The Dossier (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 1)

by David N Robinson

  “Which is why I am ringing. I would like very much for you to listen to my version of events. Then and only then, I would genuinely welcome some advice from you about what I should possibly be doing next.”

  Zeltinger hastily removed his black notebook from a jacket pocket and turned to a clean page. The edge was slightly ink-stained. He next took out his pen, now ready to take notes.

  “I’m listening whenever you’re ready,” he said, resigned to the fact that he was not about to be getting to his breakfast rendezvous any time soon.

  126

  Near Geneva Airport

  “So, having heard all of that, what’s your reaction?” Lewis has been pacing as he’s been talking. Holly has been lying on the bed listening.

  “I think it’s a remarkable story. I also think you are both lucky to be alive.” The German sounds incredulous. “Nothing’s going to persuade you to let the police handle the opening of the safe deposit box or whatever it turns out to be, I suppose?”

  “I am sorry. That’s simply not going to happen.”

  “Where are you at the moment?”

  “In a hotel. Near the Swiss border.”

  “Okay, then what I suggest is that you call me the moment you’ve been to whatever bank it is that you are going to. May I give you one word of caution, Ben. If I were you, I wouldn’t be going anywhere near that Italian fellow, Marco Trevoni. His passport, in particular, is rather hot property with the French police at the present time, if you understand my meaning?” Lewis has a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach, remembering that the hotel receptionist scanned a copy of Trevoni’s passport earlier. It is definitely time to be moving on.

  “One further piece of information that you might like to know. There were indeed two bodies at the airstrip last night, as you mentioned: one Russian male and your Chinese friend, Tan Sui-Lee. However, there was no sign of the man you called Panich, the one you say has a ruptured right elbow. Nor of any white Mercedes van either. Just so that you are aware.”

  He puts the phone down and looks at Holly. “We’ve got to hustle. We are due at the bank at ten and I’ve just learnt that Marco Trevoni’s passport is hot property with the French police.

  They call for a taxi and are told they will have to wait ten minutes for it to arrive. The conversation with Zeltinger has made Lewis anxious. Any minute the French police could be about to arrive and arrest them both. Having checked out of their room, they wait in the foyer. Lewis paces up and down, checking his watch. He is seriously considering whether to risk taking the stolen Peugeot across the border after all.

  Eight fretful minutes later, and a white Renault taxi turns into the drive in front of the hotel and draws to a halt. Lewis opens the rear door for Holly and then jumps in beside her. He is about to give the driver the address of the bank but in a moment of caution, hesitates. Instead he asks to be taken to Cornavin, the main railway terminus in the centre of Geneva. Holly looks at Lewis quizzically, but Lewis simply squeezes her hand, shaking his head slightly. The implication not to say anything is clear. They set off towards the frontier.

  It is about a kilometre to the border. The route takes them past the European nuclear research centre of CERN with its massive underground atomic particle testing facilities. Less than two hundred metres from the border, two French police cars belonging to the Police Nationale emerge from the frontier police station. Their lights are flashing and sirens blaring. They appear in a hurry, driving fast in the direction of the hotel Holly and Lewis have just left.

  Lewis and Holly’s feeling of lucky escape is only momentary. Very quickly their taxi enters the border-crossing zone. The French police appear more vigilant than normal. Three gendarmes are positioned along the roadside, each carefully scrutinising every passing vehicle. As their taxi slows to a crawl, the driver winds down his window. As Lewis had predicted, however, the taxi driver is a familiar face in the border zone. After some joshing, he is waved through without stopping, his outstretched left palm being given a friendly slap by one of the gendarmes as they pass, only a scant inspection being given to the occupants in the rear. A few metres further on, a solitary Swiss border guard seems completely disinterested in the taxi and waves it through without a second glance. Holly and Lewis both exhale at the same time, both relieved to have crossed the frontier into Switzerland finally.

  127

  Geneva

  Deposited by their taxi in front of Geneva’s main Cornavin station, they walk to the bank, heading south over the Pont de la Coulouvrenière. Their destination is the Rue Jean-Petitot, a journey of about fifteen minutes on foot. They have an appointment at ten o’clock with Thierry Leblanc, the sole surviving family member and partner in charge of Leblanc & Cie: ‘private bankers to the wealthy and well-informed for over one hundred and twenty-two years’ according to information on their website.

  The busy bridge that crosses waters feeding into the Rhône itself is bedecked with the twenty-six cantonal flags of Switzerland. Each is fluttering gently in the early autumn breeze. It is a sunny day, with bright, clear blue skies, a good day for a walk. As Lewis had explained once they had left the taxi at the railway station and began their walk to the bank, it avoided anyone, least of all the driver, knowing where they were going.

  The building appears older than the bank’s one hundred and twenty-two years. Recently re-clad in refurbished stone, the outer surface has been polished to a smooth sheen, the gaps in-between re-pointed and made flush with the stonework. The windows also look new, double-glazing giving a combined effect that is neither flamboyant nor ostentatious.

  There is no signage, either outside or inside. Leblanc & Cie clearly expects its ‘wealthy and well-informed’ customers to know the precise location of their personal and very private bank. Inside, the reception area is simple but elegant, the walls on three sides in a dark hardwood veneer, the remaining wall and floor a cream-coloured Italian white marble. The outlines of four doors set into the wood panelling are just visible, ready to be pushed open at the appropriate moment or unlocked, perhaps by a hidden switch or an employee’s security card.

  In prime position in the foyer is a reception desk. One of the two smartly dressed receptionists stands up to greet them as they enter the building. She walks around the desk smiling and shaking hands, politely enquiring in French who they are and whom they have come to see. Lewis is glad that he called ahead and made an appointment. The receptionist leads the way to their pre-assigned meeting room, wlaking with purpose towards the second of the four recessed doors with no handles. It swings open effortlessly. A softly lit corridor lies beyond with more dark wood panelling on the walls and a high quality, cream-coloured, carpet in place of marble on the floor. Off to one side are several identical meeting rooms. She opens the door to one and indicates for the two of them to head inside and wait.

  Thierry Leblanc arrives with a confident flourish at ten o’clock precisely. One button on his hand-tailored, single-breasted, suit jacket is done up and he wears his tie at full mast and perfectly in the centre of a well-ironed shirt. His recently combed hair has been set neatly into place. As the door swings open silently, he enters a few paces and then stands still as it closes behind him. He carefully surveys his two guests. He arches his spine backwards slightly, his eyes quickly scanning the room and its two occupants to take in every detail before any words are spoken.

  “Thierry Leblanc,” he says finally stepping forward, shaking both of their hands, big smiles given and received all round. Lewis and Holly feel distinctly under-dressed. The pleasantries dispensed with, teas and coffees offered but declined, Leblanc is keen to get straight to business.

  “You mentioned on the telephone, Monsieur Lewis, that you were wanting to see me as a friend of the late Miss Zamani? It was most distressing to read about her death in the papers yesterday. Her family have been clients of ours for many years. I believe
she was shot? It sounded quite appalling. Anyway, how may I be of service to you today?”

  He sits bolt upright in his chair. There feels a touch of the military about him, Lewis wonders. Or perhaps that was simply part of the act?

  “Sadly I was there when she died. I had never met her before. We were simply sitting opposite each other in a London garden square, each minding our own business. Out of the blue, there was a single gunshot. The rest you know about.”

  “How ghastly.” His hands are clasped together on the desk in front of him, first the attentive listener, now the sympathetic mourner. Lewis senses that this is a man who can bend and flex his style at will to suit the required mood of the moment.

  “As she was dying, she asked me to do two things. Firstly, she gave me this.” He reaches into the pockets of his trousers and removes the golden key and puts it on the desk in front of him. “She also urged me to take her phone and keep it safe.” He puts this on the table next to the key.

  “It would appear that you have succeeded in at least one of your tasks,” Leblanc says, picking up the iPhone briefly and looking dubiously at the cracked screen.

  “Would I be correct that this key is one that opens a safe deposit box here at the bank?”

  “That would be correct. Miss Zamani was very particular about her deposit box arrangements. The bearer of this key is able to access the locked box but on one important condition. They need first to pass the bank’s identity verification test.”

  “Would that require using the CrontoSign application that is installed on this iPhone?” Lewis asks.

  “Very good, Monsieur Lewis. I am impressed that you already know so much about our Swiss banking systems and procedures. Yes, written on this key is a unique account number that I need to enter into out bank security system.” He presses a panel on the desk in front of him and a section of wood clicks open. A tiny computer touch screen rotates into view on its reverse. He picks up the key and examines the gold cylinder carefully to locate the account details engraved on the side. He then takes care to type in the alphanumeric combination correctly: W45673FGH. Hitting the enter key, the screen clears to display a multi-coloured, squared-shaped, symbol. The outer edges of the square are black. Its interior, by contrast, is white and there are numerous tiny green, red and blue squares positioned to the naked eye in a random fashion within the white background inside the square. Lewis thinks he knows what to do. Reaching for the phone with the cracked screen, he pushes the button on the end to turn it on.

  Except that nothing happens. The screen of Zamani’s iPhone remains stubbornly blank.

  128

  Geneva

  Lewis looks first at Holly and then at Thierry Leblanc. He is totally dumbfounded by the phone’s complete failure to work.

  “Perhaps the battery is flat?” Holly says.

  “It was working fine earlier, it can’t be,” say Lewis. Without the iPhone powered up and able to work, everything he has done in the last two days is at risk of being without meaning.

  “I have a suggestion,” Leblanc says, trying to be helpful. “I have an adaptor on my desk for a similar phone. I will call my assistant and ask her to bring it here, in case that works.”

  He walks to the corner table where the teas and coffees have been laid out and picks up a telephone. He speaks softly for a few seconds before coming back to sit back down. Meanwhile Lewis has continued pressing the button on the top of the device, still without success.

  There is a quiet knock on the door and a smartly dressed young woman enters carrying a white power adapter with a long cable attached.

  “Let’s see if this does the trick,” Thierry suggests, plugging the adapter into a power socket on the floor under the table. He hands the end of the cable to Lewis.

  Lewis plugs the special shaped connector into the end of the device and once more tries pressing the power button.

  This time, the phone begins to reboot. Lewis breathes a heartfelt sigh of relief. “My God, I was worried for a moment,” he says to no one in particular. Seconds later, he enters the four-digit password when prompted, once again needing several attempts to record all four digits before the cracked screen seems willing to accept them.

  “There must a short circuit or something inside,” Holly says. “Anyway, fingers crossed that the Cronto application still works.”

  With difficulty, Ben swipes across the screen with his finger in order to navigate to the correct icon, the cracked glass making this operation problematic. Eventually he succeeds. He touches the icon to open it and the camera on the iPhone once more is activated. “Well, that appears to be working,” Ben says to Holly finally. He points the camera lens so that it is directed at the square-shaped symbol on the touch screen on the desk in front of Thierry Leblanc. Instantly the phone vibrates in his hand and a six-digit number appears on the phone’s screen.

  “So, please enter your unique six-digit number using the touch screen,” Leblanc says to Lewis, watching over him to make sure he makes no mistakes. When finished, Lewis presses ‘enter’ on the touch screen. Almost instantly a new screen appears with the words ‘Verification Complete’.

  “Congratulations. All the procedures have been completed satisfactorily. I will go and collect Miss Zamani’s locked box for you. Please wait here until I return.”

  129

  Near Geneva Airport

  There were three policeman crowded into the hotel manager’s tiny office, the most senior of which, Francis Perrin, was giving the duty manager, Isabel Fauchet, a grilling.

  “When did you say this man Trevoni left the hotel?”

  “About five minutes before you arrived. He and his girlfriend, they took a taxi.”

  “Where were they headed?”

  “The centre of Geneva apparently.”

  “Merde, they will have crossed the border by now. I’ll need to call Henri. What taxi company did you use?”

  She told him and he went outside to call his Swiss cousin, a senior police officer working for the Geneva police. Given the physical geography of the city, the two relations constantly found themselves working together. With luck they would be able to find out the name of the taxi driver quickly and learn where he had taken the two passengers.

  “What time did Trevoni check in?” With Perrin out of the room, George Pitel, his deputy, continued the interrogation.

  “About four-thirty this morning. I wasn’t on duty then.”

  “Who was?”

  She told them.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Probably at home, sleeping.”

  “Why didn’t he process the copy of the passport as soon as Trevoni checked in? You know this is a requirement here in Geneva.”

  “I don’t know, I am sorry. I only found out myself when I came on duty this morning at eight o’clock.”

  Perrin came back in the room to listen to the conversation, quickly disappearing again when his mobile phone started ringing.

  Pitel continued. “How did they arrive?”

  “By car apparently.”

  “Do you have the registration details?”

  Madame Fauchet shook her head. Pitel raised his eyes to the ceiling. He turned to his colleague, a young trainee who had only been with the unit for two months. “I want you to check every car in the hotel car park and match the registrations details with the hotel guest list. One of these cars is the one they must have arrived in. I’m willing to bet it was stolen. If you get going right away, it shouldn’t take too long.” The trainee left the room as Perrin was coming back.

  “That was the taxi company. They were dropped right next to Cornavin station. They could be anywhere by now. The matter has officially become a Swiss problem. Come on Georges, let’s leave this poor lady alone. Madame Fauchet, à prochaine fois.”

  130r />
  Geneva

  Thierry Leblanc personally escorted his two visitors back to the front reception lobby. He politely shook hands with the pair of them, warmly wishing them well and then watched attentively, jacket still done up and with hands clasped behind his back, as they made their way out the front entrance and into the warm sunshine beyond.

  Satisfied that they had indeed departed, he nodded curtly at the two receptionists before returning briskly to the meeting room and closed the door. The locked box was lying on the centre of the table, its long, thin, lid hinged about two thirds of the way down its length was still lying open, the box itself now completely empty. Leblanc closed the lid and let out a sigh. He had fulfilled Leyla Zamani’s instructions to the letter.

  With the matter formally at an end, his conscience felt less disturbed by what he was about to do next. It had been an unusual request, and one that he might otherwise have chosen to ignore, had it not been for the fact that the person making it appeared to be unreasonably well-informed about certain lunchtime leisure activities that Leblanc liked to indulge in. These were activities that Leblanc was most adamant that his rather humourless wife of advancing years should remain ignorant of. It had been the photographs that had shocked Leblanc more than the knowledge that others were aware that he was a regular visitor to the anonymous lakeside villa, the ultra-discreet gentlemen’s club with its private rooms and very attentive hostesses. The pictures had been in high definition and very erotic, leaving no doubt as to the identity of the single male being subjected to a smörgåsbord of pleasure at the hands of three extremely well-endowed young ladies of Nordic descent.

  For which reason Thierry Leblanc felt obliged, with the locked box empty and the door to the meeting room closed, to make the call, the second of its kind that day, as he had been requested. He dialled the number. The phone at the other end was answered after only its second ring.