“The Savona operation was a success,” Valerian said.
Raphael said, “The customs officials are corrupt. The woman who rubber-stamped our shipment was only interested in the amount of cash we handed her.”
“Yes, this was an easy job, logistically. However, it marks the return of Geneva Trust to personally handling these matters for our clients.”
Raphael sipped his brandy. The warm fluid slid into his mouth, numbing his tongue. “Plausible deniability with the Swiss banking authorities still seems like a better option.”
“Our accounts have suffered in recent years due to a hands-off approach.”
“You can’t mean that a teenager, a sixteen-year-old for most of it, was significant in Geneva Trust’s operations. I only did a few jobs a month. I had school work and soccer matches.”
“It is more the perception that we are willing to get our hands dirty that attracts and holds the clients.”
“Just the ones who want bankers with dirty hands.”
“The larger the account, the dirtier the client, it seems to me, and many of these clients are connected to each other. Just a few alternative transactions per month increase returns by several-fold.”
Alternative transactions. “So, it is just money,” Raphael said.
Valerian shifted his shoulders and tapped the glowing end off of his cigar. “It’s never just money, Raphael. Money is merely a measure of power, a way of keeping score. We have far more money on deposit than any government knows, and we like to keep it that way. Enterprises like yours lend our institution a dangerous and edgy cachet that mere interest rates or access to hedge funds can’t.”
Valerian puffed on his cigar, musing.
When Raphael was a child, his father had never smoked, not even a rare cigar with clients. Now, he lit a cigar almost every night, and he was drinking more, too.
“A cachet,” Raphael said. “I don’t think it is so benign. It taints the bank’s reputation.”
“No one else views it as such. You’ll see, Raphael. You’ve just been a bodyguard all these years, protecting Wulfram von Hannover. He seems like a nice enough fellow, but he’s a bit of a recluse and not involved in the world. He’s merely deposed royalty from several generations ago, living off the interest of royal trust funds. I’m sure you’re very good at stiff-arming admirers who want to get too close to him. How much could you have seen with him to understand how the world works?”
Raphael could not mention his military service as Dieter Schwarz, where he saw military force used as power.
He could not mention Rogue Security, which was raw power incarnate.
He could not mention Carl von Clausewitz’s Vom Kriege or military strategy or business theories that one learned while earning a Master of Business Administration degree.
He could not mention honor nor honesty nor sacrifice nor valor.
He could not mention Wulfram’s doctoral thesis on the power of money and his theory of choking off conflict by betting against warfare on the financial markets. Eventually, people who were buying the stocks of ammunition and weapons manufacturers couldn’t stand the pain and sold their stocks at a loss, which choked those companies. Raphael was one of a few people in the world who had read the thesis because Wulfram worked a practical version of his theories from his stock-market command center deep in his house, shorting war like the God of Peace was silently and invisibly working in the world.
Valerian tipped brandy into his mouth and rolled it around on his tongue before he spoke. “The world is a dog-eat-dog place, Raphael. Geneva Trust allows us to wield an uncommon amount of power. People talk about morals this and ethics that, but no one believes what they say. It’s all a ploy to weed out competitors. The weak believe in fair play and public good. They fritter their time and talents away making sure they have their moral rectitude firmly in place, while we, the strong ones, consolidate power and money. No, they won’t dip their fingers in the sordid worlds of drugs and smuggling, but we will, and thus we are stronger than they are. We will have our money and theirs, in the end. We will control it all.”
“How very Ayn-Randian,” Raphael said.
“Absolutely.”
“But how much money do you want? How much is enough?” he pondered.
His father chuckled silently. “All of it.”
“Surely you’ll leave some for the little people.”
“No, you don’t leave any for other people. If they’re smart, they’ll figure out how to take some for themselves. If not, it’s evolution in action. If the poor keep getting poorer, it’s their fault. The middle class is pacified with their huge, cheap televisions and low-end, luxury cars that aren’t any better than the cheap crap they should be buying. They buy things at hugely inflated prices, spending three times as much as they should, and pay us interest for the privilege rather than investing their money or paying taxes to fund health care.”
“Just in the States. Europe is more civilized.”
“Ah, but soon we’ll privatize health care here, too, in the name of efficiency and leaner government. It’ll happen a little at a time as we chip away their benefits or freeze them and allow inflation to do its work.”
“Sounds inevitable,” Raphael said, wishing he could stand up and leave to spend these minutes with Flicka instead of listening to his father’s litany of cruel elitism.
Valerian nodded. “In the end, when they do eventually get sick, people like us will take all their remaining money. They will leave their children nothing, and each generation will be poorer than the last, except for us. We’re getting richer with every passing year, and they’re fighting over who gets the choicest crumbs. It’s the way of the world now.”
“Red in tooth and claw,” Raphael said, gnawing on the end of his cold cigar.
It was interesting how much Flicka agreed with his father in what the world was, just not in what should be done about it. Raphael would far rather live in the world that Flicka would make after she burned it all down, if she lived long enough to do it, and if she wasn’t killed to make Raphael comply.
Yes, Raphael had gotten to know Piotr Ilyin very well during that year when they had worked together, and Piotr had often mused and speculated aloud about his worldview, which was a rougher version of Valerian’s. He supposed that he should be grateful that Valerian had found him and not Piotr. Piotr would have killed Flicka immediately for Raphael’s betrayal and kept Alina as a hostage, perhaps in much worse conditions than a Swiss mansion and all the toys she could want, and he would have made sure Raphael knew that she wouldn’t die quickly.
Valerian said, talking to the dark windows, “Indeed, red in tooth and claw, survival of the most ruthless. I have taken the measure of the world and known it for what it is. It is not ideal. It is not a kind place. I am not sentimental and therefore not a sympathetic figure, but I am dominating at this winner-take-all game of power.”
Raphael laughed. “I can’t believe that my father just told me to hate the game, not the player.”
His father nodded. “I knew you’d understand, though I don’t hate the game. I am, however, very good at playing it. That’s how I won control of Geneva Trust in the family board meetings. I am willing to take the strong position when others dither and worry about our reputation. Bastien would have made us mere bankers, for God’s sake. The other family members saw my bold plans and his weak ones, and they gave me the president’s position. When positions became empty, I made sure the new relatives who sat on the board liked an authoritarian, strong man in control or else convinced them to give up their shares to me. I hold power because I took it, and I have kept it through similar means.”
Raphael swirled the brandy in his glass, warming it with his hand holding the snifter to release the deeper tastes. “I can see that.”
“That’s why I need you, Raphael. Your sisters are sweet, kind women, and they will sink this bank if I let them. Geneva Trust needs someone strong to lead it. It needs someone who will do the dir
ty work and destroy anything that stands in our way. I need you to take the helm when I’m done.”
“It’s good you see that in me,” Raphael said, tasting the darkness of cigar smoke in his mouth.
“Now that this heroin transaction has been completed successfully, you’ll need to meet with Piotr Ilyin. I’ve arranged a meeting tomorrow night for a late supper.”
Raphael paused. “So soon?”
“You’ll be heading his account and, someday, the operation of the bank. He’s our largest client, so you need to make your peace with him. If you do, if you can convince him that you’re his man, this will be much easier. You’ll be an accepted member of the team like anyone else. I’m sure you’re looking forward to a measure of relative safety for Flicka and Alina. You’ll need less security and might even be able to move out of the estate.”
A threat and a bribe. Raphael had expected exactly that. “Flicka will be looking forward to it. She doesn’t do well without an extensive social life.”
Valerian frowned. “It was unfortunate that she jumped the gun with Anaïs, Océane, and the girls. I don’t like how that happened.”
“Océane and Anaïs are smart women. I wasn’t surprised they figured out Flicka was here.”
“Flicka contacted them, didn’t she?”
Raphael laughed. “I have no idea how she would have done that. You’ve taken her phone and every access to communications. I’m surprised you aren’t somehow blocking cellular signals in the house.”
“How do you know we aren’t?” Valerian asked.
Raphael opened his eyes a little more and let his jaw drop. “Are you?”
Valerian smirked. “No, and now I know that you didn’t know that, either, so you must not have a phone.”
Raphael settled back in the chair. He wasn’t a terrible actor. “No, I don’t have a phone, and well-played.”
Valerian laughed. “You’ll make sure Flicka doesn’t do such a thing again, won’t you?”
“I’m not sure she did it in the first place, but I’ll discuss it with her.”
“Your mother feels especially betrayed. Sophie has advocated for Flicka and Alina to have the run of the house instead of being restricted to the guest suite.”
“I think they’ve made up. And it was only a few family members, not an international newscast. Quite honestly, if Flicka had found a phone lying around, she would have called her brother, and he would have swooped in here with a paramilitary force to rescue her. I wouldn’t have been surprised at an amphibious assault from Lake Geneva out the back doors, here.” That’s how Rogue Security would have planned it, anyway.
“Yes, but Sophie rightly feels that this has endangered her daughters. The girls are not actively involved in anything at the bank that could put them in harm’s way. The girls know Flicka and Alina are staying at our house now. If anything happens to either one of them, we will have to ensure that your sisters will not cause trouble.”
Chills crept down Raphael’s back like ice melting down his collar. “I don’t see how a problem could occur at this late date. We’re in final plans for my integration into the bank and the Ilyins. I’ll meet with Piotr Ilyin soon to cement my role in both the organizations. It’s practically settled.”
“Yes,” his father said, holding his glass to his lips. When he turned to Raphael, the library’s dark windows reflected in his gray eyes. “Let’s hope so.”
A Court in Monaco
Flicka von Hannover
Maybe I shouldn’t have watched the news.
Flicka was sitting on the floor with Alina, playing with foam blocks. Flicka was, perhaps inadvisably, stuffing the soft shapes in her own mouth and ears, not to mention weaving them into her hair, to make Alina laugh while the television droned in the background.
They had finished their piano lesson earlier, which mainly consisted of Flicka naming notes and Alina pushing the keys. The toddler knew all the names of the notes. Flicka was planning on introducing the concept of flats the next day.
Flicka wound her hair around a triangular block just above her forehead, making herself look like she had a bright blue unicorn horn.
The television announcer said, “And now some interesting news in the ongoing and very odd saga of the divorce of the Prince of Monaco.”
Flicka spat the foam fangs out of her mouth and batted them out of her ears onto the thick rug, wrenching herself around to look at the television.
“It appears that Pierre Grimaldi’s on-again, off-again marriage to Princess Friederike von Hannover is on again.” The newscaster was grinning an obnoxious, smarmy leer at the marital problems of the filthy rich. “A court in Monaco ruled today that the divorce granted by a Las Vegas judge was invalid. Thus, they’re still married, folks, at least in the postage stamp that is the city-state of Monaco. I’m still surprised that no one has sneezed and blown that ‘country’ into the Mediterranean. It’s up to the rest of the European Union as to whether they’ll recognize the American divorce or the Monegasque un-divorce, but it’s entertainment for all us commoners in the meantime.”
Flicka dropped her face into her hands and sucked a deep breath, trying not to cry in front of Alina.
The jerk news guy continued, “Princess Friederike von Hannover hasn’t been seen since she sprinted out of the Las Vegas courtroom. We assume she’s holed-up somewhere His Serene Highness Pierre Grimaldi, Prince of Monaco, can’t find her and drag her back to her busy schedule of royal duties. If you’re listening, Princess Friederike, you’re still married.”
Alina patted Flicka’s knee. “Flicka-mama, okay?”
Her chest clenched like bungee cords were wrapped around her ribs. “Yes, Alina, my sweet. I’m fine. Of course, I’m fine,” Flicka gasped.
The other newscaster, a woman, said, “I wouldn’t run off if His Serene Hotness were my husband. Have you seen those pictures of him swimming on the beach of Monaco? Holy moly. If the princess doesn’t want that fine piece of man, can I have him?”
Pierre’s public relations team must be engaged in a full-court press. If Flicka didn’t return soon, they would begin to demonize her.
She steeled herself for it.
Flicka said, “Alina, honey. Could you hand me that cup of tea, right there? That’s it—balance—balance—and good girl!”
She sipped the tea.
The gin stung her nose and throat as she swallowed.
She shot the rest down her throat.
If this kept up, she was going to need some stronger tea.
“Come on, Alina-baby. Let’s find Grand-maman. She should probably know about this.”
If anything would make Sophie forgive her for getting her daughters involved in this mess, it was a common enemy that might delay the wedding they were planning, though the future date was still nebulous.
D-Day
Raphael Mirabaud
Just like a Texas Hold’Em table.
In every military campaign, there is an official start to operations.
During World War Two, when the Allies invaded Europe, the amphibious assault began on June 6, 1944, codenamed D-Day. Thirty-three thousand men or more died on French beaches that day.
Today was Raphael’s own, personal D-Day.
Carl von Clausewitz would have been horrified at the possible outcomes of his operational plans. Clausewitz, the military philosopher who had written Vom Kriege, which means On War, formulated strategies such that either Outcome A happened or Outcome B happened, not that the plan was either a success or a failure.
For Raphael, there was no Plan B, except to run. Once he stood up and started events in motion, there was no room for retreat or an alternate course of events. There was only victory or a bullet in the back of his head if he didn’t run fast enough, and he’d have to fight his way past the Russian guards and into the Mirabaud estate, retrieve Flicka and Alina, and fight his way out again.
Escaping had an almost zero chance of success, but it was his only alternative if he wasn’t the pr
esident of Geneva Trust by the end of the day.
Coups d’état are difficult operations. Raphael wished for armies and airplanes. Macro-scale operations that depended on statistics, not personalities, were more likely to succeed.
Raphael sat in the boardroom at Geneva Trust, watching the other members of the GT governing body around the long table. The mahogany table could have easily seated thirty even though everyone sat in chairs with armrests, lest they accidentally rub shoulders or elbows with each other. Geneva Trust was a grand old institution. Cramming stockholders together at a table would have been uncouth.
Twenty other white people, most of them light-eyed and blond- or silver-haired, sat ramrod straight in their chairs, tall and strong. Most were quite closely related.
Some fidgeted with pens or paper.
Most watched whomever was speaking and took notes.
Only a few knew about the battle about to land on their shores.
Ten empty chairs clustered around on the far end of the table. Not every board member came to every meeting. As long as fifteen people were present—which there were—a quorum was established. Thus, binding votes could proceed.
Raphael was counting on that.
Valerian presided over the meeting because he was the president of the bank, swiftly moving from one agenda item to the next. Most actionable items dealt with probable fluctuations in interest rates or commodity prices. Rumors were discussed. Secrets were divulged because the bank came first.
Raphael’s sister Océane sat on the other side of the table a few seats down. Her hair was twisted into a severe knot, and she wore a red scarf knotted around the high collar of her white blouse.
Raphael recognized business battle armor when he saw it. His tie was firm around his neck, and his dark gray suit jacket hung on his shoulders.
Near the end of the meeting, Raphael would put forth a motion of no-confidence in Valerian Mirabaud as the executive officer. When that passed, he would propose another motion that he, Raphael Mirabaud, should take over Geneva Trust as president.
At Midnight Page 10