“You got a file on him?”
“No. As I told you he’s been operating out of Geneva for the past couple of years. And we’ve had no reason to investigate his local operations.”
“What makes you feel that he would get involved in something like this? I mean, there’s an enormous risk.”
“Just a feeling. First, I don’t like coincidences one bit. Bechot would hardly differentiate between a cop and an ex-cop. He thinks strictly in terms of us and them. Second, Lutz did not leave this place in a blaze of glory. We all get our hands a bit dirty now and then. You know that. But Lutz seemed to make a habit of it.”
“So he was fired?”
“No, but nobody here was especially sad to see him go. He liked money just a little too much.”
“Heinz, I’ll just have to trust your judgment,” said Bernoulli. “I don’t have time to wait for a laborious sifting out of the other people on the list.”
“But I can hardly pick him up, or even approach him, on the grounds of your story, George.”
“I know, and that would be the very last thing we would want. For the moment I really need just one thing. A more complete dossier on Swiss Security Consultants A.G. Geneva must have something. The most important factor is a better feeling for their clientele.”
“O.K. I’ll ask the fellows in Geneva.”
“But do it real easy, Heinz,” stressed Bernoulli. “I don’t want one speck of dust stirred up.”
“I’ll work it out.”
“Now one other thing. I want you to try to trace Bechot’s movements—all of them—on the evening and night of October 27. Check every hotel and every bar in the city. Carefully.”
“Right.”
By this time it was starting to get dark outside. Bernoulli was brought back to his cell just in time for the evening meal. It consisted of dark bread and thick cocoa.
“How did it go?” asked Bechot.
“Fine. It should be all cleared up by tomorrow.”
“How come?”
“My father has agreed to cover the check. All one big mixup, you know. I thought his regular transfer had arrived, but it seems that he forgot it, or something.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Unfortunately this is not the first time. I had a little problem like this in Germany a while back. But there we could arrange things without me being locked up.”
“Hah,” said Bechot. “Do you think it’s the first time for any of us here? Once they get to know you they never leave you alone. It’s too bad. Now I’ll probably get some damn Turk or Italian for a cellmate. But that’s all right. They won’t dare keep me for long either.”
That evening they enjoyed another two bottles of wine together and listened to Sammy’s newly acquired radio.
At nine the next morning a warden appeared to tell Bernoulli to collect all of his things. He shook hands with Sammy, bequeathed him the rest of his wine, and left.
By nine-thirty Bernoulli was back in the Euler Hotel. After a rather lame explanation to the man at the reception desk, he retrieved his key and within minutes was in the shower. It was amazing how quickly one felt permeated with the smell of prison.
9
DR. Bollinger, secretary-general of the Bank for International Settlements, was impatiently pacing up and down his living room. It was furnished in Louis XV. Real Louis XV. A fantastic blue silk Chinese rug covered the floor of the living room. A Paul Klee, a Renoir, two Kadinskys graced its walls. It was lovely.
Bollinger was a bachelor. He was also a homosexual. It never failed to astound the girls in the bank’s secretarial pool how Bollinger’s colleagues managed to overlook the man’s idiosyncrasy. But his colleagues knew quite well why. Bollinger was probably the most brilliantly inventive mind to appear on the international monetary scene in a decade. While all other international institutions appeared to be coming apart at the seams, the BIS experienced, if anything, growing prestige. This was due almost exclusively to Bollinger. He enjoyed the absolute trust and confidence, yes, respect, of all the important central bankers of the world. Although he had been educated at the University of Zurich, then Stanford, and finally the London School of Economics, he sported a French so abominable that by comparison even Edward Heath appeared to be a linguist. His background could hardly have been worse by Gallic standards—still the head of the Banque de France thought the world of the man. The ultimate test of all mortals.
The doorbell rang. It was Bernoulli. The two men knew each other on a formal basis. Yes, Minister Gerber had explained everything.
“Please have a seat, Dr. Bernoulli. May I offer you coffee, or perhaps tea?”
“No thanks, Dr. Bollinger. If you agree, I think we should get right at it,” answered Bernoulli. “First, where’s the safe?”
“Right over there, behind the Klee.”
“It’s rather a large canvas for a Klee.”
“He did it shortly before he died.”
“May I?”
“Certainly.”
Bernoulli took the painting down. It was a wall safe like thousands of others. Nothing special. Probably about ten years old. Easy. He rehung the picture and then returned to his chair.
“Aren’t you going to get some people over to take fingerprints and all that?”
“No. It would be a waste of time at this point. But if you insist—?”
“Of course not. But I just thought—”
“When exactly did you notice that the document was missing?”
“Just a few days ago. On Tuesday morning when I was going to take it to the office with me. That would have been October 28.”
“When had you last seen or used the document?”
“Last Monday.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean—‘why’?”
“Well, you’d had it here in Basel since the middle of the month. What prompted you to look for it, or at it, last Monday?”
“Bernoulli, we’re dealing here with highly complex matters and a highly complex document. Do you think I memorized it?”
“Just asking,” replied Bernoulli with the greatest of calm. “So in other words, it must have disappeared on Monday of this week.”
“Yes.”
“Where were you on Monday?”
“I spent the entire day at the office. I always lunch at the bank.”
“And the evening?”
“I freshened up after five and went out to a cocktail party. Then dinner. It was all in honour of the Belgian ambassador. He spent the day in Basel and the local government put on a do for him. I was invited along with at least fifty other people.”
“You probably came home fairly late?”
“Around midnight.”
“Notice anything unusual? You know, doors ajar that should not have been. Dirt on the rug. That sort of thing?”
“No. I went straight to bed. I don’t have a suspicious mind.”
“No? I thought everybody in the banking business had. No matter. In any case, I think it’s fairly well established when it happened. Monday evening between five and midnight.”
“Yes. The question now is who. And why.”
“I think I already know something about the ‘who’ part,” stated Bernoulli.
“But then why all the—”