The Account
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For twenty years Cristiani, a short, stocky man with thinning hair, had been one of four special investigators for the Swiss Federal Banking Commission. When he had first joined the Commission it had been a puny thing with a staff of five. Now it was fully staffed with bright young lawyers and accountants eager to gain a few years’ Government experience before branching out on their own. And it had clout. It was now a criminal offence to mislead or lie to the Commission. At the slightest hint of impropriety it invoked the clause in the 1971 Banking Law, which stated that the director of a bank must behave ‘irreproachably’. Failure to do so could result in the Commission withdrawing a bank’s licence.
Cristiani’s main function was to monitor ‘irregularities’ in the bank system and report them back to his head office in Bern. Since he joined the Commission, there had been plenty of ‘irregularities’. So many, in fact, that Cristiani had not been surprised when his irate boss finally called him in for a meeting.
‘I’ve just had a call from the Director,’ Commissioner Pierre Bonnet said grimly. ‘He is incensed. The world now sees us as a place where any Mafia boss or drug dealer can hide his money. We’ve got to put a stop to it. We must restore Switzerland’s reputation as a law-abiding country.’
Sitting opposite his portly boss, Cristiani had nodded dutifully. Was the Commissioner kidding himself? A law-abiding country? Bonnet knew as well as he did that for years the Bern Government had engaged in secret surveillance and eavesdropping on its own citizens. And that somewhere in the capital there were almost 600,000 dossiers on Swiss citizens tucked away.
But this was serious. This was about banks. The life-blood of Switzerland. He had not been surprised when, next day, Bonnet issued a strongly worded statement to every bank in Switzerland. It said, in effect: No more scandals.
He knew the edict would be ignored. It would have no more effect than the booklet the Big Three banks had issued some years before. In The Truth About Swiss Banking, they stated: ‘The purpose of Swiss banking secrecy is to protect the innocent, not shield the guilty.’ He was told the booklet produced guffaws of laughter in Washington where officials knew there wasn’t a bank in Switzerland that would turn away a man with a suitcase stuffed with $100 bills.
Sometimes Cristiani wondered where all the cash came from. Drug money, of course, made up much of it. That, and money skimmed from the casino tables of Las Vegas and Atlantic City. But it was surprising to him just how many ordinary people now passed through Geneva’s Cointrin Airport with tote bags stuffed with notes.
But it was not another money scandal that occupied Cristiani’s thoughts as he sipped his second cup of coffee. It was the death of Georges di Marco. There was something suspicious about it.
Despite his age, the man had been in apparent good health. He held an important position in one of Geneva’s most respected banks. He was popular with his peers and friends. He had a pleasant apartment off the rue des Granges. He seemed financially well off. Why, then, would he have decided to end his life? It made no sense.
The question of the coat bothered Cristiani. When found, di Marco had been wearing only a suit. Cristiani could not imagine the elderly banker walking a mile to the lakeside on a freezing winter’s night without an overcoat.
There was something else. He had no key in his pocket. Had he just walked out without locking the door? That, too, seemed unlikely.
Inspector Thibault, the police officer investigating the banker’s death, had dismissed any suggestion of foul play by pointing out that there were no signs of a struggle. Cristiani had been astonished at such naivety. Only two years before there had been a report of a drowning in Lake Garda, ostensibly due to suicide. Later a man had confessed to the murder. The victim’s hands and legs had been bound with tape, he explained, before being lowered over the side of a boat with a rope around his waist. When he was dead the man’s body had been pulled back to the surface and the tapes and rope removed. No signs of struggle. An apparent suicide.
Cristiani had met di Marco several times, most recently when they had dined at the same restaurant. They had talked briefly and di Marco had asked to see him again. He had seemed agitated. Cristiani told him to call. A few days later, sounding nervous, di Marco had telephoned to set up a dinner appointment. Before they could meet again he was found dead.
When Cristiani telephoned Paul Eberhardt to discuss di Marco’s death and voice his concern about the coat and the key, the banker had seemed equally baffled.
‘I’ve thought about that myself,’ Eberhardt said. ‘I simply don’t understand it. It’s a complete mystery. Why did he do this terrible thing?’
Cristiani listened politely. Although he knew Eberhardt only slightly, the elderly banker had intrigued him ever since a rumour had surfaced a few years earlier that he was being blackmailed. The rumour stemmed from the fact that he had continued paying a former officer of his bank, a man named André Leber, 10,000 francs a month even though he had left the bank several years earlier. Cristiani’s enquiries had come to nothing and in the end he had concluded that if the banker wanted to support a former colleague that was his affair. Leber had later died in a car accident.
Frustrated, Cristiani made his way homeward, holding his umbrella with both hands against the gusting rain. Perhaps the death of di Marco had been a genuine suicide, he decided. That was what the police and the coroner had determined. But if it wasn’t, was it something to do with Paul Eberhardt?
Paul Eberhardt had spent an anxious morning. The phone call from Cristiani had worried him. Inspector Thibault was the man handling the di Marco investigation – yet it was Cristiani who was asking all these questions: What had di Marco’s mood been when he left the bank that night? Was he depressed? How long was it before he was due to retire? Had anything happened at the bank to upset him?
Eberhardt felt he had answered the questions well, but he could tell Cristiani was not satisfied. He had brought up the question of di Marco’s overcoat and the fact that he had left his apartment unlocked.
Eberhardt had confessed himself baffled.
What had surprised him was to learn that di Marco had invited Cristiani to dinner in Lausanne – far enough away to ensure privacy. So di Marco was going to tell his story just as he had threatened. And to an investigator of the Federal Banking Commission. Thank God he had acted in time to stop that.
He reached for his coffee. It had grown cold. He rang for Marte to bring him a fresh cup. He was safe. He was convinced of that. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.
Chapter 9
Michael Chadwick had booked a table at the Connaught Grill, a place he often entertained clients and where, Julia knew, he would charge their dinner to expenses. He was in a buoyant mood.
‘So how’s the new manager?’ he asked after they had ordered.
‘I’ve hardly seen him,’ Julia said. ‘He’s been locked away in his office.’ When the news of Moscato’s appointment to the Burlington had first broken she had considered telling Michael about what had happened in Italy. In the end she had said nothing.
‘It won’t affect you, will it?’
‘I hope not.’
He turned to her, a smile on his face.
‘If it does I’ve got the solution.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Come with me to Australia. We’ll get married there.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve been offered a job with Myers-Barswell.’
Julia took his hand. ‘Michael, that’s wonderful.’ Myers-Barswell, she knew, was one of the top advertising agencies in Australia. It was the kind of firm Michael had dreamed of joining. ‘When did all this happen?’
‘Yesterday. I had a long talk with them. They know my work well. And it’s big money. So this is a celebration.’
Julia leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m thrilled for you,’ she said. She felt like a hypocrite as she said it. Their relationship had dragged on because she had not had the heart to end it. Now, out of nowhere, the opportunity had presented itself.
‘So what do you think?’
‘It’s wonderful news …’
‘I mean, shall we do it?’
‘Michael.’ She laughed nervously. ‘I can’t just walk out on my contract.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’d sue me.’
‘Come on, Julia. The Sultan adores you. Tell him what’s happened. He’ll understand.’
‘You know how I feel about you,’ she said. It sounded weak and she knew it. ‘It’s just –’
‘You don’t want to marry me,’ he said flatly.
‘It’s not that. It’s just – well, marriage scares me. Not marriage to you; marriage to anyone.’
‘So how long are you going to wait?’ he demanded. ‘You’re thirty-three years old. You say you’d like a child. You can’t put it off forever.’
‘Please, Michael, let’s not argue.’ She tried to inject a little enthusiasm into her voice. ‘Everyone says Sydney is terrific. You’ll have a wonderful time …’
‘Don’t push so hard,’ Michael said. ‘I get the message.’ He looked up sharply as the wine waiter came over with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. ‘That’s not for us.’
‘Compliments of the gentleman over there.’ The wine waiter inclined his head and proceeded to uncork the bottle. Both of them looked across the crowded Grill. In the far window alcove Robert Brand was sitting with a handsome, well-dressed woman who looked to be in her early forties. Brand raised his glass to them.
‘Who’s that?’ Michael demanded stiffly.
Julia felt her face flush. She felt suddenly embarrassed. Why? She had nothing to feel guilty about.
‘Robert Brand,’ she said. As the waiter poured the champagne she raised her glass. ‘Go on,’ she muttered. Michael raised his glass with a bleak smile.
‘How do you know him?’ he asked.
‘He’s at the hotel. I met him at the cocktail party the other night.’
‘Who’s the woman with him?’
‘No idea.’
‘You must have made quite an impression,’ Michael said. ‘This is good champagne.’ He picked up the bottle from the ice bucket and inspected it.
‘For God’s sake,’ Julia said.
‘Cristal. You did make an impression.’ He let the bottle slide noisily back into the ice bucket.
Julia realized Brand must have been sitting there for some time. She felt oddly discomfited. They ate their food in silence. Every time she looked up she was conscious of Brand’s eyes.
‘Look,’ she said finally, ‘I have a bit of a headache. Do you mind if we have an early evening? I’ve got a heavy day tomorrow.’
‘Fine with me,’ Michael said grimly. He raised his hand for the bill.
On the way out they stopped by Brand’s table to thank him.
‘This is Jill Bannister, my personal assistant,’ he said. ‘I believe you’ve talked.’ The good-looking woman nodded. Brand looked at Julia. ‘Should you be here at the Connaught? Won’t that be construed as consorting with the enemy?’
‘I didn’t expect to be spotted,’ Julia said. ‘Anyway, it’s a good idea to check out the opposition.’ She smiled faintly, aware of Michael sulking by her side. She tried to bring him into the conversation. ‘This is a favourite place of Michael’s.’
‘Well, I trust your dinner was as good as ours,’ Brand said.
‘It was.’ Michael’s tone was stony.
They talked for a moment longer and then went out into Carlos Place. In silence Michael drove Julia back to her flat. At the door he turned to her. ‘You met him just once?’
‘I told you. At the hotel.’
‘He’s interested in you,’ Michael said. ‘Doesn’t try to hide it, either.’
He gave her a brief peck on the cheek before driving off.
When she stepped out of the lift she saw the white box propped against her front door. Inside were two dozen long-stemmed red roses. The card read: Long-stemmed roses for a long-legged lady. R. B.
Julia took them into the kitchen, put them in a vase and placed them on the hall table. If Michael had come up with me he’d have seen the box, she thought. That’s all the evening needed.
But how had Robert Brand found out her address? Careful, Julia, she told herself. Careful …
Two days later Emma walked into Julia’s office with an early edition of the Evening Standard.
‘There’ll be hell to pay over this,’ she said.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The Palace requested no publicity when the Queen lunched here yesterday.’
‘That’s normal.’
‘There’s a picture here on page three.’
‘What?’
‘Look for yourself.’
Emma put the paper in front of Julia, open at a picture of the Queen and a man identified in the caption as Sir Miles Cartland leaving the hotel. In the background stood Moscato. The headline ran: Cosy lunch for two at the Burlington. The story accompanying the picture listed what the Queen had eaten for lunch and noted: Afterwards Her Majesty sent her compliments to the chef, Gustave Plesset.
Julia groaned. ‘How did they get this? Moscato must have seen the photographer.’
‘Of course.’
‘You think he did this?’
‘Or his protegée, Miss Ricci?’
‘Whoever it was is a damn fool,’ Julia said. ‘The Queen won’t come here again.’
‘Maybe Mr Moscato thinks it was worth it,’ Emma said. ‘Something for his scrapbook.’
While Emma went out to get sandwiches Julia tried to concentrate on a profile she was updating about the Sultan. Her thoughts kept wandering. She found it hard to believe that Moscato would have been so stupid as to ignore the Palace ruling that the Queen’s private lunches were to be treated as exactly that – private. And yet …
At that moment the phone rang.
‘Hello again, Miss Lang.’ It was Jill Bannister on the line. ‘Mr Brand was wondering if you would care to see the new Pinter play, which opens tonight? He has two tickets.’
Julia hesitated. Clearly someone else had let Brand down. ‘I realize it’s short notice,’ Jill Bannister continued, ‘but Mr Brand only returned from Rome an hour ago. I was able to get two cancellations.’
‘He gets around, your boss,’ Julia said.
‘Yes, he does.’
Julia had not spoken to Michael since their disastrous dinner and was in no mood to spend the evening alone. ‘I’d be delighted,’ she said.
‘He’ll pick you up at 7.30 for the eight o’clock curtain.’
‘I’m at 208 –’ Julia began.
‘We have the address,’ Jill Bannister said. ‘Enjoy your evening.’
Chapter 10
As they entered the theatre lobby, crowded with people, some elegantly dressed, some in jeans and sweaters, Brand appeared tense. When a dark-haired young man nodded to him and said, ‘Good evening, Mr Brand,’ he affected not to notice. Then, as they walked towards the stalls entrance, a photographer who had overheard the exchange approached. ‘This way, Mr Brand,’ he called, raising his camera.
Brand quickly turned his back, steering Julia past the usher taking the tickets. She saw the photographer frown – hadn’t she seen him somewhere? – before turning his attention elsewhere.
‘I’m sorry,’ Brand said, as they made their way to their seats. ‘I don’t like to be photographed.’
Julia said nothing. It was not, she guessed, that he minded being photographed. He didn’t want to be photographed with her! In case his wife saw the picture? What was wrong with taking a friend to a first night? It wasn’t as if they were seen entering a backstreet hotel.
At the interval, a champagne cocktail and a tonic water awaited them at the bar – arranged beforehand, obviously.
‘Enjoying it?’ Brand asked, as they moved to a quiet corner.
‘Very much,’ she said, deciding to put the incident with the photographer from her mind. So he didn’t want his picture taken? So what?
‘Writes good dialogue, Pinter,’ Brand said.
‘So they say. I’ve never met anyone who actually talks like that.’
‘The pauses, you mean? Most people don’t pause when they’re talking, do they? They shoot off at tangents. It’s interesting replaying a conversation on tape, as I have to sometimes.’
When they left the theatre, Brand’s Daimler was waiting outside with Parsons, his elderly driver, at the wheel. By the time they reached Mayfair, Brand and Julia were laughing together. The car pulled up in Berkeley Square beside a small canopy.
They descended the steep steps to Annabel’s. Brand seemed to be well known there, and nods and smiles greeted them as they proceeded along the hall towards the restaurant. The maitre d’ welcomed them effusively before leading them to a table against the wall. It was still fairly early. The club was not even half full. Brand ordered drinks. ‘I’m sorry the evening got off to a bad start,’ he said.
Julia shrugged. ‘I understand. You’re a married man.’
‘That’s not it.’ Brand seemed surprised that she had stated it so bluntly. ‘My wife knows I have a social life here. It’s just … well, I have a great antipathy towards the Press. Photographers in particular.’
‘They’re just doing their job,’ Julia said.
‘They must do it without my help.’ Their drinks arrived. Brand held up his glass and touched it lightly against hers. ‘Look,’ he said, turning to face her, ‘you don’t understand and I can’t expect you to. It isn’t that I didn’t want to be photographed with you. Dammit, you’re a beautiful woman, Julia; there isn’t a man on this planet who wouldn’t want to be pictured beside you. I just don’t want to be photographed, period.’ He looked into his drink. ‘I’m known to be a wealthy man. And the only way I can have any kind of a private life is for people not to know what I look like. Then I can’t be pestered. As it is, we get a hundred begging letters a week. Everyone wants something from me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I took it personally.’
‘You shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘It has absolutely nothing to do with you.’
Julia shook her head. ‘We’ve already had several enquiries about you from newspapers.’
‘Were you able to stall them?’
‘I said you weren’t registered, which is true.’
‘If you have any problems refer them to my office in Grosvenor Square.’ He shrugged. ‘You know what they want? To sit down with me and waste hours of my time asking what it feels like to be wealthy. Either that or it’s financial editors wanting me to forecast the market. I haven’t got time for any of that nonsense. I work a long day. For me time is money.’
The club was beginning to fill up. When the waiter came over with the menus they both ordered the rack of lamb. From the wine list Brand selected a bottle of ‘66 Mouton-Rothschild.
Julia was still puzzled. ‘If you never give interviews and don’t have your picture taken, how did that photographer know who you were?’
‘He didn’t until that fellow called out to me.’
‘There must be some photos of you about?’
‘Not many. Paris-Match once staked me out in New York and Acapulco. Acapulco was no problem. I use a helicopter when I’m there; land right on the roof of my house. In New York I leave through the underground garage.’
‘They never got the picture?’
‘All they got was a picture of the car leaving the garage.’
‘It doesn’t sound too much fun, being you.’
‘It has its moments.’
Julia glanced around the room. In one corner an elderly Englishman was pressing champagne on a young, heavily made-up woman, who was giggling. Suddenly Julia remembered. ‘I forgot to thank you for the roses and the champagne you sent after the party.’
‘I hope you’ve drunk it already?’
‘I’m saving it for a special occasion.’
‘You must drink it immediately. One thing I learned from my father was to live for today.’
‘What did he do – your father?’
Brand looked at her for a moment as if trying to decide whether to confide in her or not. ‘He was a financier. When he was quite young he set about making money.’
‘Just like that.’
‘All you need is the confidence to take risks.’
‘I’ve met a few wealthy men at the hotel,’ Julia said. ‘None of them seemed particularly happy.’
‘Did you ask them?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Why did you assume they weren’t happy? Because they didn’t go around smiling?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Making money is a serious business,’ Brand said. ‘Anyway, you shouldn’t trust people who go around smiling.’
The food arrived and they ate contentedly for a while, listening to the music coming from the dance floor. Julia had to remind herself to take it easy when the wine waiter approached to refill her glass. It wasn’t every night she got to sample ’66 Mouton-Rothschild.
‘Your father must have been proud of you,’ she said.
Brand shook his head. ‘He died before I really got started. When I was twenty-one he gave me a large sum of money. I had a penthouse on Park Avenue, a butler, a chauffeur-driven car. And I was desperately unhappy.’ He paused. ‘Then I got a real kick in the stomach. My best friend killed himself with a shotgun. You know why? He was bored with life. He was twenty-five years old and he was bored with life. That jolted me to my senses. I decided to try my hand at business. Then my father died and left me his fortune. I used it well.’
‘You make it sound so easy.’
‘It is easy – if you have some capital and are prepared to take chances. Most people don’t try to make money with all the risks that entails; they just want to have money. I take risks all the time; speculate in currencies. Ten years ago I bought heavily into Deutschmarks. A month later the Deutschmark rose five per cent in one day against the dollar. I made $50 million overnight.’
‘Fifty million?’
‘Thereabouts,’ Brand said. He smiled at her astonishment. ‘I don’t say that to brag. Just to make the point about taking chances.’ He picked up his wine glass and then, having second thoughts, put it down again. ‘Incidentally, I bought the Canaletto.’
‘You did?’
‘A million and a half,’ Brand said. ‘A steal. That man Delevingne doesn’t know as much about art as he thinks.’
‘From what you told me,’ Julia said, ‘nobody does.’
Brand turned to her. ‘What painters do you like, Julia?’
‘Oh, Utrillo, I suppose. Cézanne. Monet.’
‘You’ve been to Giverny?’
‘A long time ago.’
‘When I was very young my father wanted me to be a painter,’ Brand said. ‘I had a tutor to teach me the basics but I had no eye for perspective; no talent at all. I went to Giverny too, and sat in that garden of Monet’s, looking at the water lilies, trying to absorb something of what he must have felt. When I got home I painted a couple of water lilies. They looked exactly like fried eggs. I gave up.’
‘So now you collect. The next best thing.’
‘I suppose so. I get a lot of pleasure from my collection. When you come to New York you’ll see it’
‘When I come … ?’
He leaned forward. ‘I want you to join my team at the Raleigh.’
She laughed. ‘You know nothing about me. How do you know I’m any good?’
‘I know.’
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I can’t do that. I have a contract.’
‘I’m sure if I talk to George we can work something out.’
‘George?’
‘The Sultan of Malacca.’
‘His name isn’t George.’
‘We call him that. Nobody can pronounce his real name. We do business together.’
She looked around the dark, elegant room, listening to the murmur of voices from other tables. Incredible, she thought. A job interview in Annabel’s.
‘Well?’ Brand was looking at her intently. She felt suddenly adrift; unsure of herself. Life had always seemed to her just moving from one set of problems to another, never getting ahead, never actually arriving at the point where she could say: I’m ready to start living. Was Brand offering her the chance?