by Andrew Gross
Christina’s.
In the margin, someone had scrawled some words. Maybe al-Bashir. Hauck tried to make it out.
“It says, ‘The Gstaad Gang,’” said Naomi, who already had.
“The Gstaad Gang?”
“Something took place there.” Naomi’s eyes were bright. “This isn’t just some tourist book. Thibault and al-Bashir, both there. It can’t just be a coincidence. What do you want to bet Hassani’s been to Gstaad too?”
Hauck looked at the book. He felt it too. The throbbing in his chest. “What we have to find out is when al-Bashir might have been there and see if Hassani was there at the same time.”
“We can do better than that,” Naomi said. “Lift tickets have dates on them.”
“If we happened to have it,” Hauck agreed.
“We do. It’s in my camera.” She lit up in a grin. “I photographed everything there.”
Her face now shone with renewed purpose. If they could connect everyone there at the same time, they might have a reason to go at Hassani. He’d be a slippery one to latch on to, maybe protected by the Bahraini or Emirates government, but this was the best they had.
“We can track his movements through immigration,” Naomi said. “Through credit card records.”
She was right. No way this was just a coincidence. Something had happened there. Between Thibault and al-Bashir. And maybe Hassani. He stared at the hand-scrawled margin note. Underlined. A surge of optimism coursed through Hauck as well.
The Gstaad Gang.
“Who knew about this?” he asked Naomi. “I’m talking about the arrangements around al-Bashir.”
She shrugged. “Gavin Toller of MI5. Linda Maxwell, my counterpart at the office of the Exchequer.” Britain’s treasury department. “Obviously, it was passed along to the police.”
“Who else?” Hauck asked, his gaze fixed on her. He meant back home.
“Rob Whyte, my boss. I’m sure he ran it up the line. Just what are you saying, Ty?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying. Except that someone knew Thibault was Kostavic and in Novi Pazar, which was something we fell upon only by accident. Now al-Bashir…I have a suggestion, Naomi. Actually, it’s not so much a suggestion as it is something that would be really, really smart and might end up keeping us alive.”
“What’s that?” Naomi asked, her look darkening.
“Until we find out where this goes”—Hauck held the Gstaad book in his hand—“don’t call this in.”
PART V
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Hassan ibn Hassani passed through customs at JFK and found the private limo driver waiting for him in the terminal.
His private security man followed a step behind.
The driver took Hassani’s expensive Hermès carry-on, exchanging the usual pleasantries about the trip with him. Hassani had used the man before. He led them quickly to the custom BMW 750i, which was permitted to wait for him at the curb, the security man hopping in front. They drove into the city.
As the car navigated the bumper-to-bumper traffic along the Van Wyck Expressway, Hassani got on the phone. He was here, principally, as a representative of the Bahraini royal family’s interests, for the annual meeting and the preceding board meeting of Reynolds Reid. A year ago the sultan had made a six-billion-dollar mezzanine investment in the ailing firm, which converted, if needed, to almost 7 percent of the company. That was eighteen points ago on the stock. The sultan’s six billion was now worth less than half that.
But Hassani knew that was about to change.
It would change because Reynolds Reid was clearly going to be one of the survivors in the world financial collapse. Not simply a survivor but a clear winner. When the world calmed, it would be more powerful than ever. And now, with a place at the table, who would be better set to represent their country’s vested interests?
One just had to have patience, Hassani knew. As well as take the long view.
This was a twenty-first-century kind of jihad.
Apart from Reynolds, Hassani also had other affairs to attend to in the States. He had legitimate business interests there and in Canada. And various other matters not so transparent. There were Islamic cultural organizations, religious freedom groups that funneled money from back home into mosques and Islamic communities in upstate New York.
That reflected the other side of his causes as well.
He found his mind wandering and he stroked his goatee, his thoughts flashing back to Sera, his new treasure back in Dubai. How sad he was to have to leave her behind. But he had to focus on other things here.
The car went through the tunnel into Manhattan and then wound its way up Park Avenue to the Waldorf Astoria, where Hassani had the six-room Roosevelt Suite, which was sometimes home to visiting heads of state. He told the driver and the security man to wait while he was shown around his quarters, quickly showered and changed, put on his Brioni pinstripe suit, custom-made Turn-bull and Asser shirt, and a yellow Alan Flusser tie. In half an hour he was back downstairs, totally refreshed.
He decided he would walk and told the driver he could pick him up again in two hours’ time. He was heading to 457 Park, on Fifty-fourth Street. The tall glass headquarters of Reynolds Reid, only five blocks away.
It was a beautiful day and Hassani felt safe enough to enjoy the summer weather in New York. Street vendors were out on the avenue, selling kabobs and pretzels to office workers who sat sunning themselves outside their buildings. His security man kept up a couple of paces behind.
On Fifty-fourth, he recognized the familiar stone and glass tower with the iconic intersecting “RR” wrapped in a lion’s tail. He almost felt an owner’s pride.
Crossing the street, he passed through the large glass doors and walked up to the marble desk in the reception center. He announced himself to the guard, who printed off a VIP security badge and directed him to a private elevator bank that served the executive offices on the forty-second and forty-third floors. As the elevator whooshed them high above Manhattan, he knew there was much to talk about.
The largest bank in California had gone belly-up this week. In Spain, the leading real estate developer was underwater. The walls were tumbling, one by one, with even more speed than they had imagined. Mighty Lehman Brothers and Citi—their stocks were now the lowest they had even been. Everything was in play, if you had access to an unlimited supply of capital. The carnage was only beginning. Only those who had the long view, who had the required patience to accept the pain, with the promise of future reward, future domination, would be there to pick up the pieces in this new world.
The elevator opened on forty-three. Hassani and his security man stepped out. A pretty, nicely dressed secretary was there to greet him. Hassani admired her and wondered if something might be arranged later on. (Though the thought did also cross his mind that she might be just a tad old for him.)
The woman smiled and said, “Mr. Simons is waiting for you now.”
She led him along a row of important-looking offices, executives who wouldn’t even be there now, earning their large bonuses, Hassani mused, were it not for the timely investment of his own king. She led him into a spacious conference room. Hassani motioned to his man to wait outside.
“Make yourself at home,” Peter Simons’s secretary said. “Mr. Simons will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.” Hassani smiled.
The room had a large rosewood table that might have seated as many as forty, and a sprawling, wall-to-wall vista of midtown Manhattan. In one corner there was a Giacometti bronze on a pedestal. Hassani had acquired such tastes himself, having studied at the Sorbonne. A six-foot-wide video presentation screen boasted the familiar logos of all the iconic brands that Reynolds Reid had acquired, ready for the upcoming board meeting. A set of antique silver tea and coffee pots sat on the credenza.
As Hassani admired the view, a private door to one side opened. Peter Simons stepped in.
Simons was tall, lanky, raw bon
ed, slightly graying. He was fifty-six, but with his still light-brown hair and fit, trained body, he looked much younger. He came over and hugged Hassani with open arms. “Hanni!”
“Peter.” The two embraced, kissing each other on each cheek in the Middle Eastern fashion. “It’s very good to see you again, my friend.”
Simons patted the Bahraini warmly on the back. “I’m glad you could be here.”
There was much to talk about before their meeting, but first the Reynolds Reid CEO leaned close to Hassani’s ear and said, his voice no louder than a whisper, “One thing… That little matter in London, which so concerned us…It’s been taken care of, I presume?”
“Completely taken care of, my friend.” Hassani gave a pat to the CEO’s back. “Let us get on to other things.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Hauck flew back to New York on Sunday. Eight A.M. Monday, he was back at his desk.
The plane ride back was the first time he’d been able to think about what Steve Chrisafoulis had shared with him, the connection between Talon and Sonny Merced, the man who’d attacked Jared at the rink. He recalled how Foley had tried to put the brakes on his investigation into Thibault, citing the firm’s “other” interests with Reynolds Reid.
It also worried him how someone was always one step ahead of them in Serbia and London. Only a handful of people in the world knew about Thibault. Or al-Bashir’s connection to Hassani.
Was it possible he and Naomi were being played?
Around ten, one of the partners transferred in a call from Tom Foley. “Glad you’re back,” his boss said with seeming enthusiasm. “Ready to go forward?”
“Totally ready,” Hauck said, looking to deflect any questions on where he had been.
“Good. I want you in on a lunch meeting Skip Haley is holding up there around noon on Landmark Communication…”
Landmark owned television stations and was looking to make an Internet acquisition. Hauck told him he’d sit in.
Naomi had remained an extra day in the UK, to check with some contacts there and see if they could pin Hassani in Switzerland on the date of the supposed meeting in Gstaad.
They knew the date in question, June 26, a year ago, from Thibault’s lift ticket. If they could pin Hassani there, coupled with the flow of funds from Ascot through Thibault to James Donovan’s account in the Caymans, that might be enough to restart their investigation. Something had brought both al-Bashir and Thibault to the Swiss resort. Hauck began to wonder could there have been others? Others they didn’t know about. Something al-Bashir had said before he stepped into the car: It was never about terrorism…This was much larger than terrorism.
A thought occurred to him. He took out his BlackBerry and searched through the contact files for a name from years before, when he worked for the Department of Information at the NYPD.
Marcus Hird was a criminal inspector from Kantonspolizei in Zurich. They had gotten to know each other at a conference they both attended in DC and later, Hauck had done a favor for him, actually for his cousin who had moved to Greenwich to work for UBS; the cousin’s son had been caught with some beers behind the wheel. Hauck had gotten the boy off with a suspended license and probation.
Hauck located the number. It was four P.M. over there. The overseas call went through and connected with the usual short beeps.
“Bitte, Hird,” the inspector answered officiously.
“Marcus,” Hauck said. “It’s Ty Hauck. From Greenwich. In the States.”
“Ty!” the Swiss inspector exclaimed, switching to almost perfect English. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has,” Hauck agreed. They exchanged a few pleasantries about work; Hird’s cousin, who was now back home; and the man’s son, who was now a student at the local polytechnic college. Hauck then got to why he was calling: “Marcus, there may be something you can do for me.”
“Always happy to assist the local police there in any way I can,” the Swiss detective said politely.
“I’m afraid I’m not exactly with the local police any longer,” Hauck admitted. He explained what he was doing now, then why he had called, keeping the reason vague. “Do you ski?”
“Sure. I’m Swiss, Ty. I grew up in a village near Davos. In younger days I was quite the racer.”
“Good. I need some information from another of your resorts. From Gstaad.”
“Gesh-staad,” the Swiss said, drawing out the German pronunciation. “Beautiful place there. What is it you need?”
“I want you to look at only the five-star hotels there for me. Just the very top echelon.”
“Understood,” the Swiss said. “The Grand Hotel Park. The Grand Hotel Bellevue. The Gstaad Palace. Do you need a booking, Ty? If so, I recommend you call the Ministry of Tourism, not me.”
Hauck laughed politely. “No, not a booking, Marcus, sorry. I’m going to give you a date. On or around June twenty-sixth of last year. I’m also going to give you a series of names…”
“The twenty-sixth of June, only the top hotels…Go ahead. What is it you’re looking for, Ty?”
“I’d rather not go into it, if that’s okay. It’s part of a private investigation. You understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” the inspector said without argument. “You may have heard, we Swiss are used to matters of privacy. So tell me, what it is that you need?”
“The hotel guest lists for those days,” Hauck said. “All of them, if you can.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Naomi flew back to Washington that Monday afternoon and went straight to her office across from the Treasury.
She threw herself behind her desk, which was submerged under piles of memos and security reports that had stacked up in her absence. So far there was still no word on the Mercedes. She tried to convince herself over and over that it was al-Bashir, not her, like Ty had said, who had put his family in danger. But still, she couldn’t shake the sting of feeling responsible. The boy’s panicked face, peering out the back window, had haunted her all the way home. She sank back wearily in her chair under the weight of never having lost anyone before.
She logged on to her computer and scanned for a message from her contact at the Swiss Federal Office of Police’s financial crimes division. With Thibault and al-Bashir gone, there was only one course left—to try to prove Hassani was in Gstaad at the same time as the others. That some kind of conspiracy had been hatched there.
Then there was the added worry of just how to proceed. Ty’s concern was real. Someone always seemed one step ahead of them. There were only a handful of people on the inside who knew, and she had grown to understand, as Ty said, this was no longer something she could go on managing in the usual way.
She was scanning through her e-mails and calls, sipping a latte to fight the jet lag, when her boss, Rob Whyte, appeared with a knock at the door.
“Talia said you were back.”
Naomi straightened up, surprised. She cleared her throat. “Just got in now.”
“I’m sorry,” Whyte said, coming in, “about what happened, Naomi.” He pulled out a chair across from her desk. “Still no word?”
She shook her head. “I think we’ve got to proceed as if they’re gone.”
Her boss nodded. “You realize, Naomi, there’ll have to be a review of this. How it all went down.”
“I understand.”
“I know how it must make you feel. You had him.”
“Thanks,” she said, growing suspicious that he was buttering her up for something.
Whyte sat. His tie was loosened, and for the first time Naomi felt something unspoken and distant between them, a stiffness in his eyes. Was it what had happened in London or something more? She had always trusted him completely. Why not? Rob had been JAG. An ambitious lawyer. Passionate about the good they were doing. One day he would go on to bigger things. It gave her a queasy feeling holding important information back from him. But Hassani had recruited al-Bashir. He had seduced Glassman and Donova
n. Something had gone awry. And this was what she felt she had to do right now.
Her boss rocked back in the chair. “So where do we stand?”
“Back at square one. Al-Bashir was the only one who could fully implicate Hassani. Now that he’s gone, I’m going to have to try to retrace some of the movement of cash between Thibault and Hassani’s firms. It’s possible there were other people in play. I’ll try to see if we can find a fit.”
Whyte nodded, his fingers folded in front of his face. “That thing in Serbia, Naomi, what you did was crossing the line. It could get our department in a lot of trouble.”
Naomi shrugged. “I did what I felt I had to do, Rob.”
“I know, I know. It’s just that, when Justice finds out…They’re already bent out of shape we didn’t bring them in on taking al-Bashir into custody. They’re calling us a bunch of amateurs.”
“I don’t care what they’re calling us. There was no time.”
He nodded. “Listen…there’s something else. Hassani is in the States.”
“The States?” Naomi put down her coffee and fixed her gaze directly on him.
“Uh-huh. He’s here for the Reynolds Reid annual meeting. You know he helped arrange that preferred financing for the Bahraini royal family…”
Naomi’s blood began to surge. “Then we can pick him up, Rob. We can question him. He’s here!”
“Question him on what, if you don’t mind me asking? On some perfectly legal flow of funds that, at worst, might tie him to Dieter Thibault? Which he would clearly insist he knew nothing about. You haven’t established a single direct contact between him and Thibault. Only that phone conversation with al-Bashir. He’ll deny it meant anything, just as al-Bashir did. What’s there to use as leverage against him? Two co-conspirators, both dead? This is a big fish, Naomi…”
She looked back at him, suddenly feeling something different, a weakening in her boss’s will. A loss of nerves? His career path suddenly in jeopardy, would he take on the very institutions he might one day look to for a deal?