by Pierre Rey
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Moshe said again, trying to make himself heard. "If you stay united, there's nothing lost We're still holding Homer Kloppe—" Yudelman stopped short He started to stammer as though he had been struck by lightning.
"Holy shit!" he finally exclaimed. All eyes turned to ward him. Then, in a voice that was not his own, he struggled to say, "I know who has the number!’
Axel Green downed what was left of his highball and made a face. The ice had melted, leaving the drink flat. He straightened the papers on his desk and looked at his watch. It was well past normal closing time. He tight ened the knot of his tie, slipped into his light jacket, and glanced out the window of his office. Bay Street as usual was mobbed with dawdlers in straw hats, going by in a brightly colored stream as they did their window shop ping.
Despite its name, the Bahamian Credit Bank was a British bank, and Axel Green was by birth a Londoner; he had arrived in Nassau twenty years before on a busi ness trip and had simply never left never missing those cold rainy English skies. Today, Green was the head of the foreign accounts department of the bank's Nassau branch, responsible for the huge amounts of capital that passed through the island for brief cleansing stopovers.
Green merged into the flow of tourists, wondering whether he should go home before taking his swim.
"Mr. Axel Green?" a voice asked him.
"Yes?"
"Would you please get in?" a tall man said, pointing to a bottle-green Vauxhall. 'I beg your pardon?"
Another man opened the rear door of the car and pushed him in before he knew what was happening. A third man, at the wheel, started the car moving. Green thought it might be a kidnapping, like the ones that had been taking place recently in Italy. If so, he was done for. The bank would never pay to ransom him. "Where are we going?" he asked.
"To the Beach Hotel. There are some people who have to see you."
"See me? But why?"
"They'll tell you that themselves, Mr. Green."
When the car stopped, the tall man said, "There are two of us here with you,' Mr. Green," letting him catch a glimpse of a pistol as he added, without a trace of humor in his voice, "In fact, as you can see, actually three of us. I think you'd do well not to give us any trouble. Get it?"
"I won’t give you any trouble."
"Very well then. Let’s go."
Flanked by the two men, he walked through the Beach Hotel lobby where a number of his acquaintances greeted him. It seemed unbelievable that he could be kid napped in front of a hundred witnesses, without anyone realizing what was going on.
They took the lift up to the top floor, and the shorter of the two men rang the bell of corner penthouse 1029.
A man came and opened. "This way, Mr. Green," he said. "The gentlemen are expecting you."
Green found himself in a huge living room with great bay windows looking out on a breathtaking view. But the five strangers before him didn't care about the view. The man who had opened the door closed it behind him. The five men stood up, and one came toward him.
"Please, first of all, allow me to apologize for the somewhat shall I say, unconventional way in which we invited you up here, Mr. Green. But this is a real emer gency. I should introduce myself; I am Moshe Yudelman."
Something clicked in Axel Green's mind. He had heard Yudelman's name before.
"And this is Mr. Ettore Gabelotti."
The fat man with the heavy jowls acknowledged the Introduction with a wave of his chin.
"Mr. Italo Volpone," Yudelman went on, "and An gelo Barba and Carmine Crimello, financial advisers to Mr. Gabelotti."
Green was nonplussed by these formal introductions. Capi of the Syndicate were never known to act out in the open this way.
"Would you like something to drink, Mr. Green?"
"That would be a jolly good idea," he replied.
"Straight or with water?" Barba asked as he poured some scotch into a glass.
"Over one ice cube, if you don't mind," Green re quested.
"Please do sit down, Mr. Green."
He sat Outside of Yudelman and Barba, none of the others had said anything.
"Here's to you, Mr. Green," Yudelman said as he raised his glass. "And to the little business deal we have to conclude."
"You say we have a business deal to conclude?" Green asked with exquisite British courtesy.
"Yes, we do," Yudelman said. "And a very good deal for you, if I may say so. You're going to become a rich man, Mr. Green."
"Nothing could make me happier," Green countered.
Yudelman continued, "Two hundred thousand dol lars is nothing to turn your nose up at"
Green gulped his scotch.
"What am I supposed to do to earn these two hun dred thousand dollars, Mr. Yudelman?"
"Very, very little. Simply supply us with a bit of in formation we once had, but have, unfortunately lost We want the number of an account you transferred to Switzer land on the instructions of a depositor, Mr. Genco Vol pone. Two billion dollars, Mr. Green, which you forwarded to Switzerland, to the Zurich Trade Bank. Receipt was acknowledged to you by the bank's head, Mr. Homer Kloppe. Will you give me the number of that account Mr. Green?"
"This is a very embarrassing thing that you? are ask ing me to do, Mr. Yudelman..."
"Are you aware of who we are?" Moshe asked him amiably.
"Yes," Green replied.
Yudelman spread his arms in a gesture of resignation. "You see. Mr. Green, I'm afraid you don't have much choice. However, to set your mind at ease about any ethical problem involved, I will tell you something you already know. That money does belong to us. There is not the slightest doubt about that The two people who had the key to it—Genco Volpone, the brother of Mr. Volpone here, and Mortimer O'Brion, Mr. Gabelotti's le gal counsel with power of attorney—are both gone, dead under tragic circumstances, and were not able to give us the number for the account So, in giving it to us, you are not doing anything dishonest, you are merely acting in the cause of justice, and doing us a favor which, as I told you, we will not fail to appreciate."
Axel Green cleared his throat. "What if I were to refuse?"
"After all I’ve just told you, I can't really conceive of that" Yudelman said.
"Quite right, I suppose not," Green said, shaking his head.
"Will you accept the two hundred thousand dollars as a token of our friendship and gratitude, then?"
Green ran a hand over his face and stared out at the clear blue sky that was now and then marked by the rapid darting of seagulls. Everything Yudelman had just told him was true. When the order to transfer the money had been given to him, Genco Volpone himself had selected the number under which it would be recorded at the Zurich Trade Bank. Green, who had a fantastic mem ory for figures, knew it by heart He had automatically seen the number—828384—as a series of consecutive numbers—82,83,84. Child's play.
Axel Green wanted to go on living. He had been in Nassau too long not to know that refusing the Syndi cate now would be signing an irrevocable death warrant not only for himself but for his loved ones as well.
"We know that your son John is ready to enter col lege," Yudelman went on seriously. "And dont forget you have two more children after him, little Paul and Chris tme. And Mrs. Green does want the girl to take up ballet A fine family is a beautiful thing, Mr. Green, but good education doesn't come cheap these days.’’
"No, indeed, it's quite expensive," he agreed.
"My friends and I feel that the Bahamian Credit Bank is not doing right by you, considering your talents. We are deeply sorry about that Mr. Green, and that is why we thought it would be nice to reward you properly for this favor you're doing us, Two hundred thousand dol lars. Believe me, the figure would have been much lower for anyone less gifted or less worthy than yourself."
'1 appreciate that" Green said.
"Well, then, here's the question again: What is the number of that account?'
"Eight hundred and twenty-eight thousand, three hun dred and eighty-fou
r," Green said, heaving a deep sigh. "Or, if you prefer it more simply: eighty-two, eighty-three, eighty-four."
"Thank you, Mr. Green," Moshe told him. "I can see that you are a very wise man. The two hundred thousand dollars—in cash—will be delivered to your home tomor row, at the end of the business day."
A key turned in the lock. Homer Kloppe sat up sharp ly on the cot automatically running his fingers over his unshaven chin.
A stranger came in and threw a blindfold down on the bed.
‘Put that over your eyes," he instructed Kloppe.
Kloppe shook his head. If he had to die, he was going to do it looking death in the face.
"Hey, what the hell you waiting for? Put it on and make it snappy. We're releasing you!"
As he still did not move, the man went around be hind him and tied the piece of black material over his eyes.
I’m warning you, if you take it off before I tell you, you get a shot in the head." - Kloppe heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. "Come on, get up!"
Then he was pushed up a step. The noise of a metallic door closing noisily made him realize he was in some kind of truck or van. The motor began to hum. Then there were the noises of. the city, followed by the zip of cars going past in the opposite direction, and finally, coun try silence.
When the brakes went on, he was thrown forward. The man next to him kept him from falling.
"Okay, get out now. The driver's going to move on. I'm staying here with you. Start counting as loud as you can, up to two hundred. After you hit two hundred, you can do whatever you want. Go ahead, start counting.’'
"One, two, three, four, five.. .’’
"Louder!"
"Six, seven, eight..." "Good, keep on like that" The sound of the car moving away. "Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four..." And Kloppe stopped.
Nothing happened. He took off the blindfold. In the east, the sun was rising; it was as if he were seeing it for the first time. He breathed in the fragrance of the trees, and, to get his bearings, he started walking along a wooded path covered with fragile new grass that gradually led down to a highway from which he had heard the passing sounds of high-speed tracks. Although he was not able definitely to identify it, the place where he was seemed vaguely familiar to him. He set himself up on the shoulder of the road and began trying to hitch a ride. Nobody stopped for him.
From the time it had taken to come out here, he figured he must be about fifteen kilometers from Zurich. But all the drivers who went by seemed to speed up when they came abreast of him, pretending not to see him. The first road marker he saw told him he was moving in the right direction: Zurich—11 km.
For the twentieth time, he tried to flag down a car. In a flash, behind the wheel of a Mercedes, he could see the driver turn away. He looked like an elegantly dressed, slightly portly man—who could have been his own twin— and yet the man went by indifferently, just as Kloppe himself would have done in similar circumstances, once upon a time.
A braking sound made him turn around.
"Hi there, pops. You look beat"
There were three of them, two boys, and a girl who looked like Renata, in a tired old jeep.
"Could you give me a ride into Zurich?’'
"Sure, hop in. The more crazies in here, the mer rier."
When he got to Bellerivestrasse, he found Chimene sitting in the living room. She dropped her teacup and threw herself into his arms.
"Homer, oh, Homer!" she cried. ‘1 was so scared! They didn't hurt you, did they?"
He softly patted her hair, staring into space.
"No, no. Everything is fine. I just need a bath."
She was wearing a robe over her nightgown. She smelled good. Hiding her face against his shoulder, she said, "Homer, you ought to know. They set fire to your bank."
Getting the number from Axel Green didn't relax Gabelotti or Volpone. Since the day before, they, had spoken to each other only through their respective consiglieri. The insults and threats they had traded in New York had created an abyss between them that could never be closed, except by the death, sooner or later, of one or the other.
When Green had left, Moshe made a last desperate effort at reconciliation. "Gentlemen, gentlemen! We're in sight of our goal. Nothing is going to stop us from getting our money back now."
Don Ettore grabbed the telephone, connected It to the squawk box so that all of them would be able to hear what he said, and dialed the number of his Swiss lawyer, Philip Diego. When Diego answered, they could hear him as clearly as if he had been in the room with them.
"I have the number we've been looking for," Gabe lotti said. "Want to take it down?"
"Of course. Since you left, you know, some unfor tunate things have been happening in Zurich. One of our leading bankers, Mr. Homer Kloppe, has disappeared."
"Oh, how I deplore such a thing!" Gabelotti said.
Crimello, Barba, and Yudelman couldn't take their eyes off him. Only Volpone pretended to be looking out at the sky, as if he weren't involved in what was going on.
"We just don’t understand what's been happening,"
Philip Diego went on. "Mr. Kloppe's bank was raided.
The whole police force is on the alert. People have been
killed—"
"I don't see what those local problems have to do with us!" Don Ettore cut him off impatiently. "Will you please take down this number and take the necessary steps to have the money transferred?"
"That guy's not going to the bank by himself!" Vol pone said suddenly to Yudelman. "Our man has to go with him!"
Gabelotti frowned as he caught those instructions (intended for him—to be sure).
"I'm afraid I don't make myself clear," Philip Diego came back. "All banking operations have been suspended. As I just told you, the banker has disappeared!"
"I understand exactly what you said," Gabelotti barked at Diego. "What makes you think that banker may not be coming home any minute now? And if he does, what's gonna hold us up?"
'Nothing, of course, nothing. Provided you have the number and the secret code name."
Gabelotti looked daggers at Angelo Barba and Car mine Crimello; Moshe Yudelman and Italo Volpone froze.
'The what?’'the don roared into the phone.
"You know the money was deposited in the num bered account under a fictitious name: the code name. Do you have it?"
‘I have the number, that's enough!" Gabelotti spat at
him.
"Oh, I’m afraid not," Diego replied after the briefest of pauses. "If the banker does get back, and I say if he does, the slight, uh, misunderstanding we had with him won't make the job any easier for me. You know, he’ll stick strictly to the letter of the law."
"What the hell does that mean?" Gabelotti demanded.
The whole thing was just too stupid. They were so close to the goal, and just as they were about to touch it, it started to slip away again.
Moshe signaled to Don Ettore. 'Tell Mr. Diego you'll call him back," he whispered.
"Don’t go away from your phone," Gabelotti yelled across the ocean. 'I’ll be callin' you back right away!"
He hung up, and nobody dared look at anyone else.
Angelo Barba finally broke the silence that engulfed them. "Moshe," he asked, "would you object if we held separate conferences for fifteen minutes or so?"
"That's just what I was going to suggest," Yudelman said.
Barba, Crimello, and Gabelotti left the sitting room, and when Moshe and Italo were alone, Yudelman began to shake his head.
"This is a rough one, all right, Italo. Genco and O'Brion were the only ones who knew the code name. Now neither one of 'em is here to clue us in. Frankly, I don't know where we go from here."
Volpone punched a drape as hard as he could.
"That fucking bastard O'Brion! I was too nice to him —I didn't keep him suffering long enough! His head was right under that electric saw, and instead of talking, the idiot kept calling for his mother, Mamma mia! Mamma mia!
"
Moshe was hit by a high-voltage charge. "Say that again! Say it again! What was he calling?" Italo looked at him carefully. "Moshe? What's with you?"
"What was O'Brion saying when he was under the saw?"
"Mamma mia," Volpone said. "So what? The poor bastard was shitting in his pants with fear. He knew what I was gonna do to him, he knew all right! And instead of answering me, he just kept whining, calling for his whore of a mother!"
Yudelman's lips began to tremble uncontrollably. When he finally could, he said in a toneless voice, "Re member, Italo, O'Brion was an Irishman. An Irishman— you know what that means?"