by John Gubert
Jacqui held her hand to her chest. “This is getting too nerve racking” she said. “That mountain village is looking ever more inviting. Even though I hate the national dishes in Switzerland, I’d even eat roesti and apfelstrudel every day.”
I laughed. “You’d lose your figure in a month.”
“Better than my mind.”
We relaxed now. We were heading out of the tunnel. There was no sign of the cars. We turned to Chamonix and then headed down from the slopes of Mont Blanc towards Lake Geneva.
Glistening in the valley, the lake with its fountain had always fascinated me. On the one hand there was the manicured surroundings, especially in the gardens near the old League of Nations. In other parts it had a natural beauty, not wild but gentle and feminine. It contrasted with the solid buildings on its quays. It was mocked by the ugliness of the buildings, more modern, generally in the financial centre on the far shore. And after ten at night, it revelled in it loneliness as the vast majority of its law abiding citizens fled the streets and made the place feel like a ghost town.
I parked the car near one of the quays and we crossed the bridge to the financial area. Fucquet was close by. It occupied an island site. And, if you did not know the bank, it would have been difficult to identify where the door was located. It was one of those discrete Swiss banks. It had two principles.
The first was to avoid attention from the general populace. There was no plaque above the door. No garish company logo. No sign that the door was a door and not just another smoked glass window. Its second principle was the principle of total confidentiality and anonymity. It could not prevent two customers turning up at the same time at the front door. But once inside, no customer ever saw another, One was escorted to a waiting room. One left after a check had been run on the other visitors and on the approach to the building. One was only allowed to exit if the whole area was clear.
We were in the room alone for a couple of minutes. Monsieur Pierre arrived and greeted me politely. “I believe you wish to transact some business.”
“Yes there are two things I need to do. I have a package to place in the vault in my safe deposit box. And I would also like to open a US dollar call account. I would be planning to wire around a hundred million dollars to it next week. I need access to the deposit box and the account to go to the usual account holders and also to this lady. You do not need to mention her surname in public. Her name for your purposes is Mlle Jacqueline.”
“That is somewhat irregular, M. De Roche,” said Pierre, nervously straightening his tie and then playing with his solid gold cufflinks.
I frowned. “This is my account. Why is it irregular?”
“We are a reputable bank. We have no problem with your instructions in respect of Mlle Jacqueline. We need to have an identity document that we can copy and hold in our records. It need not be in the name you have given but it must always be used to gain access to the bank. I apologise if this upsets you but we need to know the source of the money for there are regulations covering money laundering. We need to be able to answer questions.”
“My dear M. Pierre. I can assure our that the money is totally legal. It will come to you through the United Bank in Monte Carlo. It is not coming in bank notes but by wire transfer. As you know, we have substantial fund management operations. The monies are simply a new account. The client, who is a mutual client, has asked us to operate the cash account with you. For him, a hundred million is nothing. If we are successful in managing it, he promises to grow the account. And that would mean hundreds of millions. It goes without saying that we will be using your bank for some of the dealing. If though, you are concerned, I am only too happy to ask him to go to Pictet. I believe he deals with them as well.”
Pierre was no fool. He was not sure if he should trust me. But a hundred million was still just credible as seed money for a fund. We would have liked to make it more but felt that would have raised too many suspicions. This was laundering through the banks – later we would use other routes for the bulk of the money. But, as we had agreed with my father, the arrival of Jacqui and the Di Maglio name, meant we could start sooner than we had hoped.
Pierre had an account for one of our phoney companies. He could not tell who my client was. He knew he could not check out with any client even if he knew their name. Quite simply his clients expected secrecy.
They expected their bankers to ignore what money they moved where. They did not want to be asked if it was right to move money from a charitable trust to a company account. And that was even when the bank knew the account belonged to a drug baron. They knew that any such question would cost them dearly. It would be regarded as evidence of indiscretion. Discretion was bought from Fucquet. In this case the price would be a sub market interest rate on the hundred million and fees for the privilege of holding the account.
It was robbery if it was not accompanied by absolute discretion.
“Perhaps you could consider the question while you complete the formalities for Mlle Jacqueline. She will give you her passport as evidence, but remember that you must always refer to her as Mlle Jacqueline.”
This had not been planned but I could see that Jacqui understood why. Her passport was in her real name. The banker would recognise it. He would have an account for the family. For he was that sort of banker. Not Mafia, but private and discreet. Not immoral, but definitely amoral. Indeed little separated him from his colleagues in the First International Bank in Caymans. Other than one key thing. That was Pierre was bright, very bright. And, as a partner in the bank, he was very rich. And he wanted to remain so to ensure that his successors became even richer when they ran the bank.
He took Jacqui’s passport. He glanced at it. I could see his eyes open wide as he saw the full name. It read “Jacqueline Madonna Di Maglio, born 1985 in Manhattan, New York.”
“I believe I have had the honour of meeting your father. Is he a resident of Geneva?”
Jacqui nodded and said “But I am not here as his representative. I represent others.”
I thought “Bravo, Jacqui. That was a brilliant reply.”
For again, one could see Pierre’s mind working. The coded message had said that he would have trouble if he talked about this meeting with her father. He might or might not be behind the money. If it were another relative, they might want to keep it secret. Again a door had been closed. Pierre could not even mention the visit, for fear of incriminating himself. He might know that the Di Maglios were as crooked as they come but gone were his fears of money laundering. The Di Maglios did not get caught.
Pierre took the details he required. “I look forward to receiving the money, Monsieur De Roche. If there is any other service we can offer you please do not hesitate to ask.”
Casually I replied, “As I said I hope we can trade with you. We are not looking to borrow money – our clients do not want that sort of leverage.”
We were in fact looking for such a speculative investment strategy that banks would not be keen to lend to us in any event. And, even if they did, they would want all sorts of controls that we preferred to avoid. We were looking to go into a few investments on a really massive scale. We were aiming at risky investments, which were volatile. So if the asset fell, it would not be difficult to wipe out the capital – for that reason we were only planning on betting the first five hundred million rather than the whole amount.
But if the markets went our way, we could make billions. And that was the plan. Not very challenging – other than in one critical area and that was timing. We had to get the timing right. And, as markets had now benefited from a long run of good news and powerful performances, that was becoming more and more probable.
The Di Maglio name had obviously been worth using for a smiling Pierre took the bait.
“I will make arrangements for our credit committee to review the issue. I cannot see any problem as long as you can keep funds with us to cover future margin; a right of set off will suffice.” In other words they
wanted some cash to cover their risks if we lost on our bets.
I thought that was excellent – no better and no worse than we had expected. Once we had laundered the initial stake for the fund we would have over a hundred million dollars to use. I knew my father was monitoring the situation in Asia. He wanted to bet heavily against the Thai Baht and the Korean Won. He thought both looked shaky. His plans were very speculative but possible given the fact that we were willing to lose a chunk of our seed money. After all it had not really cost us anything! It was a high risk strategy. It was like playing double or bust. He would buy the most volatile instruments possible for his purpose. If he got it right with a hundred million and the currencies fell twenty per cent as he expected, then he could make well over half a billion on the deal. At least that was the theory.
Pierre pressed the monitor and waited for the all clear. He accompanied us to the vault and then the lobby. Smiling broadly, he shook our hands. He had obviously fallen hook, line and sinker for the story. The Di Maglio bit especially. We should use that again.
As we walked out, I murmured half to myself, “Where now? I would rather we stayed in Geneva. It’s been a long day.”
“Why don’t we try the Bergues? I’m sure they will have room. I’m exhausted too. Will your father be here? We’re going to have to meet him. But the meeting can wait till tomorrow.”
THE HOTEL
We parked in front of the Bergues. The hotel is one of the older and more elegant ones in Geneva. It is on the Quai that bears its name. I thought of the night before when we had stumbled into the hotel at Juan. Bedraggled and exhausted as we had been, I could not see the Bergues allowing us in had we been in that pitiable state.
As it was we were looking smart. The evening was chilly and one could see that the nights were starting to draw in. It was late September and the summer was over. We both shivered as we pulled the bags from the car. I turned to the doorman:
“Park it please. And can someone take our cases. I’ll keep the bag.”
I was referring to the holdall into which I had stuffed all our clothes from the night before. We would need to get rid of those but not to the hotel laundry.
We stepped into the foyer and headed for reception. A smart looking girl smiled at us. She wore the standard uniform of the hotel. Fashionable suits in blue with ribbing round the collar and lapels.
“Do you have a reservation?”
“No, we were just driving around and decided to spend a couple of days in Geneva. Do you have a suite overlooking the lake?”
“Let me check. Have you stayed here before?”
“No,” I replied. “I am afraid my company usually use the President. I don’t though want to use the standard corporate hotel when travelling privately.”
I knew the Bergues would be choosy about its guests. I was sure my comments gave me credibility. Again I was depending on the renowned discretion of the Swiss. I was with an attractive girl. They would assume she wasn’t my wife. I obviously did not want to meet colleagues. Swiss colleagues would never call to check out how one was travelling. And even if they did, it is doubtful that they would have got a clear response from anyone in a top Swiss hotel.
I sometimes wondered whether Swiss discretion is something that they are born with, or is it something they acquire. It had served us well in the bank and was going to serve us again here. I can only assume that it is inbred, like arrogance in the English aristocracy or chauvinism among the French.
“We can provide you with a suite on the fourth floor. It has a King sized bed, two bathrooms and a good-sized sitting room. It will be eight hundred francs without breakfast.”
That seemed reasonable. I nodded. “Could you send our luggage up immediately? Would you like an imprint of my credit card? Do you need my passport?”
The girl nodded to both questions and passed me the forms to fill in. Once completed and with the credit card voucher signed, she relaxed. She now had her guarantee of payment and I was no longer a suppliant asking for a room. I was a welcome guest. As indeed was Jacqui.
We were whisked up to our room. The crisp white bedclothes were already turned down. The room was large and the lake was spread out in front of the windows in both the bedroom and lounge. There were sliding doors between the two, and I thought this might be a good spot to meet Jacqui’s father. I had no great desire to visit him on his own territory.
The porter dropped the cases in the bedroom. Having gratefully received his tip, he absented himself quickly. Jacqui flopped down on the bed. “I want an early night,” she said, “but first of all I want to freshen up, change and get something to eat.”
“Let’s eat here. I am sure the food is quite good. It’s half five now. How about a drink at seven and then dinner at seven thirty?”
“Done,” said Jacqui as she slipped her hands behind her back, unzipped her dress and stepped out of it in one movement. I am always amazed at the ease with which women handle the awkwardly placed zips in their dresses. The very act of opening them is erotic. The movement of the hands pulls their dress tight over their breasts, which appear to swell in their eagerness to escape at least one layer of confinement.
Men are much clumsier. Their trouser zips are far less elegant. They are more prone to getting stuck. But then the breast is more attractive than the male organ. It perhaps makes up for it by being more erogenous. But attractive it is not. On the beaches of St Tropez one saw evidence of this. On the naturist beaches men flapped ridiculously as they pranced around the sand playing beach tennis. Others lost themselves in the multiple folds of their extended stomachs. Girls would wonder up the beaches, averting eyes from the more exhibitionist of the other sex. I recall one, whose member had defiantly been extended quite dramatically by the surgeon, facing the world proudly, if pathetically, in all his flaccid glory.
Mind you the women were rarely any more exciting. Their naked bodies offering less tantalising a view of womanhood than their better-clad sisters in their skimpy bathing suits do. Jacqui looked splendid in a white lace panty and bra. The panties were cut high on the thighs and low on the stomach. The bra was delicate, cupping her firm full breasts with courage and delicacy.
She took off her tights, her eyes sparkling. “I think we could be later for dinner than we think,” I said as I took a step towards her. We clung together and then drew apart
I took off my jacket and felt her hands undo the buttons of my shirt. Her hands went over my chest. I stroked her back and ran my hands along the edge of her bra. I found the centre and pulled the two ends together. The clips were released and the bra fell free. I eased the straps off her shoulders.
She came again into my arms as we stood there by the window of the bedroom. The sun was gleaming red in the distance, just keeping above the horizon as if it wished to spy on our final act. I had a picture of her the day before still flashing in front of my eyes. I recalled the soapsuds and foam running down her warm wet body in the bathroom at Juan. I shivered slightly, not with cold but with anticipation.
I recalled how she had been lying the night before when I found her fast asleep in the bed. It had been almost as if she was preparing herself to take me, had been thinking of the pleasure to come before being captured by sleep.
I wondered what thoughts were going through her mind. She shared them with me. “Yesterday, I was lying in bed and I could feel myself at the edge as I waited for you. I felt your hands on me just like now.” She moved even closer, crushing up against me.
I felt her hands undo my belt and work on the fastening of my trousers. I gently hooked my hands into her panties and eased them down, lowering myself to my knees. I pressed my face into her stomach and kissed her all over. I felt softness. I felt the odour of woman. She groaned and knelt down next to me, working my trousers and pants down in one go. She remained like that as I stood up and rid myself of the rest of my clothes. By now I was aroused to a state of total desire.
She stood up and we held each other, crushed togeth
er. Our pulses racing. Our hearts beating ever faster. Our every nerve was sensitive to its partner in the other body.
We moved as one onto the bed and in a single movement I felt her body and mine join fully together. Her warmth blended with mine. Eagerness met my longing. We floated pleasingly together. There was an explosion of pleasure as the sun dipped over the horizon. It had satisfied its curiosity and no longer played the voyeur.
We moved gently apart but remained in each other’s arms as the dusk drew in and the moon rushed forward to gain sight of the final moments of our delight.
We lay there quietly, still relishing the warmth and softness of our bodies. We had pulled the soft white feather filled duvet over us. We were not so much touching each other as stroking our bodies together.
I could feel every part of Jacqui as if it were part of me. Her hair was falling over her forehead, still smelling fresh from the mountain air. Her face was full of colour, that olive skin blending happily with the sheen of moisture from my kisses and her own perspiration. Her lips glistened red as she ran her moist tongue over them and then returned them for me to do the same.
Her neck and chest showed signs of our lovemaking. The flush of excitement still visible. The mark of the more passionate kisses only now fading. I could see the rise and fall of her breasts as she still panted slightly, not through exertion but through excitement and contentment.
She spoke. “You look so much gentler when you have made love. Your eyes are softer. Your mouth relaxes. Your face becomes that of the boy I knew again. Everything about you is so different from when we are with others. This is the part of you that only belongs to me.”
I moved back to her and kissed her again. “I love you so much. I don’t want us to part. We will find a way to get your father on side. He will never threaten us.”
“He never would have done what he said. He loves me too, but in a way I can’t take. It was the same with my mother. She was certain he had her brothers killed and could not live with him. He saw that incident as part of his business life, very separate from his love. When she could not forgive him, he exiled her. So she fled from him and from me. Her fear of him in the end was greater than her love of me. It’s the same with me. I will not go all the way with his wishes. He sees the world as one with no half way and therefore if I am not for him I have to be against him.”