Damnation

by Peter Beck

  ‘How was Florida?’ Hugentobler regularly played golf in the States.

  ‘Hot, but good. Alligators with no inhibitions about biting. That’s what you call real water hazards.’ He grinned and bared his teeth.

  They left the lobby via a side exit and hurried to the hotel’s helipad, which was hidden behind tall, fir trees. While they waited briefly Winter filled Hugentobler in about his investigation so far. Before the helicopter had arrived Hugentobler was in the picture.

  Beside them, one of the hotel’s hospitality staff was struggling by turns with her skirt and hair, all the while talking with a broad smile and animated hands to two Japanese clients, who were having great fun and had already drunk a glass or two.

  The helicopter landed, the pilot gave the thumbs-up sign and the hospitality woman pushed the Japanese men in. Winter and his colleague followed and belted up too. The helicopter took off again straight away. They flew across the dark Lake Brienz, turned and crossed a high-voltage power line. Then up to the Jungfrau. The two Japanese men chatted excitedly. Then they took out small, ultra-modern video cameras and filmed in awe.

  Winter looked absentmindedly out of the window. The low sun bathed the mountain tops in orange light. In his childhood there’d been an ice lolly called the Rocket, which was the same orange colour as the mountains. Winter’s mouth started watering.

  It grew dark. The light disappeared behind a grey dam wall and Winter was overcome by an oppressive feeling. The helicopter rose slowly and almost vertically up the concrete wall. The pilot had taken the scenic route, wanting to impress his passengers – not only with mountains but with one of the tallest dam walls in the world too.

  Down in the valley the turbines rotated, producing electricity from the dammed water. The demand for energy had led to this monumental construction. Tons of concrete and reinforcing steel had been transported up the mountain and assembled there.

  It was regarded as an architectural masterpiece, despite the submerged village behind the wall. And in local pubs, rumours still went around that foreign construction workers who’d suffered fatal accidents were concreted into the dam.

  After almost three hundred vertical metres the spook was over and the passengers started breathing easily again. The helicopter reached the top of the curved dam and roared across the full reservoir that wound several kilometres through the mountains. Further on, the sun was only just still slanting through the mountaintops.

  AUGUST 6 – 20:02

  The helicopter spat out its passengers in the snow on the Jungfraujoch, almost 3,500 metres above sea level. Beneath them, the Great Aletsch Glacier stretched out majestically. Another hospitality woman was waiting to greet the guests. She showed them the way and the helicopter went to pick up its next load. The Japanese were filming again. Winter and Hugentobler trudged through the wet snow to the rocks, where once pioneers had drilled the mountain station of the cog railway. Winter took his mobile from his chest pocket and saw that Ben had tried to call.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’ He gazed down at the Aletsch Glacier with its moraines and waited for Ben to pick up.

  ‘One of our TAA friends came strolling through my airport today.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The facial recognition software was checking our rogues’ gallery. At midday we had a TAA match. I thought it might interest you.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ All of a sudden the glacier was far away. ‘What does your picture look like and what’s written beneath it?’

  ‘Military. Leather jacket, combat trousers and short hair. He was in Afghanistan. Logistic corps. Dishonourable discharge because of embezzlement. Sentenced a number of times for drunk driving, affray and illegal possession of weapons. The NSA thinks he belongs to the military core of the TAA and carries out the dirty work.’

  ‘Where was he coming from?’

  ‘From Dallas to Zürich, via London. Hand luggage only.’

  ‘Did you see him personally?’

  ‘No, only the photo. It’s not great quality but I’d spot a thug at low resolution. Do you want me to email it to you?’

  ‘Yes. This afternoon Fatima and I were shot at by a sniper.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Trift Glacier. He almost got us.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Around one.’

  ‘That couldn’t work time-wise. Are you alright?’

  ‘Just a few scratches. How good is this facial recognition software?’

  ‘Good, but not perfect.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what he’s after? What’s rustling on the electronic grapevine?’

  ‘In all honesty I’ve no idea. The Americans say that many of the TAA brothers have vanished into thin air. On holiday, hunting, in the desert or gone underground. Somehow it’s all gone very quiet.’

  There was a pause in the conversation. The email arrived, the telephone beeped and Winter opened the fuzzy snapshot of the TAA thug.

  ‘Nice.’

  Prejudices confirmed. The sun had set. Winter thanked Ben and hung up. Preoccupied, he cast a final glance at the glacier.

  Winter walked down a bleak tunnel and came to a lift that took him to the party. As he entered the restaurant he paused for a moment. The guests were tightly packed. At a bar, champagne and white wine glasses were being filled and then eagerly accepted by men in dark suits and women in glittering robes.

  In one corner a quartet consisting of accordions, clarinet and double bass was playing traditional folk music. The occasional whooping was drowned out by the chatter of the party guests and the clinking of glasses. It sounded as if everyone were trying to toast everyone else.

  The waitresses wore traditional Swiss dress even though most of them came from Austria or even further to the east. The important thing was that they were buxom blondes. Around two-thirds of the guests were clients with their spouses or partners. The rest were managers at the bank.

  The two Japanese men from earlier were gesticulating with an account manager from Geneva.

  In this throng Winter felt lonely. He missed Anne. Or was it Fatima he missed? Putting on his party face, he threw himself into the fray. He hated parties. But the annual conference was a good opportunity to chat to colleagues who Winter normally never met.

  He circulated for a few minutes, shaking some hands. This weekend was also about being seen, something von Tobler was a master at. You got the impression that he was everywhere at the same time.

  Soon after Winter had finished his round a cowbell rang.

  The music and guests went quiet.

  Von Tobler gave a witty welcome speech and announced that dinner would now be served. Everyone streamed into the room, with its tables covered in red-and-white checked cloths, steaming pots of cheese fondue placed on each.

  ‘Stir! Stir! Stir!’ someone ordered.

  Laughter rang out and the mob fell on the molten cheese with cubes of white bread speared onto their forks.

  Winter sat with a Russian couple from St Petersburg near the exit. The Russian had grafted away as a plumber under the ‘bloody communists’ and now owned his own company that specialized in pipes. As he explained, in St Petersburg there were many piping systems for all manner of things.

  The Russian was having a wonderful time apparently. He particularly liked the fact that the cheese soaked up the alcohol. He also loved the rule whereby anyone who lost their chunk of bread had to buy the next round. It was something he wanted to introduce in Russia. Maybe fondue could be exported on a large scale, too? After the cheese they tried to distil the difference between kirsch and vodka.

  For that there had to be experiments – a whole string of experiments.

  About ten o’clock, Winter found himself again out in the fresh air on the viewing terrace. The cheese lay like a lump in his stomach and the alcohol had affected him slightly.

  The two Japanese at the other end of the terrace appeared to be in a worse way.

  Wi
nter breathed in deeply. The sky was clear, the stars glittering and it was peaceful here outside. The mountains all around were merely a jagged pattern.

  He heard footsteps behind him and he turned around slowly.

  The silhouette of a small, slightly stooped man was moving across the terrace. He was smoking a cigar, its end glowing. He went in an arc and came over to Winter, who leaned back against the railings and said, ‘Good evening, Herr Marti.’

  ‘Hello, Winter.’ Marti puffed with relish on his Cohiba. The bank’s chief economist was a sprightly old man, way beyond pension age, who’d long given up his directorship, but still turned up to his office every day. His network of connections was second to none. Winter thought of Yoda from Star Wars.

  ‘Lovely evening, isn’t it?’ the old man said.

  A touch of irony.

  The two of them looked down at the mighty glacier.

  ‘Most interesting. A Russian plumber drank me under the table. He earns a fortune renovating pipes.’

  ‘Then he must understand something about the circulation of money.’

  ‘He understood how to adapt after 1989 at any rate.’

  With a wistful smile Yoda said, ‘The helmsman navigates his ship through the rocks with the help of the rocks.’ After a pause, he added, grinning, ‘Homer’s words, not mine.’

  ‘Our helmsman was in top form again tonight,’ Winter said, pointing at the brightly lit restaurant.

  ‘Yes, he’s in his element. The man’s a natural talent when it comes to selling something. Himself and the bank.’ Marti seemed to have no inhibitions when it came to talking about von Tobler. ‘He’s always been ahead of his time. Did you know that he flew to Dallas straight after he graduated and devised options trading for oil?’

  ‘No. I just knew about his time on Wall Street.’

  ‘May it rest in peace.’ Marti blew a cloud of smoke skywards. ‘It’s like your Russian plumber. Money flows through the pipes of capitalism. Money instead of shit. And sometimes the pipes are simply blocked.’

  ‘We live in a crazy time.’

  Marti shook the ash from his cigar. ‘Ashes to ashes.’ Then he said, seriously, ‘What really worries me is the shifting of capital into undemocratic hands. Over the last few years the Americans have run up alarming debts. Too many expensive wars. The Europeans have far too high levels of debt as well. And they’re still arguing. Only the rest of the world has earned money. Money is power. And I don’t trust governments that aren’t democratically elected.’ After a pause, he added, ‘It’s an age thing.’

  ‘But they’re undeniably successful.’

  Marti pointed his cigar at the restaurant with its guests from every corner of the globe. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Winter. I was and I still am in favour of the free market. Whether it’s the cattle or stock market. But not at any price. Because the market consists of greedy people there will always be egotistical, monopolistic, protectionist and nationalist excesses.’

  Yoda took another puff of his cigar. ‘It’s the nature of the beast. We’re all mercenaries.’

  The smoke came back out of his lungs and curled up into the night. The master gazed up at the stars. ‘The question is how much society is prepared to tolerate.’ Turning to Winter, Marti looked him straight in the eye. ‘Winter, if we don’t watch out the extremists will win and things will get out of hand. Chaos. The radicals, whether they’re fascists, communists or religious fundamentalists, are the modern rocks of today’s helmsman.’

  Like the TAA and the Holy Tigers of Islam? Winter thought.

  ‘You don’t believe me? Didn’t it hurt you too when Lufthansa bought our oh-so-proud Swissair for a song?’

  ‘The main thing is she’s still flying.’ But Winter had to admit that at the time he’d felt some patriotic pangs too.

  ‘For several years now,’ Marti continued, the cigar pointing at Winter, ‘our Toblerone has belonged to the Americans. Sheiks are buying up large chunks of UBS. I could give you examples from every country. I’m not deluding myself about this. It’s globalization. The question is: where are the boundaries? Or even: is there a boundary at all?’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned the key thing is that it works,’ Winter said.

  ‘That’s easier said than done. In California, the private electricity supply of thousands of households failed. Like in developing countries! Entire bridges collapsed. Catastrophic.’ Marty shook his white hair. ‘Infrastructure is either a monopoly or an oligopoly. The prices are distorted. Top management is filled with figureheads. They say market, but they mean power. The actual helmsmen stay in the background. But I want to know who makes the decisions about the basics of my day-to-day life. That is the foundation of power.’ Marti gave a slight shrug. ‘Veni, vidi, vici. Money came, saw and bought.’

  He took a final, glowing puff.

  Then tossed the cigar over the mountainside.

  It sizzled out in the snow.

  Winter thought about what Marti had said. Anne, Al-Bader, Strittmatter and Kaddour. What was the bunch of TAA thugs doing in Switzerland?

  AUGUST 6 – 22:10

  Winter needed to empty his bladder. To keep up with the Russian while they were trying the kirsch he’d drunk plenty of water. And after the cold this was now demanding to be let out. He was standing alone and in mid-flow at the urinal when all of a sudden the music got louder and von Tobler reeled in, his tie loosened.

  Although the lavatory had a dozen urinals, the CEO positioned himself next to Winter. Their shoulders touched. In spite of the urine Winter could smell the booze on von Tobler’s breath. The CEO was drunk.

  Winter glanced at his boss, who didn’t notice him. Instead, von Tobler stared glassy-eyed at the fly painted onto the urinal, which he tried to hit with his jet. Winter did up his trousers, turned around and washed his hands, keeping an eye in the mirror on von Tobler behind him. Winter was drying his hands on paper towels when the bank’s CEO finished his business and acknowledged him at last.

  ‘Ah, Winter. The world is just too small for the both of us.’

  Winter said nothing. He wondered if von Tobler’s comment was an allusion to Anne, or whether the man was just drunk. Both, probably. Winter pulled another paper towel from the dispenser.

  Von Tobler came up to him and said, ‘Where’s your Egyptian friend?’

  Winter smelled the combination of alcohol and cold cheese. Although he’d drunk too much himself, he knew that the anger rising inside him was pointless. Talking is silver, silence is golden. He scrunched up the paper towel and threw it scornfully into the white basket. Clearly von Tobler hadn’t been expecting an answer. He staggered over to a basin menacingly and washed his hands very thoroughly. Was he trying to wash away his guilt?

  Jerking back up straight, von Tobler made a brisk lurch for the paper-towel dispenser. Halfway there he slipped in a puddle of water and fell down hard on his back. His head hit the linoleum floor with a dull thud. Absolutely plastered.

  Winter helped von Tobler back to his feet. The CEO muttered something to himself. Perhaps his fall and the knock on his head had ousted his drunkenness.

  He didn’t curse, just felt his head out of curiosity. He looked down, examined the damage to his bespoke suit and said in a normal voice, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Are you alright?’ Winter was still holding onto the elbow of the bank’s founder.

  Von Tobler nodded. ‘Have you got a five-franc piece?’

  Winter took the coin from his wallet and gave it to von Tobler. He pressed it against his bump with an impish grin. He fingered the bump and put the coin in his trouser pocket. ‘Come with me, Winter, I’ve got something to show you.’

  Winter was speechless. But as his silence had proved successful over the last few minutes he opted to maintain this tactic.

  Von Tobler went ahead, up some stairs and along a corridor with lights set into the floor. Passing through two double doors they entered the labyrinth of the caves, a tourist attraction hewn from the eternal ice
of the glacier. Ceilings, walls and floors – everything was made of ice. The floor was slippery, but fortunately there was a handrail.

  They shuffled their way along the ice tunnel. It shone blueish in the light from the lamps. The last time Winter had been here was as a teenager on a school trip, slithering through the maze of corridors. Fatima would have liked this too. You got a view of the glacier from the inside.

  Where was his boss going? They were alone, sliding quietly down the ghostly tunnel. Apart from von Tobler’s panting it was utterly silent. The ice cut them off completely from the outside world. No more folk music. Small clouds of condensation formed in front of their mouths. They passed a niche with an igloo and an Eskimo family carved from ice with an ice seal. The figures glistened like glass.

  Winter was shivering in his suit. The warming effect of the alcohol was wearing off.

  Then a niche with three eagles. For the Americans. Specific figures were probably cut from the ice for each target group. Two polar bears standing on their hind legs silently offered a photo opportunity.

  Von Tobler slid around another corner, stopped abruptly and said, ‘There!’

  Winter followed his outstretched arm and trembling index finger. They were in the ice chapel. Von Tobler was pointing at the ice altar.

  ‘There! Mari and I got married at this altar.’

  In front of the altar stood massive ice benches with insulated cushions for the guests. In a niche hung a wooden box for donations. The altar was decorated with enormous ice roses. Behind, stood two earnest-looking angels with huge candles. The angels’ breasts were especially smooth and shiny from having been touched.

  Winter nodded while his mind was firing on all cylinders. What on earth was von Tobler doing here? The best thing was to let him do the talking. ‘It must have been very romantic.’

  The old man was still staring straight at the altar, his face in a grimace. ‘Winter, I don’t want to lose Mari.’ His jaw was quivering, either out of fear or cold.

  ‘I’m sure that will never happen,’ Winter tried to sound reassuring.