“Right.”
“Before I go I would like to make two phone calls, please. And in private, if you don’t mind.”
Bucher just grinned and left the room.
The first call went to the office of the secretary-general of the Bank for International Settlements. Bernoulli apologized profusely for not making his appointment, past due now by a good half hour. They agreed to a new date, at Bollinger’s home. The second call went to Bern.
Then he just leaned back and enjoyed a cigarette, fairly pleased with himself.
Now at this point I think it would be fair to point out that George Bernoulli is not in the Anglo-Saxon tradition we are all so used to. Sure, he’s involved in the dark side of state affairs—but not with a revolver, although he’s got one and knows how to use it. Nor with a Ferrari. He drives a standard Alfa Romeo 1600. Standing at over six feet, with dark hair and a thin moustache, he cuts a very good figure. But he dresses conservatively and is almost never without a tie. He does not even own a pair of brown shoes. He seldom turns down a drink and never fails to show due appreciation to a good bottle of wine, preferring red wines, peculiarly enough, even with fish. At thirty-four he is not married, but he is never without a girlfriend. He can outski most Swiss and spends a good part of February and March in either St. Moritz or Gstaad. Although for some odd reason he had never learned to swim, still he spends almost all his summer vacations on or near the Mediterranean. He likes to “fool around,” as he puts it, with archeology. Thus he is a regular visitor to places like French Provence, Crete, and Turkey, although for security reasons he has been forced to avoid Egypt, a fact he constantly regrets.
So he is really a rather low-key type, and that is what the Swiss government wants for men in his profession. Bernoulli’s function, the government expects, is that of a quite inconspicuous backup man to the politicians, as a member of a very small espionage-counterespionage force maintained by the Swiss Federal government, an operation that is absolute chicken feed compared with the immense organizations maintained by so many other nations. The Swiss, in this as in so many other matters, prefer quality to quantity. Bernoulli meets their specifications perfectly; he has family, education, intelligence, discipline. He is ideal for this particular job. His speciality is finance and economics. Money is extremely dear to the hearts of all Swiss. So their curiosity about what is going on in the world in this particular area is, should we say, out of proportion to their interest in other areas. They like to be informed well in advance of a possible devaluation of the pound sterling, or a decision of the American government to cut off support to some developing country deeply engaged in dam or road construction. This is quite natural, since Switzerland often holds large amounts of sterling, and a number of companies key to the Swiss economy are major producers of power generating equipment and cement. Filling these gaps in the market suddenly left open by the Americans requires speedy action and often “indirect” government aid in the form of timely information. The Swiss like to think of this as “productive espionage.”
Much of Bernoulli’s job was spent at a desk, filtering such information and passing it along to the right place. But he had already worked extensively in the field, where his expertise in economic matters only served as a cover. For quite a period he had served with the International Red Cross, operating out of its world headquarters in Geneva. The top jobs there are reserved exclusively for Swiss, since after all the Red Cross was a Swiss invention. He had been slipped into the Number Three slot in their financial department. The spot was a good one. Thus, for instance, when in 1970 the Arabs kidnapped a couple of planeloads of people, including one Swiss DC-8, it was the International Red Cross which made the arrangements to get the people back from Jordan. The Swiss nationals, naturally, were the first to leave. Dr. Bernoulli had done a beautiful job under difficult circumstances, although it did cost quite a few Swiss francs. He was also in Biafra quite regularly, helping out the poor refugees, but also making quite sure that Swiss businessmen were put into contact with the people who would come out on top when Nigeria was reunited. His participation in the aid mission to West Bengal led to a noticeable cooling of relations between Switzerland and Pakistan, matched by a new fervour for India’s development problems, at least two months before the military clash which resulted in the creation of Bangladesh and the emergence of Indian hegemony on that subcontinent.
It was not without some regret that Bernoulli agreed to his recall to that department’s headquarters in Bern. In fact, he secretly hoped that he would soon be sent back to Geneva to serve the cause of humanity. Maybe success in Basel would help. And, at the moment, this did not seem impossible. For Bernoulli was convinced that, as Sammy Bechot’s cellmate, he could get to the heart of the matter in a very short time, with just a little luck.
But I’ve got to get things moving, he thought, as he was walked back to his cell, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, who was apparently not in on the game. It had hardly been necessary, for God’s sake, to put on handcuffs. Or maybe it was just a sick joke of Bucher’s.
Not much time had really passed. It was just shortly after ten when the cell door clanked closed behind him once again. Bechot was stretched out on his bed reading and barely glanced up as George pulled down his bed and also lay down.
“Hey,” said George finally, “what’s new?”
“Hah,” replied Sammy, “what’s ever new here!”
“What have you been doing?”
“Reading. You read?”
“Sure, but I don’t feel like it right now. You play chess?”
“Of course. But we need a chess set.”
“How do we do that?”
“Watch!”
Sammy jumped from his bed and started pounding on the metal door with his fist. He just kept pounding until the door opened.
“Sammy, you know better than that,” said the warden with a big grin. “What are you trying to do, impress your friend?”
“Look,” replied Sammy, “you are here to protect and help us, and we need a little service. A chess set.”
“Sure, I’ll see if I can drum one up.”
“No, no. Now,” said Sammy.
“Why now?”
“Because my friend here feels suicidal. I’m trying to occupy his mind. You prefer to mop up a big puddle of blood?”
The warden looked carefully at George. You never knew in this place.
“O.K. Just calm down, Sammy.”
Five minutes later he was back with a battered chess set, and left after giving Bernoulli another rather mistrustful look. Nobody in prisons likes nuts, and a quiet one like this was always suspicious. With a shrug he left again, locking the door with what seemed to be an extra flourish this time.
Sammy had the board set up immediately on his bed and soon was deeply involved in his initial moves. He played amazingly well, and George, who was very rusty to say the least, was well on his way to losing when the door clanged open again.
Lunchtime. At eleven o’clock in the morning, for God’s sake.
In spite of the metal containers, the meal was astoundingly well prepared.
“Is the food always so good here?”
“The best of any prison in Switzerland,” answered Sammy. “I know, I’ve tried a few of them and heard about lots of others. One thing is sure, if the cops are looking for you, make sure you get arrested here and not in Geneva or St. Moritz. Those places are horrible. Some people, you know, have absolutely no sense of responsibility. They let their jails run down in a way you simply would not believe.”