The Truth

by Peter James

  But at least tonight Kündz had something that made him happy. On the table beside him, among the remnants of his Kentucky Fried Chicken dinner and empty Coke cans, lay the white envelope with a Swiss postmark, which contained his gift.

  Mr Sarotzini did things like this sometimes. Just when Kündz was feeling really depressed, Mr Sarotzini would do something for him. It was further confirmation that a part of Mr Sarotzini resided inside his head, always knowing his mood, sensing if he was down.

  Fondling the envelope, Kündz began to hum, softly, to himself.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Don Giovanni was sinking through the stage floor and down into hell. Flames erupted all around him, and Kündz smiled.

  Hell.

  He remembered the words of the writer, T. S. Eliot, whose work Mr Sarotzini had encouraged him to study. ‘Hell is oneself.’

  And Don Giovanni kept singing, lamenting, as he went down into hell. Alone. The huge voice of the tenor filled the auditorium. This was great music, and Kündz could not have been happier. He was sitting at Glyndebourne, in his box which could have accommodated half a dozen people but tonight was for his sole pleasure.

  Susan Carter would have enjoyed being here with him. He smiled, wallowing in the music that cascaded down on him. Yes, she would have enjoyed it. The air was balmy, and rich with the scents of all the women in their finery. None of their scents was as good as the smells of Susan Carter, but tonight Kündz didn’t mind. He had Mozart to make him happy, he could wait. It would be soon now. And then Susan Carter was going to make him happy for the rest of his life.

  That had been a promise made by the man who always kept his word.

  Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know. Keats, Kündz remembered. He had been introduced to Keats by Mr Sarotzini.

  He had been introduced by Mr Sarotzini to so much beauty. To this joy of great music, to the riches of fine painting, to the sensuality of great food. And to so much wisdom. He recalled a film he had once watched in Mr Sarotzini’s private screening room. In it, the actors Joseph Cotton and Orson Welles met in a gondola high in the air above an amusement park, the Prata in Vienna. And that was the point at which Mr Sarotzini had stopped the film, instructed him to listen carefully, then restarted it.

  And Orson Welles, who was playing the role of a man called Harry Lime, turned to Joseph Cotton, angry but restrained, and said: ‘“In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed – but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock.”’

  Then Mr Sarotzini had stopped the film again, turned to Kündz and asked him if he understood. Kündz, who had never dared to lie to Mr Sarotzini, told him that no, he did not understand. Mr Sarotzini replied that one day he would.

  And now Kündz looked down into the stalls, which were erupting into applause, as the curtain fell. People were rising from their seats and he rose with them, clapped with them and joined in the call, the cry for the encore. And he imagined that he was in that gondola, high above the Prata, he imagined he was Joseph Cotton and that Harry Lime was speaking to him.

  Below, and around him, the audience chanted, ‘More! More! More!’

  He chanted as well, and then he wept for joy. Tears torrented down his cheeks. He wept at the sheer beauty, and because of all the emotions the music had stirred within him, and because of the magnificence of the secret he kept in his heart. He wished he could share it with all these people who had been swept away, like him, by the music. He wished he could rush down onto that stage, and hush them all, and call out: It is near, it is so near!

  But Mr Sarotzini would never have forgiven him.

  So instead he contented himself with looking down at them, watching them clapping, watching the rapture on their faces. Few noticed him, alone in his box, none was aware of the true nature of the elation he was feeling.

  None knew of the white envelope in his pocket, the one in which the ticket for this box had been sent to him. None knew that to receive a white envelope from Mr Sarotzini was an honour for which there was no equal on earth.

  Minutes later Kündz moved through the jostling crowds pressing themselves into the exits. Those who noticed him saw a man in a dinner jacket, a tall guy, built like a American-football quarterback, a foreigner, perhaps. They did not hear the special way the music of Mozart still played on inside his head. They did not know he had a white envelope in his pocket. They could not hear his thoughts, they could not know the things that Kündz knew, that secret he carried.

  They should have been grateful for their innocence.

  That was what Kündz thought as he stood outside, waiting for Mr Sarotzini’s black Mercedes limousine to collect him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The wind flailed John’s hair, and the spray flecked his sunglasses. The prow of Archie’s powerboat skimmed across the glassy blue water of the Solent, heading towards the battlements of the Royal Yacht Squadron and the entrance to Cowes harbour. There was a flat, steady drone from the twin inboard engines, and an occasional smacking thump as they crossed another boat’s wake.

  Archie was now Mr Toad of the waterways. In his tiny oval sunglasses and rope-patterned short-sleeved shirt, he sat at the helm, high up in the open cockpit, surrounded by the monitors and dials of enough high-tech navigational aids to have enabled a fleet of spacecraft to circumnavigate the universe.

  Behind them, on the sumptuous, white-cushioned sun-deck, Susan and a striking brunette Spanish model named Pila, Archie’s current girlfriend, lay spread out, sunbathing topless.

  Archie dug his fingers into his gin and tonic, pulled out a small piece of ice and lobbed it at Pila. It was a bullseye, landing right in her belly-button. She sat up with a start. ‘You bassard!’ She lobbed it hard back, with wild aim, and John had to duck as it went past him and struck the windscreen. He could not tell whether Susan, eyes masked behind her sunglasses, was awake or asleep. He smiled as Pila waved him an apology, then turned and continued looking out across the water at the vast canvas of the hot June afternoon.

  There were boats as far as the eye could see, mostly sail-boats, some on their own, some grouped in races, all motionless, their sails hanging listlessly, waiting for even the smallest puff of breeze to fill them.

  He watched a fort slip past, breathed in the salt, seaweed, ozone tang of the sea and could not get the thought out of his mind: it was Monday tomorrow. And there had been no further phone call from Mr Sarotzini.

  ‘So,’ Archie said, suddenly, ‘you reckon your Swiss connection, this Sarotzini man, is blowing you out?’

  ‘I’m sure I would have heard back by the end of the week,’ John said.

  ‘I did a search on his bank for you,’ Archie said.

  ‘You did?’ John was surprised.

  ‘Uh huh. The Vörn, right? V-ö-r-n?’ Archie spelled it.

  ‘Yes. Thanks, what did you find?’

  ‘Goose eggs.’

  ‘Goose eggs?’

  ‘Zilch. But that doesn’t necessarily mean much. Vörn could be its trading name – it might be registered as something different.’

  The boat thumped hard through the heavy wake from a ferry and spray fogged John’s sunglasses. He removed them and wiped them, with only moderate success, on his salty T-shirt.

  ‘Half my clients are banks that only exist on paper,’ Archie continued. ‘You try to trace them back, you end up with nominee directors in Liechtenstein who are working for nominee directors in Panama, who are working for the subsidiary of a shell that’s registered in the Cayman Islands. Classic Mafia money-laundering technique.’

  John frowned. ‘Think this could be Mafia?’

  ‘Do you?’ Archie threw the question back at him, and shook out a cigarette. He lost his concentration as he reached into a cubby-hole for his lighter and the boat veered off-
course, then rolled sharply as he over-corrected. Some of John’s gin and tonic slopped out of the glass.

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘This Sarotzini character. Sounds sort of Italian. Is he Italian?’

  ‘No, I assumed he was Swiss, I suppose, I don’t know. His accent is more German than Italian.’

  ‘I can’t find anything on him, either. Nobody’s heard of him.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘There are players who keep a low profile. Might not be his real name – you didn’t ask him?’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ John said, with a grin, taking a long pull on his drink. ‘First thing I said to him, Arch – “Can I borrow a million quid and, by the way, is that your real name?”’

  Archie grunted, his concentration distracted by a flashing orange blip on one of his navigation screens. ‘Don’t know what the fuck that means,’ he said, twiddling a couple of knobs. He called up a help menu and began to study it. ‘Keep an eye out ahead.’

  ‘I am.’ John scanned the water: at the speed they were going, sail-boats came up fast.

  Still studying the menu, and fiddling with more dials and buttons now, Archie said, ‘It’s a long shot, but I’ve got an Arab client who’s looking for technology companies to buy. I’ve given you a hard sell.’

  ‘Thanks. Did he bite?’

  Archie hesitated. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that, but he didn’t turn you down flat. He’s in the frame. How’re you getting on with Big Jim?’

  That was the liquidator Archie had recommended. John had signed and carefully filed away a wodge of phoney, backdated documents Big Jim had helped him prepare, and he was nervous: it was the first time he had ever done something fraudulent, although the liquidator had assured him that this went on all time, that it was almost standard practice for any company going down the tubes.

  Archie’s Arab didn’t sound much of a prospect and John suspected that his friend had only mentioned it to try to keep up his morale. He was dreading tomorrow and all that the coming week was going to bring. Dreading it. He was going to have to tell Gareth and the rest of his staff, although he was going to have one final last-ditch attempt at reaching a deal with Zak Danziger. He had asked his lawyer to set up a meeting for tomorrow, to try to persuade Danziger that if DigiTrak did go to the wall there would be nothing at all for him.

  He wasn’t looking forward to that meeting either. Next to the subhuman Clake, Danziger was probably the most unpleasant person John had ever met.

  ‘Got it!’ Archie said suddenly. ‘The orange blip. It’s an aeroplane going overhead!’

  ‘Well, that’s useful to know,’ John said.

  Archie gave him a sideways glance, unsure whether he was being serious or taking the mickey.

  John was normally at his desk before eight o’clock, but on this Monday he’d dragged his feet while getting ready. Susan, her voice heavy with emotion, had wished him lots of luck and, unusually for her, had set off for work before him.

  Because he had left late, he got caught up in heavier traffic, and it was nine fifteen before he reached the office. Stella greeted him with the news that Mr Clake had phoned and needed to speak to him urgently.

  ‘Fuck him,’ John snapped, startling her. He slammed the door behind him, hung up his jacket, then sat at his desk and switched on his computer. A stack of post awaited him and another of e-mail, none of which he had any enthusiasm to tackle. His back and the tops of his shoulders were raw – sunburned yesterday on Archie’s boat.

  Why had Clake rung? To remind him of what he already knew, that he had just two days left to his deadline? To gloat? Calming down a little, he buzzed Stella and asked her to get the bank manager for him.

  Moments later, Clake was on the line. He did not sound like the same Mr Clake John had met almost a month ago.

  ‘Mr Carter,’ he said. ‘This is a very encouraging development!’

  John wondered if the man had misheard his secretary and thought he was talking to someone else. The only encouraging development he could think of was either that Clake was terminally ill or that he was leaving the bank. What the hell was he talking about? ‘Which development exactly do you mean?’ he asked, cautiously.

  ‘The one and a half million pounds from the Vörn Bank.’ It was Clake’s turn to sound a little strange.

  John heard the words but took several moments to comprehend them. ‘The Vörn Bank?’ he echoed, finally, his pulse starting to race.

  Some of the good humour evaporated from Clake’s voice. ‘You do know about this, I presume, Mr Carter?’

  ‘Yes – I – I –’ John started to bluff. ‘I’ve been in negotiation with them, but –’ He wasn’t sure how to go on, and was almost too excited to think clearly. ‘I wasn’t expecting the funds quite yet.’

  ‘I have explicit instructions from a Mr Sarotzini. The sum of one point five million pounds has been transferred from the Vörn Bank in Geneva in Switzerland and lodged in a temporary account they have opened with us, pending transfer to DigiTrak when documentation has been completed. The Vörn Bank has indicated to us that they anticipate the transfer should occur by the end of this week. In view of the circumstances, Mr Carter, should it be necessary, I am prepared to allow you a few days’ grace on my bank’s original deadline.’

  John could not believe that this was happening. He wanted to throw his arms around Mr Sarotzini and hug him. Tears were welling in his eyes, and his voice was choked. He swallowed, trying to compose himself, not wanting Clake to know that this was a complete surprise.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, pausing again to control his voice. ‘I appreciate the extension.’

  ‘No bank likes to see a valued customer go out of business,’ Mr Clake said. ‘I can assure you, Mr Carter, that no one is more delighted by this news than myself.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ John replied, swallowing the man’s hypocrisy. Right now he was filled with almost as much gratitude towards him as he was towards Mr Sarotzini.

  Just after he put down the receiver on Mr Clake, the phone buzzed. It was Stella. She had Mr Sarotzini on the line.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from my bank,’ John said to him. ‘Thank you – I’m just incredibly grateful.’

  Mr Sarotzini replied, in a tone that was coldly formal, ‘We have deposited these funds, Mr Carter, to demonstrate our good faith. You have yet to agree our terms.’

  John barely heard him. He was thinking about Susan’s face when he told her the news, about how he was no longer going to have to say anything to Gareth or his staff, about the house that they were going to be able to keep, after all. He didn’t care about terms, he was going to have to accept them. ‘Of course,’ he replied.

  ‘Are you and your wife free to join me at my club for dinner tonight, perhaps?’

  ‘My wife?’ John said, a little surprised.

  ‘Yes, I should like to meet her.’

  It struck John as an odd request, but he and Susan had no plans, he was certain, and even if they did they’d have to cancel them. ‘Sure, yes – I – I’m sure she would be delighted.’

  ‘Good,’ Mr Sarotzini said. His voice was still cold, but John hardly noticed. ‘My driver will collect you both from your home at seven thirty this evening.’

  John was so elated, and his brain was in such a whirl, that all he wanted to do right now was call Susan and tell her the news. It did not occur to him that he had never given Mr Sarotzini his home address. ‘Seven thirty,’ he said. ‘Perfect.’

  Chapter Twenty

  It was quiet in Mr Sarotzini’s club, and John wondered whether the establishment was more of a lunchtime venue than an evening one. Although, of course, it was a Monday night. Only a few tables were occupied, and many were not even laid. One elderly steward was occupying himself by aligning the cutlery on a nearby table.

  ‘The Napa Valley,’ Mr Sarotzini said. ‘Yes. The French have much reason to be grateful to the Americans. When phylloxera destroyed so many of the great vines of Bordeaux
in the 1880s, they were replanted with rootstock from the East Coast. You have been to any of the wine regions, Mrs Carter? You know the Napa Valley?’

  They were in an alcove, which could not have been more private. John stared at Mr Sarotzini across a small cut-glass vase of yellow carnations. The banker was eating quails’ eggs. Susan, who had a plate of Parma ham and melon, told him that she had been there.

  She looked stunning tonight, and John felt more proud of her than ever before. She was wearing a new suit, which she had rushed out and bought after he had phoned her the good news; the jacket was stone-coloured with black abstract markings, and the matching skirt was plain and elegant. Under the jacket she had on a simple white open-necked blouse, and a silver pendant on a velvet band round her throat. She always dressed well, but he had never seen her look classier.

  Mr Sarotzini reeled off a list of towns, villages, vineyards, and Susan responded enthusiastically. She talked about soil, escarpments, canyons and valleys, about specific density, alkaline soil, late harvesting, and John remembered now that a couple of years ago she had edited a book on Californian wines, a technical, scientific guide to the industry.

  Mr Sarotzini raised his wine glass and said, ‘“Forsake not an old friend, for the new is not comparable to him. A new friend is as new wine; when it is old, thou shalt drink it with pleasure.”’ He stared pointedly at her.

  ‘Ecclesiasticus,’ she responded.

  Mr Sarotzini smiled. ‘Remarkable.’ He turned to John. ‘You have a remarkable wife, Mr Carter. You are aware of this?’

  Susan laughed freely. ‘He needs reminding sometimes!’

  John grinned. He peeled a quail’s egg, dipped it into some salt and ate it. He’d never tried one before, and had decided that if Mr Sarotzini ate these for lunch every day, they must be special. But it was disappointing. It tasted, in his view, as bland as any ordinary hard-boiled egg.

  Susan was enjoying herself: she had taken an instant liking to Mr Sarotzini. She loved his elegant appearance, his old-world courtly charm, his cultured voice, the humorous twinkle in his eyes, although she was finding it hard to put an age on him. At one moment his features looked delicate to the point of frailty, particularly in the way he ate, taking tiny mouthfuls of his shrimps and bread and butter, chewing slowly like an elderly man nervous of choking. But at the next there was an assured, confident flow in the way he moved, in the way his manicured hands gestured animatedly as he conversed, and in the power that his erect, lean body radiated. It was then that she could see a deep strength within him, the grace and power of a lion.