Kipling
even
used
to
the black sun 173
decorate the dust jackets of all his books with it, to bring
him good luck.”
“How did the Nazis come to use it?” asked Archie.
“From what I understand, Hitler considered the early Aryans of India to be the prototypical white invaders. He saw the swastika as an inviolable link to the Aryan descent of the German people,” Dhutta explained. “Under the Nazis, the swastika became the Hakenkreuz or hooked cross, the symbol of the Aryan master race.”
“Does the word swastika mean something?” asked Tom.
“The word is derived from Sanskrit. The literal translation is ‘good to be.’ In holy texts it can mean Brahma, which is luck, or Samsara, which is rebirth.” He looked up, his voice suddenly thoughtful. “I wonder, which will it be for you, Mr. Tom?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
FINANCIAL DISTRICT, ZURICH
January 8—12:42 p.m.
Banque Völz et Cie occupied a corner lot in one of Zur-ich’s most expensive districts. It was a neoclassical affair, probably mid-1800s, although inconsistently executed, with the huge stone columns supporting the entrance portico comprising an architecturally jarring combination of Ionic and Corinthian styles.
More telling perhaps, was that while the soaring cost of real estate had compelled the owners of neighboring lots to rebuild higher and higher to maximize the yield of their land, the Völz building remained only two stories high, dwarfed by the towering structures around it. This said more about the bank’s wealth and power than the tallest skyscraper ever could.
A smartly dressed man wearing a lightweight blue flannel suit greeted Tom and Archie in the small marbled entrance vestibule. It was more reminiscent of a private house than a bank—two side tables, travertine marble resting on ebony legs engraved with gold leaf, flanked a large bronze door that Tom assumed led into the main hall. Each table supported a large iron urn.
“Guten
Morgen,
meine
Herren.”
the black sun 175
“Guten Morgen,” Tom answered, before switching to English. “We’re here to see Herr Völz.”
The man frowned and looked them skeptically up and down, Tom especially in his faded jeans and sneakers.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
The corner of the man’s mouth twitched, as if he had just been told a mildly funny joke. “I’m sorry, but Herr Völz is a very busy man. If you leave your name and number, I will ask someone to call you.” He jerked his head toward the door to indicate that they should leave.
“We have a safety-deposit box here. We wish to inspect it immediately.”
Now the man laughed outright. “There are no boxes here. We are a bank, not a leftluggage office.”
“Tell Herr Völz that we have the key,” Tom insisted, dangling it in front of him. “And that we’re not leaving until he sees us.”
There was a pause as the man stared at the key uncertainly.
“Wait here,” he snapped eventually, walking over to the side table on the left and retrieving a black phone from behind the urn. His eyes never left them as he dialed a three-digit number.
“Herr Völz?” He turned away from them so that they couldn’t hear him, at one stage glancing at the key Tom was still holding outstretched, while talking rapidly into the phone. He nodded silently as he listened to what was being said in reply, his shoulders visibly stiffening. Replacing the handset in its cradle, he paused, and then turned to face them, an apology flickering around his lips but left unsaid.
“Herr Völz will see you immediately. This way, please.”
He threw open the bronze door and ushered them through. As Tom had suspected, this gave onto the main entrance hall, where a series of somber portraits lined the walls. Their footsteps echoing on the checkerboard marble floor, they followed the man into a small office where two secretaries were furiously typing away, their computers’ flat screens housed in mahogany and brass boxes, as if the naked display of plastic might tarnish the bank’s
patrician
image.
176 james twining
“Your coats, please.” The man’s voice had dropped to an ecclesiastical whisper. He took their coats, hanging them carefully on a cast-iron hat stand. He gestured to take Tom’s briefcase, but a firm shake of Tom’s head and an unblinking glare seemed to convince him otherwise. Then he knocked gently at the massive wooden door that loomed between the secretaries’ desks. A brass plaque indicated in swirling copperplate similar to the design on the key that this was the office of rudolf völz, direktor. There was no response from within, and Tom followed the man’s eyes to a miniature set of traffic lights positioned to the left of the door. It was on red, so they stood there patiently, the chattering of the secretaries’ nails on their keyboards echoing like gunfire until finally the light flashed to green. The man opened the door, indicated with a flip of his hand that they should go in, and then shut it behind them.
Völz’s office followed the same traditional lines as the rest of the building—soft red carpet underfoot, books lining one of the walls, an indifferent full-length portrait over the elaborate fireplace. The low winter sun streaming through the left-hand window had cut the room diagonally in two, leaving half swathed in shadow while flooding the other with a blinding light.
“What do you want?”
The voice was clipped and immediately hostile. Tom, squinting, had difficulty in making out where it was coming from. Eventually, as his eyes adjusted, he saw a dark shape hunched over the desk on the far side of the room.
“Herr Völz?” Tom walked toward the desk, while Archie hung back.
“What are you? A journalist? Some hack trying to make a career for yourself on the back of my family’s good name?” The shape stood up and ignored Tom’s outstretched hand. “Or another ambulance-chaser trying to make a living from our hard work.”
“I can assure you that I am none of those things.”
“The boxes are all gone. An ill-advised diversification strategy by my grandfather during the war that my father wisely dismantled in the 1960s with the full cooperation of the black sun 177
the Swiss Banking Commission—as you would know, if you had done your research. You have no business here.”
The man leaned forward as if to emphasize his point. This time Tom was able to see the face. Still quite young, perhaps in his early forties, Rudolf Völz had the same unflinching gaze and proud demeanor as the portraits Tom had seen out in the hall. His dark brown hair was neatly cut, with just a hint of gray. A closely cropped beard covered the line of his jaw like a strap, extending up around his mouth to frame his pinched lips. The underside of his chin and the flat of his sunken, hungry-looking cheeks were clean shaven. His glasses were frameless with clear plastic arms.
“The sixties?” Tom asked, throwing the key they’d discovered in the walnut box onto the desk. “In case you don’t recognize it, that’s your crest on the key. And, unless I’m very much mistaken, the lock that it opens is state-of-the-art.”
Völz sat back into his chair, staring at the key as it lay on the desk. “Do you have an account number?”
Tom nodded.
“Give it to me.”
Tom recited the numbers Turnbull had given him the previous night: 1256093574. Squinting, Völz removed his glasses and typed the digits into his computer, then hit Return. After a pause, he looked up with a smile.
“Welcome
to
Banque
Völz,
gentlemen.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
1:10 p.m.
My apologies. Please forgive the little misunderstanding earlier.” Völz’s frosty welcome had given way to candied smiles and a warm stream of apologies. “Don’t worry about it,” said Tom, sipping the coffee that Völz had insisted on ordering f
or them. “It’s just that we get so many people trying their luck that we have to be cautious.”
“What are they looking for?” Archie asked.
“What is everyone looking for in Switzerland? Money. In our case, either accounts abandoned by Holocaust victims or something else to sue us for. My father was wise enough to shut down the safety-deposit business and contribute all unclaimed assets to the Holocaust survivors’ fund to avoid any future . . . complications.”
“But not all the boxes were shut?” Archie again.
“Of course not.” Völz smiled proudly. “We are a bank, after all. Our first duty is to our customers, not to the Jewish lobby.” Tom bit his lip. “Here at Banque Völz, we never forget that.”
“I’m
glad
to
hear
it.
And
our
account
.
.
.
?”
the black sun 179
“Is exactly as was initially instructed. Nothing has been touched.”
“Excellent.”
“Not since it was last accessed, at least.”
“Which was when, exactly?” Archie asked.
Völz removed his glasses and consulted his screen. “May 1958.”
Tom glanced at Archie. The same year Lammers had posted the photos of the three Bellak paintings to Weiss-man, according to the postmark.
“A long time,” said Tom. “All the more reason—if you don’t mind, Herr Völz—not to delay any longer.”
“Of course, of course.” Völz leaped to his feet. “Follow me, gentlemen.”
He led them past the secretaries into the hall and then through another doorway into a large square-shaped stairwell. Here, three shallow flights of stone steps, each connected by a broad landing, marched their way up to the first and then to the second floor. Above, a slate sky glowered through a glass cupola.
A door was set into the wall under the staircase, and it was to this that Völz went. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door, reached in, and flicked a light switch, illuminating a narrow flight of dirty steps.
“The wine cellar,” Völz explained.
The stairs led down into a low room, perhaps twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide, that smelled old and musty. The only light came from a couple of weak lightbulbs that hung forlornly from the unfinished ceiling. The room was lined with wine racks cradling row upon row of dusty bottles, their labels worn and stained.
“Nice little collection you’ve got down here,” Archie observed appreciatively, pulling a bottle of Château Lafleur ’61 from the rack.
Völz went to a rack at the rear of the cellar and pulled it toward him. It swung forward to reveal a large steel door. Reaching into his pocket, he took out another key and unlocked it.
180 james twining
As the door opened, the lights inside blinked on, revealing a room of almost antiseptic whiteness, from the tiled rubber floor to the whitewashed walls and ceiling. It was quite empty apart from a stainless-steel table that took up the middle of the room, a flat-panel computer monitor set at chest height on the far wall, and, to the right of it, what looked like a steel drawer. Strangely, there were no sharp edges: every corner and angle was subtly rounded, as if shaped and smoothed by thousands of years of glacial meltwater.
“How many accounts do you have here?” Tom asked, careful to keep his tone casual. Völz rubbed his chin in thought. “Accounts like yours? We have about two hundred dating from the war that are still active.”
“How do you define ‘active’?”
“Ones for which we have contact addresses—post-office boxes mainly—for the designated account holders. That’s where we send essential information, such as the new key that was sent out when we upgraded the security system about three years ago. If it doesn’t get returned, we deem the account active.”
“And if they are returned?”
“It usually means that the original owners or trustees have died, and with them all knowledge of the box’s existence. But we hold the box for them all the same, just in case someone makes contact. You see, most of these boxes were taken out on ninety-nine-year leases, payable up front, so we have a duty to hold them until the end of the period. By the time the leases expire . . . Well, let’s just say that it probably won’t be my problem.”
He laughed and turned to the computer panel, tapping it lightly with his finger. Immediately the screen pulsed into life, displaying ten white question marks across its dark surface. He paused, then turned back to face them.
“The account number again, please.”
Tom typed in the code recovered from Weissman’s arm, selecting each number from a list at the bottom of the screen. The screen went blank, then flashed a greeting: the black sun 181
Wilkommen Konto: 1256093574 Kontoname: Werfen Bitte Schlüssel einführen Account name Werfen, Tom mused. What or who was that? Völz interrupted his thoughts.
“Please insert your key,” he translated, pointing at the small square hole beneath the screen.
Tom slipped the key into the hole and a few seconds later a small graphic of a padlock opening confirmed that it had been successfully read by the lasers.
“Now the infrared,” Völz prompted.
Tom pressed the button on the key’s rubberized handle until another graphic of a door opening confirmed that the algorithms had matched. So far, so good.
“Well gentlemen, your key matches your account. So all that is left is the palm scan.”
“Herr Völz,” Tom said, turning to face him. “I wonder whether you could give my colleague and me a little privacy?”
“Of course,” said Völz. He was nothing if not the professional Swiss banker. “Just place your hand against this panel . . .” He indicated a glass plate on the left of the computer screen that Tom had not noticed before. “The system will retrieve your box and place it in here.” He pointed at the drawer front. “When you are finished, replace the box in the tray and the system will reset. I will come down and close the room up myself after you have gone.”
“Thank you for your help,” Tom said, shaking his hand.
As soon as the sound of the banker’s footsteps had receded up the stairs, Tom slid his briefcase onto the table and opened it. Weissman’s arm had been packed with ice and then sealed inside a clear plastic bag that had itself been covered with further ice packs. Even so, outside of a properly refrigerated environment it had begun to smell, and the flesh had turned a funny shade of yellow.
“Christ!” muttered Archie, peering over Tom’s shoulder. “That is rank.”
182 james twining
Breathing through his mouth, Tom reached into the bag and extracted the arm from under the ice, holding it just above the wrist. It felt hard and slippery, like a dead fish. Tom approached the glass panel and placed the lifeless hand against it. A crosshatch of red beams lit up from deep within the glass and scanned the hand’s surface. The screen flashed a warning.
“Scan failure,” Tom translated grimly.
“How many tries do we get?”
“Two more. Then it locks us out.”
“I hope we’ve got this right.”
“Turnbull told me that Weissman only traveled abroad once and that was three years ago to some conference in Geneva. The same time, according to what Völz just told us, that they upgraded the security system here. I doubt it’s a coincidence. Weissman could easily have got the train here, had his palm scanned into the system, and then got back to Geneva in time for dinner. No one would have suspected a thing.”
“Maybe the fingers need to be pressed harder against the glass,” Archie suggested. Tom pressed his own hand to the back of Weissman’s, forcing it flat. The red grid flared into life once more, then extinguished itself.
“Scan failure,” Tom said with a rueful shrug. “I think the reader’s picking up the edge of my fingers where they overlap. Maybe you should try.
Your hands are a bit smaller than mine.”
“Okay,” said Archie, taking the arm and pressing his hand against Weissman’s so that the fingers were splayed across the glass. Again the laser grid scanned the hand. The screen went blank, then flashed up another message.
“Scan successful.” Tom breathed with relief.
Holding the arm between his fingertips and as far away from his body as he could, Archie dropped it back into the plastic bag, sealed it, and shut the briefcase with relief. There was a whirring noise from behind the wall. Tom glanced at Archie. They both knew what was happening, having studied the workings of these types of systems many times.
Somewhere
deep
below
where
they
were
now
stand
the black sun 183
ing, a robotic arm was matching their access details to one of the hundreds of barcoded boxes that were stacked on shallow trays in a fireproof vault. Once located, the box slid from its housing into a tray that carried it to the drawer. On cue, the drawer front buzzed and jumped forward a few centimeters.
Archie pulled the drawer toward him. It contained a bat-tered-looking metal box that he lifted out and placed on the table. The box was about three feet long, a foot wide, and six inches deep.
“Ready?” Tom asked with an anxious smile.
He
slowly
lifted
the
lid
and
they
both
peered
inside.
CHAPTER FORTY
CIA SUBSTATION, ZURICH
January 8—2:20 p.m.
Mobile One, this is Central. Come in, please.” “Go ahead, Central,” came the crackled response. “Are you in place, Roberts?” Agent Ben Cody leaned over the female operator’s chair and spoke into her microphone.
“Affirmative. Stand by to receive transmission.”
A few seconds later one of the three flat-screen monitors in front of the operator flickered into life. On the large overhead screen a live satellite feed showed the agent’s location as a blinking red dot. Five other dots pulsed around it, showing that the rest of the team were also in place.
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