by Peter Beck
Winter paused the DVD, copied the freeze-frame image into his photo processing software, and used this to enlarge the part of the picture until the label on the carton filled the entire screen. Single Malt, Laphroaig, ten years old, bottled in 2004, forty-three per cent alcohol. It all looked genuine.
Meister was right.
Winter grimaced.
In his mouth Laphroaig tasted liked the dentist’s. This single malt was more medicine than pleasure.
A pharmaceutical.
Maybe even flammable.
Winter preferred Talisker.
He stood up, fetched a heavy glass, took a couple of ice cubes from the freezer and the bottle of Talisker: twelve years old, double matured. He poured himself a generous measure, swirled the drug around the glass and dreamily admired the golden-brown colour. Where had Anne got that carton from? Did Al-Bader call her to order the bottle? For himself or the Egyptians?
He fished out the list with Anne’s telephone calls. Al-Bader’s number didn’t appear on it. Maybe one of his assistants had called. No, there weren’t any numbers with similar prefixes either. It was possible that Al-Bader had called from a withheld number.
Anonymized and digitalized.
Maybe his brother knew something.
He called the younger Al-Bader from his mobile. It took an age for the signal to come through, but then it rang. ‘Hello, Winter. Have you decided to accept my offer?’
Winter had almost forgotten Al-Bader’s offer.
In the background he could hear the hubbub of voices and the clinking of glasses. The younger Al-Bader appeared to be in a good mood, so Winter decided on a witty response.
‘The bank is asking for a transfer fee that not even you’d be able to rustle up.’
‘Try me.’
‘Are you travelling?’
‘Yes, I’m in St Petersburg. At the reception of an oil magnate. But good entertainment.’ Peroxide blonde, Winter thought.
‘I’ve got a question about your twin brother.’
‘Fire away.’ All of a sudden Al-Bader sounded serious.
‘Did he have a favourite brand of whisky?’
‘No. If he had to order whisky, it was always Glenfiddich. I think it was the only one he knew. But why?’
‘It’s likely that the helicopter was blown up by an incendiary device disguised as a whisky bottle.’
‘By Allah, the Almighty!’ Winter could hear the party guests chatting in the background. Then Al-Bader stammered, ‘Who, who?’
‘I don’t know. Not yet. It was a Trojan Horse.’ Winter didn’t want to enter into a discussion over the phone. ‘So your brother didn’t have a particular fondness for whisky, then?’
‘No, he was more serious than me. At business meals he would have the occasional glass out of politeness to his hosts. But he never ordered whisky himself.’
‘Not even Laphroaig?’
‘No, certainly not. He couldn’t stand dentists!’
‘Thank you.’
‘By the way, when are we going to play the remaining nine holes?’ Al-Bader was the playboy again.
‘Tomorrow afternoon?’
‘I’m with Putin. But I’ll give you a call.’ And he was gone. Winter wasn’t sure if the Putin comment was true or whether Al-Bader was just pulling his leg. But now it was clear that Al-Bader hadn’t ordered the whisky for himself. As a gift for his Egyptian partners? Unlikely.
He stared at the screen. The black, plastic lid was stuck down with tape in the colours of the whisky and bearing its logo. In its original packaging. There was no reason for Anne to be suspicious of the carton. The whisky wasn’t anything particularly special; you could buy it in any decent shop.
He couldn’t make out any barcode or price tag. The carton couldn’t be traced.
Winter restarted the film, keeping his eyes on the bottle until Anne entered the helicopter. Al-Bader let Anne go first. Through the windows Winter could see that she’d put the carton on the seat protecting it from tipping over with the box of chocolates.
The helicopter took off.
There was only one possible conclusion: someone Anne trusted had given her the whisky bomb as a present for Al-Bader.
Winter wandered out onto the creaky wooden balcony, emptied his glass pensively, took a deep breath and stared motionless into the darkness for a few minutes.
He went into the bedroom and put fresh linen on his double bed. It was a distraction. He laid out a set of towels, checked the drawer of his bedside table for condoms, and placed a bottle of mineral water and a bowl of apples from the neighbour’s garden beside the bed.
With the palm of his hand he wiped dust from his antique chest of drawers. An heirloom. There’d been an old chest of drawers in his room in Cairo, too. Taking a step back he surveyed the room. It wasn’t the Ritz but, as Meister had said, it was ‘cosy’.
As he looked around Winter couldn’t quite decide if he was looking forward or not to seeing Fatima. It would be clearer tomorrow, he guessed.
Back in his kitchen-diner he caught sight of the mobile phone, which reminded him of Schmitt’s contacts from the detective agency. He intended to study them this evening. Winter made some coffee, went through his post and watched CNN. A car bomb outside a government building, blurred pictures from a civil war, a flood in Asia with people on corrugated iron roofs, a group photo from another EU summit, the stock market data and the weather. Then an advertisement for an airline. He switched off and poured coffee into his favourite cup.
Work was pending.
He took his mobile phone containing Schmitt’s data.
He had about three hundred new contacts.
Winter connected his phone to the computer and tried to transfer the numbers to an Excel file.
The computer crashed and Winter had to go through the entire process again. Finally, he had a clear table in front of him. Around two thirds of the numbers had surnames and names attached, including Schmitt’s family members with pet names. The remaining third of the numbers just had initials.
Most numbers had a Greater Zürich prefix, which was to be expected. Schmitt, Berger & Partners operated mostly this region.
An initial survey of the names and numbers before him didn’t ring any bells in his memory.
He compared them with the bank’s telephone directory. It was a random attempt. Was there really an accomplice at the bank? And would this person be so inept as to call from a landline inside the bank? His eyes were burning, but he couldn’t find any matches. Schmitt hadn’t saved any of the bank’s numbers in his contacts.
After the third cup of coffee, Winter looked at the list of Anne’s telephone calls. Maybe the client had rung Anne from Schmitt’s phone. He compared all the numbers Anne had been called from with Schmitt’s contacts. No match. Once more, nothing.
Winter went systematically through all the numbers without complete names, one by one. Using the electronic telephone book on the internet he tried to get a name for them. But many of the mobile numbers weren’t listed. This search too failed to produce anything noteworthy. No familiar name.
After the fourth cup of coffee he gave up.
He was frustrated.
He knew it was going to be hard work. But he hated it when hard work didn’t produce results. Maybe he’d call the anonymous numbers over the next few days on a pretext and try to find out more names. If nothing significant came up he could always give the list to Ben and ask him to compare the numbers with his database.
He stretched and wandered back out into the fresh air on the balcony. He felt as if he’d reached a dead end. The stars were twinkling, almost as clearly as when he’d been at the pyramids. He thought of Fatima, as Tiger weaved around his legs. He picked up his cat and gave him a stroke. Tiger began to purr. The telephone rang and Tiger leaped off into the night. Winter went back inside, wondering who might be calling him at this hour.
Al-Bader’s name was on the display.
‘Hello. Party over already?’
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br /> ‘Winter, I’ve got to tell you something.’ Al-Bader was slurring his words; he was clearly drunk. In the background it was quiet, but Al-Bader’s voice echoed.
‘Where are you?’
‘In the hotel. I wanted to call you before I kick the bucket too. I’m not feeling well.’ A pause. Footsteps. Then Winter heard Al-Bader throwing up. He was in the bathroom. The mobile phone clattered onto the floor and transmitted more waves of vomiting from St Petersburg to Bern. A tap was running. Throaty noises. A flush. Then Al-Bader’s voice again.
‘Winter, are you still there?’
‘Yes, are you okay?’
‘I’m sorry. Yes, no. Yes, I’m alright. That bloody vodka. Sorry. But I was going to ask you whether you want to work for me now or not? You still haven’t given me an answer. Are you planning on killing me, too?’
Ignoring the question, Winter said, ‘Listen. You’d best go to sleep now. Shut the door and lie down.’
‘I can’t sleep!’
‘Is someone with you?’
‘No, I’m all alone.’ Self-pity. ‘The tart has buggered off.’ Loneliness, giving way to fear. ‘They’re going to kill me. I’m scared!’ Crying, Al-Bader was on an emotional rollercoaster. Perhaps he’d had more than just alcohol.
‘Take some deep breaths and sit down.’
Winter could hear Al-Bader plonking himself down.
‘Now drink some water.’
Winter could hear Al-Bader unscrew the lid from a bottle and drink. Water? Or more booze?
‘Winter, my brother is dead and back at home everyone’s after me. I don’t know what to do. Could you start tomorrow on whatever terms you want? Please.’
Instead of responding to the renewed offer, Winter asked, ‘Who exactly is after you?’
‘I don’t know. Everybody!’
Winter‘s thoughts were interrupted by another plaintive statement. ‘The Baktars killed my brother. They were at loggerheads, and he absolutely had to come out on top. I told him to leave it. But I couldn’t protect him. I always thought that if something happened to us, it would be me that got it, not him. He was the head of the family. I was just the little brother, even though I’m only a few minutes younger. He was careful, whereas I would bash my head riding when we were children. And now he had to provoke the tigers.’
Winter tried to make some sense out of this. ‘Tigers?’
‘The Baktars. They’ve got cousins who take the Qu’ran literally. They call themselves the Holy Tigers of Islam. They’d rather fight than do business.’ Al-Bader snorted contemptuously.
‘But why your brother?’
‘He was the head of the family. Pyramid Investment Partners was his idea. He persuaded the others to join in. And now I’ve got to do it.’ Winter heard Al-Bader sigh and fall backwards, presumably onto the bed.
‘You can rely on Farmer, surely,’ comforted Winter.
‘He’s not on top of things.’
‘I got the impression that the professor knows his stuff…’
‘That’s what my brother always used to say too. But I’ve found papers. My brother wanted an independent auditor to check the investments.’
Winter listened more closely. ‘Why?’
‘The NSA says we’re financing terrorists. That’s nonsense, but it’s why I can’t travel to the States at the moment. I wanted to drive IndyCar races. I can’t do that either now.’ Al-Bader was feeling sorry for himself.
‘Did the auditor find anything?’
‘No, no. My brother was going to start using him from the next board meeting.’
‘Were your investments really legitimate?’
‘Of course!’ Al-Bader cursed in Arabic, and Winter was glad not to have a simultaneous translation.
‘I’m sorry. It was just a question and clearly your brother had his own suspicions. Are you saying that the Baktars channelled money into suspect sources?’
Al-Bader hiccupped.
‘You said that some members of the Baktar clan were unhappy about investing in Western infrastructure,’ Winter pressed on. ‘Maybe they told themselves they’d make the best of it and use these channels for their own purposes. If you can’t defeat the enemy, you might as well embrace him. Old Chinese proverb.’
After a lengthy pause Al-Bader said thoughtfully, ‘Yes, that’s a possibility.’
‘Just so I understand this correctly, Pyramid Investment Partners is a collection pot, isn’t it? At one end acquaintances of your brother paid into the fund, so that at the other end investments could be made in infrastructure projects. It means the risk is spread. What I don’t quite understand is how Pyramid Investment Partners is run. Am I right in thinking that each partner is responsible for a few projects? Was your brother – and now you – responsible for the Cairo nuclear power station?
‘Yes, the projects are divided up. Each partner has the lead in a few projects.’
‘Which are the Al-Bader projects?’
‘The nuclear power plant in Cairo. We have connections with Orafin. The wind farm in the hills above San Francisco. My brother didn’t think we could rely on oil in the long term. And a few others, but I can’t remember now.’
‘And which projects are being run by the Baktars?’
‘The Baktars are chiefly interested in IT stuff. The fibre-optic networks in Dubai and Philadelphia. Or Dallas. Some dump in the States. And something in Europe too.’
‘And how does Pyramid Investment Partners ensure that a project is profitable?’
‘We have people for that.’
‘But you don’t relinquish control altogether?’
‘No. Pyramid Investment Partners always has seats on the non-executive board.’
‘And it has access to all the information?’
‘Yes, as a director I can see everything at any time. If I wish,’ Al-Bader proclaimed with proud conviction.
Winter found it hard to imagine Al-Bader the younger grappling with the finer details of company management. He seemed to work according to the helicopter principle. Fly in quickly, make a lot of noise, stir up dust and then fly away again. But what did Winter really know of how Al-Bader ran his investments?
‘That means you’ll have access to the nuclear power plant in Cairo.’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you got a list of the investors and directors of Pyramid Investment Partners?’
‘It’s probably back home with my brother’s papers.’
‘Could you send it to me?’
‘Only if you work for me.’
‘I have to give three months’ notice. The list would be a great help in finding out who was responsible for your brother’s death.’
‘Why?’
‘Motive.’
‘We’re related to the Baktars. There’s no way they would have killed Muhammed.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’ What had happened to the Holy Tigers? Was Al-Bader still drunk, or was he sobering up?
‘Send me the list all the same.’
There was no reply.
Winter doubted that Al-Bader would send the list. Once he’d slept off his drunkenness he’d feel so ashamed that he would want to put a lid on this particular conversation. He heard a click as Al-Bader terminated the call.
AUGUST 5 – 06:10
It was another short night and Winter slept deeply; this time his dreams left him in peace. He woke up refreshed and was already dressed and on his way to the neighbouring farm before his alarm went off. The farmer, busy with the milking machine in the cowshed, just nodded when Winter wished him a good morning. He found the farmer’s wife in the vegetable garden where she was cutting the last stalks of rhubarb.
‘Good morning, Frau Mettler.’
‘Good morning, Herr Winter.’ She slowly stood back up. ‘Is that for compote, jam or cake?’ Winter asked, pointing at the rhubarb stalks.
The maternal Frau Mettler gave Winter the occasional jar of jam from her mouseproof store cupboard. A
large, warm-hearted woman, she was usually in a good mood and wore her long, greying hair in a bun. Beneath her shabby, work apron, she was wearing a floral, summer dress with short sleeves. Winter sensed that she liked him, even though he worked in the city and – worse – for a bank.
‘These are only good for compote. You’re up and out early this morning.’
‘Yes, I’ve got to go to Zürich. I’m picking up a girlfriend from the airport.’ Winter bit his tongue. His choice of words would be grist to the Mettlers’ rumour mill.
‘Oh, anything serious?’ she said, beaming at him hopefully.
‘No, no. We know each other through work.’
‘Oh, what a shame.’
‘She’s going to be staying with me for a few days.’
‘I see.’
‘And so, I thought it would be nice if I could brighten up my sitting room with a few flowers. As a sort of welcome.’
‘I understand.’ She gave Winter a knowing smile.
‘I thought––’
‘Just tell me when your friend’s arriving and I’ll sort it out.’ Frau Mettler interrupted him, good naturedly.
On his way out Winter waved to the farmer, who ignored him.
Fifteen minutes later he was on the motorway heading for Zürich. In the cocoon of his car and part of a convoy of vehicles on its way from Bern to Zürich, Winter had time to think.
Had Pyramid Investment Partners been involved in a bribery scandal? Why had Al-Bader looked for an independent auditor? Had there been a clash of cultures? Or was it simply greed?
Winter sighed.
When Winter entered the underground car park in Zürich it was just after eight o’clock. He used his black security card and the lift took him up to the fourth floor of the bank. He wanted to talk to Frau Obrist, the head of administration responsible for client gifts.
The woman at reception was just rearranging the flowers on the counter. In their short life the orchids had probably undergone a long journey: grown in a greenhouse in Israel, flown to the flower market in Amsterdam, and then driven by lorry along the motorway here to Zürich to delight clients for a handful of days. Globalization.
‘Good morning, Frau Fischer. What beautiful orchids!’