Damnation

by Peter Beck

  ‘Many thanks for coming to Geneva. I actually wanted to meet you in Boston.’

  ‘My pleasure. The conversation with Professor Farmer was most insightful.’

  ‘Oh yes, dear old Professor Farmer.’

  They were handed a heavy, leather-bound menu. The wine list ran to twenty pages and Winter saw bottles he would have to work an entire week to pay for.

  ‘It can’t always be easy in the US if you come from the Middle East.’

  ‘Yes, there are a few misunderstandings. The West still harbours many prejudices. Personally I would avoid the USA for the time being. Better safe than sorry. I simply have no desire to be taken into custody under some pretext or other, just so that I can give away business secrets.’ Al-Bader grinned. ‘As someone who represents a Swiss bank, I’m sure you can understand that.’

  Winter could.

  In recent years the American financial authorities had placed bank executives and advisers of rich clients under house arrest, or just taken them into custody, in order to access their data of rich US citizens. Swiss law had long made the distinction between tax avoidance and tax fraud, between gentlemen and criminals. Winter’s bank, too, was in the process of disposing of bad debts. The new magic term was ‘white money’.

  Both men decided against the business lunch, choosing instead the fitness menu. Tomato soup and steak with a bouquet of salad, decorated with a strawberry.

  When the waiter had gone Al-Bader said, ‘The Americans don’t know what they want. They preach the free market, but the moment you try to invest they turn protectionist.’

  ‘First food, then morals.’

  As if from nowhere a tomato soup appeared with a dot of cream and a herb garnish. The service was rapid.

  ‘The misunderstandings are fuelled by crypto-fascist conservatives. They already think it’s a crime if an Arab invests in a Western firm.’

  ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I can understand some of their fear of terrorists.’

  ‘You’re confusing your categories. I hate terrorists just as much as the Americans do. Extremism, on the left or the right, is bad for business and it harms society.’

  Resolved to be more diplomatic, Winter asked cautiously, ‘Aren’t the boundaries hazy?’

  They unfolded their starched napkins.

  ‘There are grey areas, of course. And those are brutally exploited for political gain.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘First and foremost, the religious, nationalist conservative forces in America are protecting their business interests. They see to it that the various security services receive selective information. They even claim that we’re financing terrorists.’

  ‘Mhm?’ Winter’s mouth was full.

  ‘All wealthy people give donations. We too give money for good causes. Philanthropy is a social obligation and it gives me and my wife pleasure.’

  On his wrist Al-Bader wore a Chopard tourbillon. Winter nodded. ‘Yes, many wealthy people do that. At the bank we have a department dedicated to it.’ A little self-promotion couldn’t do any harm.

  ‘We have built wells in areas of poverty, financed hospitals, founded schools and provided seeds for crops. But if one of ten thousand pupils in the schools we support blows themselves up in Israel, the secret services point their finger and accuse us of training terrorists.’

  ‘The same rules are not always applied.’

  ‘There you go. But actually, it is you I wanted to get to know better.’

  The soup finished, they set about their steaks as Al-Bader started questioning Winter, and until pudding arrived he felt as if he were under cross-examination. Al-Bader was well informed about his past, very well informed. He had the knack of being able to ask the most indiscreet questions with the greatest politeness. Perhaps it was his stilted Oxford English. He knew about Winter’s visit to Bergen. His uncle had given him the lowdown. He knew about his time in the special unit. Clearly his assistants had dug around in the internet archives.

  He wanted to know exactly why Winter had abandoned his career with the police.

  Winter explained that he’d had enough of stupid bosses and orders. That was almost the whole truth. Al-Bader swore by loyalty and honour and Winter wondered where the conversation was going.

  The restaurant emptied; the businesspeople had to get back to work. Winter’s digestion got to work too, and tiredness set in again, crawling up his spine to the back of his head. He ordered a ristretto and was happy to be able to stand up ten minutes later. The maître d’ intercepted them and obliged Al-Bader in the politest way for a signature.

  The nice people at the golf club kitted Winter out, handing him a bag full of clubs. He bought a pair of golf shoes, a leather glove, three balls and a red polo shirt.

  The changing rooms were in a modern side annex. Winter studied his appearance in the mirror. His head wound had practically healed and the reddish-blue weal from the garrotte was barely visible. He stuffed the .45 SIG in his golf bag. It would hinder his swing otherwise.

  AUGUST 3 – 15:10

  They hung the golf bags on the electric buggy and Al-Bader drove off with a laugh. ‘The acceleration over the first few metres is almost as good as a Ferrari.’ Holding on tight with both hands, Winter remembered how Fatima had described the sheikh.

  Al-Bader didn’t think a warm-up necessary, so he drove straight to the first tee. He crossed his hands and pressed his palms outwards, producing an audible click in his fingers. Then he rolled his head and shoulders and was ready to start, though he insisted stubbornly in allowing his guest the honour. After three refusals Winter accepted.

  ‘Best of luck!’

  ‘Thanks. Same to you.’

  The first hole was a long par four with plenty of bunkers. Desert. In spite of his jetlag, his digestion and unfamiliar kit, Winter remained relaxed and hit the ball cleanly. His ball landed after one hundred and eighty metres, then rolled off the fairway.

  Al-Bader swung and his ball came to rest a few metres away from Winter’s.

  Trees guarded the green. Both missed it and needed a chip. On the well-tended green they holed out in two putts.

  The game was on. Both men wanted to win. Al-Bader might be a good client of the bank, but Winter didn’t intend to let him triumph. His competitive nature wouldn’t allow that to happen. They concentrated on every single shot. As they teed off on the fourth, a short par three, they were still level. With a grin Al-Bader asked, ‘What are we playing for?’

  ‘For fame and honour.’ Winter didn’t want to get into a game of poker with an oil sheikh.

  ‘Agreed. I like that.’

  Winter’s ball landed in the greenside bunker. Al-Bader found the green, about eight metres from the hole. When they got back into the electric buggy, Winter asked, ‘What gave you the idea of setting up Pyramid Investment Partners?’

  ‘It was simple. For good business you’ve got to get in early and have professional structures. In the last few years we’ve been looking intensively at how we can spread our risks globally. We concluded that the best thing would be to do it ourselves, so this fund pretty much suggested itself. Here we are. I think you’re in the bunker.

  Al-Bader parked behind the green. The bunker was deep and reinforced by a wall. Winter took a practice swing, emptied his head and focused on an imaginary point behind the ball. The ball rose in a cloud of sand and stopped a couple of metres from the pin. Al-Bader missed the hole by five centimetres. Winter managed a single putt. Two pars. They were still level-pegging.

  The fifth hole was a par four dogleg. On the way to the tee Al-Bader asked, ‘Have the Swiss police actually made any progress in their investigation of the crash?’

  ‘Not that I know of, I’m sorry. I heard that they identified the explosive.’

  Al-Bader polished his ball. ‘And?’

  ‘Probably from army supplies.’

  ‘Surely you don’t think the Swiss army has my brother on its conscience?’

&n
bsp; ‘No, I don’t believe that.’

  Winter resolved to make enquiries with the police in the coming days. He drove off and his ball flew into the long grass. Al-Bader sensed his chance but he sliced his drive too. Both men fumed in silence. When they finally had a view of the second part of the dogleg fairway they could see four men putting on the green and had to wait. Winter leaned on his iron and asked casually, ‘How’s the collaboration with the Baktar family?’

  Al-Bader took a practice swing and said, ‘Good. Why do you ask?’

  Winter took a practice swing too. ‘I can imagine it’s not always easy to agree on the projects you should be putting your money into.’

  ‘Professor Farmer and his people do the sums on the projects. He does all the groundwork and the committee decides.’

  ‘Unanimously?’

  ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘And the Baktars don’t have a problem entrusting their money to the Americans?’

  ‘In truth, the Baktars don’t think much of the Americans. There’s history there. But nor do they want to be on the sidelines if there’s money to be made.’

  ‘History?’

  ‘I wasn’t there, but in the Gulf War some family members got rough treatment from American special forces. Now, of course, it gives them a certain satisfaction to buy up and control American firms and infrastructure. I can understand that.’ Al-Bader laughed thoughtfully. The green was free and the two men tied the hole again.

  At the next few tees they had to wait again because of the foursome. They chatted about different tax systems. To their surprise they realized they’d both studied law.

  At a frontal water hazard, each of them played a risky shot and each lost a ball. Al-Bader complained about the slow players ahead of them. ‘These beginners ought to let us through.’

  The ninth hole was a tricky par five, lined on both sides by tall trees. When Winter and Al-Bader reached the corner of the dogleg, the group in front was on the green. Forty metres from the green they had to wait once more.

  Al-Bader leaned against the buggy, trying to look as bored as possible. One of the men looked back, waved and gestured to them to play through.

  ‘Finally!’ Al-Bader exclaimed.

  The men withdrew to their buggy.

  Al-Bader hit a good pitch that hit the green, but rolled away from the hole. Winter heard him curse in Arabic. His own ball flew high in the air, landed on the green, rolled on a bit and stopped near the hole.

  Al-Bader and Winter drove to the green, parked, nodded at the waiting men and stepped onto the green. Al-Bader headed for the pin, while Winter took out the tiny metal fork to repair the pitchmark.

  As he bent down he could see from the corner of his eye that three of the four men had left the buggy and were making for the green. Instead of golf clubs they were carrying pistols. Al-Bader had his back turned to them and was removing the flag from the hole.

  Winter repaired his divot.

  He had his principles. He never acted without analysis. On this occasion the analysis required no more than a split second. The men were around forty years of age and fit. They moved nimbly and there was determination in their faces. They held their pistols with both hands around stomach height. His own pistol was in his bag in the buggy. The green was surrounded on three sides by trees. Gunshots in the woods wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. Stuffed hunting trophies hung on the walls of the gloomy restaurant in Château de Plaisance. Moreover the pistols were equipped with silencers. The men had reached the fringe of the green.

  A four-step plan formed in Winter’s head. It wasn’t perfect, but better than nothing.

  Al-Bader had pulled out the flag and was strolling along his putting line, unaware.

  The men stood apart. The boundary between the fringe and the green made them stop. Different rules applied on the green.

  The men on the flanks momentarily looked at the man in the middle, the leader.

  Winter embarked on step one. In a single movement he stood up straight and with a twist of his right wrist threw the sharp metal fork at the left flank. The fork spun around and hit one of the attackers in the face.

  Time for step two. ‘Al-Bader! Watch out! Take cover!’ he called out. Al-Bader turned around and dived straight into the bunker. At the same time three shots were fired. Two bullets flew over Al-Bader, one in the air. Winter’s metal divot fork was stuck in the shooter’s cheek.

  Step three was easy. Before the men could get moving again Winter had ducked, picked up his golf ball and hurled it at full pelt at the right flank.

  This man was staring as if mesmerized at the gap where Al-Bader had been. The golf ball hit him in the temple and he screamed in pain.

  Step four: Winter overcame his instinct to flee, and narrowed the distance to his opponent. The man in the middle fired a second shot. In the firing line, Winter did a diagonal dive roll and switched the putter from his left to right hand. He was glad the green was so soft and springy.

  Now back on his feet, Winter swung his putter at the hand gripping the pistol. Moving faster than in a normal putt, the heavy, metal club head smashed into a few small bones.

  There was a crack.

  The pistol fell on the green.

  ‘Watch out!’ Al-Bader yelled.

  At once Winter dropped flat onto his stomach, swapping the putter for the pistol in front of him. The shot from the man with the fork in his cheek hit the central attacker in the heart region. A bullet in the heart was worse than a broken hand.

  The man who’d been hit grabbed his chest and slowly tipped backwards. The greenkeeper’s not going to like this, Winter thought.

  When the man toppled over it gave Winter a sight of the attacker whom he’d struck with the golf ball. He was wearing a red polo shirt and had a flat top.

  He stared at Winter, who was waiting patiently on the ground with a finger on the trigger of the pistol. Unable to hold back, the attacker cocked his finger on the trigger of his own gun.

  The moment Winter saw this he fired a bullet through the man’s eye.

  In actual fact Winter had been aiming between the eyes. But he didn’t have any time to wonder why he’d missed. Survival, rather than prizes, was his aim.

  Winter rolled to the side. The man with the fork in his cheek fired two shots into the green beside Winter. These divots were deadlier than those made by balls.

  Taking his time, he aimed carefully, pulled the trigger and shot the man’s hand and weapon to pieces. The attacker screamed and doubled up in pain.

  Winter stood and looked for the fourth man, who in the meantime had clambered back into the buggy. When Winter turned around towards Al-Bader, he saw the left flank rushing at him with a flick knife. Winter was just able to get out of the way, but the blade gashed his left upper arm.

  They fell to the ground.

  Winter lost the gun.

  The knife came swishing down, but Winter was able to grab the forearm of the attacker who straddled him and stared into his eyes, baring his teeth.

  The divot fork was still in his cheek.

  With a head butt, Winter rammed the fork deeper and up into the man’s eye socket, but the injury didn’t seem to stop him.

  Using all his bodyweight he pushed the knife against Winter’s throat.

  Winter braced against the attacker with both hands. Blood ran from the injured hand down the blade and dripped onto him.

  Winter’s arms were burning.

  The tip of the knife blade was scratching Winter’s throat. He heard a dull crack.

  His opponent went limp and fell to the side.

  As Winter peeled himself away from under the lifeless attacker, he saw Al-Bader twist his old-fashioned putter from the dead man’s ear.

  Relieved, Winter stood up, took the pistol, wiped it on his polo shirt, which wasn’t so fresh any more, and put it back in the hand of the central attacker. An old joke came to mind, even though originally it had been about football: Golf isn’t a game of life and death. It’s
more than that.

  Following his example, Al-Bader took a tissue from his trouser pocket, wiped the putter and muttered, ‘Not rust-proof.’

  The last thing they needed was the police on their backs.

  Winter did a quick search of the corpses and took three wallets. They grabbed their putters and ran to the buggy.

  Two more lost balls.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ Al-Bader said.

  Winter held on tight again and they raced off in pursuit. The fourth man already had more than a hundred metres head start, but there was less power left in his golf buggy’s battery as it had been ferrying four men. And now the escapee was alone. They drove back to the Château de Plaisance.

  ‘Thanks for saving my life!’ Al-Bader said.

  Without taking his eye off the man in front, Winter said, ‘Thank you too.’

  ‘Are you alright?’ Al-Bader asked, pointing his chin at Winter’s arm.

  ‘Yes, it’s just a scratch.’

  The flesh wound was bleeding, but it would heal quickly. The adrenaline helped numb the pain. As they crossed a narrow bridge over an artificial water hazard they were jolted around. ‘Any idea who they were and what they wanted?’ Winter asked.

  ‘No. Not a clue. I’ve never seen those men before and they didn’t introduce themselves. Clearly they didn’t want to talk to us.’

  Al-Bader stood bent forwards with all his weight on the pedal.

  ‘They weren’t friendly at any rate. Contract killers in all likelihood.’

  Although the attackers hadn’t uttered a word Winter somehow had an inkling that they were ex-soldiers. There was something of the military about their poise and haircuts.

  The distance between the two golf buggies hadn’t narrowed, and it was pointless to start shooting.

  On the long, straight fairway of the thirteenth hole Al-Bader said with a grin, ‘You always get to meet such charming people playing golf.’

  Winter laughed and admitted to himself that he liked Al-Bader. ‘Yes, but I’d imagined holing out on the ninth somewhat differently.’

  ‘I was actually going to wait until we got back to the clubhouse, but given the circumstances it would be better if I asked you now.’ Al-Bader was sounding formal. Winter gave him an inquiring look, and Al-Bader said, ‘I wanted to get to know you while we were playing golf to find out whether you would work for me. Could you imagine that?’