“We expect him back later today.” Gideon glanced at the desk, making sure nothing revealing was left on it. Tanya was the only outsider Elie allowed in the apartment, but her comments about shutting down SOD would change that.
“ I’m just off a red eye from Washington,” she said, “and we didn’t stop working, takeoff to landing. The second Oslo agreement requires careful implementation. We’re working with other countries to drum up support for the Palestinians’ effort to build government institutions.”
“ Including secret services?”
“ It’s a necessary evil.” Tanya rubbed her eyes. “I could use a good nap.”
“ There’s a bed in the other room. What about your escorts?”
“ What escorts?” She removed a plain clasp and her hair fell around her face, well below her shoulders. Threads of silver lightened up the black. She brushed it with her fingers and rolled it around itself, tying it together. Under the heavy coat she wore a wool dress that revealed a slim, youthful body. She had long passed sixty, but the skin of her face bore no hint of aging. He wondered whether she found time for lovers.
*
The voice on the speakerphone said, “How is my favorite banker this morning?” Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr spoke with an impeccable British accent, which he had acquired at Oxford.
“I’m delighted to hear you, Excellency!” Lemmy’s mind brought up the tall, dark man, the intelligent eyes under a groomed mane of hair. “Are you well?”
“ Insha’Allah, my friend.” The prince’s voice was even, lucid, showing no hint of impatience as he moved on to business. “How is my six-one-nine El-Sharif?”
By providing the password and account number-chosen for the 619 AD mythological journey of the Prophet Muhammad to Jerusalem-Prince Abusalim gained access to his account with the Hoffgeitz Bank, including discussion of confidential financial information on the telephone.
Lemmy pulled up the account on his computer screen. “Current balance is near seventy-seven million U.S. dollars.”
“That sounds correct.” The prince’s voice remained calm despite the size of his fast-growing fortune. “I’d like to make a transfer.”
“Of course. Will you be investing or acquiring a pleasure motorcar?”
“Making a donation.”
“Your generosity will be rewarded by Allah.” Lemmy pulled up a blank form on the screen and typed in the prince’s name in the space for the account’s owner. “The amount?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Recipient?”
“ Monsieur Perez Sachs. He’ll pick it up in cash at the local branch of Banque Nationale de France in Senlis, France.”
Lemmy’s fingers danced on the keyboard. “We’ll execute the transfer today.”
“ My warm gratitude, Herr Horch. Please visit Paris again soon. I’ve discovered another cabaret-beautiful girls, every one of them!”
*
Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr put down the receiver. The rays of the sun illuminated the deep colors of the rug at the foot of the canopy bed. The pile of leather belts, pointy hoods, and studded collars brought a grin to his face, reminding him of the three teenage girls from last night. Unlike the submissive Arab females, the French gave as much as they took, wielding their alluring physique in the battle over peaks of volcanic pleasures.
Out on the balcony, he tightened the waistband around his silk bathrobe and leaned against the railing to watch the French capital’s own phallic symbol, the elevators ascending and descending through the Eiffel Tower’s enormous web of iron beams.
Back inside, he poured a cup and browsed the front page of the Financial Times. The British pound was falling again. Muammar al-Qaddafi announced the expulsion of thirty thousand Palestinians from Libya in protest of Arafat’s signing of the second Oslo agreement. Iraqis went to the polls to obediently reelect Saddam Hussein. And Israel prepared to hand over control of West Bank cities to the PLO.
Pierre arrived on time. “ Bonjour, Monsieur Abusalim,” he said in his clipped, hurried French.
The bathroom was equipped with a barber chair that could turn and recline toward the sink. The prince sat down, surrendering to Pierre’s experienced hands. It was Tuesday, which meant only shampoo and a shave, but no trimming, which was just as well. He needed a nap after such a night.
*
At noon, Lemmy walked out the front door of the Hoffgeitz Bank for his daily lunch. He strolled down Bahnhofstrasse, enjoying the crisp air and beautiful shops. A pretty woman smiled at him, and he smiled back. He passed Credit Niehoch Bank, where he had worked years ago, and the massive building shared by Grieder and Bank Leu. Turning left, past the armory, he paused in front of St. Peter Kirche-the church of Old Zurich. Paula had once explained that the copper bells atop the tower were the largest in Europe, built to warn the neighboring citadels of Germanic or Mongol invaders.
The Limmat River was just around the corner, and despite the cashmere coat, he felt the cold draft from the lake. He walked faster.
The Orsini Restaurant kept an open account for the overpriced lunch he regularly shared with Zurich’s most successful bankers. But today he passed by the iron gate and continued down the narrow alley.
At the corner was the clock store, where he had bought Paula the five-foot-tall grandfather clock that rang hourly in their living room in perfect synchrony with the chimes of St. Peter Kirche. The alley curved to the left, and he slipped into the service door in the rear of the Bierhalle Kropf.
The dining hall smelled of cigarette smoke, fried sausages, and potatoes baked in butter. Lemmy unbuttoned his coat, loosened his tie, and stepped into the clutter of voices and laughter. The long wooden tables and hard benches were occupied with the usual mix of bank clerks, blue-collar workers, and off-season tourists. He negotiated his way down the center aisle until he reached the far end. The last table was partly occupied by four elderly men, chewing on fried sausages and sauerkraut. He squeezed through and sat all the way in the corner, his back to the wall.
A voluptuous waitress waved cheerfully from the aisle. He pointed at his neighbors’ beers and plates, then held up two fingers and gestured at the empty seat across the table.
The lead article in The Economist, which he had brought with him, questioned the viability of the Swiss private banking industry should Switzerland join the European Community.
Two overflowing glasses of beer were passed down from the aisle, followed by two plates loaded with sausages and Apfelkochli -sugary apple slices, fried in cinnamon and butter. Lemmy winked at the waitress, nodded at his neighbors, and returned to The Economist.
Halfway through the meal, he heard coughing from across the table.
Elie Weiss blew his nose into a paper napkin, which he squeezed into a ball and put in his coat pocket. He kept his wool cap on.
Lemmy leaned forward and spoke German with minimal movement of his lips. “You look awful.”
“You, on the other hand, look prosperous,” Elie said. “How’s your father-in-law?”
“ Fine for eighty-four, but the next heart attack could be fatal.”
“ It’s about time. By the way, good tip about Damascus.” Elie held the beer glass with two hands and sipped.
“I saw the salacious photos in the papers. Quite a scene.”
“A public execution scares other Oslo opponents. Rabin hopes the benefits of peace will calm the Palestinian street.” Elie smirked. “And swords shall be forged into scythes.”
“ Ploughshares.”
“ Yes, those also.”
Lemmy glanced at their table mates, who were engaged in argument over a soccer game lost to a Spanish team the previous weekend.
“ What about the Koenig account?”
“ Gunter needed goading, but he’s cooperating now. In two or three weeks, all of the accounts will be on the system.”
