“When it was all over, when we shut down the operation, we had taken a total of six hundred and two million from Schrade. I instructed Clymer to take twenty percent of the total. That came to one hundred and twenty million. I had him split it four ways and open four accounts at four separate banks in Zurich. That put thirty million in each of our four accounts. I say four because Romy and I shared a single account. I instructed the banks not to touch the principal. Every month I had them send to each of our private accounts the interest off the thirty million principal.”
Ariana was listening closely, nodding. “That’s right. I’ve been getting one million two hundred thousand every year.”
“That’s our hazard pay,” Strand said.
“So,” Ariana said, her glass paused halfway to her lips, “what happened to the other eighty percent, the four hundred and eighty-two million?”
“I set up a series of charitable trusts that established and administered schools and hospitals in the very countries where Schrade’s drug and arms business have caused so much miserable hell.”
He looked out at Lake Geneva again, this time focusing on the darkness rather than the lights.
“As each of us dies,” he said, turning back to her, “the principal that’s been throwing off the interest from our four accounts reverts back to the original amount until, when the last of us dies, the entire six hundred and two million will be back together again. Managed correctly, that money can do a lot of good in perpetuity. Romy and I spent a lot of time and thought researching this, putting it together. The trusts are sound. All the legal strings have been neatly tied. The trusts can’t be dismantled, not by anyone, not at any time. Everything’s in place… to stay.”
Strand drank some of the Bordeaux. It was very good. He let it stay in his mouth a moment, then swallowed it. A smile slowly softened Ariana’s mouth and eyes.
“This is some kind of atonement, is that it, Harry?”
“I didn’t put a name on it,” he said, shifting in his seat. “I just did it. I did have thoughts of poetic justice.”
“Schrade can’t get to this?”
“It’s way past him now. It’s gone.”
Ariana shook her head. “My God. You get away with over half a billion dollars… and you give it all away.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. The crowd in the restaurant had diminished; only a few diners remained, quiet groups, talking softly, intimately.
Ariana ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. She looked tired.
“Okay. Then tell me this,” she said, leaning forward on the table. “How the hell are we going to stay alive? Tell me how reality is going to make Schrade disappear.”
“Yeah.” Strand nodded. “We’ve got to talk about that.” But he was hesitant. “Look, it’s been about three days now since the videotape turned up in Rome. Obviously Schrade knew where I was three days ago. I did everything I could think of to lose his people. I think I’m okay now.” He paused. “What about you?”
She looked at him. “That’s blunt.”
“We’re both going to have to do some traveling,” he said. “We’re going to be carrying documents, documents I can’t afford to lose.” He paused again. “I just need to know how you feel about it. If you have any question in your own mind that you aren’t absolutely clean, I need to know. I can make other arrangements.”
“Here’s my thinking, Harry,” she said, her voice a little strained. “If Schrade knew where you were in Rome, and if he wanted you dead, why didn’t he kill you then? Apparently he chose not to kill you in Rome. So, it could be that he knows where you are now, too, and is still choosing not to kill you. Maybe your evasive capabilities aren’t as expert as you would like to believe.” She smoked. “Just a thought.” She smoked again.
“Now, as for myself,” she went on. “I have no reason to believe that Schrade would not kill me if he knew where I was. He didn’t let Clymer live. Nor, I believe, Claude. I have no reason to think he would have different plans for me. So, if I’m alive now, perhaps it’s because he doesn’t know where I am. That, I would think, would speak well enough for my evasive skills.”
By the time she had finished, Ariana’s tone had grown decidedly testy. Strand had to concede that she had a point. He was glad to see that her Greek ire was still alive, that it hadn’t been completely cowed, as he first had thought when he’d talked with her and Howard at the Cafe Central. He grinned at her.
“Touche,” he said.
“Yes.” She arched one eyebrow. “Indeed.”
“Okay, look, tomorrow I’m going to a bank here where I’ve been keeping documents that I set aside during the years I worked with Schrade. We’ll get together again, I’ll give you the documents you’ll need, and tell you then what I’ve got in mind.”
“Fine. Where do we meet?”
“Not a public place this time. Your hotel or mine. We’re going to need some time together, most of the day.”
Ariana picked up her purse and began looking inside. She took out a key and laid it on the table, shoving it over to Strand.
“My hotel room. The Metropole.”
“I’ll call you when I leave the bank,” he said, putting the key in his pocket. “Do you have an e-mail address?”
They exchanged addresses, repeating them for each other several times. They didn’t dare write them down. She didn’t even ask him where he was staying or where he would be when he left Geneva. She knew he wouldn’t tell her.
“I probably won’t get there until late in the afternoon,” he said. “I’ve got to copy these documents… and there are photographs… and tapes that’ll have to be duplicated. I’m sure I can get all of that done somewhere near the banking district, but it’ll take most of the day.” He paused. “If for some reason we get separated, if something happens and you aren’t there when I come, or if I don’t show up, leave Geneva. I’ll do the same. We’ll check in with each other on the Net.”
Nothing remained to be said. Finally Strand smiled and held up his glass in a silent toast. They drank the last of the wine, looking at each other.
“I was glad to see you, Harry,” Ariana said, putting down her glass. “When I saw your face looking at me across that room of unfamiliar faces, everything seemed possible again. Christ, it was bleak before that.”
“This’ll work out,” Strand said.
“It has to, doesn’t it?”
Strand nodded. “Yeah. It has to.”
They looked at each other for a moment longer, then Ariana reached for her purse and stood up. She put the strap over her shoulder, then leaned over and put her hand flat against the side of his face, holding it gently as she kissed him softly on the lips.
“Good-bye, Harry Strand,” she said.
When he returned to the Beau-Rivage, Strand had an e-mail message from Mara.
Up and running. Waiting. M.
CHAPTER 23
BANJA LUKA, BRITISH SECTOR, BOSNIA
The short, stocky Serb sat on an upturned gas tin under a thick poplar tree at a farmhouse on the southern edge of the city. A spring rain had soaked the countryside for the past week, and the Serb’s shoes were caked with dark, gummy mud. So were the boots of his two companions, one of whom sat on the rim of a huge, cracking tractor tire while the other, standing, had propped one foot on the edge of a wooden trough as he leaned forward, his forearms crossed on his raised knee. Gnats hovered around them in humid air that was rich with the odors of damp earth and weeds.
The Serb’s two companions were brothers in their late thirties, farmers who seemed to be making only a scrabbly living off their small acreage. Around them was a mud-spattered stucco farmhouse with tiles missing from its roof, a derelict barn that had not seen meaningful use in nearly five years, a rusted-out flatbed Soviet-era truck, a twenty-year-old Russian tractor that had not been able to run for seven years.