Clamour of Crows

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Clamour of Crows Page 21

by Ray Merritt


  Amusing, but probably not true.

  So with our stomachs filled and our spirits lubricated, I proceeded to fill Dorothy in. I told her about the three Swiss accounts and my growing suspicion that they were evidence of illicit transactions at ClearAire. That did not surprise her. Like the rest of us, she was not a Grogaman fan. Then I recounted the Barcelona adventure and took her through my pilgrimage to Montserrat, the curious death of Fra Jero, and the revelation of Sister Madeline. I told her that the documents the good sister gave me might shed some light, but how much I still didn’t know.

  They are, I suspect, Sister Maddy’s personal recompense for the sins of the not-so-good father.

  I then told her the details of my concerns about being shadowed and worse—the Nip attack, my Barcelona chauffeur, and the thugs around Ben’s place in Manhattan. Her attention turned to consternation.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to find out if my father was murdered and who is responsible? Eloise and I worry that if you don’t, we will spend the rest of our lives in fear of Leo’s being around our child, especially if it’s a boy.”

  “I cannot assure you of that but we are trying. As of now we have suspects, but nothing more and time is running out. The board and the Firm’s Executive Committee meetings are in four days. You’ll be there, I assume.”

  “Yes, of course. There’s a lot going on. I leave the day after tomorrow.”

  “Dorothy,” I whispered, trying not to sound alarmist, “it’s time to be prudent, even perhaps to overdo it. Here, this phone is encrypted. It’s secure. Call Eloise. Have her book us flights using someone else’s phone. We should try to get out early. There’s an eight o’clock Swissair flight to Zurich. We should be in by nine thirty. Dixie won’t get to Zurich ’til around ten, so we’ll have to find a place to wait. I’ll meet you at the airport at sevenish. No need to call me back.”

  “I’ve no problem with that. Your associate is going directly to the Baur au Lac. We’ll go straight there too. I’ll alert them of our arrival.”

  “Perhaps it would be best if you didn’t.”

  44

  As the plane gained altitude, our spirits rose too. Earlier that morning, I’d Googled the bank. Its web page was simple, discreet, and uninformative. It described the bank as a cantonal private bank serving individual and institutional accounts. Amaroso had told Dorothy that her father had his principal accounts at UBS in Zurich, but had a safe-deposit box at Sparkasse der Stadt.

  He never gave her a reason.

  I had learned the previous week from Terry that Ben’s Swiss account at UBS had a little less than three million in it, which, upon his death, was to pass to Dorothy and Leo, in equal shares, and that he’d always included the income from that account in his US taxes.

  Ben’s annual interest was only a little more than thirty thousand. Not surprising—the Swiss sell safety, not return. Ben was not looking to Andreas for capital enhancement. I suspect that Andreas was more than a banker, rather what Europeans call a ‘treuhänder’—a confidant whom you can trust to handle your most discreet affairs, including facilitating private matters that the principal would prefer not to leave his fingerprints on. Kati was not, I’m sure, Ben’s first special friend. He could not delegate those kinds of matters to Terry. That would be asking too much—even for him.

  Dorothy, having finished reading materials she extracted from her attaché case, turned to me after we leveled off. She was radiant this morning, dressed very smartly, but not so as to draw attention. I cannot say the same for her stockings. They were almost luminescent, covering but not disguising her stunning legs. A string of pearls rested unobtrusively on her collarbones.

  “Tuck, tell me more about Swiss banks. They’ve always been a mystery to me.”

  “Dorothy,” I answered, “as you know, until recently, secrecy was Switzerland’s most lucrative export. And most of the smaller banks are surprisingly low-tech. Unfortunately there is a James Bond ‘vision’ when you mention ‘Swiss banks’—shady dealings, international bands of bad guys, secret agents, and tax dodgers one step ahead of the law, at state-of-the-art financial citadels with bankers who greet you with the perfect dry martini. The truth is that small Swiss banks offer nothing more than confidentiality and safety. It is unthinkable that the Swiss government would fail—it’s too small—and as a consequence depositors feel confident that their assets will never be frozen. The Swiss are very righteous people. They are not unscrupulous. In fact, they are very proper. The big philosophical difference between the Americans and the Swiss was never over tax avoidance—everyone preaches that—but rather tax evasion. The Swiss for a long time just didn’t view that as sinful. Of late, with some strong prodding from the Germans, the English, and the Americans, they have found religion on that score.”

  “Let’s go over what you expect to happen at the bank,” she said. “I hate the unknown. I worry I won’t be at my best.”

  “OK, but remember, this is my first time too,” I whispered. “You simply identify yourself as Ms. Dorothy Baum, have your passport ready, and advise them you are seeking access to your father’s safe-deposit box. Do not volunteer that he is deceased. If they mention it, simply thank them for their condolences. Introduce me as your attorney and reiterate that you are here to access the deposit box. No more, and don’t let them put you on the defensive. Act polite, but a bit haute.”

  “That won’t be hard,” she smiled.

  “If they ask about your father, deflect the inquiry. If they ask about Andreas, say that he’s on holiday. Don’t offer your identification number unless it’s absolutely necessary. They will know this is your first visit. I’m assuming that they keep a precise log of visitors. And as I said, just try to relax. Don’t expect any small talk or banter. That’s not in the Swiss DNA.”

  The plane arrived and we exited quickly with our luggage in hand. Dorothy had some type of card that got us VIP treatment and within minutes we were in a cab. After a quick exchange with the driver in what I assumed was Swiss German, she advised that the trip would be slow and tedious—rush hour and some very early snow had reduced travel to a crawl.

  “OK. Then we have time. Tell me what’s going on at Ozone.” I thought it best to divert her attention for a while.

  “The board, the proxy fight, the foundation, the Trust. Quite a scene, I suspect.”

  “You’re right about that,” she agreed. “I’ll start with the board. Utter chaos. It’s divided into camps, as you would expect. The outside directors are in thrall to their special counsel, Jack Newsome. Do you know him?”

  “Only by reputation. He’s supposed to be the best at that.”

  “Then there are the insiders—Luc, myself, Jeff Donaldson, our CFO, Patricia Sampler, my acting division chief. I’ve been elevated to president at Ozone. Doesn’t mean very much, since the board designated Luc as the CEO. They are terrified of him. He sits over Ozone’s most profitable division. They’re coining money right now and he’s not bashful about saying so. He does, however, stay clear of me. The remaining board members are all just numb. They know a Russett takeover means they’re gone. And they know that even if we deflect Russett, the battle for control between Luc and me is bound to be nasty. There will be blood. Poor Evan—he’s trying to keep his toes in each camp. He’s stressed. You can see it in his face.

  “It may be that we can convince Tremaine to vote along with management. It should be in her best interests financially—unless she is hoping that Russett’s impending offer will be too sweet to reject,” Dorothy said.

  “What about the possibility of Russett’s offering her a special sweetheart deal, although I’m not sure he would do that. Wasn’t he a very good friend of your father’s?”

  “Yes, he was, but he’s also a tough guy and apparently really wants Ozone. Remember, he waited until my father died. He would never have done this when he was alive. And I’m told he doesn’t want Luc at the helm. So there’s no alliance there.”

  “How are
you holding up in all this career-wise?”

  “Fine. Obviously, I’ll miss having Dad at my back. For all the things he did and did not do as a father, he was super as a boss, booster, and benefactor. He gave me a long leash to run my division—and I took it. We’re on the cusp of some great things.

  “We’re about to announce a blockbuster deal—a joint venture with Paramount to bring out the ultimate sequel, Back to Oz. Paramount hasn’t signed off yet, but we’re close. It could be a megafilm—an updated version of Dorothy’s daughter’s return to Oz. We call her Ozma. In our version, the world of Oz is dominated by annoyingly condescending Wizards—Johnny Depp, Kevin Kline, and John Cleese being the most annoying of them. And, as always, there’s a Good Witch, Glinda—played by Tina Fey—to save the day.

  “It takes place forty years after the original. Ozma returns to Oz to try to right things. Seems the Munchkins are growing sad and restless. Ozma is everything her mother was and more. But we can’t use the ruby slippers. Warner owns them and they’re aggressively protective. This time Ozma wears silver slippers like Dorothy did in the book, but updated with thick higher heels and bright yellow soles. Hopefully we’ll have a great movie and it will make us a player.”

  “Heady stuff!” I conceded.

  “Yes, but all this pales next to getting Dad’s consent letter. I’m so anxious . . . Ah, we are here!”

  The cab had wound its way through the back of the city and come upon the Zürichsee—the vast lake that anchors this Emerald City.

  And yes, the Höckerschwanns were indeed hovering.

  45

  We finally arrived at the Baur au Lac.

  Traffic at rush hour had indeed been very bad. Dixie was sitting on a bench in the courtyard inhaling the crisp air and soaking up some sun. After eight hours in flight, I’m sure the fresh air was invigorating. He quickly rose and produced the keys. We then moved into the lobby lounge and ordered coffee.

  No decaf this time.

  One key was rather large and intricate, the other small and undistinguished. They had been taped to the back of the ornate breastplate that hung on the wall behind Ben’s desk. The larger one had an oval end with the number 2424 stamped on it. The insertion end was two-sided, with distinct denticulations on each side. It was slightly tarnished and appeared to be silver. With great care, Dorothy placed the keys in her handbag and secured the strap across her chest and the bag under her arm. Only then, as she patted her bag, did she smile. With profuse thanks, we told Dixie to go unpack and we left.

  It was a nice, brisk day.

  The sky was a brilliant blue and the white-capped mountains that ringed the city sparkled. There was a flotilla of Höckerschwanns, hundreds of them, plying the waterway that connected the city with the lake and accepting their daily rations.

  It was a handsome backdrop to this very proper Swiss city.

  A modest polished gold plate affixed to a century-old undistinguished building on the Stadhaus Quai identified the entrance to Sparkasse der Stadt, Zurich. Inside the foyer a buzzer system unlocked the exterior door. We depressed the button next to the bank’s name and a glass door to the left opened.

  We approached the receptionist, advising her of our wish to access a safe-deposit box. She nodded with a smile, gesturing to the reception area chairs while she dialed for assistance. Shortly thereafter, a small, very neatly dressed man approached, introducing himself as Herr Roald Dahlgrens.

  He resembled a short peach of a man with a Tweedledee physique. Not your stereotypical banker. But then again, he was a safe-deposit box escort—there to match only keys, not wits; he didn’t handle any investment or financial matters.

  “Grüezi Mitenand,” he uttered as he bowed his head ever so slightly.

  “Grüezi,” Dorothy replied.

  They spoke a few sentences in Swiss German, and then she nodded toward me. They switched over to English.

  “Welcome, Mr. Tucker. Is this your first visit to Zurich?”

  “No, I’ve been here several times . . . on business. A lovely city. I compliment you.”

  He beamed. Turning to Dorothy, he asked for her passport, which she produced. He then took out a little notebook and very carefully made notations, continuously glancing at the passport. When he was finished, he returned it to Dorothy.

  “And how is Mr. Baum these days?”

  Without flinching, she answered, “Peaceful.”

  “Wunderbar . . . And Herr Amaroso?”

  “He’s on holiday.”

  A smile crossed his face, as he extended his hand and led us to an elevator.

  The vault rooms occupied the third-level basement. There was a square center foyer that led to steel-framed glass doors, which in turn gave access to seven rooms, each with a rectangular table and chairs. Herr Dahlgrens took us into one of them. After locking the door from the inside, he led us to one of the identical drawers that rose from about three feet off the floor to about six feet high. Rechecking the number on his manifest, he asked, “Fraulein Baum, do you have your box number handy? Just for protocol’s sake.”

  Dorothy smiled, taking out her wallet and extracting a card. “421411242112.” Her recitation was clear, her voice unwavering.

  The silence that followed seemed forever. The good Herr Dahlgrens finally looked up and smiled.

  “All set, as you say. You know the number isn’t really necessary. It’s only for our internal purposes. The key is what matters. If you notice, there are four numbers engraved on your key. That’s what’s important—and your identity, of course.

  “We are a small bank here in Zurich and we get to know our customers very well. We are all very fond of Mr. Amaroso . . . and your father, whom I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting.”

  He extracted a key from his vest pocket and inserted it in one of the holes, and then nodded to Dorothy. Without any change in her countenance and without any hesitation, she slipped her key into the box’s other keyhole.

  “May I?” the good banker asked.

  Acknowledging Dorothy’s nod, he proceeded with two hands to open the drawer and lifted out a large back-hinged rectangular metal box and with practiced ease placed it on the table. He removed his key and motioned to Dorothy to do likewise. He then invited her to access the box.

  Dorothy very slowly and methodically removed the contents—except for four stacks of euros that must have each measured four inches high. I noticed a thousand-euro note on the top of each pile. Assuming they weren’t Texas rolls, we’re talking beaucoup bucks.

  They were of no interest to Dorothy.

  There was a series of folders of various sizes. Without looking at them, she removed a small interior metal box, which had its own lock. Assuming that the smaller key was meant for that box, she took it out and gave our officious host a commanding glare. He nodded, retreating to the far corner of the room, his little notebook in hand. After a brief moment of hesitation, she opened the box and immediately saw a Lyceum Hotel envelope. Without a trace of emotion, she opened it, read the letter, and with an imperceptible nod to me, returned it to the envelope and placed it in her purse.

  Herr Dahlgrens made another notation in his pad. Yet Dorothy remained imperviously calm—steel tough.

  In a heist, I want her on my side.

  She then motioned me to join her at the table and began to hand me the assorted folders. One contained an old copy of Ben’s Will—outdated, I suspected. Another contained bank statements relating to his checking account. I put those aside. The last one was larger. It contained a series of documents in what I thought was Spanish. It didn’t take me long to realize that they were the certificates of incorporation for the three Madeira companies—Cerberus S.A., Chimera S.A., and Hydra S.A., along with the bearer share for each.

  Directing my conversation to Dorothy, I said, “I think these could be of some use, Ms. Baum. May I take them?”

  She nodded affirmatively. I placed them in my attaché case. She signaled that we were done and thanked Herr Dahl
grens matter-of-factly.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” he inquired.

  And for no good reason, I asked, “Can you direct me to a good chocolate shop in town? I’ve got a yearning for some of your best.”

  “Of course, Herr Tucker, Sprüngli, Lindt, and Teuscher are the best. They’re all along the Bahnhofstrasse. And if you have time, there is a Lindt factory in Kilchoerg—not too far away—that’s fun to visit. I have always wanted to own a chocolate factory but it was not to be. I am quite happy as a ‘keeper of the keys.’ ”

  We quickly exited the bank, advising our host that we might have to return.

  Once on the street, we strained to keep our pact. No show of emotion until safely out of sight. Since the walk to the Baur au Lac was only a few hundred yards, we were able to keep our decorum.

  Once inside the hotel, we hugged each other and Dorothy let out, for everyone to hear, a very unladylike, “Yes!”

  She quickly regathered her reserve and added, “And, on a small note, I don’t think it was a coincidence that the safe-deposit key number—2424—adds up to twelve. Dad knew that and that must be why he chose a duodecad puzzle.

  “A game within a game. Just like him!”

  46

  Somewhere close, a clock bell tolled.

  My anxiety began to abate even though these revelations brought on shudders of excitement. Dorothy had left for Paris, future hopefully in hand. Dixie and I ambled up the Bahnhofstrasse, Zurich’s opulent main drag lined with the likes of Breguet, Bulgari, Cartier, Chanel, Armani, Hermès, as well as the obligatory Apple store and H&M.

  It was lunchtime. Loden-clad bankers shopped for something to buy for their wife’s affection or their mistress’s attention—assuaging their guilt in one case and fanning their passion in the other. They all proceeded in measured strides. Zurich does a good job of hiding its innate detachment and rigidity. Its devotion to finance and adoration of self bordered on pious zealotry.

 

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