Rules of Deception

Parvez Ji

And then the cabin was dark again. The spotlight moved on to the next vehicle. He wondered if this had been a routine check or if he had been the target?

He started the engine and pulled out of the space.

He was going back to the mountains.

He was going to Davos.

57

Tobias Tingeli lived in an imposing Victorian mansion high on the Zürichberg near the Dolder Grand Hotel. The four-story stone structure had been his father’s and, before that, his father’s father’s, all the way back to 1870 when the first Tobias Tingeli made his fortune bankrolling Kaiser Wilhelm I in his war against Napoleon III.

Relations between Germany and the private bank had remained close over the years. During the Second World War, the Tingeli Bank had been a haven not only for the National Socialists, who transacted a majority of their gold sales through its offices, but also for the Americans, the British, and the Russians, whose spy services all found it to be equally accommodating. Since then, the bank had been content to concentrate on a private clientele, but rumors of questionable activity never quite faded away.

“Marcus, come in,” boomed Tobias Tingeli. “I was surprised to hear from you.”

Von Daniken smiled. Very surprised, no doubt, he thought to himself. “Hello, Tobi. Things are well? I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all. Don’t just stand there freezing. Let me take your jacket.”

Tobias Tingeli IV, “Tobi” to his friends, was the new breed of banker. He was a young man, ten years von Daniken’s junior. Answering the door in faded jeans, a black turtleneck, his abundant black hair combed into a fashionable mess, he looked more like an artist than a businessman.

Von Daniken handed over his coat. When he’d visited ten years ago, there had been a legion of uniformed maids and butlers on hand to fetch coats and serve cocktails. He wondered if Tingeli had forgone the luxury, or if he’d dismissed them in advance of his visit. The two men had what would be called a history. A very secret one: and Tobi Tingeli’s effervescent ma

“Follow me, Marcus. You remember your way around, don’t you?” Tingeli led the way into his living room, where a floor-to-ceiling window seemed to devour the Lake of Zurich. “Drink?” he asked, pulling the stopper off a cut-glass decanter.

Von Daniken refused. “As I mentioned, it’s a matter of some urgency,” he began. “I’ll have to ask that everything we discuss tonight remains for your ears only. I know that I can count on you to be discreet.”

Tingeli nodded gravely. The two sat facing one another in matching leather chairs. Von Daniken explained the rudiments of his investigation into Lammers and Blitz-their murders, the plastic explosives found in Blitz’s garage, and their ties to the terrorist Walid Gassan. He was careful not to mention the threat against air travel. “We tracked their finances to a company set up by your subsidiary in Liechtenstein. An entity called Excelsior Trust.”

“Do you have any idea how many laws I’d be breaking if I divulge my clients’ information?”

“If you’d like, I can have Alphons Marti issue a warrant.”

A wave dismissed the suggestion. “Forget about the rules. I’m willing to bet that the names on the trust belong to lawyers. They’re the ones who know everything. Go after them.”

“Give me their names and I will. As I recall, a trust must have a certain number of directors. Their names will be on the paperwork.”

Tingeli flashed his blinding smile. “I’d like to cooperate, but if word gets around that we’re working with the government, it will be the end of our business.”

Von Daniken surveyed the room’s decor. The furniture was minimalist and spare. All attention was meant to be focused on the walls. A giant oil hung to his right, some abstract psychological nightmare worth ten or twenty million francs no doubt. It was cheap in comparison to the Paul Klee facing it. Last year, a Klee had fetched the highest price ever at an auction. Some 130 million dollars. Tingeli could stand to lose one or two clients and he’d still be among the richest men in Europe.

“I’m afraid that I’m not asking for your help. I’m ordering it. First thing in the morning, I want to see all the paperwork you have on the trust holding those Curaçao companies. Lawyers’ names, directors, everything.”

“The government has no right to order me to do anything.”

“Who mentioned the government?”

“Come now, Marcus, no one cares about all that old business anymore. The war’s been over seventy years. People barely remember Hitler, let alone the Nazis. Besides, we paid our debt. A billion dollars buys a lot of understanding.”

As part of his work on the Holocaust Commission, von Daniken had been detailed to look into the degree of collaboration between Swiss banks and the Economic and Administrative Main Office of the SS, the agency charged with handling the Third Reich’s financial dealings. If the Swiss banks had been remiss in their conduct toward survivors after the war, the vast majority could claim in good conscience that they had only been following long-established rules to guarantee the privacy and safety of their clients’ deposits. The same rules that denied their deceased clients’ heirs access to their money had also denied access to less scrupulous forces, namely a constant parade of German officers sent to Zurich, Basel, and Geneva with orders to pry imprisoned, and soon to be dead, Jews’ money out of the bankers’ greedy little fingers.

One bank, though, had not been as stringent in the enforcement of these rules as the others. Not only had the Tingeli Bank cooperated with the Germans and transferred millions of francs from their rightful (Jewish) owners to the Third Reich, it had actually set up an office in-house for officers of the SS to systematically loot these accounts.

Von Daniken had discovered all of this and more in his research, including a photograph of Tobi Tingeli’s grandfather, Tobias II, in the company of Herma

News of the discovery was vehemently hushed up. In exchange for the Commission’s silence, the Tingeli Bank had donated one hundred million dollars to the survivors’ fund. Case closed.

“You’re right,” said von Daniken. “The war is old hat. I’m talking about something more recent.” He slid an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the banker. Tobi Tingeli opened it. Several photographs were inside. Not photos of old Nazis from a bygone era. But something equally shocking.

“Where did you get this?” Tingeli’s face drained of color.

“My mandate is to cover extremists. I’d say the activity in those pictures qualifies. Not political extremism, but some rather embarrassing behavior all the same. You see, I don’t like you, Tobi. I don’t like your father, either. For far too long you’ve been allowed to buy yourself a clean conscience. I’ve been keeping an eye on you. I always knew that you were a strange one. I just didn’t know how strange.”

There were only two pictures, but two were enough. The first showed Tobi Tingeli standing at a bar in a dark room, dressed in his grandfather’s SS tunic, the death’s-head cap cocked rakishly on his head. He wore nothing else. No pants. No socks. No shoes. He stood with an erection in one hand and a quirt in the other, whipping the hairy white ass of a man bent over beside him.

The second picture was, if possible, more bizarre. In it, Tingeli was on his knees, dressed head to toe in a black latex suit with slits cut out for the eyes, nose, and mouth. Hands cuffed behind his back, his head was buried in a woman’s crotch. True, his face wasn’t visible, but the large gold signet ring engraved with his family crest that he wore on his right hand was. The cops in the undercover unit had gotten laughs out of it for months.