Lonsdale sized up his host: about fifty-five, five-ten, weighing about a hundred and seventy pounds, and athletic. Bodner was eyeing the manila envelope in his visitor's hand.
“No, thank you, Mr. Bodner, no coffee for me.”
“Nor for me then either,” Bodner said to Frau Fischer. “Please make sure we're not disturbed,” he added. She withdrew. “Shall we sit?”
Lonsdale took the armchair nearest the wall then watched the banker arrange himself in the armchair opposite. He was wearing a beautifully tailored charcoal-gray three-piece suit and a pearl gray tie over a flawlessly ironed, blinding-white shirt. Bodner took off his glasses and put them on the table, rubbed the bridge of his nose with index finger and thumb, adjusted the matching pochette in his breast pocket, then leaned back and linked his hands over his midriff, thumbs pointing upward. “Now then Monsieur Cherriex” he smiled pleasantly. “How can we be useful to each other?”
“I don't know how I can be of use to you, Herr Bodner,” Lonsdale said in English, “but you can certainly be of use to me.”
Taken aback, Bodner did not quite know what to say. “I'm sorry, but I do not understand. Did you not say your name was Cherriex and that you were from Brussels?”
“No, I did not. I said my name was Cherriex and that I was from Belgium.”
“Brussels, Belgium, what's the difference? Let us not split hairs.”
Lonsdale took the plunge. “Herr Bodner, I came to see you because I need some information. I hope you'll give it to me.”
“What kind of information?”
“About ten years ago a man opened an account with your bank. I want details relating to that bank account.”
“We don't give out this sort of information.”
“I think you might if I gave you the man's name.”
“What is his name?” Bodner snapped, visibly put out.
Watching intently, Lonsdale told him. Although the banker had steeled himself against giving anything away he couldn't help but blink at the mention of Montalba's name. “How can I know about such a thing?” Bodner was becoming annoyed. “We have thousands of clients. You don't expect me to remember one in particular who may have opened an account with us ten years ago, do you? Besides, what has all this to do with our common interests in Brussels?”
“Nothing.” Lonsdale reached for the manila envelope on the table in front of him. “I was afraid you might say you couldn't remember, so I brought you something to jog your memory, and galvanize you into action.”
“What kind of action?” The banker's anger rose.
“Like checking your records, getting a printout of the account … that kind of a thing.”
“How dare you come in here on false pretenses and then ask me brazenly to break the bank secrecy law?” Bodner shouted and reached for the telephone on the end table beside him. “I am calling security to have you escorted out of here.”
Lonsdale held up his hand. “You don't want to do that before you look at these.” He handed Bodner the envelope and watched as the man extracted the pictures in it.
He glanced at them and then grabbed a lead-glass ashtray and hurled it at Lonsdale, who ducked in the nick of time. The heavy object struck a painting of Napoleon on horseback behind Lonsdale, splitting it. The picture clattered to the floor as Lonsdale scrambled out of his chair to subdue his attacker.
Bodner was waiting for him. He grabbed a bronze lamp off the end table and came swinging at Lonsdale, who sidestepped, but not before the shade scored his left cheek. The momentum of his swing made the banker spin around and he got entangled in the electric cord. Lonsdale kicked his legs from under him and the two tumbled into a heap on the floor. Lonsdale tried to roll away, but Bodner would not let go of his left trouser leg, ripping the fabric as he pulled at it. Lonsdale, on his back, kicked him in the head with his right foot, but the kick was badly aimed, and hardly slowed Bodner who scurried away and stood up somehow as Lonsdale got to his knees. Bodner, stronger than Losndale had expected, threw himself at Lonsdale who brought his right elbow up and hit the Swiss just above the temple.
The man went down like a stunned ox, out cold.
Lonsdale staggered to his feet and surveyed the damage. Other than the painting, the lamp, and his trouser leg, nothing seemed to have been damaged, not even the ashtray, which had ended up on the seat of the armchair on which Lonsdale had been sitting.
Lonsdale felt his face. No blood, probably only a nasty scratch. He looked at Bodner who was not doing well. He was unconscious. His breathing was shallow, and he was probably suffering from a concussion.
Got to get some water to revive the bugger, Lonsdale said to himself. He needed to find the door to the private bathroom without which no self-respecting Swiss chief executive could exist. He went to Bodner's desk and carefully inspected the walls to the left and right of it. Sure enough, between the end of the bookshelf and the window there were almost imperceptible parallel breaks in the brocade about three feet apart. He tried pressing on the wall. There was a click and a door swung open. Lonsdale went into the bathroom, soaked two hand towels in cold water and returned to Bodner.
The banker came to slowly, moaning softly, his head moving from side to side. There was a lump the size of a small egg above his left temple and a nasty welt on his right cheek where Lonsdale's shoe had grazed it. His waistcoat had a couple of buttons missing, as did his jacket. His once beautiful white shirt was a mess. “Time to wake up sweetheart,” Lonsdale told him and dropped one of the towels on the banker's face. Bodner spluttered, then reached for the towel and wiped his face. Lonsdale helped him to an armchair and, fetching a pillow from the sofa, made him comfortable. Then he knelt down and held up his index finger.
“Look at my finger Bodner and try to follow it with your eyes,” he said. Instead, Bodner kicked him in the stomach. Lonsdale fell back, winded—the kick had been well aimed and strong. Bodner staggered to his feet. Lonsdale, fighting nausea, somehow managed to kick the man's legs from under him once more. This time Bodner fell between the armchair and the coffee table, banging his head on the way down. Lonsdale left him there and sat down in the armchair opposite. His stomach was in spasm and he attempted to ease the pain by taking a few deep breaths. Bodner tried to get up, but Lonsdale gave the coffee table a vicious push and jammed the banker against the armchair.
“Listen you disgusting man. You try one more stunt like this and I'll beat you within an inch of your life.” He got up with difficulty and leaned over the Swiss. “You saw the pictures and you know what would happen if they got into the wrong hands.”
Bodner nodded dumbly.
“Well then, cooperate. Don't make me go to the police and the press with them.”
“Who … who are you?”
“Never mind all that. Just get me a copy of the account.”
Bodner shook his head. “I don't give in to blackmailers, ever. There is no end to it.” He tried to get up, but Lonsdale knelt on the coffee table to keep it pressed against the banker's body.
“I'm no ordinary blackmailer, Bodner. Actually, I'm not a blackmailer at all.”
Bodner snorted “Why are you here then?”
Lonsdale thought fast. “To put money in your client's bank account.”
“What?”
“To put money in your client's bank account” Lonsdale repeated and got off the table. Bodner twisted himself upright and Lonsdale handed him the other wet towel. The man wiped his face again then looked around and spotted the photographs on the table, where he had dropped them. He collapsed into the armchair.
“Where did you get these? I demand to know if it was Pierre who gave them to you.”
“Pierre? Who's Pierre?”
“Your brother, you lying bastard.” Bodner was working himself into a rage again.
“Take it easy Bodner. You're way off base.” Lonsdale made himself sound as conciliatory as possible. “I chose the name Cherriex because in one of the pictures, in the background there is a delicat
essen and caterer's shop called Cherriex. Now that you mention it, it does say Cherriex and Frères. I guess you know Pierre Cherriex, who must have a brother called Jean.”
“So what is your name?”
“Bernard Lands.”
“And where are you from?” Lonsdale saw that Bodner was feeling better and that he did not have a concussion. His questions were too sharp for that.
“Miami, Florida.”
“And what do you want from Mr. Montalba?” Lonsdale was pleased with the question. He sensed Bodner wanted to negotiate, to save face, to feel he was not betraying his client.
“I want to put a million U.S. dollars into his account.”
“Well then, do so.” Bodner sounded imperious. “Send it to us and we will credit his account.”
Lonsdale took a menacing step toward his host who backed away.
“Nice try, Bodner, but it won't work. I am not sending you money until you let me see a copy of the account.”
“That is out of the question.”
“Very well then, listen. Your client, who opened the account ten years ago and who, as you know, is Cuba's minister of the Interior, desperately needs the money I am prepared to send him. His life may depend on it. As you see, my group has ways of finding out and documenting things. We are careful and discreet, and we don't bail out our business associates when they say they are in trouble without checking out their story. Montalba told us he has, to use his words, 'relatively little money' and that he urgently needed a million dollars more. We are ready to help, but we want to be sure we are not being led by the nose.”
“A likely story.” Bodner was holding his head. It was aching and the pain was getting worse by the minute.
“Fine, don't believe me. But remember this. If, because of your stubbornness, Montalba gets into trouble it will affect me and my people. Whether his goons get you or not, we will make these photographs public, just to hurt you, to punish you, so to speak, for hurting one of us.”
“How do I know your name is really Bernard Lands and that you are telling the truth?”
Lonsdale took a deep breath. “Call the Hotel Baur-au-Lac and ask for me. If I am registered there they must have my passport and credit card numbers. N'est-ce pas?”
Bodner got to his feet with a groan and staggered over to his desk. He pressed the intercom and asked Frau Fischer to call Bernard Lands at his hotel. In no time Frau Fischer reported that Mr. Lands, who was indeed registered, was out. Was there any message?
“Never mind.” Bodner hung up and turned to his visitor. “You've scored a point, but how do I know you didn't just borrow the name, which you could have overheard in the hotel's lobby?”
He's thinking clearly again, Lonsdale said to himself and answered brazenly. “You don't, but think carefully. If I were an ordinary kind of blackmailer would I go to all this trouble?”
Bodner seemed to hesitate, and Lonsdale was sure he was going to cooperate. It was only a question of time.
The banker sat down and remained motionless for a while. Depressed, he stared at a fixed point above Lonsdale's head. Then he turned on his computer and keyed in some numbers. Within thirty seconds his printer spewed out Montalba's account activity since inception: three sheets of paper. After glancing at them the banker handed them to Lonsdale. “Your friend has about three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in his account, which he deposited over a twelve-year period. There have been no withdrawals. The account is not in his name, but in that of his daughter, Maria Teresa. Montalba remains the sole signatory as long as he's alive.”
Lonsdale glanced at the sheet. Bodner's summary was dead on. Montalba was putting aside money for his only child, his daughter. But where did the money come from? Lonsdale looked at the papers in his hand again. All deposits, except the first thousand dollars, were wire transfers from the National Bank of Mexico.
“You've got what you wanted,” Bodner ordered, still dazed. “Now get out.”
Lonsdale turned on his heel and left, straightening his tie as he passed Mrs. Fischer on the way out.
Back in his room he cleaned up then booked himself an appointment with the hotel's masseur in the steam room and on his way down in his bath-robe, bought a new shirt and pair of pants in the Baur-au-Lac's haberdashery. By the time he got to the sauna his muscles were beginning to stiffen up and his bruises were seriously hurting.
Bodner had been a far more effective physical adversary than Lons- dale had expected.
Lonsdale spent a half hour in the steam room and another forty minutes with the massseur under whose capable and soothing fingers the kinks and knots in Lonsdale's muscles soon dissolved. Thus, by late lunchtime he could move his body almost without pain.
Almost. There was still pain, but it was bearable.
Lonsdale had a double vodka and San Pelegrino in the grill, followed by a roast beef sandwich washed down with strong espresso. At three he called for a limousine to drive him to Vaduz, Liechtenstein's capital city.
Then he checked out.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Tuesday and Wednesday
Jethou, The Islands of Jersey
Built on a bluff, Antony Benedict's magnificent house on the Island of Jethou offered spectacular views of the ocean from every window, but none more dramatic than the one from the living room, cantilevered out over the sea.
Sipping a double Absolut with San Pelegrino, Lonsdale told his host about the purpose of his visit while, a hundred feet beneath him, the sea boiled as it exploded against the rock then retracted, only to come racing back to crash again into the mass of the island.
A corporate lawyer, Benedict practiced his profession from his spacious home office, and specialized in forming and administering offshore corporations around the world. A graduate of Trinity College, Cambridge, he'd been a University rowing “blue.” Although years of easy living had made him overweight you could still see the power in his shoulders and barrel chest that had caused his teammates to elect him with one voice their scull's “stroke,” or lead rower.
The lawyer had bought Jethou, an island in the English Channel between Jersey and Guernsey, after living twelve years in the Caribbean, where he had acquired firsthand knowledge of the chicanery and double—dealings of members of the international jet set. During these years—his years in the monkey house he called them—he had also learned that the super rich showed one common concern: how to protect their assets from confiscation triggered by sudden and violent political upheaval.
“What I need is for you to incorporate an offshore company in Switzerland and to open a bank account for it,” Lonsdale told Bendict, whom he had known for years and who had assisted him very ef- fectively in the past. “After that, I want this company to appear to be owned by you, but its shares, which will all be bearer shares, will be in my possession. Once this is done, I'll have someone wire a million and a half U.S. dollars into your trust account in Cayman.” Lonsdale looked up at his host. “I assume the account is still at Bar-clay's Bank?”
Benedict nodded and Lonsdale continued. “The money will arrive with instructions saying to be called for by X.” He looked at Benedict again and asked “What would you like X to be?”
“You mean what name we are to use?”
“Precisely.”
Benedict pursed his lips. “How about some sort of a difficultish code name?”
“Like … ?”
Benedict closed his eyes for a few seconds then said: “Let's try D91N.”
“All right with me, but why?”
Benedict laughed. “Think about it for a bit. I'm sure you'll stumble onto the reason sooner or later.” Lonsdale made a face and continued: “As soon as the money arrives transfer it to the Swiss company's bank account.” “Who will have signing authority over the account?”
“For the time being, you will, Anton, and if you die, your partner Caldwell in Cayman will, but Caldwell is not to know who the beneficial owner of the Swiss company is.”
“I have to
tell him something.”
“Then tell him the company is owned by whoever turns up with the bearer shares.”
“Which you will have in your possession.”
“Which I, or, if I die, my legal heirs will have possession of to do with as they please.”
Benedict nodded. “I see what you're trying to achieve. Now tell me, what's her name?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Come off it, Lonsdale.” The lawyer's light-blue eyes twinkled with merriment. “I have known you for fifteen years during which I never once saw you concern yourself with your death, or its effect on your assets.” Benedict rose and, drink in hand, walked over to the large window. He watched the sunset for a while then turned to face his guest.
Lonsdale laughed and told him about Micheline.
“You will be careful, won't you?” said Benedict.
“What do you mean?”
“Look old chap, I'm not trying to pry, but I've been watching your comings and goings during the past decade and a half and I've a general idea of how remarkably well-informed you are. After what you've just asked of me I'm more convinced than ever that your many varied responsibilities, of which, I confess, I know precious little, include the directing of substantial operations one of which seems to be in the process of making its debut, and a well-financed debut at that, I might add.” Benedict took a contemplative puff on his cigar and continued. “I'm rather fond of you, you know that, and I don't want any harm to befall you. That's all.”
Lonsdale was touched. “I promise I'll be careful.”
“You should be at your age, old chap, you should be. I'll look after everything you've asked for first thing tomorrow morning. I'll sell you one of my shell companies and I'll have your bearer shares for you by Monday next. Your company's bank account will also be open by then. You may thus inform your people that they should be prepared to wire the funds next Monday. I'll provide the details when I send you your share certificates. Where do you want them sent?”
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