Rules of Deception

It was Klaus Hardenberg’s turn to talk. Hardenberg, the pudgy, whey-faced investigator who’d abandoned a lucrative career with an international accounting firm in Zurich for the rough-and-tumble pastures of law enforcement.

“Blitz did his banking at the Banca Popolare del Ticino. We got the bank’s name from Eurocard, which identified it as the bank of record for Blitz’s account. The average monthly balance on the account was twelve thousand francs. As for payments, it’s mostly the usual. Household items. Credit card bills. Gas. Electric. The man took a weekly cash withdrawal of five hundred francs, always from the same automatic teller in Ascona. All in all, a modest lifestyle for a man driving a luxury automobile and living in a multimillion-franc villa.”

“Unless the villa isn’t his,” said von Daniken.

“My thoughts exactly.” Hardenberg smiled thinly. “The first thing that caught my eye was a wire transfer that hit the account a week ago for exactly one hundred thousand francs. The note on the payment instructions read, ‘Gift to P.J.’ The next day, Blitz withdrew the entire amount in cash over the counter at his branch in Lugano. All on the up-and-up. He called ahead, spoke personally with the bank manager and explained that it was the down payment for a boat he was building in Antibes.”

“Did anyone find the money at his home?”

“I checked with Lieutenant Conti. Nothing turned up.”

“Who transferred the hundred k to Blitz?”

“Ah,” said Hardenberg. “Here’s where things get interesting. The money came from a numbered account at the Royal Trust and Credit Bank of the Bahamas. Freetown branch.”

“Never heard of it,” said von Daniken, whose experience had brought him into contact with most meaningful financial institutions under the sun.

“It’s a small bank with just under a billion in assets. It doesn’t keep a brick-and-mortar space. It’s a paper entity. If you’ll permit me, though, I’d like to stop with Blitz for a moment and move on to Lammers.”

There were nods all around. Hardenberg fortified himself by guzzling a half a can of Red Bull and lighting a Gauloise.

“As I was saying, our attention now falls on Theo Lammers,” Hardenberg went on. “His business was on the up-and-up. All accounts are at USB, which is a first-rate shop. I ran his numbers. Nine months ago, he received a two-million-franc wire transfer from none other than the Royal Trust and Credit of the Bahamas.”

“Two million from the same bank?” Von Daniken slid to the edge of his seat. “If it came from the same people who wired Blitz the hundred thousand francs, we’ll know precisely who’s financing this racket. What was the money for?”

“I took the liberty of calling Michaela Menz at Robotica. The funds hit the receivables account. That meant the two million francs was for work completed. The problem was that there was no invoice number attached to the transfer. She doesn’t know what the money was for.”

Myer looked at von Daniken. “It was for the drone.”

Von Daniken nodded. Now they were getting somewhere. “Did the money come from the same account number at the Royal Trust and Credit?”

Hardenberg shook his head. “That would’ve made our lives too simple. It came from an unrelated numbered account. At least, unrelated on the surface. The chance that Blitz and Lammers are doing business with the same hole-in-the-wall in the Bahamas is a million to one. I relayed these feelings to Mr. Davis Brunswick, the bank’s chief executive. He was not forthcoming. At first, I tried charm. Then I told him that unless he gave me some information on who the accounts belong to, he would find his bank on the weekly black list circulated to over three thousand institutions across Switzerland and shared with every law enforcement agency in the Western world.”

“Did it work?”

Hardenberg shrugged. “Of course not,” he admitted. “Everyone’s a tough guy these days. I had to revert to plan B. Happily, I’d done a little homework on Mr. Brunswick before our conversation. I’d discovered that he maintained several personal accounts in our country to the tune of some twenty-six million francs. I gave him my word that unless he coughed up information on who was behind these accounts-and any others that might be related to them-I would personally see to it that every last franc of his money would be frozen for the rest of his natural life.”

“And?”

“Mr. Brunswick sang like a baby. Both numbered accounts were set up by a fiduciary firm that’s a subsidiary of the Tingeli Bank. It’s the same firm that executed the purchase of the Villa Principessa on behalf of the Netherlands Antilles holding company.”

“How did you discover that Brunswick had accounts in our country?” asked von Daniken.

Hardenberg grimaced and shook his very large, very round, and very bald head. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”

The men allowed themselves a brief laugh.

Seiler cleared his throat. “As I recall, Marcus, you know Tobi Tingeli personally.”

It was von Daniken’s turn to grimace. “Tobi and I served together on the Holocaust Commission.”

“Do you think he might be amenable to doing you a favor?”

“Tobi? He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

“But you are going to ask him?” Seiler persisted.

Von Daniken thought of Tobias “Tobi” Tingeli IV and the skeletons hanging in the man’s closet. Tingeli was rich, vain, pompous, and worse. In a sense, Marcus von Daniken had been waiting for this day for ten long years.

The thought of exacting his revenge gave him no pleasure. “Yes, Max,” he said softly. “I’m going to ask him.”

56

The headlights were murder. There was an accident on the opposite side of the autobahn. A stream of cars was backed up to the horizon. Squinting, Jonathan veered his eyes to the shoulder in an effort to lessen the glare. Somewhere deep inside his skull a drum beat mercilessly. Get out, it told him. You’re in over your head. You’re an amateur up against professionals.

The Rhine was one hundred kilometers to the north. Germany lay beyond. There were any number of paths across the border. France was almost as close. He could pass through Geneva, then cross over at A

He pulled off the autobahn at Egerkingen, where the highway split. North to Basel. East to Zurich. There was a Mövenpick restaurant, a motel, and a shopping gallery catering to tourists. He parked and entered the restaurant. He ordered quickly. “Schnipo und ein cola, bitte.” Wiener schnitzel, pommes frites, and a Coke. Every Swiss schoolboy’s favorite.

Waiting, he was assaulted by images of the apartment in Bern. Eva Kruger’s apartment. He thought of the care taken to furnish it according to her persona; the time and effort involved to construct such an elaborate artifice. Once past the deception, it was the discipline that awed him. Never once had he suspected that she was an agent of some kind. An operative in the employ of a nation’s intelligence apparatus. Foolishly, he’d imagined that she was having an affair. He pondered the training required to deceive a spouse for eight years.

Digging into his pocket, he fingered the wedding ring. After a moment, he took it out and examined it. Something about it bothered him. He guessed that it was because it didn’t fit. It broke cover, therefore it had to mean something. A message. A reminder to herself. Eva Kruger wasn’t married, so why the ring?

The food arrived. Ten minutes ago, he was famished. Suddenly, his appetite had left him. He sipped at his drink, then pushed the plate away.