‘What’s wrong with a bank in Geneva or Zürich?’
‘Ah well, contrary to general belief, Geneva is not a large banking centre, and what business it does transact is entirely respectable.’ He gave Packer an oblique grin. ‘Whereas Zürich, and to a lesser extent Berne and Basel, nowadays deal mostly with big corporation money and international transactions. The little town of Aalau is more in our line.’
‘You mean they’re crooked?’
Pol sighed. ‘You are being a trifle naïf, my friend. In Aalau they merely exact a slightly larger premium for secrecy, without fear or favour — that is how the town made its wealth. As I said, it is very close to the German border, which is along wooded hills and difficult to guard. The town first became rich when the Jews started smuggling their fortunes out of Germany after 1933. At the time, the Swiss weren’t interested in German paper money — only in gold. And they gave the Jews thirty cents for every dollar’s worth. Under the circumstances the Jews were grateful.
‘Unfortunately, however, they were also still optimistic. Many of them returned to Germany, where they later disappeared up the chimneys of Dachau and Birkenau and Treblinka, while their family fortunes — estimated at several hundred million dollars — have continued ever since to ripen and multiply in the vaults of Aalau.’
‘Do you mean to say,’ Ryderbeit called from the back, ‘that these lousy Swiss can just sit on that money, while good Jewish families go hungry?’
‘There have been many attempts, particularly by the Jewish Agency, to persuade the Swiss authorities to have these accounts opened — if only to provide funds for victims of Nazi persecution. The Swiss have always refused. Aalau’s big coup was to come at the end of the war, when the Nazis started trying to get their money out of Germany. And again the good burghers of Aalau insisted only on gold. They got it in all shapes and sizes. Bormann’s believed to have made a personal deposit of bullion in March 1945, valued at between ten and twenty million dollars. Then there were the regular weekly visitors, known locally as the “dentists” — guards from nearby concentration camps who came down from Ulm carrying suitcases of gold rings and gold teeth — and the occasional gold spectacle frame.’
‘Didn’t anyone in Aalau baulk at that one?’ said Packer.
Pol chuckled. ‘Most of the professional people in Aalau are bankers, my friend. And as bankers they treat all customers alike, according to their financial standing.’
‘Yeah, but what happened to those fucking Krauts?’ Ryderbeit cried in English. ‘Did they wait till the dust had settled, then draw out their loot and start chicken farms in Brazil, or just get fat running a nice modern factory in Düsseldorf to the glory of the European Economic Community? The bastards.’ He spat towards the car ashtray, then got out a cigar.
Packer turned again to Pol. ‘Sammy wants to know if any of that Nazi money was ever claimed.’
‘Very little. Most of the big Nazis were killed, or were too frightened to show up — even in Aalau — for fear of being charged with war crimes. If there’s one thing the Swiss love, it’s money; and one thing they hate is scandal.’
‘But in Aalau they’re a little less touchy than most?’ said Packer. ‘I mean, they don’t mind having highly paid assassins on their books?’
‘Not as long as our accounts remain in credit.’
They reached the town an hour and ten minutes later, along a winding secondary road off the main Berne to Zürich highway. It was a narrow cheerless town, surrounded by hills that looked like storm clouds. The houses along the main street had the tidy, drab appearance of private business premises. Packer noticed that at least two out of three buildings were banks, their names usually proclaimed by a discreet bronze plaque beside the door.
Pol told him to stop at a house halfway down, and not to worry about the parking restriction. He bounced out of the car with great energy, pressed a bell in the polished door, and was shown in by a pale man in a grey tie and bifocals, who gave Packer — and particularly Ryderbeit — a fishy stare, before standing back and closing the door behind them.
He now led them down a marble passage into a deserted hall no larger than a private office, with two grilles, no partitions or counters; instead, half a dozen green leather-topped tables, each with its own pen set and pristine pad of blotting paper, and green leather swivel chairs placed on either side. Except for a digital clock with an electric calendar on the wall, the room was unadorned. It smelt neither fresh nor musty, but was filled with an antiseptic gloom.
The pale man in bifocals showed them through a door at the far end, into a quiet dark-panelled room with button-backed leather chairs arranged opposite an executive desk on which stood a white telephone, an intercom and a bronze bust of Voltaire.
A man rose from behind the desk and greeted them with a professional smile. Apart from his grey suit and gold cufflinks, he was not at all as Packer imagined a Swiss banker to be. He was a short, athletic man in his middle thirties, with a large head of wavy blond hair and that deep, slightly orange suntan that comes from the mountains.
His manner was cordial and relaxed. He obviously knew Pol well, but showed no trace of deference towards him — rather, a certain boisterous familiarity, as one who is privy to the secrets of another. He was a man to whom the fiscal rules of the outer world were irrelevant: Foreign Exchange controls mattered less to him than parking on a
