The Banker's Dilemma: She promised him Paris in the spring

by Roman Klee

  Instinctively, he put out a weary arm to pick up the call he dreaded the most.

  Then after a while, the ringing stopped. And Nathan was sure that he would not hear from his ex-wife for ages.

  Δ = T –27,428,400

  “Nathan, this is the first and last time. You screwed up. It can’t happen again.”

  Nathan agreed, he was sorry for letting Antonio down.

  “Thing is, the last guy you never talked to is missing. I don’t think it’s anything weird. But who knows?”

  Nathan wanted to reply, obviously you do, but realized there was no point in making a bad situation worse. He owed Antonio and needed to find a way to repay the guy.

  “They’re sending me back to Switzerland. Cunningham is concerned about Budd’s wife hiring her own search team. He wants me to check out the clinic lead. The Swiss are dragging their feet. Patient confidentiality and all that.”

  Antonio seemed unimpressed.

  “Look, Wright was seeing Dr. Lazard. The guy’s some kind of specialist, he runs an anti-aging clinic. I don’t know the reason why, but I figure they were talking about whether Wright’s going gaga.”

  Nathan thought it better not to contradict Orofino by telling him what Jade Wright’s views were on that subject.

  “Get me the info I need. I’m giving you forty-eight hours.”

  Shortly after his run in with Antonio, Nathan received a call from Ted Faulkner. For the first couple of minutes, he talked about nothing in particular, then he mentioned the recent price of his December L.A.Y.D.E.E.s tranche.

  “The basis rose one hundred points this afternoon. I’m down twenty percent. What’s the story?”

  So here he was again, playing both sides of the street. He had no idea how much information he should give to Faulkner, and how much to restrict for just Antonio. But he was sure he couldn’t deal with them equally. Maybe he could play one off against the other, deliberately telling Faulkner the opposite of what he told Antonio.

  But then again, that might not be the smartest approach, because Faulkner was certain to have other reliable sources who he would use to cross check anything Nathan fed him.

  No one at his level relied on just one source. And Faulkner could still prove an important contact when it came to locating Liz.

  In the good old days at Solomon, Nathan may have enjoyed playing clients off against one another, but now things had changed, and he didn’t have the protection of a big firm like Solomon behind him.

  Then he had an idea. Faulkner had provided him with a way of getting back in Antonio’s good books. He would tell the guy what he had found out about L.A.Y.D.E.E.s and how active the market was. Antonio was sure to want to know about other investors who were exploiting the disappearance of Budd Wright (or Darth Vader) to make money.

  And that was when Nathan finally got it.

  Antonio Orofino wanted to know the whereabouts of Budd Wright, because he was also in the market for L.A.Y.D.E.E.s.

  After deciding that this piece of news was important enough for him to communicate using the SS-SD (seven-second-self-destruct) email method, Nathan was surprised by the response he received.

  You dumb SOB. Stick to what I told you. Don’t send me shit I never asked for. You’re not a single source.

  For the first time since he met the guy, Antonio had shown his aggressive side. Nathan was taken aback, because he thought he had supplied something of value and deserved praise not criticism.

  You’re not a single source.

  It was naïve of Nathan not to have realized this, but just like Ted Faulkner, Orofino never relied on one source of information.

  Yes, Nathan was a contact within the Banderbilt Trust, but the chances were high that Antonio had others—and not just working at the Trust. Orofino had a network of informers that stretched far beyond the usual Wall Street types.

  Nathan decided that Orofino probably already knew the information he had uncovered. On one level that came as no surprise.

  Except on another level it was deeply worrying. Nathan had nothing else of value he could trade—how long would it take before Antonio considered Nathan past his shelf life date?

  Δ = T –27,082,800

  The view from the café terrace across to the Old Town was amazing on a clear day. But unfortunately, Nathan had arrived when the clouds were low and a faint and persistent drizzle made sitting outside unpleasant.

  The existence of the Banderbilt Trust’s office in Zürich, was not technically a secret, but neither did the partners advertise it. A heavy walnut paneled door on Bahnhofstrasse carried no number. A polished brass plate with the letters BBT & Cie, provided the only clue about the occupant on the top-floor of the building.

  The office was a useful outpost for helping clients keep their financial affairs in order, not least because it was discreet. A smiling Fräulein greeted Nathan and led him through to a small paneled salon, furnished with eighteenth-century French chairs, fine parquetry and console tables plus a couple of Rembrandts.

  A personal assistant introduced Nathan to Hans Duttweiler, the partner in charge of Swiss affairs, who wasted no time with pleasantries.

  “We already hired a local investigation agency. They have been reliable in the past. They were checking out the clinic while you flew here.”

  So far everything was going smoothly. Nathan liked the look of Zürich and hoped he could make his stay last longer. The personal assistant returned with two espressi and a plate of pink and white cupcakes from Vollenweider’s for their U.S. visitor.

  Nathan gave a brief explanation of why he was visiting Switzerland and what he hoped to achieve.

  Duttweiler didn’t appear very interested. Instead he replied, “I’m meeting Gustav in the Zeughauskeller at six thirty. You must come along.”

  Nathan discovered that Gustav was the man who would reveal all about Budd Wright. Now he had a few hours to kill and what better way than a stroll down Bahnhofstrasse. There were the usual boutiques, stuffed full of the latest designer labeled clothes from Paris, Milan and London. He knew the damage his ex could do to his credit card in the face of temptation. And he quickly shuddered at the thought.

  Then Nathan came across a shop that interested him; Le Bucheron, a traditional jewelers a few yards off the main street. The window display contained a fine selection of Swiss branded watches: Breitling, Rolex, Blancpain, Vacheron Constantin, Jaeger-LeCoultre, Breguet and Patek Philippe. There was also a selection of rare vintage items.

  Nathan was busy counting the number of guilloché patterns on one of the watch dials, when after a while he was conscious of a person standing behind him. Instead of turning around, he caught the guy’s partial reflection in a silver picture frame.

  The guy’s features were certainly Asian and they looked familiar. But then again, it wasn’t possible. Or was it? Of all the places in the world, could Noboru Takeshita really be in Zürich?

  Nathan could stand it no longer, he had to check. But before he could get a better look, the shadowy presence quickly moved away, blending in with the afternoon crowd.

  Nathan returned to the watches and found himself attracted to a Vacheron Constantin. Having a watch like that would instantly place him in a league very few men occupied. And with a flick of the wrist it shouted, I’m a success!

  And he remembered he could ask the jeweler to deduct Swiss sales tax and then if he wore the watch while going through U.S. customs, he could avoid yet more taxes. He just had to look casual when he got to JFK; or risk having the watch confiscated.

  He entered Le Bucheron and was pleased that the sales girl spoke near perfect English. She removed the twenty-two caret gold Vacheron Constantin Patrimony Minute Repeater, from the window display and let Nathan try it on. A perfect fit, no adjustment to the strap necessary! Nathan presented his Amex Centurion card with the confidence the card automatically
generated.

  The watch carried no price tab, but Nathan had a good idea of its value and wasn’t at all worried he’d have a problem paying. He ignored the six-figure number on the cash register, putting it down to differences in the exchange rate.

  While his order was being processed, Nathan started to look at the contents of another display cabinet. He was concentrating so hard on a watch with blue steel pomme hands, that at first he didn’t hear a voice softly calling out his name.

  “Mr. DeAngelis … Mr. DeAngelis … I’m sorry, but …”

  Nathan looked up and the sales girl discreetly told him his card had been declined. She said they’d put the watch to one side for him, until he cleared up the problem with Amex. Unless of course he wanted to use another card.

  Nathan thanked her, saying he would check it out with his Centurion advisor and left the jeweler’s in a hurry.

  There was no point making the call. Nathan knew why his card had not worked and he knew the person responsible—only he wasn’t sure the best way of dealing with it.

  Later, when Nathan met up with Hans, he tried to forget about the incident at Le Bucheron. But it continued to play on his mind because he kept asking himself, what if?

  What if it happened again? It was probably a good idea to check his current credit balance.

  What if things suddenly went back to how they had been before? The debts, the living in fear of how to make ends meet, the social exclusion, because he could no longer afford the country club fees or dine at his usual restaurants.

  The shame of telling his kids, when they returned from their gap year adventures, that they would not be continuing with their education abroad.

  What if he had to reveal the full extent of his financial troubles to his new boss, Cunningham? How would the other partners react when they discovered he had not earned his job on merit?

  Nathan had no answers, and before he could think of any, Hans asked if he’d ever tried absinthe. He knew of the liquor and said he was surprised they could buy it in Switzerland.

  “Oh, the French banned it once, but it was never banned here!” said Hans with a broad grin. Nathan was in Europe, so why not?

  The waiter brought them two tumblers containing a dose of bright green liquid, Swiss Cross absinthe spoons, a carafe of iced water and two lumps of sugar. Nathan watched intrigued, as Hans put one of the sugar cubes on his spoon and suspending it over the mouth of his glass, added water.

  The liquid in the glass turned cloudy.

  Nathan did the same, figuring he’d better use a lot more water.

  “So what do you think? Do you like the Green Fairy?”

  Aniseed was definitely an acquired taste, but Nathan nodded anyway.

  Then after a short delay, he got the buzz.

  “Add champagne and you have Death in the Afternoon!”

  They waited for nearly an hour before Hans concluded that Gustav was not going to turn up. He tried the guy’s cell phone and sent a couple of texts.

  A few minutes later, Ursula, Gustav’s girlfriend called. She sounded concerned because Gustav was supposed to have met her for lunch, but never showed and she hadn’t been able to contact him all day.

  “Is he still at the same address?”

  “Yes, Alfred Escher Strasse.”

  “Do you have your own key?”

  “No, but the concierge knows me, and she’ll let me in if I ask nicely. She’s done it before.”

  “Okay, wait for me at the Arboretum. I’m bringing a friend. Don’t go near the apartment until I get there.”

  The Arboretum near Alfred Escher Strasse was a good ride away. By the time they got there, Nathan was starting to feel the effects of the absinthe wear off. He was thankful he’d only allowed himself one glass.

  Δ = T –26,996,400

  Ursula pressed the intercom button for her boyfriend’s apartment. There was no answer. Then she worked her magic on the concierge. When a woman in an apron, eventually came down to open the main door, she was taken aback by the presence of Ursula’s two male companions.

  She seemed reluctant to hand over the spare set of keys, but a crisp fifty franc note quickly melted away her reservations and she willingly complied, adding, “Herr Neubauer had two visitors yesterday evening.”

  Duttweiler had already sensed something was wrong about the situation. He asked Frau Kesseller, “Did you recognize either of them?”

  “They were a young couple. She was about twenty-five, he was good looking in his early thirties. They had foreign accents.”

  They thanked Frau Kesseller for her help. Duttweiler checked the apartment’s mailbox—it was empty. The nineteenth-century building had no elevator, so they were forced to walk up to the top-floor. Nathan was quickly out of breath and was surprised that Hans could take two steps at a time.

  He wondered what they were going to find. An empty apartment hopefully—although that would be of no help to him.

  He needed to meet Gustav Neubauer face to face and find out for certain if Budd Wright was a patient at the Clinique Alpha-Omega. But what had once seemed a straightforward enough task, was now looking more and more like a lost cause.

  Ursula turned the key in the main lock, and then pushed hard on the heavy oak paneled door. It didn’t move.

  She tapped the top and bottom. Again no movement. “Great, it’s double locked.”

  “Here, let me try, said Hans.

  “No, there’s no point, the door has two more security locks. They only work from the inside.”

  This was not good, thought Nathan, someone must still be in the apartment.

  Ursula appeared undeterred. She picked out another key, “This one opens up the roof terrace. Look, I’ll show you.”

  Nathan and Hans followed her to the end of the corridor and up a small concealed staircase. At the top was a light blue door.

  Without too much difficulty, Ursula inserted her key and pushed it open. She led her two companions onto a private terrace with views across the lake.

  “Gustav never used it much.”

  There was a table in the middle of the open space with four chairs. A couple of candles had burned out, but not before a large amount of solidified white wax had flowed down one side of the table leg and formed a pool on the terracotta tiles.

  Three chocolate smeared plates, an overflowing ashtray, unused cigarette papers, a silver truffle grater, a pasta cutting wheel and several empty red wine bottles, suggested that Ursula may not have known her boyfriend as well as she hoped.

  “The terrace doesn’t link directly to Gustav’s apartment unfortunately,” said Ursula, refusing to comment on the evidence around her, “but there is a way to reach the bedroom.”

  She walked over to the edge of the terrace and looked down at the main bedroom’s balcony, which faced the back of the apartment building.

  “I usually leave the windows half open at night,” said Ursula, “it helps me sleep better. Sinus issues.”

  The only problem was how to get down. But while Nathan was trying to work this one out, Ursula was already ahead of him.

  “Here, help me.” Ursula started to clear the table debris and didn’t much care where she put everything. Then she whipped off the tablecloth.

  “Take this end and make a knot.”

  Ursula thrust a piece of thick linen into Nathan’s hands, as she began turning it around and around, until they had transformed the flat piece of material into a long length of substitute rope. Next, she tied her end to one of the table legs and with Nathan’s help re-positioned the table directly over the bedroom below.

  “Who wants to try?”

  Ursula didn’t really need to ask, because there was only one sensible choice. Hans climbed onto the table, and grabbed the hastily constructed rope. He seemed confident he was up to the task—hopefully it was not the false c
onfidence of the alcohol talking.

  “Swiss army training. Never let me down yet.”

  Nathan was impressed with Hans’s abseiling skills. He reached the balcony with no problem and just as Ursula said, the window was open. He let himself in and did a quick sweep of the apartment before releasing the inside locks.

  Nathan and Ursula were waiting by the front door. When they entered, the first thing they saw hanging on the wall was La chute de l’angle, by Chagall. Ursula noticed Nathan’s interest in the painting and said casually, “That’s his Falling Angel, but it’s a fake. A good one mind you, but it’s still a fake. Not everyone who lives in Zürich is a multi-millionaire.”

  They met Hans coming out of the bathroom. “Nothing. I don’t understand,” he said. “I checked every room. There are no signs of a break in. It’s weird.”

  Weird was certainly the word, thought Nathan.

  Then Ursula headed in the direction of the main bedroom, correctly assuming that Hans had not made a very thorough search. It was almost as if she knew beforehand where someone might hide.

  Along one side of the bedroom was a wall of louvred doors. She started at the end nearest the top of the bed, and opened the first door; nothing inside except the usual collection of clothes and shoes. By the time she got to the last door, she hesitated as if fearful of what she might find.

  She pulled it open …

  And out plopped a man covered from the neck down in a skin tight, shiny black rubber body suit. Two brown eyes, glazed and bloodshot, peered out from behind a leather gimp mask. A gag was still fully inserted in his mouth.

  Ursula gasped, turned away and started to cry. Hans instinctively tried to comfort her.

  One of them had to do it.

  Nathan carefully pealed the mask off the man’s face. He didn’t need to ask the question.

  “Oh Christ! No, it’s not Gustav! This is not happening.”