by Mark Leggatt
He dabbed his face with a silk handkerchief then straightened his back and smoothed down his suit. He smiled at the thought of Kurt Reinhard on his knees before his father, pleading for the money to pay off the Cosa Nostra, who were expecting a quick return. With interest, to cover the loss of heroin to their market. Kurt Reinhard would find the money or his body parts would be feeding whatever fish managed to survive in the Tiber. Upsetting the Cosa Nostra made for a very short career.
And there was only one way that Erwin Reinhard could cover his son’s loss at such short notice. His vault in Zurich.
He turned his back to the window. There would be no greater chance than this. The door opened. “Ja?”
The PA stood in the doorway, a shorthand notepad in her hand. “Herr Reinhard is here.”
“Bring a hard chair.” Kessler strode across the room as Reinhard shuffled through the doorway. “Erwin. Good to see you again.”
“You too, my friend,” replied Reinhard. “If only it was under better circumstances.”
Kessler shook Reinhard’s hand. The steely grip was gone. The old man was fading. “I’m honored you came to me. The old bonds still hold tight.”
“I’m not a young man any more. I have no one else to turn to.”
Kessler waved a hand dismissively. “You are my oldest customer, Erwin. My father spoke warmly of you until the day he died.”
The PA entered with a dining chair and placed it in front of Kessler’s desk.
Reinhard took her hand and lowered himself onto the chair. “He was a great man. He passed his bank to you and now I must pass my affairs to my son.”
Kessler motioned the PA away and she headed for the doorway.
Reinhard waited until the door had closed, then spoke through gritted teeth. “Though this is not the way I wanted it to happen.”
“I understand. Montrose is history. But let us be absolutely sure. Tell me again what he said.”
“He was fishing, I’m sure of it. If they had proof . . .” Reinhard shook his head.
Kessler sat behind a long walnut desk. “First we must establish the facts. Kurt said the only man who saw him in the hotel corridor, however briefly, was Montrose.”
“That is correct.”
“And there was no CCTV?”
“Kurt said there was a way to avoid it. He is quite sure.”
“But Montrose found his way to you very quickly.”
“He traced the taxi that Kurt used. Straight to my apartment. Sometimes I despair of that boy.”
“He’ll make you proud, Erwin, one day. But for the moment . . .”
“For the moment we have the Cosa Nostra demanding three million euros.”
Kessler shrugged. “Mere spending money for a man of your wealth.”
“Perhaps. But you know everything I have is tied up in the oil deal. And the Mafia want their money in twenty four hours.”
Kessler had no doubt. He had informed his Cosa Nostra contact to accept nothing less, or the son would face the consequences. “Ah, that is more of a problem. Let us deal with that first.”
The mottled skin of Reinhard’s knuckles became transparent as he squeezed the top of the cane to stop his hand from shaking. “It would take me weeks to liquidate my assets. In the current market I would lose a fortune. It’s impossible. They know it’s impossible!”
“They are not reasonable men, Erwin. But I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”
“You said you had a buyer? At such short notice?”
Kessler shrugged. “There are always ways to do these things. The contents of your Zurich vault will always attract buyers. The trick is in finding the right one. How long has it been now? Sixty years?”
“Or more. I think of it every day. But we cannot . . .”
Kessler recognized the bluff. Reinhard’s vault had lay untouched for over seventy years, deep in the rock under his own private bank. They both knew there was no other choice. “I have been working on the options for your property for some time, for when the day eventually came. A specialist valuer is available. Then a simple trade. I was hoping to tell you soon, but we can bring things forward.”
Reinhard let out a low, bitter laugh. “I should have known you’d be one step ahead. That was supposed to be Kurt’s legacy. And to think it will be used to pay off some filthy tribesmen. And the three million euros?”
“When the valuation is complete, the money will be ready. The buyer is a customer of mine, who is, shall we say, cash rich.”
Reinhard leaned forward on his cane, nodding vigorously. “It will work. But is it safe? If they appear on the market . . .”
“Times have changed, Erwin. China has an insatiable need for gems. The Russian market is wide open. Not only do they both understand confidentiality, they care very little for provenance.”
“Of course, provenance.” Reinhard gave him a wry smile. “That’s something best avoided.” He stuck out a hand. “Then we do it. Kurt will be landing in Zurich very soon.”
Kessler felt the handshake firmer. The old man was desperate enough to believe anything. All these years Kessler had been waiting for him to die, and what was about to happen might kill him after all.
CHAPTER 14
The remains of the in-flight meal lay on the tray. All he’d done was push it around the plate and the coffee had gone cold. The target was clear. That meant there was only one plan.
Zurich. Then Reinhard would be dancing to a different tune.
But the Kesslers? Father and son? Where the hell do they fit in? Just bankers? It doesn’t matter. All I need to know is that old Kessler is in Rome and the son, Jacques, has never met Kurt Reinhard.
Instinctively, he made to turn his head and look down the aisle, then stopped himself for what felt like the hundredth time. If Reinhard recognized his face from the airport, he didn’t want him making any connections. Especially when Reinhard discovered that the pass was missing.
The stewardess appeared by his side. “Shall I take that away, sir?”
“Thanks. Say, are we landing soon?”
“On time for 14:30. Starting the approach now, sir.”
He adjusted his watch to the correct hour and added five minutes. The old watch always ran a little slow and he gave it a rub for luck. It had seen his grandfather through the beaches of Normandy. A few bars of GI chocolate and a box of silk stockings had had some serious buying power when his Liberty ship sailed into Liverpool. He’d swapped the lot for a new British Army Omega wrist watch, made in Switzerland and stamped with the Broad Arrow of the War Office. The lighter and the watch were the only heirlooms his grandfather had passed on. Anything else was abandoned in the flight from Berlin.
He reached into his pocket and held the lighter in his fist, rubbing his thumb over the metal for a moment, then pulled out his wallet. In the clear plastic ID flap was a passport photo of a blond girl. He slipped the photo from the plastic and held it in his hands. A crease in the photo spread across her face. Her 21st birthday. The day before the bus to the West Coast.
He remembered the excitement in her voice. She’d met some guy with a private jet. Some hotshot businessman. He took good care of her, she said. He had connections in the modeling industry. No more money worries. She didn’t say his name.
But the LA detective had told a different story. They find a good-looking girl, no ties. Promise her a modeling career, go to the right parties, take the right drugs, then reel her in. They were feeding her, the detective had said, and when she got hungry, she knew where to go. He’d seen it before. As soon as she was out of the country, they’d take her passport. Cocaine turned to smack. Smack cost more. More than she had. She was sliding. Wasn’t long before her hotshot boyfriend became her pimp. Just the occasional john to start, and then more as the addiction deepened. Forced into porn movies in the Mexican suburbs and when the needle tracks started to show, the boyfriend sold her down the line.
Seems that the dealers at the bottom of the food chain were cutting the
ir goods with animal tranquilizer. One night, one fix, and her heart had slowed to a halt. They found her on a bench near the docks. Someone had stolen her shoes.
You should have called. I would have come running. But pride was always your weakness. He tried to flatten the crease on the photo. The last time I saw your pretty face. Flakes of colored plastic fell from the crease onto his lap. No. It wasn’t the last time. That was in a morgue.
A voice came over the P.A. “Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”
The tension was tight in his chest as he buckled the seatbelt. A sudden panic made him catch his breath. Maybe Richmond was right. Maybe I can’t stop. No. Fuck them. Fuck every goddamn one of them, the scum-sucking dealers and the politicians who kiss their ass for power. I will not stop. This is over when it’s over.
He forced himself to exhale slowly then checked his watch and counted back the hours. The CIA would know for sure when I didn’t turn up at Lyon. Maybe they’d already organized a reception party. No, they couldn’t know about Reinhard and Zurich. All I need is a little more time. He tucked his thumbs into the seatbelt and screwed his eyes shut. If they were waiting, thereʼs not much I could do. Maybe say I was following Reinhard on my own initiative. Like the dead Afghans. Yeah, that’ll go down like a burning Messerschmitt.
And then tell them how I was set up? Against all the evidence? They wouldn’t swallow it for a second. I’m a psychotic killer. They’d want to bury this operation deeper than hell. No. Spinks would personally dig my grave and bury me head first.
The plane shook as the wheels bumped and squealed on the asphalt. I might make it out of Switzerland, but what the hell then? He pulled a hand from the belt and rubbed his face. They’ll never stop looking for me.
The plane stopped and turned to taxi to the terminal. Unless I get the video. Reinhard started this. I’ll finish it. He peered out of the window to catch any waiting cars or police on the apron, but there was nothing.
“Welcome to Zurich,” said the stewardess over the P.A. “Please keep your seatbelts fastened until we have come to a complete halt at the terminal.”
The engines whined as they wound down and the plane stopped at the gate. The stewardesses came along the aisle holding the overcoats for First Class. Montrose took his Crombie and folded it across his lap then busied himself with his seatbelt. Reinhard grabbed his overcoat and pushed forward. Montrose stood up and lifted his leather bag from the overhead locker. Over his shoulder he saw Reinhard hurry out of the door, brushing past the stewardess and ignoring her smile.
Don’t lose him. He stepped out onto the air bridge and began to match Reinhard’s pace, then forced himself to slow down. My cover is just another tired businessman. Time to start behaving like one.
They emerged into a large passport control room, already busy with incoming flights from all over the world. There was no separate line for US citizens, but then there was no line for Europeans. It looks like everyone is a foreigner to the Swiss, even their neighbors. He spotted Reinhard in a line and joined right behind, wondering how they would make the mark.
Reinhard marched forward and presented his passport. The Customs Control Officer glanced briefly at his face, stamped the open page and called for the next passenger.
Shit, was that it? So much for the tip off. Reinhard was through.
“Next!”
Montrose placed his passport on the desk.
“Your business in Zurich?”
“Just a few days,” replied Montrose.
“No, sir, your business in Zurich. What will you be doing here?”
“Excuse me, I’m a bit sleepy. Too many airports and flights.” He rubbed his eyes for a moment, stealing time to think. “Just some business meetings.”
“Very good, sir.” The officer stamped his passport.
“Thanks.” Adrenalin was starting to kick in.
Reinhard was heading for the line to the customs channels. Montrose’s heart started to race and he stopped himself from wiping his damp hands on his Crombie. If Reinhard got out of the airport, the deal would be on. Nazi pass or not.
Relax. Looking nervous in a customs area wasn’t a good move, and I’m in enough trouble already. Be cool. Yeah, it’s not easy when you’re walking into the lion’s den and asking the big furry bastard for a fight.
Montrose turned into the ‘Nothing to Declare’ channel then stopped dead just before he walked into the back of a man in a black overcoat.
Shit. It’s him. Montrose hurried past the desk and bent down to check his shoelaces. He could hear the conversation. It didn’t sound friendly.
“Your passport may have been checked, sir,” said the customs officer. “But I am required to check it again. You are Mr. Reinhard of Rome?”
“You’re damn well wasting my time,” said Reinhard.
“Put your bag on the table, sir, and open it. Remove everything and place it to the side.”
“Look, I haven’t got time for this. I have a very important business meeting with one of the most senior bankers in Zurich.”
“Yes, but I have plenty of time, and so do my colleagues. You will come with us.”
“This is ridiculous! Your government will hear of this!” Reinhard pulled out his Blackberry.
The guard snatched it from Reinhard’s grasp. “I’m sure they will. I’m not asking you, sir. We have been informed of an outstanding arrest warrant. I’m instructing you to come with us.”
The blood pulsed in Montrose’s neck as he fumbled with his shoelace. Two burly figures carrying latex gloves walked past. He stood up and hurried forward. The corridor turned into the main airside terminal. Where the hell was the exit?
He looked down the concourse past a line of duty free shops. Yeah, like every other modern terminal, they make you walk through the shops before they let you out.
Striding forward, he dodged around passengers, glancing at the displays as he passed. One thing they don’t stock is a nine millimeter and a case of ammo. I don’t know what kind of situation you have to be in before you need a liter of Scotch and a ten pound bar of weird-shaped chocolate, but sure as shit, this isn’t it.
He quickened his pace. The illuminated sign for the taxi stand was dead ahead, but he only had euros. If I use the company Amex card to buy Swiss francs, Interpol will know exactly where I am once they’ve checked the records. And they would. To his right was a small boutique selling Swiss specialties, and in a rotating glass case, a display of Swiss Army penknives. Better than nothing.
“Hi, do you accept euros?”
“Of course, sir.”
“I’d like one of those knives.”
The assistant opened the glass case. “Which
one, sir?”
Montrose glanced down the shelves. Some of them looked like they had enough gadgets and tools to strip down the Space Shuttle. “That one.”
“The Explorer. Very good, sir. It has the screwdriver, scissors, a tool for removing stones from a horse’s . . .”
“I’d love to know, but I’m in a big rush.” He dropped a fifty euro bill on the counter, and grabbed the penknife. “Thanks for your help. Keep the change.”
He turned into the main terminal and scanned the line of expectant relatives and chauffeurs holding name cards. Two men stood apart from the crowd, in the corner, one holding a large piece of card with ‘Reinhard’ clearly written in thick black pen.
One man held a chauffeur’s hat and the other guy was the size of a house.
Montrose walked over and fixed his face hard. “I’m Reinhard. I take it you’re from Kessler.”
“I am Herr Shechter,” said the big guy. “Head of Security for Herr Kessler.”
Kessler. The Banker.
Shechter adopted a professional bearing, but his sheer bulk was menacing. He looked like he could stop a meteorite.
“Shall I take your luggage, sir?” asked the chauffeur.
“That won’t be necessary.” Montrose tightened his grip on the leather
bag. “Let’s go.”
“This way, please, Herr Reinhard.” The chauffeur headed towards the exit.
Montrose followed, noticing Shechter falling in behind. Man Mountain knows what he’s doing, which is more than I do.
They walked in a line out into the bright afternoon sunlight of Zurich. The chauffeur stood before a Mercedes and opened the rear passenger door.
“We should be there in about twenty minutes, sir.”
Shechter walked slowly around the car and got into the rear. Montrose stepped in beside him. The Mercedes pulled away smoothly from the curb.
Montrose patted the Nazi pass in his pocket then fixed his gaze straight ahead, searching for the road signs out of town. They soon approached the suburbs, the houses gaining in opulence as they got closer to the city. Damn, this place could be crammed with wartime loot and no one would ever know. The official version was to deny everything, but he knew that the Nazis had sold over a billion dollars of gold to the Swiss during the war. Gold stolen from the countries they had plundered, and gold from the teeth of Jews. The Swiss said nothing, they just did the deal. Bankers to the Holocaust, they deserved that tag. How many other high-ranking Nazis had stashed their loot here? Sure as hell the Swiss weren’t going to tell. Especially not the Americans, since they had accidentally bombed the crap out of them a few times. What was the name of the place? Schaffhausen? Some dork in the USAF trying to bomb a Rhineland chemical plant hadn’t even managed to get the right country, never mind the right town, though not everyone had been convinced it was such a big deal, considering the Swiss were also selling arms and munitions throughout the war to their Nazi customers. Not much of a price for bankrolling the destruction of Europe.
He took in the buildings as they flashed past. This was how southern Germany must have looked before the Allied bombers took up landscape gardening from fifteen thousand feet.
The broad boulevards soon led to the centre of the city and became a grid of arrow-straight streets, lined with grand facades bordered by medieval passageways. There was an endless array of small, shiny metal plaques on buildings, interspersed with expensive boutiques. Finance companies, international investment companies and sometimes just a name. All very discreet, but the place stank of money.