Damnation

by Peter Beck

  Von Tobler moved away from Winter, held onto the altar and kneeled carefully before it. He put his hands together and began praying fervently, but silently. He leaned his head against the icy altar. Between his knees and the ice, a thin layer of meltwater formed. The suit was ruined anyway.

  Winter stood where he was for quite a while, then moved behind the altar with his arms crossed. Now he knew what von Tobler wanted: atonement.

  Von Tobler looked up pleadingly. ‘You helped me out with my daughter back then. And now you’ve got to help me again.’

  Winter nodded and opened out his arms. ‘Tell me about Anne.’

  The boss looked relieved rather than surprised. ‘The moment you introduced Anne to me I couldn’t get her out of my head, no matter how hard I tried. A man in my position can’t afford to have rumours floating around. But I wanted to see Anne again. I agonized over it for ages. I thought the big difference in age would solve the problem by itself.

  ‘But?’

  ‘I asked Anne, Frau Arnold, out to lunch. I said that it was part of the bank’s programme for advancing female staff.’

  Von Tobler had now reached the point of no return. Winter was standing between the two ice angels, listening to his torrent. ‘She was reticent to begin with. She wasn’t quite sure. Then she warmed up and we had a great time. I asked her to call me Josef.’

  A pause.

  ‘I’d hoped I could forget Anne, but the opposite was true. She settled in up here,’ von Tobler knocked his forehead against the altar several times and then said, ‘A few days later I called her to ask whether she’d accompany me as bodyguard to the Bregenz Festival. She declined. And I didn’t want to go to Bregenz with you.’ Von Tobler looked at Winter and laughed awkwardly. ‘But I did invite her to dinner. What an idiot!’ Angrily he knocked his head against the altar again.

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Nothing. We just talked. But over pudding she told me she’d prefer it if I didn’t invite her out again. Anne had realized that the programme for the advancement of female staff was just an excuse, and that in truth I was attracted to her. I became furious at the rejection. I was drunk. We left and things calmed down for a few weeks. She kept out of my way. Then she seduced me again.’

  ‘I don’t think she did seduce you.’ Winter struggled to keep any tone of menace from his words..

  Von Tobler looked up in astonishment. ‘Yes she did. At the beginning of July. She sent me a birthday card.’

  Winter remembered. Every member of staff knew von Tobler’s birthday. It was part of the bank’s patriarchal tradition to send the boss a birthday card. Winter had written one too. Anne had asked him for advice about hers, and he’d suggested she send von Tobler a simple card, wishing him the best of health and success.’

  ‘She wrote me a really lovely card. I thought she’d changed her mind. I thought she’d forgiven me.’

  Winter walked around the altar and helped von Tobler stand. They sat in the front row on the green, insulated mats. Now von Tobler was nothing more than a cold, old man in a dirty suit.

  ‘You wouldn’t guess what I did next, the old fool that I am.’

  ‘You wrote a love letter?’

  ‘You know?’ Von Tobler sniffled and wiped his eyes.

  ‘I read it. It was very beautiful.’ That was true. Winter had admired the old-fashioned, but gallant style. He wished he’d had the courage to confess his love to Anne in such words.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Atonement.

  Von Tobler took out a handkerchief with his embroidered initials and wiped his brow. With a shallow smile and calm voice, he said, ‘She didn’t respond. I expect she didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t bear it any longer so I called her.’

  ‘On the afternoon of the crash.’

  ‘Yes. First I wanted to tell her in person. I went to her office, but she wasn’t there and it was locked. I called her from the conference room next-door and we arranged to meet.’

  Winter nodded. The call at 16:55. The IT consultant had given a pretty accurate description.

  ‘She wanted our relationship to be clarified immediately. We met in a café. She was agitated and threatened to resign.’

  Winter couldn’t help smiling. Anne could be terribly frank if necessary. Obviously she’d decided on that fateful July day to spell things out clearly to von Tobler. In the underground car park she’d read the love letter once more, put it under the sun visor and forgotten her pistol beneath the seat.

  ‘I just wanted us to talk it through. But Anne simply got up, said, “Enough is enough” and left. Those were her last words. That evening you rang to tell me about the crash.’

  Von Tobler put his head in his hands and, judging by the sounds he was making, had started sobbing. ‘If only I’d stopped her.’

  ‘There was nothing you could have done. It was fate.’

  After a while, von Tobler sat up straight again and composed himself.

  ‘I think we ought to go back now,’ Winter said.

  They stood up. Their limbs were stiff from the cold and fatigue.

  ‘Please keep it to yourself.’ From von Tobler’s tone, this wasn’t a plea, question or an order, but just a plaintive statement. Von Tobler knew that he could trust Winter.

  ‘Only if you give me my coin back.’

  Von Tobler picked it out with clammy fingers. ‘Here. Money rules the world.’ And after a long pause: ‘Thanks.’

  They went back.

  Past the cold eagles, polar bears and Eskimos.

  When the sliding doors came into view, Winter asked, ‘When did you actually see Muhammed Al-Bader for the last time?’

  ‘I wondered when you’d ask me that question,’ Von Tobler said, pausing for a moment on the slippery ice. Turning to Winter, he continued, ‘I met the head of the Al-Bader family on July the twentieth, in Oslo, to persuade him to invest in our new private equity fund. I flew there especially.’

  ‘And? Was it a success?’

  ‘I think so. Switzerland as a neutral, secure and stable country was a winning argument. He promised to give the offer serious consideration.’

  ‘Did Al-Bader want to withdraw the money from the States and transfer it to us?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Why?’

  ‘Supposedly, Al-Bader was no longer satisfied with Pyramid Investment Partners.’

  ‘You mean with that Farmer chap?’ He snorted. ‘His pyramids are just a trick to lure the sheikhs. All smoke and mirrors.’

  ‘Do you know Farmer?’

  ‘No, but my old friends in America don’t think much of him. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Al-Bader wasn’t sure either. At any rate he asked me about Farmer in Oslo.’

  They went through the first of the sliding doors. A dimpled, rubber mat. Now they had a proper grip. Von Tobler paused again. ‘We have to fight for every client, you know. If the Al-Bader family stays with us and invests more, I might not have to sell my share of the bank to those amateurs in Zürich. They’re putting me under terrible pressure at the moment.’ Von Tobler fixed Winter with his familiar look. ‘Winter, I’m counting on you.’

  Von Tobler stepped through the second sliding door. ‘Right, now I’m going to get changed.’ One of his principles was Gouverner, c’est prévoir. Leadership is the art of anticipating. The old fox had brought a spare suit with him.

  But he hadn’t seen the murders coming.

  Or had he?

  At midnight the party was over. Winter sat in the last carriage of the train that was running specially for the party and pretended to sleep. The side of his head leaned against the cool, fogged-up window.

  The cogs, and his brain, juddered.

  Was von Tobler’s confession in the ice cave genuine, or had the old man just put on a big show? Was he trying to set him on the wrong track?

  His thoughts drifted to Anne. Unlike von Tobler, he hadn’t had the courage to admit his feelings to her.

  And now it
was too late.

  With a rude jerk the train stopped in the dark night.

  AUGUST 7 – 01:22

  In the deserted hotel corridor Winter carefully opened the door to his room. His senses were keen. All was quiet. One of the lamps beside the double bed was on. In the muted light he could see the connecting door to Fatima’s room, almost closed. It was after one o’clock. Was he expecting anything else?

  He stood for a while by the connecting door and listened, but couldn’t hear anything.

  Winter removed his tie, took a bottle of mineral water and sat on the bed.

  On the pillow he saw a piece of paper, folded once. ‘Dear Tom, thanks for showing me the glacier today and saving my life.’ A smile spread across his face. ‘I had a cosy evening in the spa and now I’m so relaxed that I have to go to sleep! Hope your party was fun. Goodnight. Fatima.’

  Winter felt kind of happy. The little note meant a lot to him. Was their friendship going to blossom into a relationship? But how could a relationship work with the jobs they had, and at that distance? Maybe he ought to accept Al-Bader’s offer after all.

  Anne.

  Had von Tobler really been in love with her? Was the letter with those timeless phrases meant seriously? Or had von Tobler, the gifted actor and salesman, just feigned it all? Feelings couldn’t be measured. Winter closed his eyes. His brain sat inside his head like a heavy, black lump.

  He got up, switched off the light and went out onto the balcony with his water. His mind free of thoughts, he stared into the night. He’d become dead tired during the journey back from the party. But the mixture of unanswered questions and unprocessed alcohol kept him awake.

  His eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness. The contours of a pointed, garden pavilion and the fir trees in the hotel park stood out. The rustling of the trees mingled with the gurgling of the nearby River Aare that fell over a low weir beyond the park.

  He sat on a wrought-iron bench and reflected. The cool silence and security of the darkness freed up his thoughts. Unbound, they flew right through time and space. In his mind Winter made connections that he hadn’t been able to see during the turmoil of the day.

  His walk with Fatima, which had begun so peacefully, the wooden boards falling into the depths, the glacier and the dark dam wall. The powerful financial group and the little bank. Would he soon be getting a new boss? Poking into the cheese fondue, the system of pipes, full of shit, beneath St Petersburg. Marti’s Cohiba glowing like a lit fuse in the snow. The altar with the two archangels. Von Tobler kneeling before it in the eternal ice.

  Winter gave a start and woke up.

  He’d nodded off.

  A sound had awoken him.

  Had someone opened the bedroom door?

  Winter didn’t stir. He didn’t want to give his position away. His first thought was: flee! His second, informed by experience, was: stay cool! What time was it? How long had he slept? It was still the middle of the night. Had the intruder come back to finish off the job from the suspension bridge?

  Winter had surprise on his side.

  And this time he was armed. Fortunately, he hadn’t taken off his weapons. The .45 was in its holster by his side, the .22 strapped to his right leg. The glass water bottle would also serve him well in close combat. Winter turned his head very slowly and strained to hear what sounds were coming from the dark room.

  Through the gently wafting curtains he saw the hazy shadows of a tall figure. Winter sought the angle that gave him the best view.

  In the dark, your periphery vision was better.

  Different receptors.

  The uninvited guest stood motionless in the middle of the room. In the night people looked taller and more menacing. Time passed. Now Winter was certain that the intruder was looking at his bed and had his back to him. He was wearing a black hoodie. Winter couldn’t make out the hands.

  Slowly lowering his right arm Winter inched his hand towards the butt of his pistol. The figure turned around and took two quick paces towards the balcony.

  ‘Winter?’

  Winter pulled his hand back and sat up. ‘Fatima?’ His pulse was racing with relief. ‘Is that you?’

  She stood in the doorway and poked her head through the curtains, which played with the untied hair that Winter had mistaken for a hoodie. Fatima’s gaze fell on the weapon in the holster, then roamed across the dishevelled Winter, the park and up into the sky. She took a deep breath and stepped barefoot out onto the balcony. The concrete floor was cold.

  Fatima picked up the bottle and took a swig of mineral water. ‘How was the party?’

  Winter was not in the mood to give a detailed account of the evening. He was annoyed that Fatima had woken and startled him. Somehow he felt as if she’d interrupted his thoughts, just before they’d reached their conclusion. He rubbed his eyes, took the bottle from Fatima and also had a gulp of water.

  ‘Interesting. Von Tobler was pretty drunk. How well do you know Farmer, actually?’

  ‘Not that well. We always spoke directly with Al-Bader. Why?’

  ‘Von Tobler called him a wolf in sheep’s clothing.’

  ‘Von Tobler and Professor Farmer are rivals.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but still.’

  ‘The professor wants to invest his money in our nuclear power station.’

  ‘It’s not his money.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Some of it is his money. He’s put his own capital into Pyramid Investment Partners.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he kept emphasising it in Boston.’ Fatima mimicked the professor’s voice: ‘ “The investors’ money and my own assets are working hand in hand, ensuring that we’ve all got the same interests”.’

  Smart questions are the sniffer dogs of intelligence gathering.

  ‘And where does Farmer’s money come from?’

  Fatima didn’t know, but she promised to enquire when on her next trip to the States.

  This gave Winter an idea. He plucked a business card from his wallet and took out his mobile.

  ‘What time is it in the States?’

  ‘East or west?’

  ‘East?’

  Taking hold of Winter’s left wrist, Fatima looked at his watch. ‘Take away five hours… that makes it five past nine. Who are you going to call?’

  ‘Smith. Or whatever he’s called. He said I could reach him twenty-four seven.’ Winter dialled. It took a while before a woman’s voice answered.

  ‘How may I help you?’ Winter could hear the sound of typing on a computer keyboard.

  ‘I’d like to ask Mr Smith a few questions. My name is Tom Winter.’

  ‘One moment, please.’ Winter was put on hold. After a minute the woman’s voice returned. ‘What is it you would like to talk to Mr Smith about?’ Clearly Winter wasn’t listed in the computer system.

  ‘I met him a few days ago in Boston. I’m responsible for security at a private Swiss bank.’

  Winter heard a few clicks, followed by Smith’s East Coast English across the Atlantic. ‘Good evening, Mr Winter. How are you?’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Smith. Sorry to disturb you,’

  ‘No problem. Is it an urgent matter to make you call me at this hour?’ Smith had traced Winter’s call back to Switzerland.

  ‘Perhaps. This afternoon I was shot at by a sniper. I wanted to ask you something about the relationship…’

  ‘Mr Winter,’ Smith interrupted, ‘I’d best call you back. Are you near a landline?’ The NSA man didn’t trust the satellite transmission through the air. Winter went inside, gave Smith the name of the hotel, and then sat on the bed and waited.

  Fatima sat beside him.

  Shortly afterwards the hotel phone rang.

  ‘Thank you for your patience,’ Smith said. ‘What was it you wanted to know?’

  ‘I know that your people are monitoring the activities of Professor Farmer’s Pyramid Investment Partners. A few hours ago I found out that members of True and Armed American
s entered Switzerland via Zürich. Is there any connection?’

  Winter could hear Smith thinking.

  ‘Good question, but I’m afraid I can’t answer it.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Then tell me what you can.’

  ‘I’m responsible for the Middle East. As I told you in Boston, we’re fighting the terrorists there who use religion to justify their actions. We’re trying to nip it in the bud. And so of course we’re also keeping a close eye on the money that finances this terrorism. You can be sure that in the course of these investigations Professor Farmer’s company has appeared on the radar too. As far as we can make out, it hasn’t been involved in any illegal activity.’ A pause.

  ‘But?’

  ‘Let me pose a question of my own. You had lunch with Professor Farmer in his lovely, weekend house.’ In spite of the helicopter, Farmer evidently hadn’t managed to shake off Smith’s people. This was the first time Winter had detected a sarcastic tone to Smith’s voice. Was Smith, a public employee, envious of Farmer’s wealth? ‘What impression did you get of him?’

  ‘A good one. Professional businessman with an interest in nature. He was cultured, funny, he loves his puddings. Where are you going with this?’

  ‘There are hints that in his youth he sympathized with right-wing nationalist extremists. But there’s never been anything on file. Just chatter, rumours, old stories. And now he runs a company specialising in investments that bring people together. I’d put a question mark there.’

  ‘A Damascene conversion?’

  ‘In our business I’d call it an anomaly.’

  They promised to stay in contact and hung up.

  Von Tobler had called Farmer a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Farmer’s comment in the dunes of Nantucket about the plover eggs suddenly took on a new meaning. More to himself than to Fatima, Winter murmured, ‘The solution is right before our eyes and we can’t see it. The camouflage is perfect.’

  AUGUST 7 – 05:20

  Winter’s mobile phone rang. He opened his eyes. The vibrating had taken the mobile to the edge of the bedside table and Winter grabbed it just before it toppled off. An unknown number with the prefix 971. Winter pressed the green button. ‘Hello?’