The Genesis Code

by John Case

  ‘Switzerland.’

  ‘Hah.’

  ‘I just got here – from Rome.’

  ‘No kiddin’. So what’d you find out in Rome?’

  ‘I found out . . . that Grimaldi went through some kind of religious conversion. Liquidated his assets. Gave his money to charity.’

  ‘You’re shittin’ me.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  There was silence at the other end of the line, and then Riordan said, ‘Religious conversion, my ass.’

  Zuoz was beautiful, an exquisite town tucked hard against a mountain. Substantial, sixteenth-century houses lined the narrow streets. The houses were painted cream or ocher or gray and had massive and beautiful wooden doors. The sidewalks were full of extremely well-dressed people hurrying through a soft rain.

  Even with a detailed map it took him some time to find the address he was looking for, which should have been only a ten-minute walk from the center of town. But despite the map and the town’s small size, he got lost and twice had to ask his way, stumbling through the German. ‘Isch das der richtig wag to Ramistrasse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He passed a tiny square with an austere and perfectly square fountain – so different from the fountains in Rome. The only ornament was a statue of a standing bear with one of its paws cut off, the emblem of some ancient Swiss family.

  Finally, he found the house, a three-story chalet with a brass plaque beside a wooden door that might easily have been older than America. The plaque read:

  Gunther Egloff, Direktor

  Salve Caelo

  Services des Catholiques Nord

  Gemeinde Pius VI

  Lassiter knocked and waited. Finally, a voice came through a speaker next to the plaque. ‘Was ist?’ Lassiter identified himself, and moments later a middle-aged man opened the door, looking prosperous in every detail. A modest paunch, a cashmere sweater, sheepskin slippers on his feet. A pair of reading glasses were in his hand, and a stemmed glass of red wine. There was operatic music from the interior and a smell of wood smoke.

  ‘Bitte?’

  Lassiter hesitated. His story seemed outlandish and impossible in the face of this bourgeois comfort. Murder. Arson. Terror in the night.

  ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Because my German –’

  ‘Yes, yes – how may I help you?’

  ‘It’s about the owner of the house. Mr. Grimaldi.’

  A look of surprise crossed the man’s face, and then he smiled, holding open the door.

  ‘Come inside, please. You must be cold.’

  Lassiter thanked the man, and introduced himself on his way through the doorway.

  ‘And I am Egloff,’ the man replied, ushering him into an enormous room dominated by a massive, fieldstone fireplace. ‘Will you join me in a glass of wine?’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Lassiter said as his host turned down the Puccini, took a firetool in hand and poked at the burning logs. ‘But I’m afraid you’re mistaken about the house. Mr. Grimaldi hasn’t owned it for several years.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Yes. May I ask? You are American? Canadian?’

  ‘American.’

  ‘And tell me: you are interested in the house – or in Mr. Grimaldi?’

  ‘In Grimaldi.’

  ‘I see.’ Egloff poured a glass of wine and handed it to him.

  ‘I’m an investigator,’ Lassiter said.

  Egloff’s eyebrows bounced, and he looked amused. ‘An investigator!’

  Lassiter’s eyes were drawn to the far wall, where a topographical map depicted a mountainous region in a country without borders. Egloff followed his gaze.

  ‘Can you guess where it is?’ he asked.

  Lassiter shrugged. ‘Somewhere in Russia . . . Georgia, maybe.’

  ‘Bosnia. We were quite active there. With the refugees.’

  ‘“We”?’

  ‘Salve Caelo.’

  Lassiter shook his head. ‘I’m sorry –’

  ‘It’s a charity. We do a lot of work in the Balkans.’

  ‘Huh,’ Lassiter said, recalling Grimaldi’s passport, and the multiple entries at Zagreb and Belgrade.

  ‘Do you know much about Bosnia, Mr. Lassiter?’

  Lassiter made a helpless gesture with his hands. ‘Enough to know it’s complicated.’

  ‘But it’s not complicated. It’s very simple. And I can explain it in two words.’

  Lassiter smiled. ‘Really?’

  Egloff nodded. ‘Islamic imperialism. What we have in Bosnia is a political melanoma, the beginning of something terrible. Hmmm? What do you think?’

  ‘I think that’s more than two words,’ he said.

  Egloff laughed. ‘So it is! I am corrected! But now you must tell me: What is it that you are investigating – in Zuoz of all places?!’

  ‘A murder. Murders.’

  ‘Oh!? Really, Mr. Lassiter, you are one surprise after another!’

  ‘A woman and her son were killed,’ Lassiter replied.

  ‘I see. And Herr Grimaldi?’

  ‘He is the murderer.’

  ‘Ah.’ Egloff sat down, crossed his legs, and took a sip of wine. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Lassiter shrugged. ‘Then you’re mistaken.’

  ‘Well . . . if you’re certain. But what do you hope to learn?’

  ‘I hope to learn why – why he did it.’

  Egloff made a clucking sound and sighed. ‘And you came all the way from America? To look at his old house?’

  ‘I was in Rome. And I knew he had a house here, so . . .’

  ‘Yes. Well. The house. As I said, it was his at one time. But that was years ago.’

  ‘So you’ve met him?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Another sip of wine.

  ‘And what was your impression?’

  There was a dim rasp from a speaker, an object Lassiter had not noticed that sat on the table next to them. It was an intercom of sorts, the kind of monitor Kathy used to carry around her house, setting it nearby when Brandon was asleep – so that she could hear him if he cried.

  ‘My wife,’ Egloff said. ‘She’s quite ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I won’t be a minute. If you’ll help yourself . . .?’ He gestured toward the decanter and got to his feet.

  When Egloff left the room, Lassiter studied the water-colors that lined the walls. They were quite extraordinary depictions of religious themes executed in modern dress. An Annunciation showed a girl in a reindeer print night-gown kneeling by her bed, as a muscular angel surged from the television set. There was a Last Supper at a large table in what looked to be a cafeteria. Saul on the road to Damascus was a man with a rucksack, the road full of cars, a shimmering light breaking over his head like a waterfall. After a few minutes Egloff padded back in his sheepskin slippers.

  ‘These are amazing,’ Lassiter remarked.

  ‘Thank you. My wife did them,’ he said, settling into a chair and changing the subject. ‘But as for your Mr. Grimaldi . . . When I saw the house, I thought: Eurotrash. Everything was leather and chrome. Black leather! Can you imagine – in a chalet like this? But then I met the man, and . . . he is not what I expect. He is modestly dressed. He is quiet. He is a gentleman.’

  ‘And . . . did you get a good price?’

  Egloff hesitated for a moment, and replied, ‘Yes. A good price – but fair.’

  ‘Did he say why he wanted to sell?’

  Egloff shrugged. ‘I had the impression he was having financial difficulties.’

  ‘Really?’ Lassiter asked. ‘Because I was told he’d given all his money to charity.’

  ‘Oh? And who told you that?’

  ‘His sister.’

  ‘I see,’ Egloff said, seeming for the first time a bit off balance.

  ‘Perhaps your organization – you did say it was a charity . . .?’

  Suddenly, Egloff clapped his hands and got to his feet. A regretful s
mile. ‘Well, as interesting as this has been, I’m afraid . . . I must get back to work.’ Taking Lassiter by the arm, he escorted his visitor to the front door, where they shook hands.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Egloff said, ‘if you left your business card . . . I may think of something. . . .’

  ‘Fine,’ Lassiter replied, producing one from inside his jacket.

  Egloff glanced at the card. ‘And while you’re in Switzerland, Mr. Lassiter?’

  ‘I’ll be at the Beau Rivage in Geneva.’

  ‘Very good. And then?’

  ‘Back to Washington,’ Lassiter said, realizing as he said it that the words were a lie.

  Egloff beamed. The door swung open, and they shook hands a second time. Lassiter stepped into the cold, pulling the collar of his coat tightly around his neck.

  Egloff gave a little wave. ‘Ciao!’ And then the door swung shut and Lassiter was alone on the front steps. He stood there for a moment, looking at the brass plaque, memorizing the unfamiliar names. Salve Caelo. Services des Catholiques Nord. Gemeinde Pius VI. As he turned to leave, his eyes swept past the door, and as they did, the peephole seemed to blink. As if it were the nictitating membrane of a hawk. Or an owl.

  But that, he knew, was only his imagination. The door was a door, and if there was a bird of prey watching, it was Egloff.

  In fact, he’d planned to go on to Geneva that night, just as he’d said. He even had the ticket – arranged by the concierge in Zurich, on a train leaving from Chur.

  While he stood on the chilly platform, checking the timetable to make sure of the schedule, he took a look at some of the tidy, clear maps the Swiss provided for their travelers. And he changed his mind. He was in no hurry to get to Geneva, and there was some business to be done, right here in Chur. He took a room for the night in a small hotel right across the street from the railroad station.

  The interview with Egloff had been a disquieting one. Apart from that weird stuff about ‘Islamic imperialism,’ the man hadn’t asked him a single question about his sister’s murder. Which was strange. In his experience, people were seldom so incurious when the subject was murder. What Egloff had asked about were his travel plans and the hotel where he’d be staying.

  But it wasn’t just that, Lassiter thought, looking out his hotel room window at the train station across the street. His meeting with Egloff had been embroidered with coincidences, and coincidences made him nervous.

  Still, he had to admit that these particular coincidences were less than huge. Egloff was involved in religious charities – and so was Grimaldi, if only as a benefactor. One of Egloff’s organizations had been active in the Balkans – and so, according to his passport records, had Grimaldi. As coincidences went, these were next to nothing. Lots of people gave money to charity; and lots of charities were active in Bosnia. That Egloff and Grimaldi should have so much in common was less than strange. More interesting, Lassiter thought, was the discrepancy about the transfer of the house: Had the house been sold, as Egloff said, or had it been given away, as Angela claimed? To put the matter differently: Had Egloff lied? The question seemed important and, whatever else might be in doubt, this was an issue that Lassiter could resolve . . . and nowhere more easily than in the cantonal capital of Chur.

  In the morning he asked the desk clerk for directions to the handelsregister, where property records were kept. The office was only a few blocks away, and once there, he explained to the clerk that he was interested in a property in Zuoz. With an efficient nod, the clerk went into another room and returned a minute later with an ancient ledger, an atlas-like tome bound in Moroccan leather. Inside, Lassiter found a chronological list of every property transaction that had taken place in Zuoz since 1917. The list was handwritten in a dozen careful, legible hands, all of which had used the same color ink: blue. He turned the pages one by one until he found an entry for Heilestrasse 49.

  The ledger recorded the sale of the house to Salve Caelo in 1991. The purchase price was one Swiss franc, or a little less than a dollar. Immediately below the entry were the signatures of Franco Grimaldi (Ital.) and Gunther Egloff. Standing in the handelsregister with the property book in front of him, Lassiter traced Grimaldi’s signature with his forefinger, and wondered why Egloff had lied.

  *

  The Glacier Express hurtled past one postcard view after another until, with a great shwoooooosh of its brakes, it came to a rest in Geneva. Lassiter had half an hour to spare, and used it to find a hotel – any hotel but the Beau Rivage. Then he walked to La Perle, where he found Max sitting alone at a table overlooking the lake.

  It was Max’s fate that he resembled one of those little toy trolls that Kathy had collected as a child. He had the same dimply, wide-cheeked face, the same stubby body, and even the cottony orange hair that the dolls had. He looked like an elf, or maybe one of Santa’s helpers. Bouncing to his feet with a huge grin, he shook Lassiter’s hand with both of his own. When they sat down, the American couldn’t help but wonder if Max’s feet actually touched the floor. Probably not.

  For a small man, he had an enormous appetite, and soon Lassiter was watching his friend tuck into a double order of carpaccio.

  ‘They say I have the metabolism of a hummingbird,’ Max said.

  ‘You spent a lot of time hovering?’

  Max chewed and twinkled.

  ‘This is in fact what I do. Hovering.’ He giggled, greatly amused. ‘These are banner years, as you know, for capitalism. Business is booming. There should be more and more clerks, more and more tellers – but no. There are focking automatic tellers in places where two years ago there was not even a telephone. There are automatic tellers in the Celebes – in Phnom Penh! – where two years ago there was not even a bank! Used to be – banks charged for ATM transactions; now they want to charge extra for doing business with a human being! Soon, all the tellers will be out of work. I’ll be out of work! And then, I ask, who will have money to make deposits? So the banks will be out of work. And then it’s the end of the world. I’m telling you, Joe, it isn’t the meek that’s inheriting the world. It’s the bean counters! Nothing could be more tragic.’

  The waiter cleared the plates, and while he went through an elaborate ballet of flaming Max’s Steak Diane, Max made a show of fumbling through his briefcase. Then he slid a thin commercial envelope across the table. It was bright red, with white letters taking the rough shape of a cross to mimic the Swiss flag. It read:

  Safety

  PRIVACY

  And Confidence With Your

  Own

  Swiss

  Account

  Across from him, Max’s face got brick red with amusement at his own joke.

  The account history was printed out on a continuous sheet of old-style computer paper, and Lassiter unraveled it in the privacy of his hotel room. Here and there Max had hand-printed an asterisk and made a notation.

  Grimaldi had held the account for a dozen years, and during that time, the withdrawals were relatively few and unremarkable. Looking at the entries, Lassiter could guess when Grimaldi had purchased his apartments in Rome, the house in Zuoz, and the cars. In the spring of 1991, however, the pattern changed. On successive days in April, wire transfers were made to Grimaldi’s account from the Banco di Lazio in Rome. An asterisk from Max indicated that these reflected real estate transactions – obviously from the sale of Grimaldi’s apartments. At this point Grimaldi’s balance amounted to nearly two million Swiss francs. Two days later, however, the account was drained by a series of cashier’s checks that reduced the balance to exactly a thousand Swiss francs. Three of the checks were for small amounts: SF10,000 to the Roofing Fund of Capella Cecilia, SF5,000 to the African National Congress, and SF5,000 to Euzkadi Educational Fund.

  But the fourth check, made out to Umbra Domini, S.A. (Napoli), was for everything else: 1,842,300 Swiss francs.

  Lassiter stared at the printout, trying to make sense of it. Two of the smaller checks suggested blood money, gestures to the ANC and t
he Basque liberation front, whose leaders Grimaldi had hunted. The Roofing Fund was probably . . . just a roofing fund, in the way that ‘Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.’ And then: the 800-pound gorilla. A check for almost $2 million.

  Lassiter frowned. His Latin had been confined to a single year of deeply boring lectures at St. Alban’s. Ninth grade. Even so, he knew what umbra domini meant: Shadow. Lord. Shadow of the Lord. And he knew where he’d seen the words before: on the pamphlet in Grimaldi’s slum cell on Via Genova.

  18

  LASSITER GOT TO his feet, stretched, and looked out the window toward Lac Léman. All the lights were haloed with mist; in the distance a boat glided across the water, moving ever so slowly in an envelope of light. A foghorn lowed from the French side of the lake, and it occurred to him that this is beautiful. But the truth was, he didn’t feel it in his heart.

  What he did find exciting and beautiful was the paper record of Grimaldi’s account. Following the money was almost always revealing, and it was in the minutiae of spreadsheets and corporate shell games that he spent much of his time as an investigator, prising the secrets from the numbers.

  Returning to the printout, he saw that in ’92 and ’93 monthly deposits of about a thousand dollars had been made to Grimaldi’s account by Salve Caelo – Egloff’s ‘charity.’ The deposits had continued for about a year, and then they’d stopped. By late 1993 the account was once again drawn down to exactly a thousand Swiss francs. Next to the amount was a notation in Max’s hand: Maintenance minimum.

  After that the account remained inactive until August 4, 1995 – the date on the wire transfer slip that had fluttered to the floor in Chicago. On that day, Lassiter saw, $50,000 had been deposited in Grimaldi’s favor from an account at the Naples branch of the Banco di Parma. Again there was an asterisk and Max’s careful printing: