Geneva, Switzerland
ANOTHER ADVANTAGE TO DELUXE ACCOMMODATIONS: Everyone is too polite to mention the obvious. Anywhere else in the world the glowing-red bruise up the right side of my face would have gotten me sent around to the service entrance with the help, but the desk clerk at the Beau Rivage actually smiled when I walked up to his white-marble-and-gilt counter.
"I have a reservation," I said, pulling out the fifteen thousand dollars Yuri's Russian partner had sent me off with. "If you don't mind, I'll be paying in cash." That loan I'd forgiven Yuri almost twenty years earlier had turned out to be the best investment of my life.
The desk clerk took a five-thousand-dollar deposit without a murmur and gave me a room facing the lake.
The room was everything a five-star rating promises. The basket 01 fruit spilled over with kiwis, apples, blood oranges, even pomegranates. Orchids ascended elegantly out of an exquisite Japanese pot. A vase 01
tulips- Linen sheets-at least an 800 thread count. The bathroom had a walk-in shower with two heads on each side and a bench.
I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, telling myself I'd need only a fifteen-minute nap. It was dark when I woke up. The traffic along the quai in front of the hotel was light now. I checked my watch: a little after midnight. Another fifteen minutes, I told myself. I woke with a start to daylight: six-thirty. For a moment, I thought Murtaza Ali Mousavi had been a dream, but the dull ache in my head was anything but spectral.
Mousavi, or whoever it was in the prince's Range Rover, had been right. The truth hadn't set me free. I was more ensnared in it than ever, but in an odd way, my one-sided meeting with the man I had been chasing for nearly two decades had freed me from the past. Bill's murder wasn't avenged, but somehow I could begin to focus everything I had on what waited ahead, not on what lay behind. It was time to act. I reached over and dialed O'Neill's number without leaving the bed. He answered on the first ring.
"Did it arrive?"
"Did what arrive?"
"The package from Beirut."
"What are you talking about? I didn't get a package from you."
They'd gotten to the Albergo manager, convinced him to turn over the documents, mugged the bellhop, burned down the Aramex office, blown up its plane. Possibilities were endless.
"What about the e-mail?"
"I got an e-mail from the Albergo. What was that about?"
"When I get to New York, I'll show you how to read it. You gotta get me in the U.S. I'm on U.N. docs. Phonies."
Fortunately, I'd caught Yuri on his cell phone. He was in Urumqi, China. It took all of ten minutes after I called him for one of his Russian partners to get to the Albergo and another two hours for the partner to secure the U.N. refugee laissez-passer. I would have preferred a good-quality forged passport, but that took time, and time I didn't have.
"What in the fuck have you got yourself into now?" O'Neill asked.
"Here. Write this down. Joseph Konrad-Konrad with a K-K O Z E N I O W S K I. Can you get me in?"
"How the hell did you come up with that name?"
I'd asked the Russian partner the same question when he handed me the laissez-passer. "Patron saint of dark hearts" was all he answered, but I was in no position to argue. I did say no when he tried to send me to Bratislava. Geneva it had to be. No other options. He needed another four hours to get the United Nations High Commission for Refugees to agree to get the Swiss to agree. By the time Yuri's partner reserved me a room at the Beau Rivage, my head hurt too much to argue.
"Can you get me in?" I asked O'Neill again.
"I don't know."
"John, I used to parole people through immigrations all the time. Do it. I've got evidence of an ex-colleague making a killing using foreknowledge of terrorist attacks."
I didn't. Or maybe I really did. The point was to do what I had to do as quickly as possible and get out of Geneva, show up in New York, and drop everything in O'Neill's lap.
"Your kind of evidence, not mine," I added. O'Neill didn't laugh, and I didn't have to drive the point home. The way the FBI worked, there had to be the hard promise of a collar before they would even consider paroling someone into the country on an alias passport.
"You already have a lot of the stuff in the e-mail I sent," I continued. "And I'm about to put my hands on a lot more." Another promise I wondered if I could keep.
"I'll get our guy in Paris to come down and see you."
"No, the deal is I give it to you in New York."
O'Neill had been grinding his teeth at the other end of the line loud enough to let me know how put out he was. "Let me see," he finally said.
I called India an hour earlier than I promised myself I would.
"Max? You woke me up."
"I need to ask you something."
"Are you out of Lebanon?"
"Is your father really having financial problems?" I asked, ignoring her question.
"Call me back on my cell," India said, and hung up.
She answered on the first ring.
"Sorry," she said. Her voice had gone from sleepy to downcast. "I didn't want Simon listening in. Or Dad."
"It's bad, isn't it?"
"You can't believe what's happening here. He was on the phone all night talking to Saudi Arabia, trying to raise money. There's a bunch of margin calls he can't make. I can't stand being here. By the way, where are you?"
"Switzerland. Why don't you call Michelle Zwanzig and ask her what's going on. You wouldn't believe what people tell their fiduciaries."
"I already know. Channing screwed him. The bas-"
"Did Michelle tell you that?"
"No. I read Dad's e-mails. Max, it's awful. He could go to jail." I heard a muffled sob.
"You don't have an inkling of what he's up to?"
"He locks himself in the library. Whenever he comes out, he says that it's going to be okay, that he's about to close on a big deal."
If she only knew. Listening to India, I now was close to convinced that Frank Beckman had gotten rich from tip-offs on terrorist attacks. KSM lets Frank know about a plane about to go down, and Frank shorts the company that owns it. A tanker is about to go up in the Straits of Hormuz, and Frank goes long on crude futures. The newspaper stories would cast it as part of the ideological struggle between Islam and the West, but for Frank it was the oldest story of all: money. But I wasn't going to air this over the phone with India.
"You need to confront Michelle. My bet is she knows what's going on." Saying that made me think of something. "By the way, do you have any accounts with her?"
"One or two. I have no idea what's in them. Dad set them up, and he stored some of my stuff with her. Trust papers, wills. That sort of thing. She has it in her office, I think, in some sort of safe-deposit box."
"Come here, then. To Geneva. Tell her you need to look at it. Maybe some of your dad's stuff is in the same box, and you'll figure out what's
going on. Maybe something that will shed light on Channing, too. You're a client, India. You have a right."
"I don't know. She'll call Dad. Anyhow, I don't have any idea where the key to the box is."
"There's a key?"
"Somewhere."
"You need to know the truth, India. I can't tell you on the phone, but you need-"
"What are you saying?"
"Just come here tonight." I was almost begging now.
"Tonight? Max, I can't! I have duty Saturday. There's dinner at home that night. It's with-"
"India, I wouldn't ask if it weren't important. Try. Think about it. Call me at the Beau Rivage if you can't make it." I gave her the name I was registered under. "Otherwise I'll be at the airport."
"You don't like to give a girl much time to think about her wardrobe, do you?"
"And India…"
"More?"
"Find the key."
My next call was to the concierge.
"Michelle Zwanzig. Can you find me her address and telephone number?" I'd lost her card along with everything else.
He called back in five minutes. "Unfortunately, sir, it's unlisted."
"Are you downstairs?"
I found the concierge, pulled him aside, and slipped him five hundred dollars to find out her address from the police. An old girlfriend, I explained, hoping to make the task more palatable. I added that I was in town on short notice and wanted to surprise her. I was pretty sure he'd come back with the number. Switzerland is a country of snitches, and concierges are all tight with the cops.
Back in my room, I was flipping through the TV channels when I heard a tap on the door. The concierge was as efficient as the rest of the hotel.
Michelle Zwanzig's office was on the other side of the lake just off Rue du Puits-Saint-Pierre. That would put it just behind the Hotel Les Armures, where Marissa and I had once stayed in better days, before we were married. We always thought Rikki had been conceived there, proof that sperm and egg can't be too drunk to find each other.
"A hotel car, sir?"
"What? No." I was too distracted at the moment to even think of giving him a tip, but I immediately regretted it. His inclination would be to file a report with the police about me-the passive aggression of the servant class. I caught up with him in the service stairs and pressed another hundred into his palm.
To pass the time, I went downstairs to the business office, sat down at one of the guest computers, and logged on. I wasn't expecting anything more from O'Neill except perhaps an instant response that he couldn't parole me into the U.S. or anywhere else on Planet Earth. Instead, there was a message sent from Marissa's address, marked "Urgent" in the subject line. What now? I wondered. What in the middle of all this? It had to be money. I felt like shit when I read it.
Max, please call immediately. Marissa suffered a stroke. Rikki needs you as soon as you can get here. You need to come to Istanbul.
Marissa's father had sent it, followed by six others, all ending with a plea to come be with Rikki.
I e-mailed him back a pile of nonsense with just enough verisimilitude to it that I thought he might believe me: I was in Central Asia, places unnamed, hush-hush. Terribly sorry. I'd come with the first plane out. He had gotten used to similar evasions when I was married to his daughter.
Then I picked up a hotel phone and called Rikki, not at the Istanbul phone number her father had left but on her cell.
"Hello?"
It was her voice, tentative, the way it used to be around strangers.
"Rikki."
"Da-"
"No, honey. Don't say anything yet. Are you in the hospital room?" She whispered a yes. "With your grandparents?" Another yes. "Maybe you could step out into the hallway. A boyfriend calling."
I heard her footsteps, what I guessed was a hospital cart being pushed by, monitors beeping.
"I'm at the end of the hall," she finally said, "by the window."
"Sweetheart, I just e-mailed your grandfather. I didn't want him to get upset on the phone, but I can't come now. It's-"
"It's all right, Daddy. You can't be around all the time. I know what you do."
I hope you don't, I thought. Oh, Jesus, I hope you don't. I let the implication sit there, though, another small lie to add to my skyscraper of deceit.
"How's your mother?"
"Better," she said. There were tears in her voice. "She's only thirty-three, Daddy. A stroke! How does that happen? Her face is paralyzed on the left side. She looks so old. She can't really speak yet."
The words were gushing out now, a torrent. I heard about how Rikki had been swimming in the Adriatic and came back to the villa just before supper to find Marissa sprawled on the kitchen floor, about the lighthouse keeper and his first aid, about the helicopter that flew them to Zadar, on the Croatian coast, and the airplane her parents had chartered at ruinous expense to bring Marissa to Istanbul for treatment. I knew Marissa's age, of course, but hearing Rikki say it shocked me, too. She'd seemed so old for nineteen when we married. She seemed so young for this, now. Marissa's grandmother had died at the same age, dropped dead at the stove. I was hoping Rikki couldn't see her own fate sitting out there, less than two decades ahead.
"I don't know what to do, Daddy," she finally said. "School starts in two weeks. I can't go back; I can't leave her."
"Yes, you can, sweetheart. You can. You have to. Your mother would want it. I know she would. Grandma and Grandpa can look after her. She'll get better. You have to go on with your life. You're too young to be a nursemaid."
I was gushing now, running my own words together. We didn't have much time. I wanted to say everything I could.
"Daddy, Grandpa is waving at me from the door. I think we're going. He looks upset."
"He's just impatient, honey. He's not angry at anyone. Not at you. Go. I love you."
"I love you, too."
I could hear her footsteps starting back up the hall.
"Rikki!"
"Yes?"
"I'll get to England. In September. I'll see you there."
"Will you?"
We were cut off there. Whether it was Rikki hanging up or the network failing, I didn't know. But I thought that if I didn't get to England the way I said I would, she would remember me the same way I remembered my own mother. The thought of it made me shiver. She'd have someone to hate forever.
I had never met Michelle Zwanzig. Indeed, I never would have heard of her if Frank hadn't given me her card and told me she would be my conduit to the Saudi billionaire. But I was sure she was chatty as a clam. All Swiss fiduciaries are. They hold private fortunes in their own names, based only on blind trust and total discretion. When their clients ask for their money back, Swiss fiduciaries are expected to have it. Still, I wanted to see her office. I couldn't use my real name; Frank had probably warned her about me. But maybe we would meet, and I could elicit something from her, tight-mouthed or not. At the least, I would get a look at the layout. Always better to do something than nothing.
Private Investment Services was located on the third floor of a sixteenth-century four-story Palladian on Rue Soleil Levant. There was no plaque out front, nor was Zwanzig's name on the building list.
I rang the buzzer for the rez-de-chaussee.
"Yes?"
"I'd like to talk to Private Investment Services."
"About what?"
"A new account."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
I wished the damned lady would come out and show herself. It's virtually impossible to recruit someone through a squawk box.
"Please wait."
I took a quick survey of the lobby and the hallway leading upstairs. A closed-circuit camera perched up in the corner covered the front door. The camera looked to be fed with a standard hookup. Disrupt the power supply, and you could fry the camera by crossing the wires. By the time the security company arrived, the electricity would be back on. If it was the weekend, they wouldn't get around to replacing the camera until Monday morning.
The problem was the front-door lock-a sophisticated Swiss laser-cut. I'd never be able to pick it. I had no way to tell what lock Zwanzig had on her own door, but it was probably the same one. If I decided to go in, I'd have to drill them both. No problem so long as the invisible rez-de-chaussee lady was away, but I'd still need to get in and out fast. Strictly a bash-and-dash entry.
I'd been standing there at least ten minutes before the squawk box came alive again.
"Private Investment Services thanks you very much for your visit, but at the moment they are not taking any new clients."
I considered asking her to relay the message that Frank Beckman had told me to get in touch with Madame Zwanzig, but I'd been throwing caution to the wind ever since I left Washington, and for the most part, I'd done nothing but pay for it. Besides, now I knew my way to Private Investment Services. In my own way, I'd even cased the place. The day hadn't been a total waste.
The next morning, I had nothing to do, so I prowled Geneva instead-ate, walked, had more coffee, watched the storm clouds gather over the lake,
piling on top of one another like some fraternity phone-booth prank. I was on the Quai du Mont-Blanc when they finally broke and an ocean of rain fell from the sky seemingly all at once. Maybe ten seconds later, a Beau Rivage doorman walked halfway down the block to meet me with a huge umbrella.
I was just inside the lobby, mopping my hair, when I heard a familiar voice-"Mr. Kozeniowski!"-and looked up to see India standing at the reception desk. She was far more drenched than I.
"Don't you own a raincoat?" she whispered.
"Sarcasm is unattractive in the young. And by the way, where's yours? How did you get so, so…"
"Wet?"
I nodded.
"The storm. The run from the train station. It was the last block that put me over the top. Wet-wise."
"Ever hear of taxis?"
"The train is so much easier. At least when it's not raining."
The Beau Rivage had been Frank's favorite hotel. It's where he told me that he and Jill had separated, where I first learned that he had a daughter, where I first heard her name. Frank must have brought India here later when he could really afford the place, but if the staff knew her, they weren't letting on.
"Luggage?" I asked.
"They put it in your room until mine is ready. Hope you don't mind. I need a shower."
"By the way, how did you get here so soon? I checked the schedules. The first plane-"
"The one before it. It was sitting on the tarmac at Dulles when I got there. You underestimate me."
So I had. We headed to the elevator.
I offered to have coffee or tea sent up, but India immediately popped into the bathroom, extended one delicate arm out the slightly cracked door with a plastic dry-cleaning bag containing all her dripping wear, and stepped into the shower while I called laundry.
A half hour later steam was still pouring out under the door.
"Hey!" she called out. "Let's celebrate. How about a bottle of Bollinger? And why don't you get into something dry. " As she spoke, the bathroom door cracked open again and a terry-cloth robe came flying out.
The Bollinger and India's newly dry wear arrived together twenty minutes later, just as she was stepping out of the bathroom-or steam-bath, it was hard to tell-wrapped in a towel. Her flushed, angular face and the raven hair plastered close to her scalp would have driven Modigliani straight back to his easel.
We stood quietly by the window, sipping our champagne and watching sheets of rain buffeting the lake. Finally, I pointed to the tidy pile on the desk.
"Your clothes," I said, but she just shook her head no, took my hand, and starting leading me toward the bed.
Looking back on it now, I think that's the moment in this horrible skein I felt the sickest over. I fed India the bait, and she took it, hook, line, and sinker. I'd recruited her.