“Stanley Rosen?”
“Yes.”
“You are under arrest. Please make no trouble, otherwise we will have to put handcuffs on you.”
He was taken firmly under each arm. The man on his left grabbed his suitcase. They jostled him down the stairs, then up a ramp into a waiting black car. A Volkswagen. The suitcase was thrown into the front seat. Rosen was pushed into the back seat and joined by one of the men. Neither spoke a word. The car pulled away with the usual loud VW whine. Rosen, his face the colour of ashes and both hands and legs trembling beyond control, finally spoke. “What’s this all about?”
No answer. Both men, the driver and the somewhat smaller man beside him, looked straight ahead. The car soon moved out of the main roads into a series of winding, narrow, medieval streets. After three minutes they passed through a massive gateway, bordering on a tower with a large golden-faced clock. Two uniformed and armed police saluted as the car moved through. They stopped. Rosen was pulled out, this time roughly, and pushed through a door leading into a long grey building. He was led up two flights of stairs into a large rather barren office and given a chair.
“Sit down, and empty all of your pockets.” Rosen did as he was told.
The suitcase was placed next to a desk facing him. Suddenly two men entered the room, both well-dressed and well-shaven. The others left. One of the men sat down behind the massive desk. It did not have a piece of paper or a speck of dust on it. His colleague remained standing by the doorway.
“Cigarette, Mr. Rosen?”
The question suddenly struck Stanley as the final touch to a situation which was absurd beyond belief, for he was still clutching his cigar, long since dead, in his left hand. It was moist with perspiration.
“No,” said Stanley. It was barely audible.
“My name is Dr. Weckerlin. I am the chief prosecuting attorney of the canton of Basel-Stadt. We know all about you and I can only suggest that you cooperate to the fullest extent. It will only be in your interest to do so.”
Finally Stanley calmed himself sufficiently to speak again.
“I would like to make a phone call.”
“I’m sorry, that will not be possible.”
“I want to consult a lawyer, immediately.”
“That will also not be possible until we say so.”
“Then I insist on being able to speak to the American consulate.”
“In due course, Mr. Rosen. I think from the very outset you must realize that you are not in the United States. Our laws vary quite considerably from yours.”
“Don’t I have any rights, for God’s sake? I thought this was a civilized country!” Stanley shouted, for now he was full of anger and fear to a degree never before experienced in his life.
“Until we are certain that there is no danger of collusion between you and any other parties, you will be held in the fashion we consider proper.”
“And what about habeas corpus?”
“This concept is not part of the Swiss legal code. Mr. Rosen, I think that the best thing for you to do is to settle down now and tell us the truth.”
“About what, for God’s sake?” replied Stanley.
The man who had been standing beside the doorway suddenly moved. He picked up Rosen’s suitcase and laid it on the desk.
“Is this the key?” he asked, pointing to one of those on the chain which Rosen had deposited on the desk.
“Yes.”
The suitcase was opened, clothes thrown aside. The two Swiss suddenly glanced at each other.
“Stand up,” said Weckerlin. Rosen did not respond.
“When he says stand up, then you stand up,” said the other man, and yanked him to his feet. Then he grabbed Rosen by the back of the collar and pushed his head into the suitcase.
“This is your suitcase, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied Rosen weakly, as he crouched over the suitcase, firmly in the grip of the man beside him.
“And what do you see at the bottom of your suitcase?”
“A red dossier. But I’ve never seen it before in my life.”
“Come now, Mr. Rosen,” replied Weckerlin, motioning to his colleague to release the American back into his chair. “That sort of nonsense will get you nowhere.”
“I tell you I’ve never seen that dossier in my life.”
“Fine, Mr. Rosen, if that’s the way you want to play it. I’m afraid that, in that case, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together in the next days and weeks. Would you like that?”
No answer.
Weckerlin suddenly produced a brown folder and opened it.
“You were born in Brooklyn, New York, on January 17, 1929. Your full name is Stanley Salim Rosen. Your father’s name was David, your mother’s Sarah, née Stein. Right so far?”
Still no answer.
“You are a Jew. Is that correct?”
“What in God’s name has that got to do with this?”
“Nothing in particular. You are a Jew, aren’t you?”
“Is that against the law in Switzerland?”
“No. We have no prejudices here.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear. Yes, I am a Jew.”
“Good. It seems we are finally making progress. Would you care for a cup of coffee, Mr. Rosen?”
“No.”
“As you like. By the way, we will require your tie. Please take it off.”
He took it off.
“And your cuff links. And watch.”
He took them off.
“What prompted you to buy $200 million worth of gold through the General Bank of Switzerland this week, Mr. Rosen?”
A stunned silence.
“I asked you a question.”
“And I will give you an answer. What I do with the General Bank of Switzerland or any other bank in this country is none of your business. I assume you have heard of the bank secrecy law.” Stanley was slowly regaining a bit of form.
“You deny it, then?”
“I think you heard me.”
Weckerlin picked up the telephone. “Give me Dr. Walter Hofer at the General Bank of Switzerland in Zurich. I’ll wait.”
The room was silent again.
“Dr. Hofer? Yes, well this is Weckerlin in Basel. I think Bernoulli telephoned you earlier and mentioned that I might be calling. Just one question. Can you verify that a certain Mr. Stanley Rosen of New York placed an order to buy $200 million of gold bullion through your bank this week? You can? Thank you. Sorry to have disturbed you. Yes, you will be hearing more from us.”
After he had hung the phone up, Weckerlin just sat there looking at Rosen.
“You see, Mr. Rosen, when I tell you that we know all about you, you must believe me.”
He reached into the suitcase for the red dossier and continued. “Now, let me tell you why you ordered $200 million worth of gold bullion. Because of what’s inside this dossier.” He waved it in the air.
“I tell you, I’ve never seen that package of papers in my life.”
“Where’s Lutz?” was the next abrupt question.
“Who?”
“Come on now, man,” this time in a harsh voice. “Stop trying to play stupid games with me. Rolf Lutz, general manager of Swiss Security Consultants.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Rosen, look, we know. Do you hear me, we know. You both were staying at the Three Kings Hotel. We have witnesses to prove that you were seen together drinking at innumerable bars across the border on October 26. The manager of the hotel saw you two—”
“Oh, him! Sure I know Rolf Lutz. But why in God’s name do you keep beating around the bush like this. Has this guy Lutz done something? If so, believe me, I saw him but once in my life. We met by chance in the Three Kings and joined forces for a one-night stand. I’ve never seen him since, and have had absolutely nothing to do with the man.”