Harvard investment method and wanted me to look after the alternative investments in his portfolio.’

  Farmer kept playing with the shears and cut an imaginary cake in the air.

  ‘Our analysis showed that the chances of success increase once you reach a critical size. Large projects need large investments. So then Al-Bader persuaded allied families to redistribute part of their fortunes. The clans like a smaller circle. And in terms of the amount of capital available, Pyramid Investment Partners is already number one globally.’

  Appearing impressed, Winter squeezed lemon into his bowl, washed his hands and ever-so-innocently tested the water by asking, ‘Are the Baktars involved at all?’

  Winter gained the impression that Farmer’s joviality and aura of self-confidence had vanished for a millisecond. But he swiftly rallied. ‘Out of principle we don’t speak about our clients. As a Swiss banker I’m sure you can understand that.’

  The crustacean shells piled high on the plates and Fatima, who sensed the cooling of the atmosphere and had already made neat work of her lobster, changed the subject: ‘As an Egyptian I’d naturally be interested to know why you called the private equity fund Pyramid Investment Partners.’

  ‘Pyramids are wonders of the world, aren’t they?’ He laughed and was back in his element. ‘And the pyramids have survived for millennia. Wars, social unrest, political upheaval couldn’t touch them. They are unique.’

  A discussion arose between Fatima and Farmer about the different perceptions of brands across the globe. Winter leaned back, unsure whether the professor was a megalomaniac or a brilliant visionary.

  Although Farmer appeared to be a very affable man with a permanent laugh, Winter could not shake the hunch that this was a masquerade. The wavelengths didn’t match up. Winter mistrusted people who were so convinced of themselves and their ideas that they allowed no room for doubt. Religious zealotry made you blind. In business too. Sooner or later the professor would overlook something and crack his head. Or step on a bomb.

  Farmer dried his hands and reached for a toothpick. When the professor picked up the silver toothpick holder, the mini receiver whistled in the ears of the two observers on the motorboat. Then the reception turned clear again.

  The professor clicked his tongue and pushed his plate away. ‘Mmm, that was delicious. For dessert we have a sorbet. I love simplicity!’ At least as far as pudding was concerned Farmer and Winter were in agreement.

  Fatima peeped at her elegant gold watch and Farmer reassured her, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll fly back in time. The helicopter’s going to pick us up in half an hour.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have to catch the evening plane to San Francisco.’

  The sorbets and pot of coffee arrived and Farmer told them how the profession of lighthouse keeper almost died out within a few years of the invention of the electric bulb.

  Then Farmer had to ‘attend to something inside the house’. His guests took the opportunity to enjoy a little walk by the sea. It felt good for Winter to move his legs. Alcohol, food, wind and jetlag had made him slee
py. They were strolling across the sand to the water when Fatima asked him, ‘How do you know the Baktar clan?’

  ‘Does that mean they’re involved?’

  ‘I asked first.’

  ‘I know. But a question is always an answer.’

  She made a dismissive gesture.

  Winter laughed. ‘I have my sources and they say that the Baktars aren’t to be taken lightly when it comes to the Americans.’

  Fatima appeared satisfied with the answer and said seriously, ‘Yes, Kaddour told me that they’re involved with Pyramid Investment Partners too. The Baktars have Egyptian roots and are very wealthy. They have stakes in Egyptian firms, but these days do most of their business from Abu Dhabi.’

  ‘What happened in the Iran–Iraq War?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ve heard that several members of the Baktar family who were on the run in the war were tortured by American special forces. Another version of the story says that their minibus was blown up by a US rocket in the desert because the Americans mistook it for a different vehicle. But that’s more than twenty years ago now.’

  ‘Sometimes twenty years are not enough for the dust to settle on such dramas.’

  Revenge is a strong motive, Winter thought. Is it coincidence that through Pyramid Investment Partners the Baktars are investing in an American nuclear power station and other vital infrastructure and planting a family member in a key position? Was this a case of nepotism and corruption? Or was there more behind it? In the worst-case scenario, the signs pointed towards a terrorist attack by the Baktars. Was he just being paranoid perhaps and seeing a terrorist in every Arab? But no sensible person wanted uranium to fall into the wrong hands. What was the score with the engineer in the Vermont nuclear power plant?

  Thoughts were churning in Winter’s mind. The facts were sparse. He couldn’t seize on one theory, nor exclude another. He didn’t even have any clear theories.

  ‘Yes,’ he heard Fatima say. ‘But many people lost family or friends in the war.’ They were standing side by side at the shore, looking out at the boats.

  ‘Fatima, please be careful.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Winter. Look, I’ve no intention of shutting myself away, but I’m not alone, am I?’

  ‘I just don’t want anything to happen to you.’

  ‘I know.’ She paused. ‘Thank you.’ Fatima stared at Winter for a moment. He was far away in his thoughts.

  For a while the two of them gazed out at the ocean. In the distance Winter saw a motorboat, with two men on board, set off in a westerly direction. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. From this distance he couldn’t see that both men were wearing Coast Guard jackets, had put down their binoculars and were in the process of sending the recorded conversation, along with their report to the NSA, via an encrypted frequency.

  Shortly afterwards, the Pyramid Investment Partners helicopter set them down at Logan Airport. Amidst the engine noise Farmer wished them goodbye with a grin and a thumbs up.

  In the car from the helicopter to the terminal Winter listened to his voicemail. During the flight von Tobler had left a message, the content and tone of which were unequivocal. The tone was that of ‘Colonel’ von Tobler issuing an order and brooking no dissent. And the content dashed Winter’s hopes of a few days with Fatima in San Francisco. He turned to her. ‘The younger Al-Bader rang my boss earlier and said he wants to meet me personally in Geneva. Two days ago if possible. I expect Farmer put him in the picture.’

  ‘Good idea. It’ll give you the opportunity to get to know him. All part of client service,’ the businesswoman said with a wink.

  ‘Have you already had the pleasure?’

  ‘Yes, for a long time he had a reputation as a playboy and he’s quite macho. In his youth he wrote off a few Ferraris. Apart from that he’s quite nice. He’s responsible for the Al-Baders’ hotel business. He got married recently so maybe he’s grown up since. He’s supposed to be a superb horseman and breeds them too.’

  The hotel had brought their luggage and now Fatima and Winter were sitting in a lounge with a wooden floor, drinking tea and waiting. That evening Fatima had an appointment with Orafin’s head of Latin America. A Brazilian telephone company was interested in a partnership with Egypt, with the aim of getting a toehold in Africa. And Fatima wanted to meet personally the man who was doing the groundwork for the joint venture.

  She was working on her laptop and when she noticed Winter watching her she smiled, threw her hair back and said, ‘Shame you can’t come to San Francisco. As an advisor on security matters you cut quite a figure.’

  Winter didn’t really know what to say and so just echoed her words: ‘As an advisor on security matters?’

  Fatima leaned towards Winter. ‘Maybe I’ll come and visit you in Switzerland.’

  Before Winter could reply her flight was called.

  AUGUST 3 – 08:35

  After a very short night a crumpled and weary Winter landed in Zürich. Ben let him through customs unhindered and in the underground car park he found his Audi. He drove home on autopilot, showered, changed and was in Geneva just before noon, on time for lunch with Al-Bader’s younger brother.

  He parked and was informed at the hotel reception that Mr Al-Bader was not there, but wished to let the esteemed Mr Winter know that he was awaiting the pleasure of his company for lunch in the Château de Plaisance. In the smart envelope was Al-Bader’s business card. At the gilded hotel bar, with its Russian waitress, Winter drank a criminally expensive double espresso. Then he patiently fought his way through the traffic and out of the city.

  The château was at the foot of the Jura Mountains and turned out to be a stud farm, golf course and Gault Millau restaurant. All very tasteful, and with no lack of staff. Even the car park was in landscaped grounds that would have been the envy of many gardeners.

  At various points in the past, buildings had been added to the original farm: a mill, stables and a large manor house. It was only after the two ivy-clad towers were built, however, that the property became a château. In the cobbled inner courtyard Winter saw stable boys grooming horses. Two riders with breeches, tall boots and bandy legs were chatting at the well.

  The restaurant was in the manor house. Attached to the wall, beside the restaurant door with its crown glass, were plaques with stars, chef ’s hats and other distinctions. In the restaurant, Winter encountered a music stand, with a leather-bound menu and a maître de table who welcomed him in French.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said in reply. ‘My name is Winter.’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Winter, you are most welcome. Monsieur Al-Bader is waiting for you in our garden.’

  They walked through the baroque gloom of the restaurant and re-emerged into the sunshine on the other side. On the terrace a few tables were set for lunch, at which sat young, rather slim women and older, rather corpulent men. The colourful polo shirts of the golfers, the fleeces of the riders and the light summer suits of the businesspeople on duty pretty much balanced each other out. All of them had a view of an artificial pond, which served both as water hazard for the golf course and a water reservoir for the fire service.

  Al-Bader was sitting alone at a table, his legs outstretched and a bottle of mineral water before him. Al-Bader the younger was the spitting image of Al-Bader the elder; they were bewilderingly similar. For a moment Winter thought his acquaintance had risen from the dead. It took him aback, and then he thought of Anne.

  The hair and moustache were identically styled. And they must wear the same brand of sunglasses. Maybe the pilot spectacles had been bought on a joint shopping trip. Al-Bader was wearing breeches and a light-green polo shirt. Green, the colour of Islam.

  Al-Bader stood up, put his sunglasses on the table and offered Winter his hand with a smile. ‘Mr Winter, It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘Mr Al-Bader, the pleasure is all mine and many thanks for the invitation. First of all I’d like to express my deepest sympathy. I’m very sorry for
what happened.’ They shook with both hands. ‘We’re doing everything we can to find out what occurred.’

  For a moment Al-Bader’s eyebrows and the corners of his mouth twitched with grief. ‘Many thanks. Yes, it’s tragic; I miss my twin brother very much. Allah have mercy on his soul.’ Winter nodded and Al-Bader continued, ‘We often came here together with our families.’ He made an expansive gesture towards the golf course, Geneva and the rest of Switzerland. They sat down.

  ‘I didn’t know you were twins.’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m just a few minutes younger.’

  ‘He was a wonderful person indeed. Although I only met your brother a few times I always enjoyed his visits to Switzerland.’ Winter looked around and decided on small talk for the time being. ‘Magnificent château. I take it you ride too?’

  ‘Yes, we keep a few horses here. This morning I went out on my brother’s favourite horse. I’m looking after the entire family now.’

  Winter nodded sympathetically and let Al-Bader talk.

  ‘I’ve written a poem about my brother’s death: A bolt from the blue strikes an olive tree atop a hill, splitting it in two. One half dies, the other survives, continues to bear fruit and in a few years thrives once more.’ He then shook his head as if wanting to erase the memory and changed the subject. ‘Let’s have something to eat here then play a round of golf together.’

  Winter had started playing golf ten years ago. He was a decent-enough golfer with a handicap in the low twenties, but over the last few years had only played a few rounds, restricting himself to the tournaments sponsored by the bank. He nodded. ‘Good idea.’

  Al-Bader was clearly sporty: riding in the morning, golf in the afternoon. Winter wondered what the sheikh did in the evening? Swimming? Or more intimate pleasures? Mineral water appeared and was poured.